by Wilbur Smith
His hopes rose as they descended. The stairs felt unending, but none of the pirates, or the invaders, seemed to have reached these depths of the castle.
‘We may yet be in time,’ he said to Mohite.
But he had spoken too soon. They had come to the bottom of a flight of steps, into a small guard chamber where the passage divided. Looking ahead, wondering which stair to take, he did not see the two men in the shadows. They had heard Tom and Mohite coming, and hidden themselves either side of the door. As soon as Tom and Mohite were in the room, they lunged for them with their heavy, curved swords.
Whether it was some sound they made, or a disturbance in the air, or pure instinct, Tom sensed the attack coming a moment before it struck. He had no time to defend himself. He simply dropped to the floor, pulling Mohite down with him. The outstretched blades flew over their heads; the pirates, meeting no resistance, stumbled forward and collided with the men on the floor. Tom and Mohite threw them off, and dispatched them with two efficient blows.
Tom stared between the two doors, looking for any sign. Which way?
‘You follow the right stair. I will search the left,’ Tom decided.
They split up. Tom raced down the stairs, feeling the weight of every second that passed. Where had those two men in the guard chamber come from? Were there others? In the bitter frenzy of defeat, what might they have done to Sarah and Agnes?
An iron gate barred the bottom of the stairs. This must be the dungeon. Tom wondered if he should call Mohite back, but that would take precious time – and the gate was already open. From deeper in the caves, he heard a woman’s scream, then a man’s cry. All his fears rushed back at him. Abandoning caution, he ran along the passage until it opened into a wider chamber.
He took in the sight at a single glance. His wildest hopes, and his deepest fears, all made real at once. Sarah: naked, screaming, and covered in blood; Agnes, cowering back; Francis, lying against the wall clutching a deep wound in his leg. And standing over them all, with the Neptune sword in one hand and the long, whip-blade in the other, the man who had betrayed them.
He had his back to Tom – but Agnes did not, and she could not hide the hope that flared in her eyes when she glimpsed his arrival. Before Tom could move, Christopher saw her reaction and turned, a ghastly grin spreading across his face.
‘Tom Courtney,’ he said in English. ‘I had so hoped you would come to see this.’
Fury seized Tom. He hurled the sword like a javelin – the way he had once thrown the Neptune sword at Black Billy and pierced him through the heart. But the Maratha blade was heavier, lacking balance. The point dipped from its target; Christopher swatted it away with the hilt of the urumi and it clattered to the floor.
Now Tom was defenceless. Christopher advanced. The urumi blade slithered after him, rasping across the stones. The only other sound was Sarah, moaning.
‘I can use this weapon like an artist with a paintbrush,’ Christopher boasted. ‘I will sever your limbs one by one, and when you are helpless I will make you watch as I butcher your wife and dash out your child’s brains.’
Tom stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Why? What have I ever done to you?’
‘Do you not know? Can you not guess?’ Christopher took another step forward. He pointed back to Sarah, on her knees with her hands pressed against the wall. The baby’s head was starting to appear between her legs. Christopher saw the stricken look on Tom’s face and laughed.
‘There is nothing you would not do for that child, is there? You came to this impregnable castle and you tore down its walls simply to rescue it. So noble. So heroic.’
Still Tom did not understand.
‘But you were not always so loyal. Were you?’ He spat out the words. ‘When you debauched my mother and fathered your bastard, you could not be away fast enough. You abandoned me, and left your brother to cover my mother’s shame.’
Christopher saw understanding dawn in Tom’s face, horror and shame and fear for what he had done. In that moment, he knew everything Lydia had told him was true. He tensed his arm to swing the urumi, planning where the blow would fall. First, he would lick it around Tom’s thigh and slice his hamstring. Then he could act at leisure.
‘Who are you?’ said Tom. His mouth had gone dry; the words came out as a whisper.
Christopher’s eyes met his – the same eyes, like looking into a mirror.
‘I am your son.’
He swung the urumi.
But something held him back. The urumi did not move. Francis had crawled forward and grabbed its tip, holding on with all his strength. His face was white. Blood spilled from between his fingers where they gripped the razor-sharp blade. But he did not release it.
With a cry of anger, Christopher let go the urumi and drew the Neptune sword. Perhaps that was best. He would finish Tom with the Courtney blade, and secure his rightful inheritance forever.
But in the time that Francis had distracted him, Agnes had sprung up. She ran to where Tom’s sword had fallen and threw it to him. Christopher saw her: he swung at her with the Neptune sword, but she rolled away to the edge of the cave. Before he could strike again, Tom lunged forward. A hard stroke, heavy with pent-up rage; Christopher only just managed to parry it.
If he could get to Sarah, put the sword at her throat, Tom would be forced to surrender. But Francis had seen that danger. He picked himself off the floor and flung himself forward, putting himself between Christopher and Sarah.
Christopher could have disembowelled him with a flick of the sword. But that would have meant turning his back to Tom – and Tom was coming at him again. Their blades rang as he blocked Tom’s attempt to get inside his guard.
Christopher was outnumbered. He launched a quick riposte, a flurry of well-practised strokes that drove Tom back, wheeling him around. Christopher still burned for revenge, but other dangers had begun to intrude. The castle had fallen – soon other men would find their way down here. He had to escape.
He had worked Tom around closer to Sarah. Now nothing stood between Christopher and the door. He went at Tom again: a series of precise, well-practised moves straight from the fencing manual. As he had predicted, Tom blocked them automatically – but as he readied himself for the final lunge, Christopher suddenly sprang back. Before Tom could react, Christopher spun on his heel and fled. Tom heard his footsteps disappear up the stairs.
Sarah cried out, a deep groan that rose to a powerful shriek. Tom ran to her.
With a belch of blood and fluid, the baby came out of her into Agnes’ waiting hands.
‘You have a son.’
The face was screwed up like an old man’s, the eyes tight shut, the umbilical cord still connecting him with his mother. His skin was alarmingly blue.
‘Is he … alive?’ A hurricane of emotions wrenched Tom so hard he felt sick. A minute ago, he had been fighting for his life against a devil he had created; now he was reunited with Sarah, and a father as well. His thoughts pulled in so many directions he thought they must tear him apart.
Agnes gave the child a firm slap on the back. The baby coughed and spluttered. It half opened its eyes and fixed Tom with a drowsy, confused stare.
‘Take him,’ Agnes encouraged Tom. ‘He is yours.’
She placed the babe in Tom’s arms, though he hardly dared to hold it. The child was so tiny, he could barely feel the weight. Yet the moment Tom touched his son, he felt such a wave of love and responsibility as he had never felt before. Tears pricked his eyes. The storm of emotions that had roiled him died away, hushed in an instant by the serene peace in those innocent eyes.
But his work was not done. Quickly, he handed the baby into Sarah’s waiting arms.
‘Go,’ said Sarah. The pain had left her all in an instant. She sat up, leaning against the wall, cradling the baby to her breast. Her hair was lank, her face covered in sweat and her legs smeared with blood. She was utterly naked, with the umbilical cord still snaking out of her. Yet she glowed with a light To
m had not seen before, an inner certainty as if some new part of her had come into being. Tom did not think he had ever seen her more beautiful.
‘My place is with you and the baby,’ Tom protested.
‘We are safe,’ said Sarah. ‘But that monster still has the sword – and he would have killed us all with it. You, me – and him.’ She hugged the baby tighter. It nuzzled her breast, its tiny lips searching for the nipple.
Someone was coming down the passage. Tom turned. He did not think Christopher would dare return, but there were many others in the castle. In the frenzy of pillage and destruction, every man was a possible enemy.
He relaxed as he saw Mohite round the corner, at the head of four men.
‘We chased the pirates down to the water,’ the hubladar reported. ‘As we were returning, we met another on the stairs, but he ran away.’ He frowned. ‘I think it was the man who betrayed us. He carried the great golden sword.’
‘Thank you.’ Tom touched his shoulder. ‘Wait here, and see that nothing happens to my …’ He stumbled on his words as he saw the baby again, now contentedly sucking at Sarah’s breast. ‘My family.’
‘Shall I send one of my men with you?’
Tom shook his head. ‘I will do this alone.’
He ran back up to the castle keep. Automatically, he listened for men ahead, keeping the sword ready – but the greater part of his mind was occupied with a single thought: the baby, so small and helpless, like a feather in his arms.
I am a father.
You were a father before, the cruel voice in his head reminded him. He could hardly credit that the monster in the cave was his son. When he thought of what Christopher had intended to do to Sarah, to Agnes and the baby, his soul rebelled.
My father gave me no choice. When Hal Courtney discovered Tom’s liaison with Caroline, and the hatred it had bred between Tom and Guy, he had taken Guy and Caroline off his ship immediately. He had arranged for them to take passage to Bombay, and arranged a position for Guy as secretary to Caroline’s father. None of them had realized then that Caroline was pregnant; Tom had not even been allowed to say farewell.
Tom did not know it, but his father had deliberately kept it from him. When Caroline’s father wrote to Hal to inform him of the child, he had torn up the letter and thrown it out of his cabin windows. He had only told Tom much later, when Dorian was lost and they were sailing back to England.
I should have married Caroline myself. But even as he thought it, he did not believe it. Then he would never have had the chance to marry Sarah. Probably, he would never have found Dorian. And now he would not have the son Sarah had given him.
Look at Francis, he told himself. Born of Black Billy’s seed, raised by a wastrel stepfather: he had suffered every disadvantage, yet he was a true Courtney, willing to die for his family. It was not birth that made a man. It was what he made of himself.
‘Mr Courtney?’
Tom had reached the upper levels. He turned to the familiar voice, and saw Merridew standing in the tower doorway.
‘Thank God you are alive,’ he said. ‘But how—?’
‘Master Francis sent us up to open the gate. By the time we got there, you’d done the job for us. We looked for you and couldn’t find you, so we was going back down to find Master Francis.’
‘Go to him.’ Mohite was with Sarah and the others, but Tom would feel happier with more men there to protect them. Then a thought struck him. ‘Have you seen a man carrying a gilded sword come this way?’
Merridew shook his head. Tom glanced to the steps that spiralled up into the north-east tower of the keep. ‘He must have gone up.’
He followed the stairs, twisting around in a tight climb. Narrow slit windows pierced the walls, and through them he caught glimpses down into the courtyard. Day was coming, and the battle was over. Shahuji’s forces had opened the gates and begun to restore order. He saw the rajah mounted on one of the elephants, barking orders as his men rounded up prisoners. After the din of battle, all was eerily quiet in the blue, pre-dawn light.
He reached a door in the wall of the stairwell and paused, listening. He heard voices on the far side, a man and a woman’s, talking urgently.
He kicked open the door and leaped in. The woman screamed and clutched her gown to her chest. She was naked, apparently in the act of dressing. Despite the outlandish circumstances, she seemed familiar to Tom; with more time, he might have recalled the name ‘Lydia Foy’. But he forgot her in an instant, for standing by the window, strapping on a heavy belt, was Christopher.
Tom lunged for him. Lydia screamed. But Christopher, his reflexes schooled in the kalari, was faster. He snatched up the Neptune sword and leaped aside, bringing his blade down on Tom’s and almost disarming him. Tom sprang back and took his guard.
Christopher feinted forward, then turned and ran for the stairs. He could not go down – if Tom caught him, a single kick might send him tumbling and break his neck. He went up. At the top of the steps, he heaved open the trap door that led on to the roof and climbed through. Before he could close it, Tom had followed him out.
They faced each other on the roof of the tower. Christopher bared his teeth. Tom was blocking the stair – and there was no other way down. This would be a fight to the finish.
‘If you wanted to kill me, you should have made sure I was never born,’ he spat. A storm raged inside him: conflicting thoughts of Guy’s cruelties, his mother’s distance, the men he had killed – and, above all else, the man confronting him. He did not know if he wanted to embrace him or run him through.
What is the third precept? asked a voice from his past.
Self control.
He made himself put aside his emotions, to feel nothing but the blade in his hand.
‘I do not want to kill you,’ said Tom. He meant it. In this high place, with the sun licking the horizon and the dawn breeze singing in his ears, he could feel the world being made afresh for a new day. ‘Whatever you have done, if you are truly my son, I can forgive you.’
‘Forgive me?’ Christopher repeated in disbelief. ‘You should be on your knees, begging my forgiveness. This is your doing. If you had not abandoned my mother …’
Emotion threatened him again; he forced it back.
‘I did not even know Caroline was with child,’ Tom protested.
‘Because you did not care.’ Christopher came at him with a flurry of sharp blows, driving Tom back towards the edge of the tower. ‘You dipped your wick, and then you cast her aside, like a common dockside whore. My mother!’
‘I had no choice.’ Tom parried Christopher’s strokes, every movement hindered by the ungainly weapon he was forced to use. Against it, the Neptune sword danced through the air.
‘I am sorry,’ Tom said, and he meant it from the bottom of his soul. From this high vantage, he could look out over the ocean and see how the threads of their lives had unspooled over decades, the myriad choices, chances and lies that had led them to this place. Surely, if fate had brought them together now, it was to a purpose.
‘Why did you follow me here?’ said Christoper. ‘Why not let me escape?’
‘For the sword,’ said Tom, honestly.
Christopher tightened his grip. His face set hard with desire. ‘It is mine.’
Tom stared at him. He stared at the gilded blade, and the great sapphire in the pommel gleaming in the sunrise. A perfect weapon. A legacy from his father, the honour of the Courtneys.
But what was a sword, against the love of his son?
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘If we can be reconciled, you are welcome to it.’
Christopher smiled. Tom felt a wave of relief and affection flood through him. Whatever Christopher had done, whatever evils had driven him to this point – Tom would find a way to forgive him.
He spread his arms wide. ‘My son.’
‘Father.’
Christopher let Tom take two paces towards him. Then he raised the sword and lunged.
That near to
the roof edge, Tom had no room to retreat. But he was not entirely unprepared. He might have forgiven Christopher, but he did not trust him. He had seen the malevolent light in Christopher’s eyes, the twitch of the sword a second before it came up. He sidestepped the stroke, brought up his guard and parried the sword away to his right. The two weapons rang together, very loud in the quiet at the top of the tower. Christopher swept his sword back into position and attacked again. The blades clashed and locked together. Tom and Christopher pushed against each other, a pure trial of strength, neither able to disengage for fear of letting the other past his guard.
Suddenly, Christopher leaped back, hoping to unbalance Tom. Tom stumbled forward, and almost caught his foot on the trap door. He side-stepped the opening, staggered on and almost went over the edge of the tower. Christopher aimed a kick at him, but Tom’s momentum took him out of range. He dropped to the ground, rolled to the side and sprang back onto his feet – just in time to defend himself against Christopher’s next attack, a low thrust that almost caught his thigh.
The two men circled each other around the open hatch. Christopher attacked, Tom parried, but there was no heat in the exchanges. They were sparring, each waiting for the next real chance.
Or perhaps Christopher had another plan. He was twenty, and had barely fought at all that night; Tom was nearer to forty, and had been in the thick of battle for hours. The more Christopher slowed the engagement, letting him relax, the more the fire that sustained him cooled in his veins. Tom could feel his strength fading.
The realization made him angry. He launched another attack with renewed urgency, gripping the sword two-handed, forcing the energy back into his limbs as he hacked and chopped at Christopher.
But though his will was strong, his body was slow to obey. The harder he tried, the more clumsily his strokes landed. He was tiring. His breath came hard and ragged. Christopher pirouetted away from a lunge, knocked him back and gave a triumphant smile. He was letting Tom wear himself out. Then, like a cobra, he would strike.