am temporarily an embarrassment in some quarters. I wished to come for a number of reasons. I am prepared, Jerott, in your language to serve the Order this summer. I have spent the winter, God knows, playing enough. Next winter, perhaps, I may serve best where I may embarrass most; if so, my time here will not have been wasted. In the meantime—’ he smiled again, fleetingly—‘your truly dedicated brothers are free to convert me if they can.’
And Jerott Blyth, who was dedicated not to the Order but to the memory of a girl, accepted and passed over Lymond’s knowledge of it, and said impulsively instead, ‘You must meet Gabriel. He has heard of you. Did you know his sister was going to Scotland? I spoke of you—’
He broke off. Lymond said after a moment, amused, ‘You’ve said too much, Jerott. Better go on.’
‘—to a woman who heard me mention your name,’ said Jerott slowly. ‘She had just come from Marseilles. Her name was—’
‘Oonagh. Oonagh O’Dwyer,’ supplied Lymond as quietly.
‘She was your mistress?’
‘No …’ said Lymond. ‘Or at least, not as you mean. She was the mistress of Cormac O’Connor, the Irish rebel. She has left him now,to some degree my doing, and I’d sooner she didn’t suffer by it, that’s all. She’s probably with another man now, not half her worth. Is that what you were avoiding saying, in your delicacy?’
‘Not only for your sake—for the sake of the Order,’ said Blyth with more than mock ruefulness. ‘She’s living with de Césel, the Governor of Gozo.’
‘Valiantly vowed to Obedience and Chastity,’ said Lymond. ‘She would find a special kind of amusement in that. Will he be kind to her?’
‘It’s a question,’ said Jerott Blyth angrily, ‘of whether she will be kind to him . We’re a seedy, spiritless fraternity, as will be clear. A weak Grand Master and his clique may do with us as he wants. The best of us have been lost already through the Order’s mistakes, or through being dragged into Imperial wars under pressure, or because we’ve marched off home to our Commanderies, and de Homedès has had neither the guts nor the money to summon us back. And yet, believe me … there are great noblemen and great seamen among us still, serving their turn in the Hospital and ready to fight the Turk with their bare hands in between. We are the bulwark of Christendom. If we go, do you think the poor, ailing Emperor and his turkey-cock Doria and a scattering of ill-organized ships can take our place? The Sacred Law of Islâm would span the known world.’
He was shaking. And Lymond’s cold voice following was as refreshing as spray. ‘And you will all become converts and go to the Mussulman’s paradise, where the climax of love lasts for ten thousand years. Consider it, Brother Jerott, if you dare.’
Brother Jerott, still scarlet, was spared the need to reply. For the door opened on a middle-aged gentleman who proved to be the Order’s Receiver himself; an Italian banker who acknowledged Jerott’s introduction with a courtesy barely concealing his extreme disquiet. At mention of de Villegagnon, he sat down suddenly, waving to the knights and to Lymond to do likewise. ‘You’ve come from France with the Chevalier. Oh, dear. Well, you don’t need me to tell you that he has just brought the Viceroy very bad news. Bad news. The Turk is preparing. He will soon be attacking these shores.’
‘The French Constable’s warning,’ said Lymond mildly, ‘was to the effect that the Turk was sailing rather against Malta and Tripoli.’
The Receiver heaved a nauseated sigh. ‘That, M. le Comte, is what the Chevalier de Villegagnon said. His Excellency—I dislike having to say that his Excellency did not believe him. His Excellency, in fact, accused him of being the Constable’s catspaw. The Viceroy, it seems, prefers to think that the warning is a French device to remove all naval defences from Sicily and Italy itself, to expose the
And Jerott Blyth, who was dedicated not to the Order but to the memory of a girl, accepted and passed over Lymond’s knowledge of it, and said impulsively instead, ‘You must meet Gabriel. He has heard of you. Did you know his sister was going to Scotland? I spoke of you—’
He broke off. Lymond said after a moment, amused, ‘You’ve said too much, Jerott. Better go on.’
‘—to a woman who heard me mention your name,’ said Jerott slowly. ‘She had just come from Marseilles. Her name was—’
‘Oonagh. Oonagh O’Dwyer,’ supplied Lymond as quietly.
‘She was your mistress?’
‘No …’ said Lymond. ‘Or at least, not as you mean. She was the mistress of Cormac O’Connor, the Irish rebel. She has left him now,to some degree my doing, and I’d sooner she didn’t suffer by it, that’s all. She’s probably with another man now, not half her worth. Is that what you were avoiding saying, in your delicacy?’
‘Not only for your sake—for the sake of the Order,’ said Blyth with more than mock ruefulness. ‘She’s living with de Césel, the Governor of Gozo.’
‘Valiantly vowed to Obedience and Chastity,’ said Lymond. ‘She would find a special kind of amusement in that. Will he be kind to her?’
‘It’s a question,’ said Jerott Blyth angrily, ‘of whether she will be kind to him . We’re a seedy, spiritless fraternity, as will be clear. A weak Grand Master and his clique may do with us as he wants. The best of us have been lost already through the Order’s mistakes, or through being dragged into Imperial wars under pressure, or because we’ve marched off home to our Commanderies, and de Homedès has had neither the guts nor the money to summon us back. And yet, believe me … there are great noblemen and great seamen among us still, serving their turn in the Hospital and ready to fight the Turk with their bare hands in between. We are the bulwark of Christendom. If we go, do you think the poor, ailing Emperor and his turkey-cock Doria and a scattering of ill-organized ships can take our place? The Sacred Law of Islâm would span the known world.’
He was shaking. And Lymond’s cold voice following was as refreshing as spray. ‘And you will all become converts and go to the Mussulman’s paradise, where the climax of love lasts for ten thousand years. Consider it, Brother Jerott, if you dare.’
Brother Jerott, still scarlet, was spared the need to reply. For the door opened on a middle-aged gentleman who proved to be the Order’s Receiver himself; an Italian banker who acknowledged Jerott’s introduction with a courtesy barely concealing his extreme disquiet. At mention of de Villegagnon, he sat down suddenly, waving to the knights and to Lymond to do likewise. ‘You’ve come from France with the Chevalier. Oh, dear. Well, you don’t need me to tell you that he has just brought the Viceroy very bad news. Bad news. The Turk is preparing. He will soon be attacking these shores.’
‘The French Constable’s warning,’ said Lymond mildly, ‘was to the effect that the Turk was sailing rather against Malta and Tripoli.’
The Receiver heaved a nauseated sigh. ‘That, M. le Comte, is what the Chevalier de Villegagnon said. His Excellency—I dislike having to say that his Excellency did not believe him. His Excellency, in fact, accused him of being the Constable’s catspaw. The Viceroy, it seems, prefers to think that the warning is a French device to remove all naval defences from Sicily and Italy itself, to expose the
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