Secret World Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by M.J. Trow

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Selection of Recent Titles by M.J. Trow

  The Inspector Lestrade Series

  LESTRADE AND THE KISS OF HORUS

  LESTRADE AND THE DEVIL’S OWN

  LESTRADE AND THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

  The Peter Maxwell Series

  MAXWELL’S ISLAND

  MAXWELL’S CROSSING

  MAXWELL’S RETURN

  The Kit Marlowe Series

  DARK ENTRY *

  SILENT COURT *

  WITCH HAMMER *

  SCORPIONS’ NEST *

  CRIMSON ROSE *

  TRAITOR’S STORM *

  SECRET WORLD *

  The Grand & Batchelor Series

  THE BLUE AND THE GREY *

  * available from Severn House

  SECRET WORLD

  M. J. Trow

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman.

  The right of M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Trow, M. J. author.

  Secret world. – (A Tudor mystery)

  1. Marlowe, Christopher, 1564-1593–Fiction.

  2. Walsingham, Francis, Sir, 1530?-1590–Fiction.

  3. Murder–Investigation–England–Canterbury–Fiction.

  4. Great Britain–History–Elizabeth, 1558-1603–

  Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-075-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-558-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-670-0 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  St Elmo, Malta

  Saturday 23 June 1565

  The first rays of the sun gilded the towers of St Angelo across the narrow entrance to the harbour. The sea looked different this morning as the mist rolled back. Jack Barnet could make out their sails on the horizon, the crescents curling on the canvas, the black flags snapping at the mastheads.

  No one had slept. Most of the men on the ramparts with him that morning had gone to the chapel to confess their sins, even Harry Bellot. Especially Harry Bellot. Jack had not been among them. Like everybody else in that charnel house, he wore a crucifix around his neck, but he was not a Papist. This wasn’t his faith and this wasn’t his war. What the Hell was he doing here, in this place and on this morning?

  He had heard the mournful dirge of the Mass, the chanting of the priests and the solemn Latin rumble through the open doors of the chapel, its walls scarred and pockmarked with heathen iron and lead. Now he heard the single toll of the bell ring out for the Order and the followers of Christ. Two days ago, they had all gone through the ritual of the Knights of St John, for it had been the feast of Corpus Christi and there were traditions to be observed. Traditions? The bloody idiots had carried on as if 40,000 Turks weren’t closing in on them for the kill, intent on silencing that bell for ever and to consign to ashes all the Christian feasts, the Christian saints and the Christian God.

  That maniac de la Valette, the Grand Master, in his white robes with the cross of the Order emblazoned in blood on his chest, had led a procession through the streets, the crosses held high and the incense swinging. But that was across the harbour in Birgu, not on the isolated headland that was St Elmo. And what had the fool said? ‘St Elmo is the key to Malta.’ And he expected them all to die for the place, to buy him precious time to build his fortifications with the bodies of the valiant.

  ‘Master Barnet?’ He turned at the sound of his name. A little, black-robed priest stood smiling at him, a leather canteen of water in his hand.

  ‘Father,’ Barnet replied and nodded.

  The old man looked at the soldier. He didn’t wonder what he was doing here; he knew. Barnet looked exhausted, his face as grey as the stones he was called upon to defend. There was brick dust in his hair and on his cheeks and he had long ago lost the buttons on his leather jacket and the ties of his shirt.

  ‘I didn’t see you at Mass last night,’ the priest said softly. ‘Nor at Confession.’ It was not a scold. He was concerned for the man’s eternal soul.

  Barnet licked his lips. ‘I am not of the faith, Father,’ he said. ‘Not of your faith, at least.’

  The priest frowned. ‘But you are a Christian, my son?’ The old man felt the ground shifting under him. He would believe anything about this place and about these men who were about to die.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Barnet still had the sangfroid to chuckle. ‘Yes.’ He looked out to sea again, at the Turkish galleys growing ever larger on the horizon, a line of black creeping forward in a deadly silence. ‘I am a Christian.’

  ‘Ah,’ the priest said and smiled. ‘Of course. A Protestant. With all the races here, I had forgotten you are with the English contingent.’

  ‘I have not forgotten God, Father,’ Barnet said, suddenly, chillingly, afraid.

  The priest smiled. ‘And He has not forgotten you, my son,’ he said. ‘Here.’ He passed him his canteen.

  Barnet frowned. For days now the priests had walked the walls among the defenders of St Elmo, making the sign of the cross in the air over them and sprinkling the water from their canteens.

  ‘Isn’t this holy water?’ the soldier asked.

  The priest nodded. ‘And about now,’ he said, ‘I can’t think of a better use for it. Drink it, my son, in remembrance of Him who died for us both.’ He raised his hand, passing it to the north, the west, the east, the south. Then he was gone. Barnet was still watching the priest weaving his way along the ramparts when someone crashed down heavily alongside him.

  ‘That was a lucky escape!’

  Barnet turned to look
at the new arrival. ‘What was?’

  ‘If I’d been a moment earlier, I’d have been blessed by a priest.’

  ‘That wouldn’t kill you, Joshua,’ he said.

  ‘No, but they might.’ Joshua pointed to his right where, beyond the walls on the landward side, the army of Mustapha Pasha, Commander of the Faithful and descendant of the standard bearer of the prophet Mohammed, was on the march, rolling forward on the bare grey rock of Mount Sciberas as surely as Mustapha’s navy was rolling in from the sea.

  Barnet checked the apostles dangling around his neck, hoping the powder in those flasks was as dry as his mouth. He suddenly remembered the canteen and took a swig. Then he remembered the man on his left and passed it to him.

  ‘No thanks,’ Joshua said with a grin. ‘But don’t go too far away. I might need it later.’

  ‘Well, if there’s any spare.’ Harry Bellot crouched on the other side of Barnet. The man had diced away the night, preferring the chance to a night of misery and worry. Except that he’d lost everything but his shirt and had even more reason to worry and be miserable. Why hadn’t he run away to sea while he still had the chance and the inclination? Barnet passed the canteen to him.

  ‘What did you mean?’ He decided that small talk might make the time pass quicker this morning, might drown out that damned bell and the rumble of heavy cannon over rocky outcrops as the guns – and the end – got nearer. ‘What did you mean about narrowly escaping being blessed by a priest?’

  Joshua looked at him oddly and beyond to Harry Bellot. Then he laughed and turned away. ‘Out there,’ he said, waving vaguely with his right arm in the direction of the oncoming Turks, ‘is one El Louck Ali Fartax.’

  ‘The pirate.’ Barnet had heard of him. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Did you know he was once a Christian?’ Joshua asked. ‘More, he was a Dominican monk?’

  Barnet’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t think it possible to be surprised any more, not after three weeks in this Hellhole. ‘What are you saying?’ he frowned. ‘That the Father there is …’

  Joshua shook his head. ‘I am saying,’ he said, ‘that Ali Fartax is a Christian fighting for the Turks. There are Turks in this very fortress fighting for the Christians; but me? Well, I’m a Jew.’

  Barnet blinked at him, feeling the sun creep higher on his neck. He looked at Bellot who just shrugged. He wasn’t a man easily surprised.

  Joshua leaned closer to Barnet. ‘I’m still waiting for my Messiah,’ he said. ‘And for all his goodness, I doubt that the good Father could stomach that.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Barnet asked.

  Joshua looked into the man’s face and laughed. ‘I could ask you the same question, Englishman. At least I’m from Venice, just around the corner, so to speak. The Turks are the enemies of my blood. But you, you’re from the far side of the world, where headless women have their faces on their chests.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve met my wife,’ Bellot grunted. ‘And live and let live, I say. You can meet funny folk wherever you go, even before you leave your own garden, oftentimes.’

  ‘And this is not our fight,’ Barnet said. No amount of levity was going to change that.

  ‘You got that right,’ Joshua replied with a sigh, checking that he still had his dagger with him. He had been sleeping rough on the battlements all night and there were some light-fingered buggers among this lot, Knights of St John or no. He thought he was tired of the furnace and the lathe. Now his old life whispered a siren song to him, of safety and comfort. ‘It’s rather ironic, really; my namesake in the Book of the same name knocks down the walls of fortresses and it’s my job to try to hold this one up.’

  There was a noise like nothing else in the world as the fleet opened fire. Black plumes of smoke burst from the bow-chasers, the forward-pointing guns and the iron balls, invisible and deadly, screamed and snarled through the air to smash into the parapet to Joshua’s left.

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed and scrabbled to his feet, dragging his matchlock with him. Bellot cursed as dust and pebbles sprayed all over him.

  ‘Take cover!’ they heard Sir Oliver Starkey call.

  ‘Arsehole!’ Barnet muttered. ‘I’ve heard some redundant orders in my time.’

  ‘Now, now, Jack.’ Bellot was still picking grit from his teeth. ‘That’s no way to talk to your—’

  But he never finished his sentence because a second salvo demolished the ramparts alongside him and he found himself somersaulting down the steps to crash on to the carts below. Barnet had fallen with him and he had dropped his matchlock. He was lying, dazed, in a wagon they used to carry away the dead and wounded. The planks were stained and spattered with the dark brown of men’s blood. Barnet struggled upright, coughing and spluttering in the stone dust. He saw Joshua briefly, running with the others along the wall walk, their matchlocks at the ready, fuses primed and boots clattering on the masonry.

  He climbed out with the help of a priest and Harry Bellot and dashed across the courtyard, clambering up the next steps to join the rest.

  ‘Where’s your musket, man?’ Starkey asked him as he reached the top. ‘Where do you think you are?’ Knight of the realm he may be. Knight of St John he certainly was, but Oliver Starkey was a pain in Jack Barnet’s arse. Did the man have nothing better to do than pick on his inferiors? Now, it was a matter of waiting for dead man’s weapons. If a soldier fell beside him, Barnet could grab the matchlock. Otherwise, at this range, he was defenceless. All he could do was to pass his powder to Bellot from the apostles still dangling across his chest. He glanced back over his shoulder. The Turkish galleys were almost lost in the battery smoke now, but they were veering off, two by two and rowing like things possessed to port and starboard. They had done their bit and now it was up to the men on the land.

  All eyes looked to the south-west, to the rock of Sciberas, and to the black guns pointing to the heart of Jack Barnet. Above the rattle of running feet and the shouting of the troop commanders, the fort’s battle horns brayed out. The thatched roofs in the compound were blazing now with the fleet’s battery attack and the courtyard was full of monks scurrying backwards and forwards with buckets of water, holy or otherwise.

  Jack Barnet saw it clearly through the smoke, as if some god of war had drawn his personal attention to it. ‘Mother of God,’ he heard Bellot mutter. The huge Turkish gun they called the Basilisk had been hauled round from its earlier position, oxen slipping and sliding in their heavy yokes as they dragged the monster into place. Now, in the still early morning, the Basilisk spoke, bringing death to those who looked on it. The great gun rocked backwards as its muzzle gave birth to iron and fire and the shot whistled down to crash and roar through the battlements, sweeping men aside, as chess pieces on a board might be swept away by a bad sportsman who has just lost a game. A drill sergeant ceased to exist as the ball went straight through him, black and unstoppable. Joshua was catapulted into the courtyard, a bloody sleeve dangling from a broken arm. For a second time, Barnet was nearly blown to kingdom come but he clung on to the parapet until his fingers bled and he withstood the blast.

  Coughing and blinded, he shook himself free, spitting somebody else’s blood out of his mouth and he looked towards the main gate. The Basilisk had spoken again and there was no gate now, just a gaping hole in the wall where the masonry crumbled and fell, crushing the defenders ranged below.

  ‘Down!’ Barnet heard Starkey yelling. ‘Down to the yard. Form front. Form front!’

  He clawed free his sword, half-stumbling over bodies in his path. He couldn’t see a face he recognized anywhere. Through the blackened archway and above the heap of dead and dying, he could see the enemy coming on in perfect order. The janissaries with their long, padded coats and tall white turbans were first, marching like some unstoppable juggernaut, their murderous pikes coming to the level as they reached the gate. Behind them, wave after wave of the layalars, swinging their curved swords below their crescent flags, the horsetail banners swaying in t
he dust. He could not see the spahis, though he knew they were there. This was no action for cavalry, but they would be waiting behind the slaughter, ready to ride down any group of Christians who might try to break out from the stricken fortress.

  The noise of battle filled his ears and he felt weak. His wrist was heavy and the blood was pounding in his head and chest. On each side of him, the matchlocks came up to the level, fuses smoking.

  ‘Fire!’ Oliver Starkey had not quite finished the word when the guns roared. Barnet couldn’t hear anything now, his head singing with the impact.

  ‘Reload!’

  But there was no time to reload. The janissaries had crossed the space between the gate and the Order’s front line. Steel- tipped pikes were slicing through leather and skin and muscle, skewering the defenders as the sheer tide of men carried them backwards. Barnet almost lost his footing. Once, twice, he parried the probing pikeheads with his sword. Then he fell back, turning away from the line, running for the relative safety of the courtyard’s rear. He could barely see now for the smoke and found himself stumbling blindly, swinging his blade and screaming.

  Suddenly he stopped, staring at the most bizarre sight he had ever seen. De Guras, the Order’s commander at St Elmo, was sitting in a chair in the centre of the yard, the white cross on its black field flapping in the wind behind him. He had a pike across his lap because he was too old and too ill to stand to fight. There was a serenity about him, a calm that shone from his grey old eyes. Come, he seemed to say, see how a Knight of St John dies. Then, with a sickening rip, a ball took off his head at the shoulders and it bounded across the yard, rolling among the bodies there.

  Jack Barnet wasn’t screaming now. He threw away his sword, ripped the apostles from his shoulder and he ran. He heard Oliver Starkey’s voice roaring at him. ‘Come back, you coward! Stand and fight like a man!’