Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I sincerely hoped that I would never have cause to.’

  Richard finally spoke. ‘And you think the will is safe in your hands?’

  ‘Safer in mine than in Walsingham or Cecil’s. They would use it to protect their position at Elizabeth’s court. She would hardly defy the will of men who could threaten to make public the dying wishes of her father.’

  ‘Better that my masters have the will than it should remain in the hands of a Catholic or fall to the Muslims, as now seems likely,’ Richard responded bitterly.

  ‘A Catholic I may be but I am an Englishman before that,’ Stokely countered.

  For the first time Thomas’s heart warmed slightly towards Stokely. Then he recalled that this was the man who had made Maria his wife, and done all in his power to prevent them meeting again.

  ‘One thing puzzles me,’ he said. ‘Why was it necessary for you to threaten Maria with my arrest? She told me that she could not leave you. She said it was too late to change the past. She was your wife now and that was how it would remain.’

  Stokely stared at him with a stricken expression. ‘She said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stokely closed his eyes and his face twisted in pain. ‘Dear God, I spoke too hastily. I was angry. After I saw you leave the house I confronted her and said I knew you had been there. I said I knew that she had been unfaithful to me.’

  ‘No. She was not,’ said Thomas. ‘I would have given anything for that, but she refused me.’

  ‘She refused you?’ Stokely slowly shook his head. ‘What have I done? Dear God, what have I done? I raged at her. I accused her of faithlessness, of harlotry. She stood there and took it all in silence. Then she said she did not love me. That she had only ever loved you.’ Stokely swallowed. ‘I lost my temper. I struck her. So help me God, for the first time in my life I struck her.’

  Thomas clenched his fist and fought to control the rage that welled up inside.

  ‘She fell back on the chair.’ Stokely trembled as he recalled the moment. ‘There was blood on her lip, and then I saw fear in her eyes. And worse, disgust and pity. I wish she had struck me back, screamed at me. Instead she just looked at me. I walked out and went to the cathedral to pray for forgiveness. When I returned to the house she and her maid had gone. There was no note. She just disappeared. I searched Birgu for the next two days before I realised I would not find her again, and even if I did she would not have me back at her side.’ Stokely smiled weakly. ‘She was all that ever mattered to me. That was when I resolved to come here, and die along with you. Not for any affection I bear you, but for hate. You are the cause of my misery, Thomas. If providence is kind I shall see you die before I fall.’

  ‘Then I had better guard my back,’ Thomas responded. ‘It seems I have enemies on both sides.’

  ‘No. You need not fear me.’

  ‘I don’t fear you, Oliver. I pity you.’

  ‘And I hate you, I have always hated you. But, as is so often the case with hatred, it was imperfect. I see that now. Before, I wanted to hurt you and then destroy you, as if that would somehow resolve the matter. But it never could. My hatred is unquenchable. Harming you would in no way diminish it.’ He smiled. ‘It is a strange thing, but I feel almost at peace now. I do not fear death. I only ever feared the prospect of a life without Maria. This is where it ends. Here in St Elmo. For me, for you, and for your son. Poor Maria. She still thinks that Richard is safe in England. For her sake, I hope she never discovers the truth.’ He drained his cup and stood up. ‘There, that is all that needs to be said. I shall find somewhere to rest, though I shall not sleep. There is only one release from my torment now.’

  Without waiting for a response he got up and walked out into the courtyard.

  Richard, his expression dark, made to rise from the table but Thomas grasped his wrist firmly.

  ‘Leave him be.’

  ‘You heard him,’ Richard hissed. ‘He harmed my mother.’

  ‘Stokely has suffered enough. In any case, he is like the rest of us, walking in the shadow of death. It serves no purpose to hasten his end.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘Are you so lacking in heart that you are not moved to act?’

  ‘My heart is replete, my son. Did you not hear him? She loves me, and always has. And you already know that she loves you. I would rather you were with her and spared this death but that is not to be.’ He released Richard’s wrist and took his hand. ‘At least we will be together at the end.’

  Richard stared at his father, struggling to control his emotions, and nodded. ‘Together, at the end.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  23 June

  In the hour before dawn, the enemy’s preparations for the coming assault were clearly audible to the survivors thinly spread out along the ruined walls of the fort. Most were clustered about the breach that had opened up when a section of the wall had finally collapsed under the weight of the Turkish cannon. Murmured exchanges carried up to the defenders as the Turks gathered in their trenches that surrounded the fort. Across the water, oars splashed and there were occasional cries from the men at the bows as they sounded the depths of the harbour. The dark mass of the galleys was easily visible in the darkness as they took up position to add the weight of their cannon to the preliminary bombardment of St Elmo.

  Thomas, like most of the others, had not slept at his station. During the long hours of the night he had lain down, his head resting on a rolled-up gambison, and gazed up at the stars. The night sky was clear and the stars shone brilliantly. As he stared at them Thomas found some comfort in their eternal serenity. They had been there before he ever breathed and would be there still the following night, hours after he and the others had fallen. Their cold aloofness seemed to mock the petty tribulations of mankind. All the grand causes, all the heroic efforts, the religious fanaticism that motivated men to kill others and willingly face death, seemed trivial when considered in the round, Thomas reflected. He did not wish a martyr’s death. He wanted more than anything to live, now that he felt sure of Maria’s love. Thinking of the life he might have had caused him to smile sadly. When his mind drifted towards the coming day, he could not help fearing his death. He hoped it would be quick, and that he might die before Richard and be spared that hideous spectacle at least.

  He turned to look at his son, sitting against the parapet a short distance away, his chin resting on his breast, breathing easily. Despite the circumstances, Richard’s exhaustion had got the better of him and had embraced him with a few hours of merciful oblivion. The sight moved Thomas unbearably and his throat tightened with grief at the thought of losing what he had only just been given, the most valuable treasure a man could find in life, the gift of a child. He had only had a handful of days in which to know his son and it was bittersweet to discern those precious virtues and quirks of character in him that would never have the opportunity to mature further.

  Some distance along the wall beyond the breach Thomas could just make out the still form of Stokely hugging his knees as he stared across the heart of the fort. Thomas could only wonder at the private despair of that tormented soul and hoped that Stokely would also find peace in a swift death.

  As the sound of muttered prayers rose around the fort like the sound of surf on a distant shore, Thomas leaned towards his son and gently shook his shoulder. There was no response and Thomas shook him again, more forcefully, until Richard snatched a deep breath and sat up quickly, startled and confused. He blinked for a moment and then stared at his father.

  ‘You let me sleep.’ His tone was accusing. ‘My God, you let me sleep through my final hours.’

  ‘It is better that you slept.’

  Richard was still for a moment before he rolled his neck stiffly. ‘I dreamed I was back in England, as a child, hunting rabbits on a clear autumn morning . . .’

  ‘Ah, rabbit,’ Thomas mused. ‘Now there’s something I could willingly eat.’ He paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s the eve of
the Feast of St John. ’Tis a shame that we will not be free to take a seat at the banquet.’ Thomas smiled at the image, then his expression hardened. ‘Get down to the chapel. Tell Mas and Miranda that the enemy are coming.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then come back here directly.’ Thomas felt a pang of anxiety. ‘Hurry. I want you here at my side, whatever happens.’

  Richard nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’

  He eased himself into a crouch and edged away from the shelter of the parapet, keeping close to the piles of debris and the bodies that had been dragged together to remove the risk of the survivors tripping over them once the fighting began. At the edge of the wall Richard slipped over the rim and dropped out of sight on to the stairs below. Thomas turned his attention back to the enemy. From the sounds on all sides their intention was clear enough. When the signal was given they would charge the fort, scaling what was left of the walls by ladder, and at the same time launching an assault through the breach. This time there would be little to hold them back. There was only enough powder left for a few more shots and only a handful of incendiary weapons remained. All of the naphtha had been used up. Once the defenders had expended the last of their firepower they would take up their hand weapons and fight to the end.

  Along the wall the defenders stirred and here and there a bright glow showed where the arquebusiers were readying their fuses. Others pulled on their helmets and fastened the buckles securely beneath their chins; those with armour checked the straps and made minor adjustments. Some held pikes while others readied swords, daggers, hatchets and maces. Thomas glanced across the breach and saw Stokely take up the heavy two-handed sword he had chosen from the fort’s armoury - a cumbersome weapon but deadly in the right hands.

  There was a pause in the gloom before dawn, a silence, a stillness, as if the defenders were part of a tableau composed of shadows. The sky to the east was smeared with the faint pearly hue of dawn and as the veil of darkness began to fade, Thomas made out details on the scarred landscape in front of the wall. The flags planted by the enemy to mark the ground they had taken hung limp in the still air. Discarded weapons and buckled and shattered shields and armour were strewn across the rubble before the walls amid bodies that had not yet been recovered for burial. Some were hideously swollen by c orruption, made worse by the heat of the sun, and limbs stuck out at an angle, grotesquely. And then there was the stench of the month-old battlefield, a cloying stink of blood and decaying flesh, overlaid with the acrid odour of burning and the gritty tang of masonry dust. For some reason it seemed to Thomas more pungent and revolting than ever this morning. Or was it that his senses were heightened now that he knew he was living through his final hours, he wondered.

  He looked towards the stairs, willing Richard to return before the enemy launched their attack. Briefly he considered leaving his position to go and find him, and then chided himself. What example would that set to the men under his command? He hardened his resolve and stared in the direction of the enemy.

  The first of the Turkish drums began to beat, quickly swelling out of the shadows as more joined. A crash of cymbals and the wailing of pipes added to the din and then, as the first rays of the sun pierced the eastern horizon, the imams led their worshippers in the shahada — the Muslim testament that there is no god but God, Mohammed is the messenger of God. A soft murmuring surrounded the fort as the men within braced themselves, knowing that the assault was imminent.

  A faint scraping drew Thomas’s attention away from the enemy and he was relieved to see Richard returning from the top of the stairs, dragging a chair in either hand. A moment later more men appeared: four soldiers, half carrying and half dragging Colonel Mas and Captain Miranda. Richard set their chairs up a short distance to one side of the breach, close to Thomas’s position, and then helped to ease the two officers on to the chairs.

  ‘My sword,’ Mas ordered, holding out his hand.

  A soldier unslung the scabbard from over his shoulder and passed it up. Another weapon was passed to Miranda.

  ‘I am ready.’ Mas gestured to the men who had carried them up on to the wall. ‘Get to your positions, and may God be with you.’

  The soldiers bowed their heads in a final salute and crept away along the wall. Richard crouched beside his father.

  ‘What are they doing?’ asked Thomas, gesturing towards the two officers. ‘Why are they up here?’

  ‘It was the colonel’s idea. When I gave them your message he said he’d rather die where the men could see him than down in the chapel. Miranda agreed.’

  Thomas shook his head as he regarded the two men sitting erect, their wounded legs sticking out in front of them, swathed in soiled and bloody bandages. ‘Madness . . .’

  The murmuring from the Turkish trenches died away and the din from their instruments rose up with renewed fervour. Thomas turned his attention to his son, taking a last opportunity to regard him closely, with affection.

  ‘I wish . . .’ He tried to continue but there were no words adequate to the moment.

  Richard smiled and briefly squeezed his hand. ‘I understand, Father. There is much I would have wished for if we had been granted the time.’

  A single gun roared from the top of the ridge, the signal to begin the attack. The deep boom rolled round the harbour and then was drowned out by a frenzied roar as the Turks burst from concealment and rushed the short distance towards the battered mass of St Elmo. The defenders replied at once, without waiting for an order, and spurts of fire darted from the barrels of their arquebuses. The mass of enemy soldiers surged across the broken ground and up the mound of rubble lying in the breach. Thomas fixed his attention on them. The first died, shot through the head, and he crashed forward and was immediately trampled by those behind him. More men fell, shot in the head or chest, easy targets at such close range.

  Thomas cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Incendiaries!’ The fuses smeared low arcs in the air before the pots shattered amongst the enemy in savage sheets of flame that set men ablaze as they screamed in terror and agony.

  ‘Give it to ’em, lads!’ Colonel Mas shouted, punching his sword into the air. ‘For the Holy Religion!’

  Miranda echoed the cry and then his lips drew back in a fierce grin. ‘Kill them!’

  Thomas raised the tip of his sword and held it ready. Beside him Richard hunched over his pike. The Turks came on, heedless of their comrades struck down by bullets, incendiaries or the rocks hurled at them from either side of the breach. The steep gradient of the rubble began to slow them down and they took several more casualties as they struggled forward to close with the defenders.

  Thomas stepped forward, sword held ready, keenly aware of Richard close at his side, lowering his pike, ready to thrust. A Spahi, a few paces in advance of his comrades, rushed up towards the parapet, mouth open wide as he screamed his battle cry. He carried a spear in an overhand grip and thrust it towards Richard. The young man deftly parried the spear aside with a sharp clack as wood struck wood. Then he thrust home with all his weight and the steel point tore through the Spahi’s robes and punched deep into his chest.

  More men surged up the rubble slope and Thomas hacked at a man’s turbaned head, stunning him even though the tighdy wound material resisted the keen edge of his sword. A thrust to the throat ripped through an artery and his adversary fell back. Thomas looked for the next opponent. He felt an impact on his shoulder and something flickered past his eyes — the shaft of an arrow. More arrows whipped up from the throng at the bottom of the mound of rubble, and then Thomas saw flashes and billows of smoke as the enemy arquebusiers picked their targets. The head of a Maltese militiaman close to Stokely burst like an overripe watermelon, spattering blood across the face of the English knight. Richard stabbed his pike into the shoulder of a wild-haired man in animal skins who howled in pain, then pulled himself free and slashed at Richard’s helmet with a club. Using his pike like a cross-staff, Richard blocked the attack then lowered the base o
f his weapon, hooked it round his foe’s leg and tipped him on to his back before ramming the point through the man’s chest.

  From behind him Thomas could clearly hear Colonel Mas’s roar. ‘For God! For St John! Fight! Fight!’

  Stokely stepped boldly into the breach to give himself space to wield his sword and swung it above his head in both hands before he slashed at an officer rushing forward madly to seize the honour of being the first man through the breach. He saw the dull gleam of the blade in the pale dawn light and raised his round shield to block the sword. The weight of the blade, together with the savage strength with which it was wielded, were more than a match for the best of shields. With a shrill clang Stokely’s sword shattered the shield and cut through the Turk’s elbow and on into his flank, tearing through scale armour, leather, jerkin and flesh and driving the air from the officer’s lungs. The blow sent him reeling to the side and he stood dazed, looking down at the blood pouring from the stump of his arm. Then, teeth gritted in a snarl, he swung his sword at the English knight. Stokely moved his blade to ward off the blow and then swung again, this time at the Turk’s neck. There was a wet crunch and the officer’s head leaped into the air and spun back above his men, spraying them with blood before it fell to the ground.

  A groan rose from the lips of the enemy and for a moment they wavered. Already the Turks had lost a score or more of their number and more fell as they were caught between the defenders’ fire from both sides of the breach. They began to fall back down the rubble slope, stopping only when they found shelter to crouch behind.

  ‘Take cover!’ Thomas shouted.

  His men moved back from the breach towards the safety of what remained of the parapet on each side as Turkish bullets ricocheted off the masonry. One of the Maltese volunteers was not quick enough and let out a cry as a ball smashed into his hip. He fell on to the rubble, dropping his sword. He struggled to sit up and examine his wound, then a second shot struck him in the face and the impact threw him back. Stokely stood alone for a moment, sword raised, defying the Turks. A shot deflected off his breastplate and nudged him a step to the side. Another shot glanced off the thick armour on his shoulder before he turned and picked his way steadily out of the line of fire and crouched down behind the parapet close to where Thomas and Richard squatted, breathing heavily.