by Rehan Khan
Konjic sat them at a table close to the entrance so they had a good view of the inn. The place was so busy, there was scarcely a seat left. Earlier, Ismail had purchased two chickens and made them halal, after which the innkeeper agreed to cook them in a stew. The meal was surprisingly agreeable, accompanied by barley bread which they dipped in the chicken broth.
Awa sat beside Konjic, her hood up. Her looks attracted curiosity wherever she went, and Will could tell the attention was beginning to bother her. he knew how it felt, having been the only European living in the neighbourhood his former master occupied in Marrakesh.
He noticed a group of men sitting on stools at the bar, tankards of ale placed on the counter before them. The one in the centre was a large fellow, broad-backed, wide-shouldered. Will couldn’t quite see his face.
‘May I join you?’ Another man approached, a mug of mead in his chunky hands. Will could smell the fermented honey from his cup. The fellow smiled, but Will saw the way his face twitched nervously.
‘Please do,’ said Konjic.
Will drew up another chair, placing it beside him.
‘The name is Cleaves. I’m a blacksmith, way over the other side of town. You folk passing through or are you here to see where the Saint was buried?’
‘Just passing through,’ said Konjic.
‘Where you heading?’ Cleaves persisted.
‘We have business to attend to in London. My name is Konjic, these are my associates.’
Cleaves skimmed each one of them, before his gaze came to rest on Awa. ‘Ah. Associates.’
‘Yes,’ said Konjic. ‘Forgive my lack of knowledge about your town, but who is the Saint you refer to?’
‘Saint Thomas Becket. He was the former Archbishop here, till King Henry the Second’s knights came and murdered him in his very own church. Terrible business.’ Cleaves took a swig of mead, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Well, they all got their come-uppance.’
‘Does the Queen visit?’ Konjic asked.
‘Once, I think, about twenty years ago.’ The fellow spat. ‘We don’t need the Crown here, we have our own supporters. Besides, the tide will soon turn.’
‘How do you mean?’ Konjic asked.
‘The Queen doesn’t have any heirs. She’s grown long in the tooth. Change is coming,’ said Cleaves, rising heavily from his chair. ‘Be wishing you a good end.’
What a strange parting comment. Will observed Cleaves walk briskly away. Konjic was about to say something, when Will saw the blacksmith raise his head towards the gallery and make a sign. Four men who had been dallying with the harlots now pushed the women aside to reveal deadly crossbows – loaded and ready to fire. The large fellow at the bar also spun round, revealing himself to be Stukeley, the personal bodyguard of Rathbone and the man who had thrown Anver into the canal in Venice. The Knights of the Fire Cross!
‘Down!’ Will shouted, ramming into Awa. As they went to ground, he heard the whoosh of crossbow bolts fly past. Will scrambled under the table, knocking it over to shield them, as bolts flew from several positions in the inn, thudding into the wood, some piercing through it. The projectiles were deadly - could cut someone in half.
‘No!’ Awa screamed.
Will whirled round. A bolt had pierced Kostas’ chest. Another had gone through Mikael’s neck, a third had hit Ismail straight in the heart. All three were motionless. Konjic had taken a bolt through his left shoulder and was slumped in his chair. Gurkan scrambled along the floor, tucking in beside them.
Will was in a state of shock. He had always wanted to die on English soil - but not like this. Dear God in heaven, not like this.
34
ENTRAPMENT
KONJIC LAY ON THE FLOOR of the Stag Inn. He was still breathing. Gurkan had pulled him out of the line of fire, so he was shielded by the dining table, but how long were they going to last? It seemed there were dozens of assailants, hitting them from all corners.
‘Commander,’ Awa whispered, as she crouched over Konjic. His face was contorted in pain, blood trickling through his tunic top.
‘The three of you . . . must get away . . .’ he gasped.
‘No, Commander, you’re coming with us,’ Gurkan told him.
Awa was in no mood to leave Konjic. He was the one holding the crew together: without him there was no Rüzgar unit, even though it was now tragically depleted.
‘Save yourselves,’ Konjic croaked. ‘Find the officers of the East Mediterranean Company on Chancery Lane in London. They will protect you. Get you home.’
‘We’re going to get out of this, Commander,’ said Will. ‘All of us.’
Konjic attempted a weak smile, then passed out.
Awa, Gurkan and Will exchanged glances with one another.
‘We fight,’ said Will.
‘We fight,’ echoed Awa and Gurkan.
‘How many are out there?’ asked Awa.
‘I saw four bowmen on the gallery, plus the big fellow at the bar,’ Will replied.
‘There were two behind the bar and one who seemed like he was armed, standing beside the kitchen,’ said Gurkan.
‘Plus the blacksmith,’ Awa added.
‘Makes at least nine, perhaps a few more,’ Will calculated.
The missiles stopped thumping around them. There was silence, broken by a beefy voice, saying: ‘Did we get ’em all?’
‘Dunno. Think so,’ said another.
‘Fire a couple more,’ said Beefy.
‘At what?’
‘See if anything moves,’ said Beefy.
‘Only got a few bolts left.’
‘Damn it, fire!’ Beefy said irritably.
The Knights let fly with their remaining ammunition. One bolt struck the table, making it shudder and leaving a gash large enough to allow Awa to peer through the hole and get a better view of their attackers.
‘Go on, lad, take a look,’ said Beefy.
‘Me?’ said a new voice.
‘Yeah, c’mon. You afraid of a few dead bodies? Want me to hold your hand?’
‘I ain’t afraid of nothing.’
The floorboards creaked as footsteps approached: more than one person.
Will pointed to the table, making a lifting movement. Konjic was bleeding heavily; he was slipping away; they needed to get him out of here fast. The footsteps drew closer. Awa peered through the hole, raising her hand, asking Will and Gurkan to wait. Closer came the Knights.
‘Now!’ she said.
The table was lifted clear by Will and Gurkan, who held it on either side and charged into the three Knights who were only steps away. Awa drew her weapon and cut through one, who had stumbled to the floor. He was rather young and she felt a moment’s guilt at striking him down. The slain bodies of their beloved comrades, Kostas, Mikael and Ismail, reminded her not to feel remorse. It seemed the bowmen were out of ammunition, for they came rushing down the stairs. Good. But then the door to the inn burst open and four more Knights bundled in, brandishing lances. Bad.
‘Back-to-back,’ she commanded. They would go down fighting!
Will and Gurkan took their places behind her, the trio circling in a group. Their assailants were an angry mob.
‘Who sent you?’ asked Will.
Stukeley, the bodyguard who had sent shivers through Awa in Venice, drew a chunky broadsword. ‘Shouldn’t have followed us, Turk.’
‘Turk!’ Will exclaimed.
‘A Tudor Turk,’ said a distinguished voice from above. All heads turned to look at a finely-dressed gentleman, standing on the balcony, the Staff of Moses clutched in his right hand. Sir Reginald Rathbone!
‘I rather thought Will was one of us, Stukeley,’ Rathbone said to his bodyguard. ‘Perhaps not. Dark times do bring out the darkest of deeds.’
Awa scanned about. The Knights were too many for them to fight, but all exits were blocked and they needed to get Konjic out. The Commander was slumped on the ground, presumed dead by their attackers.
‘The Staff belongs
to Sultan Murad III. Return it!’ Gurkan ordered.
‘This one is a Turk. What a curious little crew of strays.’ Rathbone descended the stairs, the harlots giving him a wide berth. He smiled. ‘To think that I, a humble servant of the Earl, hold the very Staff which parted the waters of the Red Sea.’
‘I said, it doesn’t belong to you,’ Gurkan repeated, taking a step towards Rathbone, but Will raised his arm, keeping him back. ‘We stay together,’ whispered Will.
‘Nor does it belong to you, Turk,’ Rathbone quipped. He came and stood beside Stukeley, nodded at him, then the two of them made their way out.
‘Kill them,’ Stukeley growled as he and his master walked out with the Staff, the doors to the Stag closing behind them.
‘Let’s make it quick, I ain’t had me supper,’ said Beefy, as he marched forwards.
Was this it - death in a desolate country? Surely the Angel of Death was not going to take her soul in this uninviting land. Awa felt a sakina - a sort of stillness - come over her, just as she had when she last fought in the gladiatorial ring against the man and woman. Her warrior spirit awoke; her senses were amplified; she knew exactly when and where her opponents were going to strike.
Two Knights lunged at her, one with a sword, another with a mace. She leaped to one side, just as Gurkan behind her engaged two opponents and Will sprang into a pack of Knights. Awa’s blade came down on the wrist of the one holding the mace, slicing it badly. Had her sword been sharper she would have taken his hand off. The mace-wielding Knight screamed in pain, falling to his knees. Awa placed her hand on the top of his head, steadying herself on it in order to kick the other Knight in the chest. He was a large fellow, and there wasn’t enough power in her strike. He merely stepped back, raised his sword and brought it down on her. At the last second, Awa dived through his spread legs. Coming up behind him, she swiped her weapon down on his neck, causing him to hit the ground in a heap.
‘Kill her!’ someone screamed, and she saw a war hammer coming at her. She swerved and it missed her. Gurkan had taken one Knight out, as had Will, but they still had ten to fight. Awa ran up the staircase, then leaped from the balcony as the war-hammer-wielding Knight smashed through the balustrade. She landed on the bar in a crouched position, then dashed across it kicking glasses and bottles at the men around her, alcohol spewing out, covering the bar’s surface and dripping onto the wooden floor. Awa then somersaulted off the bar, her raised sword slicing into the back of a Knight who had cornered Will.
‘Thanks,’ panted Will, twisting out of the way of another sword-thrust.
There was a roar from behind and she saw the hammer being swung at her again - and dodged - the spike shattering the table beside her. The lamp upon it fell to the ground, setting fire to the pool of alcohol that had trickled off the bar. Awa kicked out at the hammer-wielding Knight’s knees; his legs momentarily buckled, allowing her to swing her blade at his head. Enraged and frustrated, he caught her arm, lifting her clear off the ground, and threw her across the room. Awa landed on an empty table, its lighted candle flying to the floor. She winced; her shoulder was sore, but she was still mobile.
Then someone grabbed her ankle, yanking her back.
‘Witch!’ cursed the Knight.
She was losing the fight. Seeing this, Will attacked him, making his grip come loose. Back on her feet, Awa put her blade through the Knight’s chest.
‘Get Konjic out, Will,’ said Awa.
‘You do it, I’ll hold them off.’
Another Knight charged at them. Together they ducked and both put their swords through the man’s abdomen. He died, screaming.
‘I can’t lift him,’ Awa said breathlessly, her eyes never leaving their opponents. ‘You need to do it.’ She dashed off to defend Gurkan against the men who had surrounded him. She hacked high and low, her blade streaking from left to right, north to south, shredding anything before her. She hated what she was doing, but thank heavens she was good at it.
‘Get together,’ one of the Knights barked, as they congregated, only half of them remaining. The others were injured or dead.
Awa pushed on, with Gurkan by her side. He was a skilled swordsman and his lighter blade and swifter strokes kept the Knights on the back foot. Between the two of them they were holding their ground. She glimpsed behind her to observe Will carrying Konjic over his shoulder, out of the inn. She prayed there weren’t any assailants waiting for him outside.
The fire which had flared up earlier was being put out by one of the harlots, when Awa observed the pool of alcohol on the floor under where the Knights stood. Ducking to her right, she grabbed a lamp, swivelled and threw it at the bar. It shattered and its flame ignited the alcohol, setting the whole bar area on fire as well as the bottles behind the bar, and the ground where the Knights were standing.
‘Arghh!’ they screamed, trapped.
‘Time to go.’ Awa pulled Gurkan away.
‘We can’t leave them,’ said Gurkan, motioning towards Kostas, Mikael and Ismail.
‘We must.’ They had no choice but to abandon their fallen comrades, or else they were all going to end up dead. Outside, Will had managed to lift Konjic onto a horse and was sitting behind their Commander, holding him tight.
‘There are two other horses by the stable over there,’ said Will, motioning to the side of the Stag. Awa sprinted into the stables, untied a mare, vaulted into the saddle and dug her heels in. The horse shot out of the shed.
‘After them!’ someone bellowed behind her.
Will galloped away down the Burgate. Awa crouched low in her saddle chasing him, with Gurkan on his beast behind.
‘Witch!’ the cry spread. ‘Stop her - kill the witch!’
35
THE FARMHOUSE
WILL RODE HIS STEED HARD through the forest, away from Canterbury, away from the death and destruction of the Stag Inn and the loss of his friends. He gripped the slumped form of the Commander in front of him. If Konjic were to die, what was to become of him? He would be released from his bond to the Janissaries and could return to his mother. Yet that freedom wouldn’t bring happiness if it was achieved at the price of Konjic’s demise. Will had been just another galley slave, yet the Bosnian had trusted him, trained him, treated him with dignity and offered him a second life. Konjic had also instructed them in Aristotelian virtues – of wisdom, courage, justice and temperance. Will would be betraying every single one of these qualities if he ran out on him now.
Awa and Gurkan rode close behind. Will set the pace, but his horse soon tired, carrying a double load. They stopped for a brief rest as evening was closing in. There was no one pursuing them, that they could see or hear, but vigilance was needed if they were to avoid falling into another trap, such as the one set at the inn. By the manner in which Rathbone conducted himself, it was clear the Earl held sway in Canterbury. The employment of the Catholic Knights also indicated this. Perhaps the Earl was going to deliver the Staff to the Pope? But then why wouldn’t Rathbone have taken it from Venice to the Papacy, rather than bringing it to England first? Will was out of his depth, trying to understand the politics at play. He had to focus on what was happening to them this very minute. Their survival depended on it. Konjic would die unless they could find a place to nurse him and help him recuperate.
With Gurkan’s assistance Will lifted the Commander off the horse and laid him on the ground. Awa passed them a canteen of water which she had found strapped to her saddle and they made him drink. Konjic was burning up with a fever. The bolt was protruding from his shoulder.
‘Shall we pull it out?’ said Gurkan.
‘No!’ Will and Awa cried simultaneously.
‘There’s a danger the head will separate from the shaft, leaving the metal head inside. The infection will likely kill him,’ said Will.
Konjic groaned.
‘It’s all right, Commander, you’re going to live,’ said Awa, pouring some of the water from the canteen on to Konjic’s forehead and rubbing it over his
skin.
‘We can’t leave the bolt in there,’ Gurkan said.
‘No, we can’t, but we’ll need to open up the wound area first, and try to pull it free. If it’s gone into bone, then it’ll be tricky. We need some tools at the very least.’ Will scratched his head, looking about.
‘How do you know so much about arrow wounds?’ Gurkan asked.
‘We sometimes encountered them in the galleys during conflicts. The maimed were usually brought below deck, where they were treated and their wounds cauterised.’
‘I have never carried out the procedure, but I did read about it in one of the medical journals in the library of Timbuktu,’ said Awa. ‘We require forceps to pull the bolt out, and then we need to cauterise the wound, and use a needle and thread to close the skin together.’
‘We are in the English countryside - there are no towns we can go to, for fear of being spotted. Think, Will, where else?’ Awa urged.
‘A farmhouse! It might have a store for tools,’ Will suggested.
‘Take us to one,’ said Gurkan.
‘Right.’ Will had no idea where the closest farm was going to be, nor whether it would have the necessary implements.
Konjic let out another moan, his hand going up to the bolt sticking out of his left shoulder.
‘No, Commander, not yet,’ Awa said, gently removing his hand. ‘Hold on. We will take it out shortly. Will, Gurkan, scout around, but be back here within ten minutes.’
Will mounted his horse, as did Gurkan, the two of them trotting off in different directions. Will eventually came to a lane and followed it. The lack of light impeded his progress, along with the fear of losing the way back to Awa and the Commander. Gingerly he urged the horse into a slow canter – and that was when he spotted lamplight in the distance. On the next hill stood a farmhouse. Light shone from its interior, and its chimney spewed out smoke. There was a barn beside it.