Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн бесплатно серию книг txt) 📗
‘Father!’ Richard approached him through the dust haze with an anxious expression. ‘You’re bleeding.’
Thomas could feel it, the warm flow on his cheek, running down to the comer of his mouth where he tasted the salty gore. ‘I’m fine,’ he panted. ‘Fine.’
Sword raised, he looked round, but no more of the enemy loomed nearby out of the dust and the sound of fighting seemed to be fading. He turned back to Richard. ‘Where is your horse?’
‘Shot through the head. I lost my sword when I fell, hence . . .’ Richard held a pike up. ‘Which way?’
Thomas had lost his bearings in the fight and now the dust obscured the surrounding landscape, but the afternoon sun was angled towards the west. ‘This way. Stay with me.’
They followed the sound of the fighting, stepping over bodies and pausing only to finish off the enemy wounded who might yet pose a threat. The dust began to thin out and then there was open country before them in the direction of St Paul’s Bay. It was clear at once that the Turks had broken. They were streaming away from the men of the relief force, many throwing down their arms and equipment in order to hasten their escape. Behind them came their Christian opponents, mercilessly butchering any Turk too slow, or too weak, to flee. The first of the horsemen from the garrison at Mdina joined the pursuit, charging in from the flank, shouting with cruel glee as they rode down and killed the enemy who had caused so much fear and suffering over the long months of the siege. As he watched the unfolding massacre, it seemed to Thomas as if a swarm of wild and ravenous beasts had been let loose upon the helpless Turks. There was no longer any semblance of order in either army, just figures scattered across the barren landscape. With Richard at his side he followed the direction of the rout, across baking fields, past the blackened remains of farmhouses torched by the Turks. His armour weighed him down and every step forward seemed to take a great effort, and all the while sweat coursed from his brow and caused his linen undershirt to stick to his flesh and chafe the skin. At length, after three miles, they came to the top of a small rise overlooking the bay where St Paul had once landed to convert the island’s inhabitants to the new creed of peace and universal brotherhood. But on this day, the scene was from the darkest and most bloody of nightmares.
The Turkish soldiers were trapped along the edge of the bay. Small clusters had turned on their pursuers and bitterly contested the shore-line. Elsewhere hundreds had waded out into the sea towards the fleet of galleys anchored in the bay. Small craft were desperately rowing between the galleys and the shallows to try and rescue as many of their comrades as possible. In amongst those waiting to be taken off waded the men of the relief force, pitilessly cutting down those they could reach and then looting their bodies before moving on. A score of Turks had crowded around the bows of one of the rowing boats and were fighting to get aboard. The small craft rocked crazily and the crew was trying to beat the soldiers back. Then the boat tilted violently and capsized, spilling men into the sea. The shallows of the bay were stained red and a pink froth washed up on the pebbles as the gentle waves lapped the shore.
‘Look there,’ said Richard, pointing out one of the bands of Janissaries still fighting at the edge of the water, a quarter of a mile away. There were perhaps a hundred of them, most holding off their pursuers with spears while a handful steadily fired and reloaded their arquebuses, picking off easy targets. In the middle of the loose crescent of soldiers stood an officer in silk robes and a bejewelled turban.
‘That’s Mustafa Pasha.’ Thomas breathed heavily through cracked lips, his voice hoarse. ‘If he is taken, then the Sultan’s humiliation is complete.’
‘Come then.’ Richard started down the slope, holding his pike in a firm grip. ‘Let us take him.’
‘Wait!’ Thomas rasped as he followed his son. ‘Wait for me.’
The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, and cast long shadows across the carnage and burnished the grime and blood-spattered armour of the Christian soldiers as they went about their murderous business. Thomas saw a handful of Turkish boats setting out from the enemy flagship, steering towards their commander and his bodyguards. As the boats approached the shallows, scores of men converged on them, surging through the bloodied tide. Those on the boats were clearly under orders to permit only the Janissaries to board; they ruthlessly slashed out with their scimitars at any man who came within reach as they approached the shore. Mustafa’s standard had drawn the attention of his pursuers and a vicious struggle was taking place between the Spanish pikemen and the Janissaries.
‘We must hurry,’ Richard panted. ‘Before he escapes.’
Despite their leaden limbs, the two of them broke into a trot, their scabbards slapping at their sides. Only a handful of the Turks were still resisting along the edge of the bay. Some threw down their arms and dropped to their knees to surrender but were cut down without mercy. Other boats were picking up the last of those still in the water and Thomas could see activity on the bows of the galleys as their gun crews loaded the cannon ready to fire on the Christians in one last act of defiance before the Sultan’s humiliated host was driven from the island.
Mustafa Pasha, accompanied by his standard bearer and two other men, waded out towards the flagship’s boats. Behind him his bodyguards fought on, to buy him time.
‘This way!’ Thomas panted, striking out at an angle towards the enemy commander. They splashed into the shallows and then waded towards the personal standard of the Sultan, the horsehair tail flicking from side to side as the man carrying it struggled towards the boat. Mustafa turned towards the splashing in the water nearby and saw the two knights making directly for him. He snapped an order to the two bodyguards protecting him and they instantly turned towards Thomas and Richard, raising their scimitars. Richard held his pike clear of the water and feinted towards the nearest of the Janissaries. The Turk made to dodge to one side but failed to make allowance for the drag of the water and the pike tore into his side. Richard thrust home, and then worked the tip free. Thomas caught up with him and waded past to engage the other bodyguard. There was no finesse to his actions as he struck out at the Janissary, just brute force and determination. He hacked again, and again, driving the man back. Then the Turk missed his step on the seabed and fell back with a splash. At once Thomas pushed forward and pressed the man down with his left hand, holding him under the surface of the bay as he stabbed with his sword, and blood billowed up through the water.
Thomas turned to see that Mustafa had reached the prow of the nearest boat, not twenty feet away, and two of the sailors were struggling to drag him aboard. Richard, too, saw that the enemy commander was on the verge of getting away; he cast his pike aside and the water boiled around him as he reached out for the shoulders of the standard bearer waiting in the water behind his master. Richard grasped the man roughly and turned him round before striking his fist into the Turk’s face. The man clung on to the shaft of the standard with one hand and lashed out at Richard with the other. Richard blinked, momentarily disorientated, and then he growled angrily and struck the man again in the face with all his strength and the Turk’s head snapped back. His grasp on the standard slipped and with a triumphant shout Richard ripped it from his hands and raised the standard up so that all could see it had been captured.
Thomas saw that Mustafa Pasha had been hauled into the boat and sat in an undignified heap near the bows as the crew lowered the oars and began to pull away from the shore. Just beyond Mustafa a soldier stood up, bracing his legs as he raised a light arquebus and took aim at Richard.
