Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗

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.