Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘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.

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 . . .’