Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  Richard frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Walsingham. He has been grooming you for this task. And watching me closely. He must have inherited the prospect from the men who served before him. Always waiting for the opportunity to put us both into play.’ Thomas shook his head in wonder at the depth of the schemes hatched out by England’s spymasters. It was a giddying realisation and with difficulty Thomas pushed it aside for the moment. He stared at Richard. ‘He lied to you. Maria is your mother. He told you different to spur on your hatred towards me. It is your intention to kill me, then?’

  His son stared back in silence for a moment before he replied, ‘It was. . .’

  ‘And now?’

  Richard breathed deeply and dabbed the sweat from his face with a strip of cloth. There was a slight droop to his shoulders as he spoke. ‘Alas, I have spent too long in your company. Whatever your sins, and faults, as a father, I have come to know you as a man. I have seen your courage and recognised your sense of honour, and even your compassion for others. Walsingham warned me that to spend time with an enemy endangers the resolve to kill him. He expected this, and I was foolish enough to swear to him that I would not bend. That my thirst for revenge would not be quenched by such weakness. He was right, alas. I no longer wish to kill you. But I still wanted to hurt you, to punish you. That was my new intention. To tell you all, whether or not we survived the siege. I would have related how you had blighted my life, and cursed you.’

  ‘And I am cursed,’ Thomas replied, his throat strained with the tension of fighting back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I have twice lost a son. Once when told he had died as an infant, and now when I know of the years I have been denied as his father.’

  ‘You are no father to me and never will be.’ Richard shut his eyes for a moment. ‘But, if you speak true, my mother still lives . . . My God, she is alive.’

  ‘You must speak to her,’ Thomas said gently.

  ‘And what would I say? Where would I begin?’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘That I do not know, but perhaps the words will come when you are face to face.’

  ‘I need time to think . . . Even if my mother lives, that changes nothing between us. I spurn you as a father. But, for all that, I admire you as a man. And that is all that can be between us now.’ Thomas stopped himself from pursuing the matter. There was still hope that his son might change his mind, there was still time for reconciliation. Then bitter self-reproach swept over him. Of course there was no time. Just as there was none for Maria. In a matter of hours he would leave for St Elmo, and there were preparations he must make before then.

  He sat down wearily on the end of Richard’s cot and gazed at his son, pained that he had not recognised those features he had inherited from Maria. He felt an urge to reach out and touch the young man’s cheek, but stilled his hand for fear of the inevitable rebuff and that it would make him look like a foolish, desperate old man.

  ‘Richard, I have volunteered to join the garrison at St Elmo, along with Colonel Mas. We leave tonight.’

  His son stared at him and then his gaze wavered as he replied quietly, ‘That is almost certain death.’

  ‘It seems so. Unless Don Garcia and his army arrive in time.’

  ‘That is unlikely.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a brief, agonising silence before Richard swallowed nervously. ‘I will come with you.’

  Thomas shook his head firmly. ‘No. You will stay here, where you have a chance to survive. Besides, you have an obligation to return to Walsingham with your prize.’

  Richard nodded. ‘That is so. But I can make arrangements for it to find its way back to England if I die before Malta is saved from the Turks. And if it falls, then it is well enough hidden for the enemy not to find it. Does my . . . mother know that I am here?’

  ‘No. But she may guess now that I have seen the locket and reacted as I did,’ Thomas admitted.

  ‘And if she knows then it is possible that others will learn the truth. If it is discovered that I am a spy, my life is forfeit.’

  Thomas thought for a moment. ‘Maria will not put your life at risk. She has kept the locket a secret. Even from Oliver. ’

  ‘Sir Oliver Stokely?’

  Thomas smiled sadly. ‘Her husband, as it turns out.’

  ‘But he’s a member of the Order. Marriage is forbidden.’

  ‘So are many things but what is not flaunted is overlooked.’ Richard gave him a curious look. ‘It must pain you to have discovered this.’

  ‘As much as it did to discover I had a son. A son I would have been proud of.’

  Richard looked away quickly. ‘If Sir Oliver discovers the truth then I will be arrested, tortured and executed. Even if he does not have the stomach for it, La Valette will insist on it. I would rather die on St Elmo with a sword in my hand than on the rack or at the end of a rope. I shall come with you.’

  ‘No.’ This time Thomas did reach out with his hand and clasped that of his son. ‘It is certain death. I will not send you to such a fate.’

  ‘You do not send me. I choose to come.’

  ‘And I tell you to stay.’ The words came out quickly, like an order, and Thomas regretted his tone at once. He lowered his voice and continued more gently. ‘Richard . . . my son, I beg you, do not come with me. This is a fate I have chosen for myself. I can bear it if I know that it gives you, and Maria, a chance to survive the siege. If you were there with me, I would only fear for you. If you were to be harmed before my eyes, I would die a thousand deaths in St

  Elmo, not just one. Please.’ He squeezed Richard’s hand. ‘Stay here.’

  Richard was silent for a moment, deep in thought, then he nodded reluctantly and Thomas eased himself back with a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’ He withdrew his hand and stroked his brow. ‘There is one thing I would know before I leave. This document that you were sent to find. What is it?’

  Richard looked at him with a slight air of suspicion. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘If I am to die then I would do so with a mind unclouded by doubts. Before I left London, Walsingham assured me that he needed the document in order to save many lives in England. He could have been lying to me. I would like to know if I was sent here On a dishonest pretext, or if I have done something for the good in this world. So, my son, tell me. What is so important that powerful men in England conspired for years so that we two might be brought to this place?’

  Richard considered the request briefly, and nodded. ‘I already know the contents of the document, assuming that Walsingham was telling me the truth.’ He smiled. ‘My trust in his word is no longer quite what it was. You had better read the document for yourself. Be good enough to stand up.’

  Thomas did as he was told and Richard lifted the end of the cot and swung it away from the wall. The surface had been plastered long ago, but the boisterous activities of generations of squires had cracked the plaster in many places and bare bricks were exposed. Richard knelt beside a section of the wall that he had exposed and drew his dagger. He eased the point between two of the bricks and carefully worked one out far enough to get a grip on it and extract it. He placed the brick on the floor and reached his hand into the dark opening.

  His expression froze, and he stretched his fingers as far into the hole as possible before he cursed under his breath.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘It’s not there.’ Richard looked round with a shocked expression. ‘It’s gone.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ten days later, 22 June, Fort St Elmo

  The enemy guns fell silent and for a moment there was silence across the scarred ground .at the end of the Sciberras peninsula. The dust billowed slowly about the fort and settled on the bodies sprawled on the ground, making them look like stone sculptures. Some had lain in the open for many days and were bloated and corrupt with decay, the sickly sweet stench filling the air. It was mid-June and the heat of the day wo
uld soon begin to add to the discomfort, and bring the swarms of insects that settled to gorge themselves on the wounds and viscera of the dead and dying.

  For the defenders, each day was torment as the sun beat down on them while they squatted behind the parapet, enclosed in padded jackets and armour that quickly became too hot to touch and as much a source of torture as protection from harm. Sweat streamed freely down their cheeks and dripped from their brows as they awaited the enemy. For some men, older or weaker than their comrades, the heat was too much and they collapsed, gasping for air as they tore at the buckles of their breastplates in an effort to remove their armour. Some died as their hearts gave out, gurgling incoherently while their swollen tongues writhed against cracked lips.

  There was a sudden movement from the Turkish trenches and then a green banner rippled upright and drums and cymbals crashed out, accompanied by a throaty cheer. Heads appeared above the top of the trench and a moment later the first of the enemy swarmed into view.

  ‘Here they come!’ Captain Miranda yelled from the keep. He turned to the drummer standing ready beside him. ‘Sound the alarm!’

  The shrill rattle of the drum rang out across the crumbling walls of the fort. The men who had been sheltering inside the fort spilled out into the courtyard and raced up the steps to their stations on the walls to join their comrades on sentry duty. At once the two cannon and snipers waiting on top of the captured ravelin opened fire, striking down several men as they reached the top of the stairs.

  Thomas was behind the barricade erected beyond the rubble slope that was all that remained of the north-west comer of the fort. And Richard was with him, for nothing would persuade him to stay in Birgu after he discovered that the document was missing. They had been called to the wall an hour before dawn when the first prayers of the imams had been heard by the sentries — a sure sign of a pending attack. Thomas looked round as the Spanish soldiers assigned to his position crouched down below the level of the parapet and bent double as they ran to their places. Along the barricade stood tubs of water big enough for a man to leap in and extinguish the fire of enemy incendiary weapons. There were also small piles of arquebuses, loaded and ready to fire, and the defenders’ own stock of incendiary weapons — small clay pots filled with clinging naphtha, from which fuses protruded, ready to be lit before the pots were hurled amid the enemy. To each side of the barricade, where the parapet still stood and overlooked the ditches, other men readied the first of the fire hoops, and fanned the small braziers into flame in readiness to set light to them. Thomas and Richard squatted behind the centre of the barricade, beside the naphtha thrower and its two-man crew. One stood ready to operate the bellows while the other connected the leather hose to the keg containing the mixture that would burn with hellish ferocity once it was ignited by the flaming wick in front of the nozzle of the bellows.

  ‘Careful with that,’ said Richard. ‘Unless you want us to go up like a torch.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing, sir,’ the Spaniard replied with a grim smile. ‘Just keep out of my path, eh?’

  The cheers of the enemy grew louder as they reached the edge of the ditch and started to scramble over the rubble that now filled it.

  ‘Stay down!’ Thomas shouted, waving back the handful of his men who had started to nervously glance over the edge of the barricade. The Turkish snipers kept up their fire until the last possible moment and, as if to justify Thomas’s warning, a ball ricocheted off a block of stone and clanged off the fan crest of a morion helmet a short distance to Thomas’s left. The man dropped back, dazed and blinking.

  ‘Stay down until I give the order!’ Thomas bellowed. He glanced quickly to each side; his men were watching him anxiously, clutching their arquebuses or pikes as they waited on his command. The clink of loose stones was clearly audible now amid the cheers and incoherent battle cries of the more fanatical of the enemy. Thomas controlled the impulse to rise up and peer over the barricade a moment longer, and then drew a deep breath, snapped the visor of his helmet shut and straightened up. For an instant he saw only the top of the rubble slope, then a pointed helmet and a turban to the side before suddenly a sea of faces as the Turks struggled to the top of the ruined wall, cutting off the line of sight of their snipers.

  ‘Now!’ Thomas thrust his pike into the air and with a roar his men stood up along the fifty-foot line of the barricade. There was a crash as the first of the arquebuses fired. The range was point blank and the swarm of targets impossible to miss. Thomas saw one figure in white robes and round shield lurch back amid his comrades, his scimitar spiralling backwards and out of sight as he fell. More shots blasted out on each side and several of the Turks fell as they clambered over the difficult ground towards the barricade.

  ‘Ready incendiaries!’ Thomas shouted and the men assigned to the task lit the fuses. ‘Release!’

  With a grunt the men hurled the pots out over the barricade and the fuses flared and trailed a thin line of smoke in the morning air as they arced up over the heads of the nearest of the enemy and disappeared amongst them before shattering on the rubble with a bright flash, engulfing the Turks closest to the impact in flame and smoke. Their loose robes caught fire and the men screamed in terror and then agony as they threw down their weapons and beat at the flames while their comrades leaped aside, fearful of also catching fire. To the right Thomas saw the first of the hoops set alight. The men on either side holding the blazing hoop in iron tongs heaved it up on to the parapet and over the side of the wall. The roar of the flames briefly filled the air before cries of panic rose from the ditch.

  Then the first of the enemy incendiaries flew up and over the wall, falling a short distance behind the parapet. There was a loud crash and Thomas turned to see a pool of fire licking up from the stone slabs on the walkway. He thrust his hand out, pointing towards the nearby stock of incendiaries in a wicker basket. ‘Move them! Quickly!’

  The closest men were too preoccupied with firing their arquebuses to heed the warning. Seeing the danger, Richard dropped his pike and sprinted towards the basket, leaping over the flames. He grasped the handle just as some of the burning liquid reached it and small flames licked at the side. Thomas took a half step away from the barricade as his chest seized with fear. Richard gritted his teeth as he pulled the basket a safe distance away from the fire before stopping to beat out the flames on the wicker side. Thomas breathed out in relief and turned back to face the enemy.

  The Turks, knowing that the only way to escape the fire and bullets of the defenders was to close on them as swiftly as possible, charged towards the barricade. But there was one final weapon standing between them and the Christians. Thomas waved the man with the naphtha bellows forward. He nodded and raised the long iron nozzle towards the enemy and pumped the bellows. A jet of naphtha liquid spurted out, and was instantly lit by the taper burning a short distance in front of the nozzle. A thin tongue of brilliant flame arced out across the attackers and rained down on them, searing heads, bodies and limbs. The defenders let out savage shouts of glee and triumph as their enemies roasted before their eyes. And still the Turks surged forward over the rubble, over their stricken comrades, and on towards the barricade.

  Thomas held his pike ready. Richard hurried to his side, his weapon in an overhead grip. Then the Turks were all along the barricade, either side of the fiery avenue caused by the jets of the naphtha bellows. Through his visor Thomas concentrated his attention on an officer in brilliant scale armour shouting encouragement to his spearmen as they charged forward. Raising his pike, Thomas aimed at the man’s chest and thrust hard. The point slammed home but the armour was well-made and the blow did not puncture the armour. Even so, the impact drove the breath from the officer’s lungs and he staggered back, gasping. His men swept past and steel clattered and scraped on steel either side of Thomas as the two sides met.

  Despite the overwhelming number of enemy the defenders had better armour and enjoyed a slight height advantage from their side of the
barricade. Most of the Spaniards were armed with stout pikes which they thrust at the Turks to keep them at bay. Scimitars flashed as the Turks hacked at the shafts of the pikes, and any exposed hands or arms. A man wearing a lion skin over his head and shoulders burst through the crowd in front of Thomas and grasped the end of his pike just below the steel point. Instinctively he tightened his grip and wrenched it back. Another man grabbed the shaft. To his side Thomas saw a Spahi warrior scramble up on to the barricade and raise his blade high, ready to strike at Richard who was battling a white-robed fanatic.

  Seeing the danger to his son, Thomas released his hold on the pike and the two men on the other end tumbled back. Thomas snatched up a mace that was leaning against the inside of the barricade and swung it in a short, vicious arc at the shin of the Spahi before he could strike. The iron head smashed through flesh and bone and the man crumpled on to his side. Thomas swung the bloodied weapon again, this time smashing the Turk’s skull open in an explosion of blood, bone and brains. Richard, still heedless of the danger that had threatened him, was thrusting his pike again, forcing his enemy to duck to one side to avoid being hit in the face.

  A sharp blow to his left shoulder knocked Thomas round and he slashed out with the club, knocking his attacker’s sword aside. Then, for an instant, there was no enemy within his reach and he glanced quickly to each side to see how the rest of his comrades were faring. Three men were down, sprawled on the flagstones behind the barricade. A man who had lost his hand clasped the bloodied stump to his chest as he staggered towards the top of the staircase. Then his head jerked to one side as a sniper on the ravelin picked him off. He fell headlong, only yards from the shelter of the staircase.

  A flicker of motion to the right caught Thomas’s eye and he just had time to step to one side as a curved blade slashed down. With a deafening clatter it deflected off his shoulder guard. He turned quickly and hammered on the blade with the mace, knocking it down on to a rock atop the barricade. The blade shattered and the Turk who had wielded the weapon screamed a curse and threw the guard and handle at Thomas, which struck his breastplate harmlessly. The man’s curse was abruptly cut off as Richard piked him in the side of the chest. With a groan the man pulled himself free and staggered back into the throng of turbans, spiked helmets and robes.