Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗
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 quiet.’
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.
Richard was steering Thomas towards the steps that led down to the jetty when he heard the scrape of boots on rocks. A figure stepped out immediately in front of them and Richard’s hand flew to his sword handle. Then he let out an explosive sigh of relief as he saw it was one of the Maltese militiamen. The man stared wildly at the two Englishmen and then turned towards the sea.
‘Wait!’ Thomas called after him in Maltese. ‘I need help.’
‘Too late,’ the man replied. ‘It’s every man for himself now.’
‘Help me,’ Richard pleaded. ‘For pity’s sake, help me.’
The man hesitated and then stepped to the other side of Thomas and lifted his arm before Richard could stop him. At once Thomas threw his head back and let out a cry. Before they reached the top of the steps a voice called down to them from the wall. ‘Don’t look back!’ Richard hissed. ‘Keep moving.’
The voice called out again, louder this time. Then there was a short pause before a challenge was shouted down to them. They kept going, Thomas’s feet bumping down the steps between the rocks until they reached the jetty.
‘Oh no . . .’ Richard muttered in despair. There were no boats moored alongside the jetty. Only the bows of a sunken craft bobbed low in the water, all that remained of a boat pounded to pieces by the enemy guns that had been sited to sweep the sea between the Christian forts. There were more shouts from the direction of the wall and Richard glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of a pursuit yet. They continued to the end of the jetty and set Thomas down against a post before stripping off their clothes, down to their loincloths. Then Richard did the same for his father, wincing as he saw for the first time the full extent of the bums on the exposed flesh. Much of the right side of Thomas’s face and neck was raw and red, like freshly butchered meat. So was most of the left side of his body. Patches of skin had peeled back and now lay on his flesh in puckered skeins of white and grey. The removal of most of his clothes caused fresh agonies and Thomas bit down as hard as he could to fight the urge to cry out.
‘We’re going to have to swim for it,’ Richard said.
‘Leave me,’ Thomas said through his teeth.
‘No. Not now.’ Richard shook his head and forced a quick smile. ‘I would not lose a father so soon after finding him.’
Then he took Thomas’s right arm and leaped into the sea. The Maltese soldier dived in close by. The water closed briefly over Thomas’s head and then his face burst clear of the surface. The water was cold and instantly dulled the sharpness of his agony. Even so he could not move his left arm or leg to swim without being tormented by pain.
‘I can’t make it, Richard. Please . . . please save yourself.’
‘Float on your back,’ Richard ordered. ‘You there, take his other arm, and let’s get moving.’
Thomas lay staring up as his companions struck out for the far shore, some four hundred yards across the harbour. For a while Thomas let himself be borne slowly along, then he strained his neck and looked towards St Elmo. He could see the full extent of the side of the wall facing Birgu and Senglea. The parapet was filled with figures shaking their swords and spears in the air, shadows against the morning sunlight. A few thin trails of smoke lifted a short distance into the sky before dispersing. Then, as he watched, the flag of the Order gracefully billowed away from its staff, and was pulled down rapidly. A short moment after, the green flag of Islam rose up above the fort to renewed cheers.
