Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  Those men armed with arquebuses kept their attention on the breach and carefully picked their shots with the last of their gunpowder whenever an enemy showed himself. The Turkish snipers returned the fire with interest, firing several shots at any man risking a quick glance over the parapet. Looking along the line of the wall, Thomas could see that the perimeter still held. Mas and Miranda kept up their shouts of defiance and encouragement from their chairs, punching their gleaming blades into the cool morning air.

  ‘Ah, I thought so,’ Stokely said softly and Thomas turned to see him looking down at blood smeared across the tips of his fingers and the gleaming steel of his mantlet.

  ‘Are you wounded?’

  Stokely nodded and gestured towards the midriff of his breastplate. There was a small hole there, below which a thin ribbon of blood had been smeared by Stokely’s hand. He smiled weakly as he met Thomas’s gaze. ‘I felt the impact of a third shot but thought the armour had kept it out. Alas, not.’

  ‘Richard!’ Thomas turned to his son. ‘Get Sir Oliver down to the chapel.’

  As Richard made to lower his pike, Stokely raised his hand. ‘No. Leave me.’

  ‘But you’re wounded, sir.’

  ‘So I am, and soon I shall be dead. Better up here in battle than cut down like a dog with the other wounded. Leave me, I say. The wound does not pain me unduly just yet.’

  Thomas saw the dark stain on the surcoat beneath the armour and guessed that the wound was mortal. Even if, by some miracle, St Elmo held out, Stokely would die from loss of blood or suppuration of his wound from any fragments of metal or cloth that had been driven into his body. Stokely’s expression was calm as he wiped the blood from his fingers on the hem of the surcoat and gripped the handle of his sword tightly.

  ‘I shall die a better man than I lived.’

  Thomas said gendy, ‘There is no need for such remorse. You have done your duty and more ... I wish it had been possible for us to call each other friend, Oliver.’

  ‘Friends?’ Stokely smiled and shook his head. ‘Never.’

  The sound of firing along the wall began to decrease and one by one Thomas saw his men putting aside their arquebuses and taking up hand weapons until, no more than an hour after the sun had risen clear of the horizon, there were no more shots fired from within St Elmo. It took a moment more for the enemy to realise that they were no longer under fire. A shout rose up from the trench in front of the breach and they emerged from cover and came on again.

  ‘Hold the breach!’ Miranda yelled. ‘Hold your ground, brothers!’

  The sound of feet scrambling over the rubble and loose masonry grew closer as Thomas helped Stokely back on to his feet. Together with Richard and the handful of other survivors, they took position along the edge of the breach and readied their weapons. Thomas could see the heads and shoulders of the leading ranks of the enemy. Above them gleamed the curved blades of their swords and spear points. Amongst them were several archers and arquebusiers, no longer fearful of being picked off by the defenders. Even as Thomas watched, one of the enemy lowered his stand and took aim before applying his fuse to the firing pan. The weapon leaped as it spat flame and smoke, and Captain Miranda lurched in his chair. His sword arm slumped down and the blade slipped from his grasp as he looked down at the pigeon-egg-sized hole over his heart. His jaw sagged, then worked a moment as he struggled to speak. Then he threw his head back and uttered a last shriek. ‘Fight, brothers!’

  More shots rang out and two of the defenders were struck down.

  Richard brandished his pike. ‘Come and fight me like men, you cowards!’

  At that moment Thomas saw a blur of motion and instinctively turned towards it. An incendiary pot was flying through the air towards him. There was no time to jump aside and the pot shattered against his breastplate. At once there was a bright flash of light and burst of heat and fire engulfed him from head to foot in glittering flames of red and yellow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  For a brief moment there was only the glare and the heat, and Thomas staggered back, out of the pool of fire on the wall. He dropped his sword and started to beat at the flames and then saw that his hands were alight. The pain hit him like a blow — a tearing, nerve-searing agony across the right side of his face and on his left arm and leg.

  ‘Father!’ Richard’s voice cried out.

  Thomas did not reply but felt his throat tighten as a keening cry rose up in his chest and fought to escape his clenched jaw. He felt hands beating on the flames and he was grasped tightly by the arm and dragged away across the parapet. A short distance from the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard was a tub of seawater prepared for just such a moment, and before Thomas was aware of what was happening, he fell heavily into the water. At once the pain on his face subsided, and there was the sharp tang of saltwater on his lips. Then his head broke the surface and the raging pain returned. His right eye refused to focus and he clenched it shut, wincing.

  ‘Help me!’ Richard called out. ‘We have to get him down to the chapel!’

  Some part of Thomas’s mind reacted violently to the words. ‘No! I will stay and fight!’ He struggled out of the tub and on to his feet, dripping. Through the pain of his burns he forced his mind to focus. ‘My sword, give it to me!’

  Richard stared at him in horror, and it was Stokely who pressed the weapon into his hand. ‘There.’

  Without hesitation Thomas stepped forward, towards the line of men locked in a bitter fight for the breach. Some of the Turks had forced their way on to the wall and two Janissaries had set upon

  Colonel Mas. He wielded his sword desperately, parrying their attacks and stabbing one of his opponents in the throat. Then he was struck by a bullet and fell from his chair. At once the other Janissary leaped forward and hacked at the colonel’s exposed face, cutting his proud features to bloody ribbons. Before Thomas could rush to his aid, he felt a blow to his left shoulder and spun round and fell on to his knees. Again, hands grasped him and pulled him back.

  ‘We have to get him out of here!’ yelled Richard.

  ‘Take him,’ Stokely growled. ‘I’ll protect you both.’

  Dazed and blinded by terrible pain, Thomas felt his arm pulled over someone’s shoulder and then he stumbled down the stairs, barely conscious as wave after wave of agony and despair swept over him.

  A desperate cry went up. ‘The breach has fallen! The Turks have broken through!’

  Richard tightened his grasp about his father’s body and glanced back as he struggled down the stairs. The Turks were spilling out of the breach and running along the walls on either side, cutting down the few men still in their way. All around the perimeter of St Elmo, more Turks were appearing and those defenders who could ran for the cover of the storerooms to make their final stand, or try and hide. Close behind Richard limped Stokely, holding his sword out, ready to strike down any of the enemy who came within reach.

  As they reached the courtyard they joined a handful of men fleeing towards the entrance to the chapel. The bell had begun to toll, the rich tone struggling to be heard above the enemy’s shouts of triumph and the cries for mercy and despair from the defenders. But there was no mercy. The Turks had lost far too many men over the previous month and wanted only to satisfy their desire for bloody revenge. With Stokely protecting his back, Richard staggered on towards the chapel. To one side he saw a Spanish soldier fall to his knees at the top of the stairs and clasp his hands together as he was surrounded by several Turks. They did not hesitate for a moment before hacking at the Spaniard in a frenzy of blades and sprays of blood.

  ‘Come on, Father,’ Richard muttered. ‘A little further.’

  A bullet struck the door of the chapel as they approached, splintering the dark wood. There were two soldiers with drawn swords at the entrance, desperately beckoning.

  ‘Inside, quickly!’ a sergeant in the surcoat of the Order shouted. Richard increased his pace, half dragging his father across the threshold
.

  ‘Close the door!’ Stokely ordered as he followed Richard inside. It was too late for their comrades still outside. A handful fought in a cluster at the top of the stairs while the rest were run down and slaughtered by the Turks. The door thudded shut and Stokely helped the sergeant drag the nearest pew against the inside of the door. Then he turned to Richard and pointed to the far end of the chapel. ‘Take him over there, behind the altar. Quick!’

  Richard nodded and continued to support the dead weight of his groaning father down the aisle of the chapel. On either side the pews had been pushed back against the walls to make way for the wounded. Many of the men were sitting up and staring anxiously towards the entrance as the jubilant shouts of the enemy echoed inside the fort’s walls. Richard dragged Thomas up the steps at the end of the chapel and made his way round the altar before gently releasing his burden on to the flagstones beside the drain cover.

  ‘Oh God. . .’ Thomas groaned through clenched teeth. ‘It hurts ... it hurts.’

  Richard grimaced as he saw the raw blistered flesh covering the right side of his father’s face. Working quickly he unfastened the buckles and removed the helmet and armour, leaving his father in his quilted gambison and thick hose and boots. Thomas let out a cry as his gauntlets were removed, taking some flesh with them where the material had been burned through to the skin. Then Richard turned to the heavy iron grille of the drain cover, straining his muscles to lift it aside and expose the opening.

  There was a thud from the chapel door and a cry of alarm from the sergeant. ‘They’re right outside!’

  ‘Hold them a moment,’ Stokely ordered as he staggered towards the altar, clutching at his bloodied side with one hand and dragging his sword along the floor with the other.

  He panted a moment when he reached Thomas and Richard.

  ‘One last thing, Richard . . Stokely reached up to his neck and pulled out a key on a silver chain. He tugged it sharply, breaking the chain, and thrust the key into Richard’s hand. ‘Here. There’s a false bottom to my writing desk . . . inside is a small chest. . . That’s the key to it.’

  ‘Henry’s will?’

  Stokely nodded. ‘It would be best for all if you destroyed it . . .’ Richard stared at the key and then quickly thrust it inside his shirt.

  Stokely gestured towards Thomas who was moaning pitifully on the floor. ‘Save him . . . Get out of here.’

  Richard nodded, and lifting Thomas under the arms he dragged him to the drain and eased him down before letting him drop the remaining distance. He sat on the rim and looked back at Stokely. ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘No.’ Stokely indicated the blood oozing beneath the bottom of his breastplate. ‘The wound is mortal. I’ll stay here, with the others.’ Richard shook his head sadly. ‘God save you, sir.’

  ‘Go!’ Stokely waved him away.

  As soon as Richard had disappeared from sight, Stokely hobbled over to the grille and heaved it back into place before taking up position in front of the altar, leaning on his sword for support as he gasped for breath. The pounding on the door had increased and despite the weight of the bench and the desperate efforts of the two soldiers, the door began to edge inwards. The tolling of the bell died away and Stokely saw Robert of Eboli emerge from the door leading into the chapel’s small bell tower. The friar carried a silver cross before him and raised it high as he strode into the middle of the chapel and turned to face the entrance before kneeling down. The Turks outside the door pressed forward, steadily forcing it open. As the gap widened, a shaft of light pierced the gloom and fell upon the symbol in the friar’s hands and reflected a giant ghostly cross on the wall above the entrance.

  ‘See?’ Robert cried out. ‘The Lord is with us! We are saved!’ The door lurched inwards and the two sergeants leaped back and readied their weapons as the Turks burst into the chapel. With a wild shout one of the sergeants swung his sword and struck down a robed warrior, splitting his skull open. Before he could recover his weapon, the enemy swarmed round him and the other sergeant, hacking and stabbing with their weapons until the two men were cut to pieces on the floor. More Turks spilled into the chapel. Stokely shook his head to try and dispel his giddiness.

  ‘Stop, infidels!’ Robert bellowed, in the same rich voice that had captivated his congregation. He thrust the cross towards the oncoming Turks. ‘The Lord God commands you to stop. In his name I order you to leave his house and quit this island, never to return.’

  A Janissary officer approached the friar and sneered in French, ‘Where is your god, Christian?’ He glanced round, as if looking, and some of his men laughed. Then he raised his sword high and swept it round in an arc with all his strength. Robert had time to utter a shriek of terror before his head toppled to the floor at his side. His body collapsed and the cross clattered beside his head. The officer turned to his men and shouted an order. With a cheer they spread out across the chapel and fell on the wounded men lying on the ground, butchering them even as they begged for mercy.

  Several approached Stokely. He gathered what was left of his strength, raised his sword and swung it round above his head to build up its lethal momentum. ‘For God and St John!’ The bloodied tip hissed through the air as the first of the Turks approached, a heavily built man with a broad-bladed scimitar and large round shield. As the blade swept round behind Stokely, the Turk rushed forward. Stokely had anticipated the move and stepped back with him so that his sword cut below the rim of the Turk’s shield and smashed through his knee, shattering the bone. As the Turk collapsed he swung his own blade and caught Stokely on the side of his helmet.

  The force of the impact caused an explosion of light in his head and before his vision could clear the other Turks were upon him. They snatched the sword from his hands and knocked him down. Daggers pierced his flesh through the gaps in his armour before the officer bellowed at his men to stop.

  ‘This is one of the accursed knights, you fools! Why kill him like this when you could slaughter him like a pig? Take off his armour and put him on the altar!’

  Stokely, still dazed, felt his limbs pulled about as the Turks stripped him of the plates that had protected him, then his clothes, until he lay naked. Then he was hoisted up from the floor and placed on the cold stone of the altar, his ears ringing with the screams and cries of the last of the wounded to be killed. He tried to move but strong hands held him down. As his vision began to clear he saw the officer leering down at him, a dagger held up for the knight to see.

  ‘This is what we do to the pigs who dare to defy Suleiman and Allah.’

  He raised the dagger above Stokely’s chest. Summoning the last of his strength, Stokely opened his mouth and screamed out, ‘God save the Holy Religion!’

  Then the blade slammed down, cutting into his breast. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and Stokely rolled his head to one side as he felt the blade rip down through his breastbone to expose his heart. Blackness rushed over him as he felt the Turk’s fingers close round his living heart. Sir Oliver Stokely’s lips moved one final time as they framed the words, ‘Dear God, protect Maria . . .’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Down in the drain Richard heard Stokely’s last cry of defiance and glanced back in the direction of the grille. At any moment some Turk was bound to become curious and search the drain. His only hope was that the overpowering stench of human waste would put the enemy off long enough for him to drag his father out of the tunnel and into the cover of the rocks beside the path leading down to the jetty. He reached under Thomas’s shoulders, took firm hold of the gambison and pulled. The material caught on the burned flesh of his arms and Thomas let out a groan.

  ‘Quiet!’ Richard hissed. ‘Do you want to get us killed?’

  Thomas clamped his jaws tightly shut to bite off the urge to cry out. He began to tremble as the shock hit home and his strangled moans echoed faintly along the drain. Richard bent down close to his ear.

  ‘Father, for pity’s sake, please be qu
iet.’

  He pulled on the dead weight of Thomas’s body, dragging him through the trickle of fluids that ran amid the stinking slurry along the bottom of the drain. It was only a short distance to the screen that concealed the opening where the drain passed under the wall. Easing his father down, Richard gently moved the screen to one side and peered out into the daylight. The sounds of cheering came from above, carrying over the walls of the fort. Occasional shots added to the enemy’s celebrations, but there was no one to be seen on this side of the fort which faced across the harbour towards Birgu and Senglea. Richard pushed the screen aside and crawled from the drain. He glanced quickly to both sides and saw only a handful of men some distance away, too far for them to make out any detail of Richard’s attire. He stood up and waved his arm casually. A moment later one of the enemy waved back and then turned his attention back towards St Elmo.

  Richard pulled Thomas out, eased him on to his feet and raised his unburned arm across his shoulder.

  ‘Not far to go. Hold on to me.’

  They picked their way across the rocks and stepped on to the path. At any moment Richard expected to be seen from the walls above and hear the alarm raised. But they continued their slow progress without being discovered and Richard guessed that the Turks were busy hunting down the last of the defenders inside the fort and looking for the loot that many of them had been promised in return for joining the campaign. There would be scant pickings, he reflected. Almost everything of value had been thrown into the fort’s well the night before when the defenders had accepted that all was lost.