Sword and Scimitar

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.

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.’