Falcon's Shadow: A Novel of the Knights of Malta (the Siege of Malta Book 2) by Marthese Fenech

Author:Marthese Fenech [Fenech, Marthese]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BDL Publishing
Published: 2020-07-07T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Barbary Coast, 14 August 1552

Domenicus stands at the starboard rail of the Falcon’s Shadow, peers through moonlit darkness. Eight days have passed since the fleet departed Malta’s shores. The flagship now pulses but a few paddle strokes from the North African coast. Against an inky sky, the black shapes of palm trees sway in the wind.

A peaceful oasis about to run with blood.

Someone brushes against his side. He glances without turning his head. Marcello.

“If you die stupidly, I’ll feed you to the Mediterranean fishes,” the knight threatens.

“And if I die cleverly?”

Marcello grunts. “Your woman awaits your safe return. A beautiful one, not some warthog-faced hag. Don’t fuck it up by dying.”

Domenicus nods. Sound advice.

The bosun stills his tambour as the overseer orders the oarsmen to silence, his whip replaced with a sword. A stealthy berth is imperative. Even the slightest rattle of chains could cost a slave his head. Domenicus looks over his shoulder at the faces of the men, bluish in the moonlight. The knights stand poised and proud in pristine tunics. The forced recruits, not so. Even from a distance, they are tense, wide-eyed. Some tremble in place. Domenicus exhales a slow, steadying breath.

Marcello leans close. “Whatever you do,” he whispers, “do not engage in battle. We land under cover of darkness. You and a team of scouts will march ahead, dressed as Moors. You know the dialect of the land.”

Domenicus blinks. “What of the vanguard?”

“Because of your mother tongue, someone made a case with Captain Leone that you’d be a useful scout. Most certainly the first time in your life your Maltese birth gives you an advantage.”

He arcs an eyebrow. “Someone?”

Marcello shrugs, looks out over the water.

Domenicus bumps him with his shoulder. “You are a good man, Marcello di Ruggieri.”

“There’s no such thing.”

Captain Leone’s orders pass in whispers through the ranks of men. Within minutes, the anchors drop. Chaplains bless each member of the ship’s company and offer absolution for the imminent slaughter. Sailors load rowboats with ordnances, armour, and provisions to transport to land. Knights and foot-soldiers climb down rope ladders and push off one at a time into the water.

Domenicus swings one leg over the gunwales, then the other, secures his feet on a rung, and grips the side rails, the rope damp and coarse. He lowers himself as quickly as the man beneath him allows. At the waterline, he backs into the salty embrace of the moon-soaked shallows. Good thing galleys boast narrow keels and low freeboards—allows for close mooring. A few strokes bring him within easy reach of the bottom.

Marcello wades up beside him. “Lost my spot on a rowboat to a water cask. From Florentine nobleman to drenched sewer rat.”

“A marked improvement.”

The knight snickers. “Well, you’re about to don the garb of an infidel.”

Domenicus smiles. “A dry infidel, at any rate.”

Marcello snorts, gives him a shove. The banter provides a welcome distraction, even if now is not the time for it. Or maybe it is the perfect time for it.

Either

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