Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘No. You need not fear me.’

‘I don’t fear you, Oliver. I pity you.’

‘And I hate you, I have always hated you. But, as is so often the case with hatred, it was imperfect. I see that now. Before, I wanted to hurt you and then destroy you, as if that would somehow resolve the matter. But it never could. My hatred is unquenchable. Harming you would in no way diminish it.’ He smiled. ‘It is a strange thing, but I feel almost at peace now. I do not fear death. I only ever feared the prospect of a life without Maria. This is where it ends. Here in St Elmo. For me, for you, and for your son. Poor Maria. She still thinks that Richard is safe in England. For her sake, I hope she never discovers the truth.’ He drained his cup and stood up. ‘There, that is all that needs to be said. I shall find somewhere to rest, though I shall not sleep. There is only one release from my torment now.’

Without waiting for a response he got up and walked out into the courtyard.

Richard, his expression dark, made to rise from the table but Thomas grasped his wrist firmly.

‘Leave him be.’

‘You heard him,’ Richard hissed. ‘He harmed my mother.’

‘Stokely has suffered enough. In any case, he is like the rest of us, walking in the shadow of death. It serves no purpose to hasten his end.’

Richard shook his head. ‘Are you so lacking in heart that you are not moved to act?’

‘My heart is replete, my son. Did you not hear him? She loves me, and always has. And you already know that she loves you. I would rather you were with her and spared this death but that is not to be.’ He released Richard’s wrist and took his hand. ‘At least we will be together at the end.’

Richard stared at his father, struggling to control his emotions, and nodded. ‘Together, at the end.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

23 June

In the hour before dawn, the enemy’s preparations for the coming assault were clearly audible to the survivors thinly spread out along the ruined walls of the fort. Most were clustered about the breach that had opened up when a section of the wall had finally collapsed under the weight of the Turkish cannon. Murmured exchanges carried up to the defenders as the Turks gathered in their trenches that surrounded the fort. Across the water, oars splashed and there were occasional cries from the men at the bows as they sounded the depths of the harbour. The dark mass of the galleys was easily visible in the darkness as they took up position to add the weight of their cannon to the preliminary bombardment of St Elmo.

Thomas, like most of the others, had not slept at his station. During the long hours of the night he had lain down, his head resting on a rolled-up gambison, and gazed up at the stars. The night sky was clear and the stars shone brilliantly. As he stared at them Thomas found some comfort in their eternal serenity. They had been there before he ever breathed and would be there still the following night, hours after he and the others had fallen. Their cold aloofness seemed to mock the petty tribulations of mankind. All the grand causes, all the heroic efforts, the religious fanaticism that motivated men to kill others and willingly face death, seemed trivial when considered in the round, Thomas reflected. He did not wish a martyr’s death. He wanted more than anything to live, now that he felt sure of Maria’s love. Thinking of the life he might have had caused him to smile sadly. When his mind drifted towards the coming day, he could not help fearing his death. He hoped it would be quick, and that he might die before Richard and be spared that hideous spectacle at least.

He turned to look at his son, sitting against the parapet a short distance away, his chin resting on his breast, breathing easily. Despite the circumstances, Richard’s exhaustion had got the better of him and had embraced him with a few hours of merciful oblivion. The sight moved Thomas unbearably and his throat tightened with grief at the thought of losing what he had only just been given, the most valuable treasure a man could find in life, the gift of a child. He had only had a handful of days in which to know his son and it was bittersweet to discern those precious virtues and quirks of character in him that would never have the opportunity to mature further.

Some distance along the wall beyond the breach Thomas could just make out the still form of Stokely hugging his knees as he stared across the heart of the fort. Thomas could only wonder at the private despair of that tormented soul and hoped that Stokely would also find peace in a swift death.

As the sound of muttered prayers rose around the fort like the sound of surf on a distant shore, Thomas leaned towards his son and gently shook his shoulder. There was no response and Thomas shook him again, more forcefully, until Richard snatched a deep breath and sat up quickly, startled and confused. He blinked for a moment and then stared at his father.

‘You let me sleep.’ His tone was accusing. ‘My God, you let me sleep through my final hours.’

‘It is better that you slept.’

Richard was still for a moment before he rolled his neck stiffly. ‘I dreamed I was back in England, as a child, hunting rabbits on a clear autumn morning . . .’

‘Ah, rabbit,’ Thomas mused. ‘Now there’s something I could willingly eat.’ He paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s the eve of the Feast of St John. ’Tis a shame that we will not be free to take a seat at the banquet.’ Thomas smiled at the image, then his expression hardened. ‘Get down to the chapel. Tell Mas and Miranda that the enemy are coming.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then come back here directly.’ Thomas felt a pang of anxiety. ‘Hurry. I want you here at my side, whatever happens.’

Richard nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’

He eased himself into a crouch and edged away from the shelter of the parapet, keeping close to the piles of debris and the bodies that had been dragged together to remove the risk of the survivors tripping over them once the fighting began. At the edge of the wall Richard slipped over the rim and dropped out of sight on to the stairs below. Thomas turned his attention back to the enemy. From the sounds on all sides their intention was clear enough. When the signal was given they would charge the fort, scaling what was left of the walls by ladder, and at the same time launching an assault through the breach. This time there would be little to hold them back. There was only enough powder left for a few more shots and only a handful of incendiary weapons remained. All of the naphtha had been used up. Once the defenders had expended the last of their firepower they would take up their hand weapons and fight to the end.

Along the wall the defenders stirred and here and there a bright glow showed where the arquebusiers were readying their fuses. Others pulled on their helmets and fastened the buckles securely beneath their chins; those with armour checked the straps and made minor adjustments. Some held pikes while others readied swords, daggers, hatchets and maces. Thomas glanced across the breach and saw Stokely take up the heavy two-handed sword he had chosen from the fort’s armoury - a cumbersome weapon but deadly in the right hands.

There was a pause in the gloom before dawn, a silence, a stillness, as if the defenders were part of a tableau composed of shadows. The sky to the east was smeared with the faint pearly hue of dawn and as the veil of darkness began to fade, Thomas made out details on the scarred landscape in front of the wall. The flags planted by the enemy to mark the ground they had taken hung limp in the still air. Discarded weapons and buckled and shattered shields and armour were strewn across the rubble before the walls amid bodies that had not yet been recovered for burial. Some were hideously swollen by c orruption, made worse by the heat of the sun, and limbs stuck out at an angle, grotesquely. And then there was the stench of the month-old battlefield, a cloying stink of blood and decaying flesh, overlaid with the acrid odour of burning and the gritty tang of masonry dust. For some reason it seemed to Thomas more pungent and revolting than ever this morning. Or was it that his senses were heightened now that he knew he was living through his final hours, he wondered.