Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗
‘We’ll deal with whatever we find the same way we did with the guard on the gate.’
‘Assuming one guard is all there is.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Some plan.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘And if there are four of them, like you saw before?’
‘Then we have to deal with four of them.’
They slipped round the corner and crouched low as they approached the door at the end of the passage where the Grand Master had kept his hounds. The doors to the kennels were open and by the light of another candle Thomas saw the wooden pegs on which hung the collars and leashes of the animals that had been destroyed on La Valette’s orders. Ahead stood an arched doorway. The door was ajar and a brighter light burned within. There was no sound as Richard and Thomas stole silently along the passage. Richard readied the cosh in his right hand and quietly drew out his dagger with the other. Thomas reached into his side bag and took out his own cosh, and slipped the loop over his wrist.
They were perhaps ten feet from the door when there was a light rattle and clack from the room beyond and a brief cry of triumph that was answered by a gruff curse. Thomas and Richard froze. Richard held up his hand to signal Thomas to wait. Then he crept forward towards the door and peered round very slowly. A moment later he backed away and spoke softly into Thomas’s ear.
‘Two of them, playing at dice. No more than two paces from the door. We’ll have to rush them. Ready?’
‘Yes, but no killing unless we have to, understand?’
Richard frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it and shrugged instead. ‘Very well, on three.’ The two men braced themselves behind the door. In the gloom Richard glanced at Thomas who nodded, then as the dice rattled again he counted softly. ‘One . . . two . . . three.’
Springing forward, Richard thrust the door aside and burst into the small chamber, with Thomas right behind him. The two guards were hunched over a table. Their heads turned at the intrusion, eyes wide with surprise.
Richard leaped towards the nearest man, his cosh arcing through the air. The guard tried to throw up his arm to block the blow but he was too slow and the heavy leather bag cracked into his skull and he tumbled off his stool and on to the floor. Thomas ran past and round the end of the table and swung his cosh at the other guard’s head. The second guard had time to scramble off the stool and the cosh struck the edge of the table, the shock of the impact sending the cups leaping into the air, spilling their contents over the coins and the dice that had been laid out. The guard snatched a dagger from a small scabbard hanging from his waist and thrust the point at his attacker. Thomas threw himself to the side to avoid the deadly blade. The guard slashed wildly from side to side, forcing Thomas back. Sensing the wall at his back Thomas leaped forward, grasping the man’s knife hand and punching his right fist, still clenching the cosh, into the guard’s jaw. It was a solid impact and the man’s head snapped back. Thomas hit him again, hard, and with a deep grunt he stumbled, tripping over his upturned stool so that he crashed on to the floor. He lay blinking, still holding on to his dagger, and then passed out. Richard stepped round the body and made for the dungeon entrance, a thickly timbered door studded with iron nail heads and with a small grille in its surface.
‘We need to find the keys,’ Thomas muttered.
Richard shook his head. ‘I doubt the guards will be troubled with them. ’ Reaching into his haversack he felt for something and then pulled out a set of small metal tools on a brass ring. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he saw Thomas’s enquiring expression. ‘Tools of the trade.’
He shifted to one side to allow the light of the candles to illuminate the lock. He chose two of the tools which he inserted into the lock and probed gently, delicately exploring the mechanism. Thomas watched him with the faint admiration of those witnessing an arcane skill. Then his attention shifted from the lock to the rapt concentration on the young man’s face.
There was a series of soft clicks from the lock and then Richard withdrew his tools and lifted the latch. The door edged open soundlessly on well-greased hinges and a waft of cooler air came from the dark space beyond.
‘Get the candles,’ Richard instructed.
Thomas fetched them from the wall brackets of the guardroom and passed one to Richard.
As soon as they stepped through the arch, Thomas sensed the vastness of the space, even before the wavering glow of the candles began to reveal its dimensions. The ceiling arched overhead and the walls were lined with sturdy buttresses to take the weight of the fort above. The ceiling was low but the dungeon was long and wide and interspersed with stout columns that divided the chamber into two. Rows of wooden shelves stretched out before the two men, beyond the loom of the candlelight and on into the darkness. The shelves were laden with baskets of scrolls, ledgers, logs and chests, many of which were sealed with wax to keep the contents safe from dampness. There was a slight movement in the air and little of the musty odour that Thomas had been expecting and he realised that the dungeon must be ventilated to prevent the onset of mould.
‘There must be hundreds of chests here . . . thousands,’ Richard muttered. ‘We have to search quickly, before the sermon ends and the rest of the garrison returns.’
‘Then you take this half of the chamber,’ Thomas decided. ‘I’ll search the other.’
They separated and began to work their way along the narrow space between the shelves, crouching now and then to see what lay on the lowest levels. There were many chests amongst the archives, and Thomas carefully checked each of those that were black or constructed of dark wood with brass fittings, looking for the crest on the lid. All the while he was conscious that time was running out for them. Depending on the passion and stamina of Robert of Eboli, the sermon might last for two or more hours. But given the weariness of the defenders it might well be concluded earlier.
At the end of the first row of shelves was a caged area with thick iron bars that were set into the floor and extended to the ceiling. The door had two locks, with thick bolts and sturdy receivers. Beyond lay dozens of small chests and by the wall were stacked thick bolts of silk that shimmered in the faint glow of Thomas’s candle. On a rack to one side hung a collection of scimitars with jewel-encrusted guards and handles of gold and silver. This was the treasury of the Order, Thomas realised, looted from the ships and coastal towns and estates of the Islamic world. A fortune to rival the treasures of any of Europe’s monarchs. Paid for with the blood of hundreds of knights and tens of thousands of soldiers and common people, all for the sake of their religion. Thomas felt a tingle of nausea as he beheld the riches and contemplated the centuries of suffering it represented, right up until the present moment, and the weeks and months to come until the siege was resolved. Even then, the conflict would be handed on from generation to generation until the end of time. Or until mankind cured itself of religion.
If there was a divine presence in the world, it would surely look 011 the works that were carried out in its name in abject horror, Thomas reflected. He had never felt such a presence, never sensed it in the slightest; he was only aware of the heedless elements of a natural world that embraced men, animals and faiths with abiding disinterest. Such thoughts were dangerous, he knew. More than dangerous, lethal. So he tried to keep them at bay, and even prayed along with the faithful as if in an attempt to hide his true thoughts from himself as much as other people.
Something clattered to the floor a short distance away and Thomas flinched and turned towards the sound. A glow amid the shelves revealed Richard’s position.
