wasn’t able to determine whether or not the moment was right. He shot after the others, and when the shot finally cracked, something inconceivable happened. A block as big as a horse’s head came sweeping across the deck with a rope trailing after it. It hit the helmet of brother Preian de Bidoulx, who was standing at the ready to lead the boarding party. The rope took three rail pieces with it, knocking over a powder fourth and two artillerymen. Then it smashed into the pots in the cook’s sandpit, spilling the afternoon’s soup before it shot out with a report like a gigantic whiplash over the forward battlements with the great sail following it like a banner fluttering in the hard wind.
The carrack righted itself. The wind took in stern castle and, windward as she was, she laid herself across the wind so that the sails smacked and hit all corners, while the Turks laughed and thumbed their noses as they got away.
There was an investigation. It found that Shooter-Frans had done what one had one chance in a hundred to do: he had successfully hit the main sheet, which came from the flap of the sail far out before the gunwale to its little black hole in the planking above the stern.
After this master shot, he had been transferred back to shore again. Ever since that day he had been called Shooter-Frans, and it would stay with him for life.
But today was his great day, a day when no one could deny him his importance.
He would choose the Grand Master.
The tenth of January the Old Carretto had died. On the eleventh, he was placed in the black clothed council hall, in a high black catafalque with the knights on taborurets by the four horns and an honor guard clothed in black with halberds. The burial was on the twelfth, and Shooter-Frans had his special place in the procession, understandably behind the knights and the chaplains, but before all the civil lords, even the famous fortress architects, the papal galley captains, and all the rich merchants. It still meant something to belong to the order of Saint John of Jerusalem’s Hospitallers and Knights.
And today, the twenty second, he would choose the Grand Master.
Ever since the burial, this choice had been discussed. It was discussed in all auberges by the whole knighthood, by Grand Crosses and commanders, by God’s chosen and common knights. Up to now, even the novices had poked their noses into everything, though they had no right to vote.
But he had it, Brother Françoise, frére servant of the Provençal langue, and it was noticed. Every one spoke politely to him about the vote, both knights and chaplains.
There were three parties that quickly demarked themselves. As usual the Frenchmen kept together—and there he himself ought to have been counted. They wanted the Grand Prior of France, Phillippe Villiers de I’sle Adam. He was a heavy name. Everyone knew it: He was a tested military man, a great fortress builder, an experienced diplomat, and was known to have a good hand with the people.
The Spanish, as usual, were not inclined to have a Frenchman, and as usual would get the Italians to support them. The Spanish had a heavy anchor too in Andrea d’Amaral, the Chancellor, but they weren‘t certain of his chances. No one said why, but everyone knew it. Amaral was a first class military man, a tough, disciplined man and completely fearless. In addition he was a cultured man who could recite the classics from memory just as well as the washed out black blotches in his writing cottage. But he had no hand with the people. He kept to himself and came off as arrogant. He had a way of sticking his aquiline nose in the air and lifting his grizzled eyebrows that annoyed people. He always looked down his nose to those he talked to. He had a surly smile on his face when he listened. That is, if he even bothered to listen. Occasionally, he appeared bored to death. No, no one would seriously put forth Amaral.
So some bright boy had hit upon a third possibility. Should they not consider an Englishman for once? There was, of course, Turcopilier Docwra, present Grand Prior of England, a smart guy, good military man, and above all an exceptional diplomat, well known and liked around the royal courts in Europe where he worked diligently as the Religion’s ambassador. Couldn’t they use just such a diplomat? Right now?
It was on this point brother François had been honored this day with the usual hints dropping in familiar small chats. He knew his importance and it had made him infinitely happy.
Now this was the situation. He could not directly choose the Grand Master. He could only be with and select three men from his langue, who together with three from each of the other langues would choose three great men. These three in turn would choose a fourth, who would be with them and choose a fifth—yes it was a little involved, but finally there would be sixteen, and they would go in a conclave and choose the Grand Master.
So in the end he didn’t have much of a say in the matter. For the Provençal langue would vote French. That was clear. But that some considered him to play a small part in bringing about a conceivable wedge within the French block inspired him with an unusual yet pleasant feeling of meaningfulness.
The Chancellor
The Commander of Vera Cruz, Knight of the Grand Cross, Grand Prior of Castile, Don Andrea d’ Amaral paced back and forth over the floor in the great hall unable to sit still. He looked out over the garden, turned back to the door and the far side, looked absentmindedly out through the arches in the stair hall, turned completely around, stood and slapped his sole against the stone floor, went back to the window and drummed on the marble slab.
Today, the twenty-second of January was the vote. As Carretto’s successor, he would open the election. As the chief candidate he could have declined, but there was hardly any reason to do that. It was, of course, a purely formal tradition.
Chief candidate?
Was it such a sure thing? The matter ought to have been clear. He was the order’s best naval officer. The fact was, he had been in charge this whole last year while the old Carretto slowly faded out. But there was also this Phillippe Villiers de l’Isle Adam, who had stood in his way as long he could remember. He couldn’t stand this man. He fussed over people. He smiled to the right and left. He looked appreciative when people spoke rubbish. He worked in small words of praise where an honest chewing out would have been more suitable. No wonder he was popular. And it paid on a day like this.
In some miraculous way, appearances always worked against him when they were opposing each other. Like the day at Layazzo, a decade ago, the greatest day of victory they had experienced in a century—his great victory. But how many thought that it was his victory today?
The Chancellor remembered. He had led the galleys through the gray sea that slapped up through the oar beam and washed over the rowers to Cap Andreas on the far east side of Cyprus. There he met l’Isle Adam with the ships, all eighteen sails. Then they set out east with orders to seek and destroy the Sultan of Egypt’s flotilla in the bay of Layazzo, the port of Alexandria. It was there to protect a convoy of at least fifty masts that would carry one of the greatest loads of logs ever seen in Alexandria‘s harbor. Now was the time to destroy it. It would be used to build an armada in the red sea that could crush the Portuguese and forever block the back way to India. The lumber was in Layazzo, or could it possibly be loaded already?
This meant they had to strike fast and hard. He gave orders to seek the enemy and attack wherever they were to be found even on the road. But l’Isle Adam was cautious as usual. He didn’t want his ships to take fire from the shore (if there even were any cannons there, a very unlikely scenario). He was scared of finding bad wind and being driven ashore. He wanted to wait and ambush the enemy on the sea. If he now desired to do it . . .
This time they fell out in orderly fashion, quarreled, squared off, and had their swords half drawn when the chaplain got between them. Then l’Isle Adam yielded and said something to
