and designing new.
Jerott Blyth of Nantes, France, whose father came from the west coast of Scotland, was at the cathedral when Lymond finally tracked him down. Waiting in silence, his head gold as the angel harbingers of grace all about, the stranger was unnoticed by the handful of knights kneeling with Blyth, and Blyth himself, his handsome black head bent, his only ornament the gold ring belonging to the dead girl he was to have married, looked distant and unlike the intelligent, talented and spectacularly wild young gentleman he had been. Lymond waited, unexpectedly patient, until the other man rose, genuflected and turned. The flood of candlelight did the rest.
It was nine years since their last meeting; and they had been boys in Scotland then, though old enough to fight side by side for their country. Of the two, Lymond, as he probably knew, had changed most since then. Nevertheless it was for only seconds that Jerott Blyth, Chevalier of the Order of St John, stood, short, vivid, vital, and stared at the self-possessed stranger before him. Then he said slowly, ‘ Francis Crawford! ’ And darting forward, seized those cool, relaxed hands.
It took a moment only to discover that Crawford of Lymond was in Messina with de Villegagnon, and leaving for Malta tomorrow. It took little longer for Jerott Blyth and his friends to carry Lymond off with them to the big white house of the Receiver of the Order in Sicily where, in moderation, they ate and drank; and where Jerott demanded the history of nine years’ separation at once.
Lymond told it without detail and added, immediately, the news which was taking de Villegagnon to Malta. ‘The Constable of France swears the whole Turkish fleet is on the move. It may well be against Malta,’ he said. And as the other men, drawing breath, looked towards Jerott, Lymond added, ‘Will de Homedès fight?’
‘What with?’ said Jerott Blyth bitterly.
‘Then will the Viceroy here send him help?’
‘And risk a Turkish attack on Naples and Sicily? The Chevalier de Villegagnon has one of the most persuasive tongues in the Order,’ said Jerott. ‘But if I were a gambling man, I should wager my purse against your pin that he’ll get neither ships nor men out of either the Viceroy or his master, our dear Emperor Charles.’
‘It’s men you want, surely, not ships?’ said Lymond, and watched them reluctantly agree. The flotilla now leaving Turkey was insuperable.With not only his own fleet but Dragut and all the North African corsairs under his banner, Suleiman was now supreme in the Mediterranean, failing the conjunction of the whole fleets of the Order and of the Empire, which Charles would never allow. What was needed were men and guns to raise bulwarks in Malta, at Gozo, in Tripoli, and defend them against a siege. And defended they had to be, said the Rule of the Order, through the voice of the Emperor Charles, the Order’s landlord on earth.
‘And we are men,’ said someone in Gascon, standing up.
‘Not to the Grand Master,’ said Jerott Blyth sardonically. ‘You and I are not even Knights of the Order—we are renegade French, liable to lead the Sultan personally into the Grand Master’s room. Try sailing back to Malta without orders, and you’ll find yourself despoiled of the Holy Sign as a prevaricator for offending our lord and master Charles.’
But after the meal, when the discussion, furiously raging, was beginning to spend itself, Jerott drew Lymond aside and said quietly, ‘I have not heard the full story, I know; but I must ask this. Have you in mind that, one day, you may join us?’
Francis Crawford looked up from his clasped hands and smiled. ‘The Constable would give a good deal to know,’ he said.
Disappointment, unconcealed, was clear in Blyth’s magnificent eyes. ‘Then this is an intellectual gambit, nothing more? A specific for the Crawford career?’
‘Not entirely.’ That was direct. ‘It was made easy for me to come, because I
Jerott Blyth of Nantes, France, whose father came from the west coast of Scotland, was at the cathedral when Lymond finally tracked him down. Waiting in silence, his head gold as the angel harbingers of grace all about, the stranger was unnoticed by the handful of knights kneeling with Blyth, and Blyth himself, his handsome black head bent, his only ornament the gold ring belonging to the dead girl he was to have married, looked distant and unlike the intelligent, talented and spectacularly wild young gentleman he had been. Lymond waited, unexpectedly patient, until the other man rose, genuflected and turned. The flood of candlelight did the rest.
It was nine years since their last meeting; and they had been boys in Scotland then, though old enough to fight side by side for their country. Of the two, Lymond, as he probably knew, had changed most since then. Nevertheless it was for only seconds that Jerott Blyth, Chevalier of the Order of St John, stood, short, vivid, vital, and stared at the self-possessed stranger before him. Then he said slowly, ‘ Francis Crawford! ’ And darting forward, seized those cool, relaxed hands.
It took a moment only to discover that Crawford of Lymond was in Messina with de Villegagnon, and leaving for Malta tomorrow. It took little longer for Jerott Blyth and his friends to carry Lymond off with them to the big white house of the Receiver of the Order in Sicily where, in moderation, they ate and drank; and where Jerott demanded the history of nine years’ separation at once.
Lymond told it without detail and added, immediately, the news which was taking de Villegagnon to Malta. ‘The Constable of France swears the whole Turkish fleet is on the move. It may well be against Malta,’ he said. And as the other men, drawing breath, looked towards Jerott, Lymond added, ‘Will de Homedès fight?’
‘What with?’ said Jerott Blyth bitterly.
‘Then will the Viceroy here send him help?’
‘And risk a Turkish attack on Naples and Sicily? The Chevalier de Villegagnon has one of the most persuasive tongues in the Order,’ said Jerott. ‘But if I were a gambling man, I should wager my purse against your pin that he’ll get neither ships nor men out of either the Viceroy or his master, our dear Emperor Charles.’
‘It’s men you want, surely, not ships?’ said Lymond, and watched them reluctantly agree. The flotilla now leaving Turkey was insuperable.With not only his own fleet but Dragut and all the North African corsairs under his banner, Suleiman was now supreme in the Mediterranean, failing the conjunction of the whole fleets of the Order and of the Empire, which Charles would never allow. What was needed were men and guns to raise bulwarks in Malta, at Gozo, in Tripoli, and defend them against a siege. And defended they had to be, said the Rule of the Order, through the voice of the Emperor Charles, the Order’s landlord on earth.
‘And we are men,’ said someone in Gascon, standing up.
‘Not to the Grand Master,’ said Jerott Blyth sardonically. ‘You and I are not even Knights of the Order—we are renegade French, liable to lead the Sultan personally into the Grand Master’s room. Try sailing back to Malta without orders, and you’ll find yourself despoiled of the Holy Sign as a prevaricator for offending our lord and master Charles.’
But after the meal, when the discussion, furiously raging, was beginning to spend itself, Jerott drew Lymond aside and said quietly, ‘I have not heard the full story, I know; but I must ask this. Have you in mind that, one day, you may join us?’
Francis Crawford looked up from his clasped hands and smiled. ‘The Constable would give a good deal to know,’ he said.
Disappointment, unconcealed, was clear in Blyth’s magnificent eyes. ‘Then this is an intellectual gambit, nothing more? A specific for the Crawford career?’
‘Not entirely.’ That was direct. ‘It was made easy for me to come, because I
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