‘What’s that?’
‘It’s only a goat. Keep moving!’
The men struggled under their heavy burdens, occasionally gasping or muttering in their native Maltese. As a foot brushed against a loose stone, it clinked as it rolled amongst others, causing the men to glance behind them, cursing the moon-cast shadows that deceived the eye so walls appeared insubstantial and herds of goats masqueraded as French cavalrymen. In the distance, dominated by the cathedral, the skyline of Mdina thrust boldly upwards.
‘Rest for a moment and I’ll see if our people are coming.’
Despite his stocky build, the speaker scrambled easily up a rocky knoll. He extended a long brass spyglass, poised for a moment to scan the surrounding countryside and slid down, nodding.
‘Are they coming?’ The questioner was small and swarthy, with a brass ring through the lobe of his left ear.
‘They are,’ the stocky man said. ‘I don’t know how many, but we must hurry!’
The swarthy man nodded, touched the butt of the pistol that was thrust into the waistband of his trousers and looked upwards to the sky. ‘Let’s hope there are no French patrols out tonight.’
The first man strode forward, singing as he balanced a bag in his arms; a small group followed, leading two pack mules, and hundreds of others came behind, with a single bag or sweating with the weight of cumbersome packages that glinted revealingly under the shaded moon.
‘Keep quiet,’ the swarthy man hissed. ‘In case the French come!’
‘Let’s hope they’re too busy desecrating St Paul’s to patrol the countryside.’ The stocky man touched the cutlass that balanced on his hip. ‘It’s not yet the time to fight.’
‘They’re worse than Saint Alfonso,’ the swarthy man said.
‘Fine bedfellows,’ a sharp-nosed woman said bitterly. ‘They’re equally guilty of whoring with the devil.’
The stocky man opened his mouth to demand silence, but closed it again. He knew his own people, and the Maltese were the most loquacious in the world. St Paul, it was said, had withdrawn the poison from the fangs of a Maltese viper and transferred it to the tongues of the people. Perhaps, he thought, the French invaders might yet suffer the venom, and not only verbally.
The crowd gathered round, tense in the humid night. Two women began to argue and a mule tramped its hooves on the stony track.
Signalling for silence, the swarthy man gestured backwards with his thumb towards the walled city. ‘There’s a garrison in Mdina,’ he said. ‘And sentries at the gate.’
‘That’s all taken care of,’ the stocky man reassured him. ‘We have arranged a distraction that no Frenchman can resist.’
‘Women! The French always take care of their stomachs, their purses and their groins,’ said the sharp-nosed woman, making an obscene gesture.
‘Listen! Soldiers!’
The regular tramp of military boots echoed through the night.
‘It’s the French!’ hissed the sharp-nosed woman, drawing a long knife from beneath her skirt.
‘No!’ The stocky man shook his head, indicating the bundles carried by the waiting people. ‘There’s too much at stake. We have to get this to safety.’
‘Where? We can’t get in!’
The stocky man nodded. The French patrol was between them and their original destination. He had to make a quick decision. ‘We must get back! We’ll use the other place!’
‘Is that safe?’ The swarthy man’s hand trembled as he clutched his pistol.
‘There is nowhere safe just now, but it will have to do.’ The stocky man glanced upwards as a cloud obscured the moon, dimming the light. ‘St Paul is looking after us tonight.’
They moved again, men and mules threading between the stone walls that separated the fields, stopping to listen for the French, ready to fight if necessary but hoping to avoid trouble. Twice a mule brayed and they held their breath, but the French obviously did not realise the significance of the sound and left them unmolested. The stocky man gave a sour grin as the heard a French sergeant giving orders. They were concentrating on the outskirts of the town, searching for an elusive quarry that knew every corner and every fold in the ground.
‘Down here,’ the stocky man eventually ordered. ‘But be careful.’
They followed, one at a time, and then the darkness welcomed them, and the cool dim that was underground. They moved quickly, piling their burdens one on top of the other with no order and little regard for their value, until the stocky man ushered them out.
‘It’s as secure here as anywhere,’ he muttered. ‘Now back to Mdina.’
In that hushed countryside, the sound of horses travelled far. The stocky man heard them first. ‘Here come the Knights, our beloved leaders!’
The sharp-nosed woman grunted. ‘They’re as bad as the French.’
Although they both came on horseback, only one of the Knights seemed at home in the saddle. Both Knights had the pale colouring of northern Europe, and while the man with intense blue eyes was of medium height, his companion was tall and jovial. It was the smaller of the two who spoke first.
‘Is it done?’
‘It is done,’ the stocky man replied. ‘But …’
‘No buts.’ The slight man dismissed him. ‘Give me the keys.’
The stocky man glanced at his swarthy companion, who raised an expressive eyebrow.
‘Do as he says,’ the stocky man said, and each handed a key to a Knight.
The Knights paused for a second, then said, ‘Nobody must know.’
‘Nobody will …’
‘Allez!’
The French came with a rush, blue-coated infantrymen pouring from the nearest farmhouse. The Knights glanced once, kicked in their spurs and hurried away. There was a volley of musketry and the swarthy man turned around, fired a single shot and fell, writhing on the ground and clutching his thigh. The stocky man stopped, cursing, and knelt at his side, but the French ignored them in their pursuit of the Knights.
A slight breeze shifted the cloud and moonlight glossed silver over the island.