The Dream and the Glory Read online

  He wanted, he told himself with a cynical twist to his lips, a love such as he had described to Cordelia.

  He had often wondered since that night when they had sat together in the arbour how he had been able to speak to her as he had and to explain love in terms which he had never before consciously used to himself.

  And yet the explanation of what she was feeling and what she feared had come to him almost clairvoyantly so that he had known even as he spoke that he was saying the right thing and that he could help her.

  Everything that he had told her had been dormant in him, but never had he consciously realised the truth of it.

  Mark Stanton had always been a man of action.

  When he was only twenty, one of his relatives had sent him to the West Indies in a Merchant ship.

  It had given him an insight into a way of life that he had not known existed.

  He had been appalled at the way that the crew were treated and the hardship endured by the Officers.

  He was to learn that a ship at sea could be a hell and an inferno for those who sailed in her and he was determined that when his time came to command he would treat his seamen as human beings and not animals.

  The ambition that was born in him on his first voyage was eventually to command his own ship and, because he was driven by his enthusiasm and used his brain, he found himself in that position in a surprisingly few years.

  His father was not rich like many of his relatives and Mark realised that he needed money.

  In the Mediterranean there were prizes to be won.

  The crew of a Christian ship took a percentage of every cargo they filched from the Infidels and the Captain was paid a commission on the sale of every slave who was brought alive into Malta.

  The Captain’s share of the spoils of war and piracy were large and Mark was an extremely successful Commander.

  He had no need to hawk his services. His reputation kept him always in demand and in fact the Grand Master, the Prince de Rohan, with whom he was friendly, had suggested that he might consider becoming a Knight of St. John.

  Mark had laughed at him.

  “I admire your Order, Your Eminence, and I respect the fighting ability of your Knights, but the vow of chastity would sound a mockery on my lips!”

  The Grand Master had sighed.

  “It is our loss, Captain Stanton. I would have liked above all things to ask you to be an instructor in my new School of Mathematics and Naval Sciences.”

  “I am always ready to be of assistance, Your Eminence. You have only to ask me,” Mark Stanton replied and he found himself executing commissions for the Order on many occasions.

  But, as he had said to the Grand Master, the vow of chastity was not for him.

  After a long voyage the relaxation he found in the soft warmth of a woman was something he looked forward to and which he felt gave him strength to return to an arduous command.

  There were women in Ports all over the Mediterranean who waited and longed for his return.

  But while he was pleased to see them and accepted their love, he knew when he sailed away that they in reality meant little or nothing in his life.

  Perhaps Gianetta meant more than the others, but he was not sure. He seldom thought of her unless he came to Naples.

  Beautiful though she was, he told himself that he could never tie himself to her or to any other woman like her.

  He rose gently from the bed.

  When he was dressed, he wondered for a moment if he should awaken her to say ‘goodbye’ and then he decided that it was better not to.

  There was no point in an emotional scene that could only be an anticlimax to the passion that they had enjoyed during the night.

  Going out onto the balcony, Mark Stanton picked a red rose from the profusion of flowers growing over the balustrade.

  He went back into the bedroom and laid it in front of Gianetta on the white sheet.

  He knew that she would understand its message and then quietly he went from the room, closing the door behind him.

  He took the carriage that was plying for hire in the crowded streets back to his lodgings.

  When he had bathed and changed, he looked at the clock with an almost comical expression of dismay.

  He was well aware that the Baron and David would think him very remiss not being at the dockyard to supervise what remained to be done to the ship before they could sail in the morning.

  He was quite certain that David would be already there, but just in case he had waited for him at the Embassy as he had done on previous mornings, Mark Stanton called at the Palazzo Sessa.

  “Is his Lordship here?” he asked the Major Domo who greeted him effusively.

  “No, Captain, his Lordship left early for the dockyard.”

  It was what he had expected and then, just as he was about to tell the driver to move on, he asked,

  “And Lady Cordelia? Is she awake?”

  “Her Ladyship is in the garden, Captain. She was up early and she went there alone, but she has just been joined by a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman?”

  “Yes, Captain, the Duca di Belina.”

  For a moment Mark Stanton felt that he could not have heard the man aright.

  Then he walked quickly up the steps of the Embassy and, without waiting for the Major Domo to follow him, passed out onto the terrace down the steps and into the garden.

  He was almost certain that he would find Cordelia in the arbour where they had sat and talked of love.

  With a perception that was unusual he thought that she would have gone there to say ‘goodbye’ to Naples and have a last look at the light on the Bay.

  He moved quickly along the twisting paths looking through the bushes on either side of him in case he should catch a glimpse of Cordelia.

  Then before he reached the arbour he heard her scream.

  *

  The Duca had not expected such resistance from anyone so small and fragile as Cordelia.

  But she fought him like a tigress, twisting and turning against his arms, beating at him with her fists and striking at him as he pulled her relentlessly closer and closer to him, his lips seeking hers.

  She screamed and turned her head rapidly from side to side.

  But he knew that it was only a question of seconds before she would find it impossible to go on fighting and his superior strength must prevail.

  Her breath was coming sobbingly from between her lips and, just as he sensed that she could no longer go on fighting, he felt a hand catch him at the back of his collar.

  It dragged him forcibly from Cordelia and a fist smashed into his face sending him staggering against the seat where they had been sitting.

  The Duca gave an exclamation of fury and saw Mark Stanton facing him, his blues eyes blazing like those of an avenging angel.

  “How dare you strike me!” the Duca exclaimed, speaking in Italian.

  He was, however, no coward and his achievements in the art of self-defence were legendary among his contemporaries.

  He was considered the best swordsman in Naples, he was a crack shot and he kept himself exceedingly fit in a gymnasium that he had had specially constructed in his Ducal Palace.

  He did not particularly care for fighting with bare fists, but his temper was up and there was no time to suggest more civilised methods of conflict.

  He rushed at Mark Stanton like an angry bull, expecting to floor him as easily as he had floored his opponents at the boxing school he sometimes attended.

  But Mark Stanton’s body was as hard as iron and his fists carried a punch that the Duca was experienced enough to know would knock him cold if it landed on his chin.

  Neither of the men paid any attention to Cordelia, who moved out of their way by squeezing herself behind the wooden seat. It was at least a protection against their flying arms and quick-moving bodies.

  She could hardly believe that Mark had come to her rescue at a moment when she recognised that she could no long
er go on fighting.

  She had known that she must surrender from sheer weakness and that the Duca’s lips would take possession of hers.

  She had thought frantically in some part of her terrified mind that she would die at the touch of him.

  Then, just when she had lost a very unequal battle and she could no longer breathe, she had miraculously found herself free.

  The two men were fighting with a ferocity that made her tremble and yet she could not take her eyes from them.

  They each seemed to be impervious to the other’s blows, but there was blood running down the Duca’s chin from the corner of his mouth, while Mark’s face was untouched.

  He was the taller, but the Duca’s body was heavier and there was something fanatical in the way he threw out his fists that made Cordelia afraid for her cousin.

  Then suddenly it was over.

  Mark caught the Duca an uppercut that lifted him off his feet.

  He staggered backwards and losing his balance fell over the low parapet into an oleander bush.

  There was the crash of broken branches. Then he was still, his feet stretched out in front of him almost ludicrously.

  Wide-eyed and trembling Cordelia came from behind the wooden seat.

  Mark was looking down at his broken knuckles. His coat was slightly disarranged and his cravat was ruffled, but otherwise he appeared to be quite unconcerned by what had occurred.

  She moved towards him and he saw by the pallor of, her face and the expression in her eyes just how frightened she was.

  He put his arm round her shoulders and found that she was trembling.

  “It’s all right, Cordelia.”

  As if she could not help herself, she hid her face against his shoulder.

  “He – frightened me,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Mark Stanton said, “but he is unlikely to do so again.”

  He glanced towards the Duca who was lying completely immobile in the oleander bush.

  “Let’s go back to the house.”

  Cordelia was still trembling, but the matter-of-fact manner in which Mark spoke had its effect.

  With an effort at self-control that he admired she moved away from him.

  “I will get some – lotions and – bandages – for your hands.”

  Her breath came in little gasps between the words.

  “That would be very kind,” Mark answered. “Fortunately I heal quickly.”

  She moved ahead of him along the narrow path and he knew as he followed her that she was trying hard to walk with dignity and to hold her chin high.

  They reached the terrace and Cordelia saw with relief that there was no one there.

  “I-I will – find what you – require,” she said hesitatingly.

  Mark Stanton after one look at her pale face and drew her to one of the cushion-covered seats and made her sit down on it.

  “I will send a servant and then we can see how good you are at bandaging,” he suggested.

  He smiled at her, vanished for a few moments and then returned to sit down beside her and take her hand in his.

  “I am sorry this has happened, Cordelia.”

  She looked at him piteously and he saw that her grey eyes were still stricken as if at some nameless horror.

  “I would not have – believed that any – man would – behave like that,” she said hesitatingly after a moment.

  “Not all men are like the Duca,” Mark replied. “You must be sensible, Cordelia, and forget what has happened here.”

  “You – said that he would not come– near me again,” she murmured almost childishly.

  “I thought I was dealing with a gentleman of honour,” Mark Stanton replied. “You must forgive me, Cordelia, for not being a very experienced Guardian. Another time I will trust no one.”

  “I could not – bear there to be – another time,” she murmured. “Perhaps – ”

  He knew what she was going to say before she said it. The thought of the Convent had come back into her mind and so he said quickly,

  “No! That is not the answer. Besides, I would not expect you to play the coward.”

  “Coward?”

  He felt that his accusation had jolted her.

  “It is cowardly to run away from life,” he said. “What you experienced a few moments ago, Cordelia, was very unpleasant, but you are sensible enough to realise that there are always penalties attached to everything.”

  “Penalties?” she asked.

  “Because men find you so beautiful they may tend to lose their heads and behave in an uncontrolled manner.”

  He saw the surprise in her expression and he went on,

  “But we are dealing with a Neapolitan and we will not be in Naples again for a very long time.”

  He smiled as he went on,

  “You are going to an island where there are a large number of young men, but they have all taken the vow of chastity. That in itself should be a safeguard. At the same time, Cordelia, you are very lovely!”

  He saw the colour come into her cheeks at the compliment and she looked away from him shyly.

  “D-do you – really – think so?”

  “I think there is one thing that we must agree on,” Mark Stanton replied, “and that is always to tell each other the truth. When I say that you are beautiful, Cordelia, I mean it!”

  “Thank – you.”

  A servant appeared with bandages, a cream to salve Mark’s broken knuckles with and a bowl.

  Another servant brought wine and Mark insisted on Cordelia drinking a little.

  “It is too – early in the day,” she protested.

  “You have suffered a shock,” he insisted. “If we were in England, I would prescribe a warm sweet drink, but you know as well as I do that in this place it would take hours to prepare!”

  She laughed at that and sipped the wine obediently.

  It brought the colour back into her cheeks and he saw that the stricken look had gone from her eyes.

  He then allowed her to bandage the knuckles of both his hands.

  “You are very expert,” he commented.

  “Mama insisted that I should learn how to – look after people when they were sick or if they injured themselves. Papa used to laugh at the lessons she gave me – but I cannot help feeling that if we are in Malta and men are wounded – I might be of some assistance.”

  “I doubt that,” Mark Stanton replied. “The Knights have a most efficient Hospital. The novices take their turn in nursing the sick.”

  “That is something David will not like,” Cordelia said with a smile. “He is always impatient of people who are ill. I suppose it is because he is so strong himself.”

  “David will have to serve his turn in the Hospital,” Mark Stanton pointed out dryly.

  “He will want to do his duty,” Cordelia replied, “but I wish I could do it for him.”

  Mark Stanton looked at his hands.

  “I shall know where to come if I am in any trouble.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “I am sure, Cordelia, you do not wish to be here when the Duca recovers consciousness. Will you go to your bedroom or would you prefer to come with me to the dockyard?”

  She raised her eyes to his.

  “I would not wish to be a – nuisance to you.”

  He looked down at her and there was no mockery in his smile as he said,

  “You could never be that!”

  Chapter Four

  With the breeze behind them the sails of the St. Jude emblazoned with the Eight-Pointed Cross were carrying the ship smoothly over the blue sea.

  Seated in a shady corner of the deck Cordelia was fascinated by the activity taking place around her.

  Men were running like monkeys up the complicated rigging, there were frequent alterations to the sails and orders came peremptorily from the bridge where Mark Stanton was in charge.

  She had not expected the St. Jude to be so large, seeing that it was privately owned, but she realised
as soon as she came on board that it was in fact a Man-o’-War in every sense of the word.

  She had listened to Mark explaining to David how the Order had revised its Naval policy at the beginning of the century.

  “Instead of a striking force consisting only of galleys, which were oar-propelled vessels with auxiliary sails,” he said, “these have been progressively reduced and instead round-bottomed sailing ships were introduced.”

  “And they have proved effective?” David asked.

  “The same type of Battleship has been built by every country in Europe and, of course, by the Barbary pirates,” he answered.

  David had looked at the cannons and queried a little doubtfully,

  “Surely those are not large enough for some of the new vessels built by the French?”

  “That is true,” Mark Stanton admitted, “but they prove very effective against the majority of ships we encounter.”

  He looked at the sailors hurrying about the deck and went on,

  “The Maltese cannoneers are the best in the world and there is no doubt that it is due to their skill that the vessels of the Order owe their success in combat.”

  “I should like to see them firing these cannons,” David said with shining eyes.

  “You will see a fight soon enough,” Mark Stanton replied, “and you will find it is very rare if on the second run in the masts of the enemy are not brought down.”

  All the rest of the afternoon David talked to Ludwig von Wütenstein of battles. Especially of Jacques de Chambrai, a skilled sailor of the Order who fired three hundred and twenty-eight salvos of cannon in two and a half hours!

  “In one year,” David cried gleefully, “he took six Barbary corsairs and eight hundred slaves.”

  Cordelia was not surprised when after they had been at sea for only a day David was talking enthusiastically of the ship he planned to own himself.

  Now he came running along the deck to throw himself down beside her and say with an air of excitement that she always found irresistible,

  “I must have a ship of my own, Cordelia, and I have no wish to wait for several years as Mark is suggesting I should.”

  “I expect he is making good sense,” Cordelia replied. “It would be wise to do your four ‘caravans’ before you become an owner.”