The Crescent And The Cross

Sir Oliver Starkey sat in the dim light of the Chancery, the scratching of his quill the only sound against the heavy stone walls of Fort St Angelo. He was in his sixties, a smallish man with an air of confidence that made you sit up and take notice. His greying hair hid an exceptional mind that was quick to formulate and even quicker to find a remedy or solution. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the salt spray that drifted in from the Grand Harbor. As Latin Secretary to Grand Master Jean Parisot de Valette, Sir Oliver was a man of words, but in the spring of 1565, words were becoming as sharp as any rapier. He dipped his pen into the inkwell; his fingers stained a permanent charcoal hue. Before him lay a series of coded reports from Istanbul, smuggled through a network of merchants and disillusioned clerks that he had spent years cultivating.