Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн бесплатно серию книг txt) 📗

Thomas tested the movement, concentrating hard on not betraying the agony flaring down his left side. He nodded with satisfaction and reached for his sword, slipping the strap across his shoulder. Maria hurried back upstairs and returned shortly afterwards in a boy’s gambison and breeches, her hair tied back. She slipped on a pair of soft boots and laced them up. Lastly, she took a belt and dagger from the weapons still lying on the chest and fastened it about her midriff, then faced Thomas. ‘I am ready.’

The wan glow of the candle flame made her skin look rosy and smooth and he smiled. ‘There is one last thing I would ask of you before we go. There is a letter I have written for Richard. I have left it on the chest by the bed. If anything happens to me, please see that it is given to him.’

Maria nodded.

‘Good.’ Thomas smiled. ‘Then let us go.’

A wagon, its sides reinforced with stout planks of studded wood, acted as the gateway of the hastily constructed inner wall. The wall was built from materials taken from demolished houses and rubble from sections of the wall that had collapsed. It stood no higher than ten feet along its length, curving in at each end to join two battered bastions that still held out against the Turks. A fighting step had been constructed behind the wall and women and children, together with old men, filed out along its length, heads hunched against the rain, and took up their positions under the orders of a handful of soldiers assigned to command this final line of defence. They carried a mixture of light pikes, swords, hatchets and studded clubs, together with baskets filled with rocks to hurl down upon the heads of the Turks should they force their way over what was left of the main wall.

Maria parted from Thomas at the wagon and took up a club before climbing the small ladder on to the fighting step. He passed through the gap. Ladders were ready on the far side, in case the men on the main wall were forced to retreat. Richard was waiting for him on the open ground beyond. Together they climbed on to the stretch of wall where the Grand Master had already taken his position, under the sodden banner of the Order. La Valette stood at the parapet, gloved hands resting on the glistening stonework, staring out towards the Turkish trenches.

Richard glanced up at the sky and blinked away the raindrops. ‘There’ll be no gunfire today. No one can keep their powder dry in this downfall. It will be a fight, man to man. There’ll be no threat to the Turks as they charge the walls.’

‘Not so, young man.’ La Valette turned away from the enemy. ‘It may be too wet for our cannon and arquebuses but not for our crossbows.’

Thomas looked down the length of the wall and noticed in the first hint of daylight that the men who would usually be armed with arquebuses were holding crossbows and carrying quivers at their sides packed with quarrels.

La Valette chuckled. ‘You reminded me of them the other day, Sir Thomas. Stored in the dungeon amid the relics of earlier wars. I had them ferried over from St Angelo during the night. Let’s hope our men can put them to good use.’

The Grand Master turned back to the parapet and the defenders waited in the rain as dawn struggled to break through the dark clouds obscuring the sky. As the thin light slowly strengthened, Thomas could see that the ground in front of the remains of the wall was slick and muddy. A hundred paces away the Turkish trenches were marked by their drenched standards. Faint movements could be seen as the enemy prepared for their assault. Every so often a faint chorus of prayer could be heard through the din of the rain as lightning lit the battlefield in a harsh silvery glare.

If there was a moment when the sun had risen, no one could know it because of the heavy clouds. At length a figure climbed out of the trench opposite the Grand Master’s standard and took several paces forward before he stopped and drew his jewelled scimitar. Despite his wet clothes, it was clear that he was a man of significance. He wore a large turban and a finely decorated breastplate.

‘It is Mustafa Pasha himself,’ said Romegas, squinting into the rain.

The Turkish commander’s chest puffed out as he drew a breath and bellowed an order that cut through the hiss of the rain. At his command, figures swarmed from the trenches, letting out a roar as they charged forward all along the length of Birgu’s battered defences. Lightning burst overhead, freezing the tableau of thousands, grim-faced, mouths open in savage cries as they half ran, half slithered over the dead ground, determined to wipe the defenders off the face of the earth.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

‘Ready crossbows,’ La Valette commanded.

Romegas cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed the order, struggling to be heard above the slashing rain. The order was repeated along the line of the wall and the crossbowmen raised their weapons and took aim.

Thomas looked to the side. There seemed to be more breaches than stretches of intact wall and the rubble from the damaged sections had tumbled into the ditch in front of the walls to provide practicable causeways leading up to the defenders. Some attempt had been made to create crude breastworks across the breaches but they would provide only limited shelter before they were torn down by the enemy. He glanced back towards the inner wall, looking for Maria, but it was impossible to tell her apart from the other sodden figures along the fighting step.

‘The Turks will get a nasty surprise once they come within range of the crossbows,’ Richard commented with cold satisfaction.

Thomas nodded. Before the rains, the attackers would have had to endure a hail of cannon and small-arms fire from the walls. This morning they would charge into battle unscathed. Or so they thought. The swiftest of the enemy were already drawing ahead of their comrades and the broad mass of Turks came on behind, providing a target that was impossible to miss. La Valette raised his right hand and waited until they were no more than a hundred paces away, then swept his arm down. ‘Now.’

Even as Romegas relayed the order, those who had been watching for the signal bellowed the command and there was a chorus of dull cracks along the wall as the arms of the weapons sprang forward, unleashing the short heavy bolts in a shallow arc through the driving rain towards the enemy. A moment later Thomas saw scores of the

Turks stop in their tracks. Some pitched forward and writhed on the ground, while others staggered and struggled to remove the barbed heads. A handful of men were killed outright.

At once the defenders lowered their crossbows, placed a foot in the iron stirrup at the end of their weapons and strained to wind the drawstring back ready to load the next quarrel. The strongest of them were the first to shoot again and more of the Turks were struck down as they increased their pace to close up on the wall before more of them fell victim to the antiquated weapon.

Thomas looked for the enemy commander and saw Mustafa Pasha’s large turban bobbing amid the drenched ranks of his men. The veteran general of the Sultan trudged forward, sword waving from side to side above his head. A small party of Janissary body-guards kept up with him, one of them holding aloft the personal standard of Suleiman and waving it from side to side so that the sodden horsetail crest would be more easily visible to the rest of the men.

The first Turk reached the ditch to one side of the bastion and Thomas watched as he scrambled over the wet masonry, his robes hanging on his body like loose folds of skin. One of the crossbowmen on the wall beside the breach aimed down at him and shot a bolt into his back, just below his neck. The Turk fell face first and his legs began to twitch violently. More of his comrades followed, clothes, armour, skin and weapons sleek and glistening in the rain. Scores were struck down by the quarrels as they struggled over the rubble to close with the defenders. At the last moment the crossbowmen threw down their weapons and snatched up clubs, swords and pikes. The air around the bastion was filled with the thud of weapons striking shields, the scrape and clatter of blade on blade and the mingled war cries, curses and howls of agony from the wounded, all underscored by the hiss of rain and light pinging as the heavy drops burst on helmets and plate armour.