Shadow of God (31 page)

Hélène continued to stare at the water, completely unaware of Philippe’s interest in her. Philippe shook his head, as if to drive his unthinkable urges from his mind, when his attention was taken by the sound of feet running along the coarse gravel path behind the woman. He turned toward the noise in time to see a tall man dressed in rags. The man was running flat out in Hélène’s direction. Instinctively, Philippe’s hand went to his sword—an épée, shorter, lighter, and faster than the broadsword he carried into battle. He stepped forward to protect this woman so peacefully engrossed in her thoughts.

The running man bore down upon Hélène. Philippe closed the distance between them, trying to insert himself into the man’s path. In that slowing of time that happens in such moments, he could see a frenzy in the man’s eyes, dirt embedded in the heavy layers of clothing. Sweat poured down the man’s face—a face covered with stubble and several open sores—as he ran toward the woman. He never looked at Philippe, but closed steadily on Hélène. Philippe drew his sword at the very instant the running man closed the last few feet that separated
him from Hélène. The man stooped low without slackening his pace, and Philippe thought he was about to tackle her. The man’s arm shot out and snatched at the basket sitting on the ground, just as Philippe leapt to close the gap and shield the woman from the attack. Philippe held his sword in his right hand, blade low, trying to impale the running man before he made contact with Hélène. At the very same moment, the man swerved. Grabbing the basket and changing direction like an antelope, he veered away from Philippe and Hélène.

Philippe maintained a protective arc with his sword, creating a safe zone around Hélène that no one could invade. But, his great bulk had gained too much momentum, and he could not prevent himself from crashing into her as she sat unaware on the edge of the fountain. Philippe slipped on the gravel as he tried to slow himself down. His shoulder struck her back, knocking her off the edge and into the shallow water. Hélène shrieked at the painful blow and the surprise. Too late, Philippe reached out with his free left hand to grab at her right arm in an attempt to keep her from falling into the fountain. His bare sword hand still wrapped around the handle of his weapon smashed into the gravel, abrading the skin along all four knuckles as his full weight came to bear upon the supporting arm.

Hélène, thinking she was under attack, swung her elbow back toward Philippe, catching him squarely across the bridge of his nose. There was a loud crack as two small bones broke under the force of Hélène’s blow. She slid off the edge, propelled in part by her own strike against Philippe, landing up to her waist in the cold water. When she turned to resume her defense, Philippe was kneeling in the gravel, holding his right hand to his face. His sword hand was still supporting his body. As he turned toward Hélène, she could see the blood running between his fingers and down his sleeve. She pulled herself to her feet and was about to resume her own attack when she saw the sword in his hand. She stopped where she stood in the fountain, now afraid for her life. She never noticed that the food basket was gone. This was no petty
voleur,
no thief. There before her was a knight, sword in hand, blood streaming from his nose. Hélène was truly frightened now. She had been
attacked by this stranger whom, from the looks of it, she had seriously injured. She took a step back deeper into the fountain, maintaining a safe distance from the injured knight.

Philippe collected himself and stood, wincing as he pushed up on his injured sword hand. He resheathed his sword, and drew a handkerchief from his pocket. He turned to Hélène as he held the handkerchief to his nose. He wiped away the blood, still grimacing slightly from the pain in his nose and his hand. “
Pardon, Mademoiselle. Je vous en prie,”
Excuse me, Miss, I beg of you. “I was unable to stop the thief who stole your basket.” He turned to his left, and could see only the small crowd slowly gathering about them. There was, of course, no sign of the thief. “He has gotten away, I’m afraid.
Je suis désolé.”
I am so sorry.

“Thief?” she said. “What thief?”

Philippe pointed to where the basket had been and said, “Your basket. I’m afraid it’s gone. But, thank God you are all right.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Only then did Hélène realize what had happened. At the same time Philippe saw what he had done to the young woman, and after an awkward moment the two began to laugh. Philippe reached out and took her hand as she stepped out of the fountain, soaked through from her toes to the bottoms of her breasts, which were now outlined beyond any hope of modesty. Hélène stepped from the fountain and began to shiver. Through her chattering teeth she said, “
Je suis désolé aussi, Monsieur le Chevalier.”
I, too, am sorry, Monsieur Knight. “Your nose…and your hand. I’m so sorry.”

Philippe covered her body with his surcoat, and helped Hélène back to her small apartment near the market. He started a fire for her to help ward off the cold, and made some tea while she changed into dry clothes.

So Philippe had met the young woman. They met often after that, clandestinely at first. Usually, they stayed at her apartment, but after a few weeks the secrecy began to weigh upon them. Their affair took on a seedy feeling. They began to go out into the streets of Paris more and more openly. Though Hélène could never be seen at formal functions of the Knights Hospitaller, she was content
to bide her time with Philippe. They didn’t discuss the future at all.

It was now nearly three years since Hélène had broken Philippe’s nose and captured his heart. And he loved her more every day.
Where,
he thought,
is Hélène now?

Philippe found himself staring again at the oak desk, and his real world closed in once more.

As Philippe returned to the present, Gabriel de Pommerols, a lieutenant and countryman of the Grand Master’s, rushed into the anteroom. He was breathless, and paused a moment to collect himself. Then he removed his helmet and bowed to Philippe. Philippe motioned him to the table. Pommerols removed his cape, gloves, and sword, and sat down opposite Philippe.

“
Seigneur, un moment, je vous en prie
.” My Lord, a moment, please.

Philippe waited silently for de Pommerols to get settled. As they waited, Thomas Scheffield entered the room. As
Seneschal
, the officer in charge of domestic relations and ceremony, he would naturally be privy to all important communications with the Grand Master.

Sheffield nodded to de Pommerols and took a seat beside him. “I heard of your arrival, Gabriel. What news of the reinforcements?”

“
Doucement
, Thomas.” Gently. Philippe held his hand up, giving de Pommerols a moment more.

Finally, collecting himself, de Pommerols said, “My Lords, I have very little good news to tell you. Though we have gotten word to all the knights who have been away to come home at once, the rest of my mission has been a failure.” Philippe and Sheffield looked at each other and then back to de Pommerols. Neither spoke. Sheffield toyed with the knife at his belt, while the Grand Master sat quietly with his hands folded in front of him.

De Pommerols went on. “Pope Adrian will send us neither money nor men. He refused us even after he heard the pleadings of Cardinal Giulio d’Medici. The Cardinal is a member of our Order, my Lord, and even his tears had no effect on the Pope. His Eminence says that he can spare neither troops nor money at this time. He says that he needs all his resources to fight the French armies now harassing him on the very soil of Italy.”

“And of England? What news there?”

“Henry of England will send no help either. He needs money for his domestic wars and extravagances.” De Pommerols looked at Thomas, expecting disapproval for speaking of his sovereign this way. “I’m sorry, Thomas, but it is so.”

Sheffield nodded. This was not news to him. His loyalty after so many years was to his brother knights more than to his king. He had only lived a few years on English soil, and since he joined the Order, he had not been home at all.

“Henry is at this moment claiming many of the lands and estates of our own knights. He is taking them on various pretexts, but in reality he needs the incomes, and he’s jealous of the power we have gained abroad.”

Philippe waited a moment, and then asked, “And France?”

“Chaos rules Europe, my Lord. As Holy Roman Emperor, Charles is worried about this heretic Martin Luther. Luther’s following is growing larger by the day, and he divides the people of the Church. Charles is at open war with Francis. Francis is at war with Italy. Everyone fears to send us money or men that they might need themselves. They send us only their prayers and their good wishes. I am afraid, my Lord, we can look only to ourselves for our salvation.”

“And to God. But, I expected nothing of them. I had only hoped. They have a long history of looking on and doing nothing. Only a year or so ago, when the Turk attacked Belgrade, the King of Hungary sent to Europe for help. Indeed, they should have feared that the loss of Belgrade would bring the Sultan’s armies to their very doorstep. But, they did nothing. The princes of Europe hoped that the Turks would be turned back without their help. Now they quiver in fear of another Turkish attack. Buda, Prague, and Vienna will fall to the Sultan as surely as did Belgrade. But, they fight among themselves and send no aid to anyone. No. We must expect no help from anyone but ourselves and God Almighty.”

Philippe rose from the table and walked to the window. He looked out over the walls toward the sea. The sky was clear, and only the occasional fair-weather clouds dotted the expanse of rich blue. White caps blew off the surface of the ocean and wisps of spray were
visible from the window. He thought of his peaceful island and its incredible beauty. The crops of fruit and the roses. The mountains and the clear streams. Now, after forty-two years of relative peace, the blood of his knights and of the Rhodians would once again stain the streets of his city.

The Grand Master waited in his private chambers for the arrival of Antonio Bosio. By now, the Servant-at-Arms had proven himself able to handle the most difficult and dangerous assignments. The man was inventive and determined. Little could stop him once he had made up his mind on any given task.

When the Grand Master was provisioning the fortress for the lengthy siege to come, he had assigned Bosio the task of getting as much wine as might be needed for at least one year. The wine would be necessary as a medicinal as well as a libation. Bosio went out in a galley with a full complement of heavily armed knights. In short order, he negotiated fifteen shiploads of wine bound for various Mediterranean ports under a Venetian flag. Venice was trying hard to stay neutral in the coming conflict with Turkey, fearing that Suleiman might turn his armies on her instead of Rhodes.

After Bosio had diverted the Venetian ships to Rhodes, he then enrolled the foreign crews to fight as mercenaries for the knights. In spite of the Venetian neutrality, he was able to conscript five hundred expert archers from Crete. They were all off-loaded disguised as wine laborers and merchants, and quickly organized into a fighting force.

Shortly thereafter, Bosio boarded the ship of Master Bonaldi, a Venetian, bound for Istanbul with seven hundred casks of wine. With a little persuasion, Bonaldi eventually volunteered his services as well as the wine.

Less-willing accomplices were also boarded on the high seas. Domenico Fornari, a Genoese sailor, was bound for Istanbul from Alexandria with a load of grains. Eight miles from Rhodes, Bosio boarded his ship, and was able—after several uncomfortable hours for Fornari—to convince the man to serve the knights.

Philippe paced the floor as he waited for Bosio. There was a loud double rap at the door, and Bosio appeared in the doorway. Philippe
nodded impatiently, summoning Bosio into the room. “Sit down, Antonio. I have a dangerous mission for you.”

Bosio smiled, moved to the desk, and sat opposite Philippe’s chair. Philippe remained standing. “I have received a good deal of intelligence that Suleiman has recruited expert miners and sappers from his lands in Bosnia. These mines, along with his very powerful artillery, is surely what he intends to use to destroy our defenses. The walls were well reinforced these last months, and I think artillery alone will not breach them. But, if he has the time to dig beneath the walls and set mines, there might be the danger of a breach. Especially in some of the weaker fortifications such as the Bastion of England.”

Bosio listened in silence. He had no idea where this was leading, or what his job would be.

Philippe continued. “There is a Bergamese engineer named Gabriele Tadini da Martinengo. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, my Lord, I have.”

“Well, my sources tell me he is a genius in the arts of mining and countermining. He is working as Engineer General and Colonel of Infantry for the Governor of Venice in Crete, the Duke of Trevisani.”

“Trevisani will never let him go, my Lord. Venice is committed to staying out of this war. They are afraid of Suleiman’s armies more than they are afraid of their hostile neighbors.”