Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘That is as may be, but you still call me “sir” when you address me.’ Sir Martin turned to Thomas. ‘You need to tame your squire, he lacks the necessary humility.’

Richard glanced at Thomas and the knight sighed.

‘He’s right, Richard. Remember your place and act accordingly. Else I will not be so tolerant. Understood?’

The squire nodded reluctandy.

‘That said, a knight is required to show charity, even to his enemies.’ Thomas rose stiffly and walked over to the nearest pair of slaves and stood over them. ‘You understand some of our tongue, I think.’

The Muslim who had reacted to Sir Martin’s insult looked up warily and then nodded.

Thomas held out the remains of the bread he had been eating. ‘Here. Take it.’

The slave stared at the bread and chewed his chapped lips. Then, hesitantly, he reached a hand out and delicately plucked the hunk from Thomas’s fingers. At once he began to tear at it, watching Thomas anxiously as if the knight might snatch the bread back without warning. The slave chained to him was a thin dark-skinned Moor who seemed to be in pain as his companion fed, and he began to make a pitiful keening noise. The other man paused for a moment and then tore what was left in half and gave a piece to his companion. The act surprised Thomas who had often witnessed the selfish levels to which slaves were driven by the need to survive. Compassion was a weakness that could kill a man.

‘I gave you the bread, not him. Why did you share it?’

The slave looked up. ‘Because I chose to . . . master. That is one freedom I still have.’

His accent was familiar and Thomas was curious to discover more about a slave who spoke like a native of England yet was a Muslim slave.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Tripoli, master. I was the bodyguard of a merchant, until his ship was captured by one of your galleys.’

‘And how does a slave from Tripoli come to speak English?’

‘I was born in Devon, master. On the coast.’

‘Devon?’ Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Then what the devil are you doing here?’

The slave lowered his gaze as he spoke. ‘I was nine when a corsair ship raided our village, master. They killed my father and several other men, and took the women and children to sell in the slave market at Algiers. I never saw my mother again. I was kept by the corsair captain. He raised me, trained me to fight and then sold me to the merchant.’

‘And converted you to Islam?’

The slave nodded. ‘It is my faith.’

Sir Martin spat with disgust. ‘A traitor to your own kind is what you are!’

The slave flinched and seemed to shrink under the harsh rebuke.

Thomas squatted down in front of him. ‘What is your name?’

‘Abdul, master.’

‘I meant your real name. Your Christian name?’

‘My name is Abdul,’ the slave said firmly. ‘Abdul-Ghafur. I am no Christian. I am a Muslim.’

Thomas met his gaze and for a moment the slave stared back as a man, defiant and proud, before he wavered and slumped back into himself.

‘Is there no part of you that remains from your previous life? After all, you still speak your mother tongue.’

The slave shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘There are memories, but that was another life. Before I was shown the truth through the teachings of Mohammed, peace be upon him.’

‘And yet this is the reward won by your faith.’ Thomas gestured at the other wretched creatures hunched nearby. ‘You have become a slave. Renounce Islam and you could be free, and return to your home in Devon.’

‘There is no home for me there. The boy I was then is no more, Hospitaller. I am now Abdul. In due course I will be the master and you will be the slave. Then perhaps I might return your kindness and offer you a crust.’

Thomas smiled mildly. ‘You think that the Sultan will take this island?’

‘How can he not? He has God on his side. The faith of his soldiers is stronger than yours, and those who fight with you. The outcome is certain and only a fool would doubt it. I, and the other Muslim slaves, will be set free. Those Christians who still live will be put in chains and sold in the markets of the Sultan. The leader of your Order will be executed and his head will be thrust upon a spear and mounted high enough for all in Istanbul to see and know that God is great.’ The slave’s eyes glittered with fanaticism as he spoke and there was a harsh, cruel edge to his voice. Then his expression softened and he addressed Thomas earnestly.

‘Save yourself, while there is still time. Leave this place, master. What does it profit an Englishman to fight and die so far from home? Get out, before the iron fist of the Sultan closes around this rock and crushes it to dust.’

‘You might ask yourself the same question. In any case . . .’ Thomas scooped up a stone the size of a plum and held it up in front of the slave’s eyes. Then he placed his other hand over the stone and clasped his hands together with all his strength, grimacing as the hard edges pressed into his palms. He held his hands there for a while before he relaxed with a gasp and eased them apart. The stone lay as before, and the skin of Thomas’s hands was impressed with marks of its edges. ‘There. The rock is unbroken and your Sultan shall be no more successful than I, when his fleet descends on Malta. Think on that.’

Thomas stood up and returned to his comrades. Sir Martin let out a deep laugh and clapped his hands together. ‘Oh, that showed him. You put the cocky little beggar in his place, Sir Thomas. Well done!’ He picked up a pebble and lobbed it at the slave who flinched as it bounced off his shoulder. ‘You’ll rue the day you ever betrayed England! Mai si le das la fe falsa del Islam, as they say in Spain.’

The slave who called himself Abdul-Ghafur glared back with cold loathing and muttered something under his breath before he looked down at his feet again. Sir Martin smiled with satisfaction and chewed another mouthful of cheese and bread before washing it down with a gulp of the watered wine. He regarded Thomas out of the corner of his eye for a moment before he cleared his throat.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Sir Thomas. For some weeks now.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, well, it’s about the, uh, circumstances relating to your leaving the Order a while back . . . some years before my time, you understand.’

‘Really,’ Thomas said evenly. ‘What would you ask of me that you don’t already know? I assume you have approached some of the other knights about my personal business.’

Sir Martin puffed his cheeks and tilted his head to one side. ‘I have spoken to a few, yes. Of course there aren’t that many fellows who were around in your day.’

‘But enough to give you the necessary details, I’ll be bound.’

‘They were fairly tight-lipped, as it happens. All I got from them was that a woman was involved and there was something of a scandal and that you had brought dishonour on the Order. ’

‘Then you have it all. There is no more that needs to be said.’ Thomas gestured towards the open sea. ‘I think we have more pressing problems, Sir Martin. The Turks could be upon us at any moment. That is surely what we should be fixing our minds on. Not events from many years ago.’

The other knight opened his mouth to reply, paused briefly, then let out an exasperated breath and rose to his feet. ‘Need to relieve myself. Back soon.’ He turned and strode off across the stony terrain towards the shallow latrine ditch that had been dug a hundred paces beyond the ravelin’s defence ditch. Thomas bit into what was left of his cheese ration and chewed on its woody texture. Opposite him Richard swept the crumbs off his tunic and glanced round quickly before he spoke in an undertone.