Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon - Страница 31
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Richard did so. The corsair chuckled and shook his head. He snarled a reply and raised his head haughtily and glared down his nose at Thomas with his remaining eye.
‘He says he would sooner die a thousand times than accept mercy from the son of a jackal,’ Richard translated.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was no sadness or regret in Thomas’s heart as he stared back, just anger at the needless loss of life the corsair had inflicted on his followers. He felt fire flow in the sinews of his muscles as he locked his fingers round the handle of his sword and nodded sombrely. ‘If that is his wish, then so be it.’ He cleared his throat and drew a deep breath that all might hear him. ‘No quarter! Strike the dogs down!’
On either side, the Spaniards surged forward, swords and pikes thrusting at the corsair officers. Thomas swept his arms wide and shouted, ‘Not him! Not the one in green. Their captain is mine!’ The men on either side drew back and a small space opened out for the corsair and Thomas as they paused to size each other up. Then the instant was past and Thomas lunged forward with all his strength. There was no attempt to feint, the blow was intended to finish the fight at a stroke. The corsair nimbly stepped to the side and parried the blow, and Thomas could sense the considerable strength of his opponent through the contact between their blades. The parry, having done its work, continued into a glittering swing upwards and then a slash at Thomas’s face. He just had time to throw up his sword hand and block the blow with the guard. Sparks flickered into the air between the two men. He stepped in, close to the corsair and inside the sweep of his sword. His left hand grasped the corsair’s throat and he clenched his fingers in the silk cloth wound round the other man’s neck. The corsair dropped his scimitar and snatched at Thomas’s hand, struggling to wrench it away. At the same time the fingers of his other hand locked round Thomas’s sword to thrust it away. They stood there straining for advantage, staring into each other’s faces. A sweet musty scent filled Thomas’s nostrils, vying with the stink of the rowers below deck and the tang of the sea. Then he felt his left hand drawn back a fraction and he knew that the corsair was stronger than he was. It was only the thought of an instant but it was enough for the first chill of dread to trickle down his spine.
‘No,’ Thomas hissed, and dipped his head and smashed it forward. The curved peak of the morion helmet caught the corsair on the forehead, tearing a flap of skin from his skull. He howled with pain and rage, and his grip slackened enough for Thomas to free his left arm. He splayed his fingers and thrust them against the other man’s chest with all the force he could muster. The corsair staggered back, then stumbled and fell heavily on to the deck. Even before the impact drove the air from his lungs, the tip of Thomas’s sword took him low in the stomach, under the breastplate he wore beneath his green jacket, the point driving deep into his guts before Thomas was at the end of his reach. The corsair let out a deep groan and sagged back, mouth agape as his single eye rolled up and fixed on the blue heavens above.
Thomas pulled his blade free and turned to Richard. ‘Tell his men to surrender. Tell them their captain has fallen. Do it!’
Richard cupped a hand to his mouth and cried out, above the sounds of fighting. At his words the corsairs closest risked a glance in his direction and saw the body. They broke away from the engagement as best they could and stood by the steps leading up to the aft deck. A handful of Spaniards pressed forward until Thomas commanded them to stop. Richard continued to shout, and turned to repeat the call towards the men still engaged towards the bows. The clash and clatter of weapons died away and the two sides drew apart and watched each other anxiously.
‘Order the corsairs to drop their weapons,’ Thomas instructed.
As the swords and pikes fell to the deck, Thomas turned his attention back to the enemy commander. He lay writhing on the deck, his hands clasped over his stomach. Blood oozed from between the dark skin of his fingers and he groaned through clenched teeth.
The sergeants amongst the Spanish soldiers began to bellow orders for their men to gather the prisoners around the foremast. Those corsair officers still standing looked down at their stricken leader before they were roughly shoved towards the bows. Thomas turned to look at Richard who was standing a short distance away. The young man was looking down at the blood smeared on the weapons in his hands and Thomas could see the telltale tremor of one who had survived his first experience of battle. He sheathed his sword and gently rested a hand on his squire’s shoulder.
‘You fought very well.’
Richard pressed his lips together and nodded.
‘A credit to whoever trained you in the use of rapier and dagger,’ Thomas continued. There was no reaction and Thomas stepped closer and spoke in an undertone. ‘Richard, you are alive and you have triumphed over your fears. You have passed the test. You are one of us, a fighter. ’
Richard looked up. ‘I was afraid, sir. More than I ever thought I would be.’
‘I understand.’ Thomas offered a kindly smile. ‘Do you not think it was the same for me? For all those who enter battle?’
Then something caught Thomas’s eye and he glanced down to see a small puddle of blood at Richard’s feet, and another drop fell from a dark rent in the sleeve of his sword arm. ‘You are wounded.’
The young man looked confused. ‘Wounded? I—I don’t recall.’
‘Look there.’ Thomas gestured towards the bloody sleeve. ‘Your arm. Put your weapons up and see to the wound. There will be time to talk of your thoughts later, when the danger has passed.’ Thomas left his squire to sheath his weapons with trembling hands, and made his way over to the side of the galley. The crews of the nearest corsair vessels were looking on, as yet unsure of the outcome of the duel between the two galleys. Any doubt was extinguished as one of the Spaniards freed the halyard attached to the broad green pennant billowing above the deck. A moment later the pennant came fluttering down towards the deck and came to rest in an untidy heap amid the bodies of the dead and wounded. Thomas watched anxiously as the other corsair vessels held their positions for a while, before one of the other Spanish vessels opened fire, the chain shot shredding the foresail of the nearest corsair vessel and shearing off the end of one of the spars. Before the escort could fire again the galley began to turn away, towards the open sea. The neat line of oars swept forward, dipped down and thrust the corsair vessel away from the battle. One by one the other corsairs broke away and retreated to the north. Their comrades to the south continued their attack for a little longer before they ceased fire and drew back out of range in case the escort vessels turned on them.
The sound of boots thudding on to the deck caused Thomas to turn and he saw Don Garcia and his officers crossing one of the boarding planks on to the corsair galley and jumping down. The relief in the Spaniard’s face was clear to see and he grinned as he caught sight of the English knight.
‘We have them on the run, Sir Thomas! They flee like whipped curs now that we have their commander. Where is he?’
‘There, sir.’ Thomas gestured towards the figure lying on his back, the soft leather of his boots scraping the deck as he continued to writhe in his agony. To one side, Richard unbuttoned his gambison and laid it down on top of his breastplate. The sleeve of his white shirt was slick with blood and he peeled it back cautiously to reveal a deep gash on his forearm.
Thomas lifted Richard’s arm to examine the wound. ‘It’s a clean cut. Have it sewn up and bandaged.’
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