Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon - Страница 55
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Richard turned to Thomas. ‘Are you injured?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Winded
Satisfied, Richard turned to the scout and trotted up behind him. He raised his boot and kicked the man savagely behind the knee so that he collapsed. Reaching down, Richard braced his boot on the scout’s back and pulled the knife from his back. In one quick movement he grasped the Turk’s helmet and jerked his head up before cutting his throat. His body shuddered and his boots flailed on the dry track. Richard did not wait for his movements to cease before wiping his blade on his enemy’s robes and then returning it to its sheath. Then he grabbed one of the Turk’s sandalled feet and dragged him back into the farmyard.
‘Help me,’ he hissed to Thomas.
Still recovering, Thomas sheathed his dagger and took the other foot. Together they hauled the body towards the small barn.
‘What happened?’
Thomas looked up to see La Riviere half crouching by the corner of the bam.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ Richard answered. ‘We dealt with the scout.’
‘So I can see. What are you doing?’
‘We’ll hide the body in the bam, then get back to our positions.’
‘Wait.’ La Riviere straightened up and turned to look at the lane. He pointed to a gap in the wall, where some stones had collapsed opposite the men waiting to launch the ambush. ‘Put the body over there, leaning up against the wall on the far side of the lane.’
‘What?’ Richard frowned. ‘They’ll see him.’
‘Precisely!’ La Riviere smiled. ‘Do it. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Richard glanced at Thomas who nodded and they dragged the body out and sat it up against the wall. La Riviere went over to the scorched remains of the pigs and drew his dagger. He worked briefly and then hurried over to the others.
‘Here. The finishing touch to our little trap.’
The French knight leaned over the body and forced open the jaws with one hand and then stuffed something into the mouth. A moment later he straightened up with a satisfied nod. ‘That should do.’
Thomas looked down and saw the snout of a pig protruding from the stretched lips of the dead Turk and he understood La Riviere’s purpose at once.
‘Why have you done that?’ Richard asked softly, in a revolted tone.
La Riviere chuckled. ‘Explain it to him, Sir Thomas.’
‘To the Muslims the pig is a dirty animal. They will not eat its flesh. When the comrades of this man see him, they’ll be outraged. The first thing they will do is drop their guard while they seek to remove this effrontery from their sight.’
‘Quite so,’ La Riviere nodded, then looked round towards the ridge. The others followed the direction of his gaze and Thomas could clearly see the head of the approaching column cresting the ridge, burnished by the first rays of the rising sun.
‘They’re looking into the light,’ Richard said. ‘With luck they haven’t seen anything to cause them any alarm.’
‘Then let’s go,’ La Riviere ordered. ‘Stay low.’
He led the way out of the lane and hurried across the small field to the boulders where his men were concealed. They took the helmets hanging from their saddle horns and quickly put them on, fastened the chinstraps, and stood by their horses ready to mount and charge as soon as La Riviere gave the command. Thomas had recovered from his winding and his lips set in a thin line of bitter self-reproach. He had made a mess of dispatching the enemy scout. But for Richard, the Turk might have escaped and warned his comrades about the trap that awaited them. It pained Thomas to have had his squire come to his rescue. The days when he was a formidable warrior were gone and this was perhaps his last opportunity to do something of note before he was good for little more than telling tales of past glories to young boys at the fireside.
He shut his eyes tightly and forced the shame from his mind. A soldier must never be distracted before a fight. This was a lesson that his father’s sword master had drilled into him from the very first. A soldier, yes, Thomas reflected, but for a knight there were other codes and standards to live by. Chivalry above all. Yet there was no place for such moral strictures in the ageless war between the Order and Islam. All that mattered was the destruction of the enemy wherever and whenever he was encountered.
With sudden insight Thomas knew that this was the real attraction of the Order for men such as himself and La Riviere. The wars that waged within Christendom, the vicious sectionalism and rivalry of kings and princes were all poor shadows of causes worth fighting for, worth killing for . . . worth dying for. The Order alone provided a simple moral clarity. It pitched one world against another. There wore no doubts about the cause to trouble a man, or at least a man with religion, Thomas thought wryly. He had long struggled with his faith, felt it slipping from his grasp as he had grown from a boy into a man. Despite all his prayers, there had never come the faintest reply, let alone a holy vision, or miracle. Just an emptiness that grew within, always presenting a stark choice: either this life was all there was and a man came from dust and went to dust and accepted the brevity of his existence, or he chose to perform deeds worthy of preserving in the record of human achievement. This he understood — he was here to give some meaning to his being. He fought not for the glory of God but for the survival of the world of those who believed, and those forced to endure their non-belief in silence, like himself. For them he was prepared to fight and die. He hardened his heart and refocused his mind as he watched the enemy approach.
The Turks came marching down the lane with a carefree boldness, talking and laughing loudly amongst themselves, their hearts and minds filled with the swaggering confidence of men at the start of a campaign whose outcome they did not doubt. They came in strength, possessed of the mightiest cannon in the world and the cleverest siege engineers, at the bidding of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, and blessed by Allah. Thomas could well understand their high spirits, and also the shrewd mind of the Grand Master who knew how important it was to strike down this confidence from the very first moment that the Turks set foot upon Maltese soil.
As the enemy approached, Thomas saw that there were no more than a hundred of them, armed with swords and shields and a handful with pikes. They wore no armour and apart from the shields their only protection was a polished brass helmet with a mail curtain to protect their neck and shoulders. Their robes were worn loose to ease movement and limit the discomfort of the summer heat. At their head rode an officer on a grey horse whose reins and saddle were adorned with silver braid. The officer’s robes were of dark silk with white stars and crescents sewn on the flowing material. He wore a black turban, and his thin beard and haughty, erect posture in the saddle betrayed his youth. His lack of any watchfulness and failure to send forward a vanguard also betrayed his inexperience.
Thomas looked at La Riviere and saw that the French knight was watching the enemy company intently, all trace of his earlier levity gone. He sensed Thomas’s attention and glanced briefly at him without any expression, before turning back to the Turks. The sound of their light-hearted talk filled the dawn air and drowned out the song of a handful of birds in the scattered brush about the farm. As they approached the entrance to the humble collection of buildings, the officer caught sight of the scout’s body propped up against the wall that bounded the lane. He drew in his reins sharply, threw up a hand and shouted a command. The column shuffled to a halt and their tongues stilled as they craned their necks to see what had caused them to stop. The officer rattled out an order and the leading four men of the column lowered their packs on to the track and cautiously moved past their officer and approached the body.
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