Stokely made to reply; then he clamped his jaw shut and pressed his lips together as he looked towards the corsair galley, surging across the calm water towards them. The eastern horizon was ablaze with the liquid glare of the sun just beyond the black mass of the far headland. A moment later the details of the corsairs were thrown into sharp outline as the first rays of sunlight lanced across the sea, causing Thomas and the others to narrow their eyes. The enemy were close enough for the sound of their cheers and the clatter of their blades against the sides of their round shields to carry clearly across the sea. The gap between the two galleys closed swiftly and now Thomas heard the first crackle of shots as the more excitable of the arquebusiers shot at the Christian vessel. Even though the range was long, still over two hundred paces, one of the gunners was struck in the head and his skull exploded as he tumbled back, showering his companions in droplets of blood, brains and bone splinters.
‘Why doesn’t La Valette give the order to shoot back?’ asked Stokely.
‘The captain knows what he’s doing.’
Another shot struck home, striking one of the soldiers in the stomach with a high-pitched clang as it pierced his breastplate and burst through the padding of his gambison. He dropped his pike as lie collapsed on the deck and rolled on to his side, groaning in agony.
‘Get him below!’ Thomas ordered and one of the soldiers set down his weapon and dragged the man over to the hatch just behind the foredeck and down the steps into the small hold where the galley’s food and water was stored. There he would lie until his wound could be seen to after the fight. If the corsairs won the day then that is where he would drown or be killed as the ship was looted.
By the time the soldier returned to his post, the distance between the ships had halved and still the cannon had not fired, even as musket balls whirred overhead or cracked into the timbers of the Swift Hind. Thomas saw the nearest gun captain raise his slow match towards the powder quoin and he shouted to the man.
‘Wait for the order!’
The gun captain looked round with a fearful expression, just as a brilliant flash came from the bows of the other galley. An instant later another. Then the air around Thomas was filled with a cacophony of cracking, clattering and the sharp ring of metal striking metal. Several of the crossbowmen at the bows were swept away, together with most of the crew of the larboard gun. Thomas was jerked round as something glanced off his breastplate and he staggered to the side to regain his balance. There was a brief hush across the deck before the cries and screams of the wounded broke out. Thomas glanced over his body but there was no sign of any wound. He looked up and saw Stokely clutching a hand to his cheek. Blood welled up beneath his gauntlet and dripped on to the polished steel of his gorget.
‘I’m wounded . . .’ he said in a shocked tone. ‘Wounded.’
Thomas pulled his hand away and saw that a chunk of his cheek had been tom away. ‘It’s a flesh wound. You’ll live.’
He turned to look over the deck and saw that perhaps a dozen men had been downed. Just then the surviving gun captain touched his slow match to the quoin of his weapon and there was a savage flash, a billowing cloud of smoke and a concussive thud that passed through the timbers of the galley and the bodies of those aboard her. Thomas saw the match in the lifeless hand of the dead gun captain and ran on to the foredeck to snatch it up. Crouching down beside the barrel he waited a moment until the smoke had cleared enough for him to see the corsair vessel looming directly ahead. There was just time to spring back and touch the glowing slow match to the powder, and the gun bucked violently as it discharged its weight of iron into the faces of the enemy.
‘Ship oars! Helm hard to port!’ La Valette’s voice cried from the stem.
The rowers instantly pressed down on their handles to raise the blades clear of the water and then began to haul them in as the rudder bit into the water and forced the bows round to pass down the side of the corsair vessel. A moment later there was a jarring collision and a long rumbling groan as the two hulls ground along each other. Some of the oars from each vessel had still not been withdrawn through the sides and there was a series of sharp splintering reports as the long lengths of wood shattered.
Before the Swift Hind had stopped moving La Valette had rushed down from the quarterdeck, sword in hand, and raced to join the party of armed men led by Thomas and the other knights. The captain glanced round to check that his men were ready and then pointed his sword over the bulwark towards the enemy. ‘For God and St John!’
Thomas sucked in a deep breath, grasped his pike tightly in one hand and echoed his captain’s cry. ‘For God and St John!’
Then he, too, climbed on to the rail and jumped after La Valette. The veteran knight had already made his way into the middle of the corsair’s deck, swinging the long blade of his sword before him in a vicious arc to drive the enemy back and clear a space for the men following him- A handful of shots sounded from either side as the arquebusiers discharged their weapons and then cast them aside before drawing their scimitars and charging into the fight. Thomas thudded down on to the deck and looked quickly from side to side, then turned towards the nearest threat, a large turbaned man with skin as dark as coal. His eyes glittered above a thick beard. He carried a heavy scimitar in one hand and a brass buckler in the other. He charged across the deck towards Thomas, swinging his blade to knock aside the steel point of Thomas’s pike. Thomas let the point drop and cut under the corsair’s blade before he thrust at the robes covering his opponent’s chest.
Instinctively the corsair smashed his buckler against the shaft of the pike, knocking it aside so that it missed its target and ripped through the folds of his robe instead. Thomas snatched the pike back and presented it to his enemy again, feinting to keep the man at bay. On the periphery of his vision he was aware of La Valette’s sword cutting down into a skull in a welter of blood. On the other side, Stokely was leading a small party of men in a charge along the bulwark. A small gap had opened up between
Thomas and the black corsair, as if to provide a stage for their duel.
The corsair suddenly screamed something at him and lunged forward, hacking at the pike and knocking the tip down. He charged on and punched his buckler into Thomas’s breastplate. The impact was absorbed by the padding beneath the armour and Thomas released his right hand, balled it into a fist and slammed it into his opponent’s face. The small plates of the mantlet tore at the corsair’s flesh and there was a dull crunch as the bones of his nose gave way. He let out an animal roar of pain and rage and thrust his buckler out again, knocking Thomas back, as he swung his scimitar in a high arc towards the knight’s head.
Thomas saw it coming, a curve of steel, glinting in the light of the rising sun, and leaped to one side. The scimitar hissed close by and then struck the deck with a splintering thud. Before the corsair could straighten his body, Thomas viciously thrust his pike. The point caught the man squarely on the shoulder and knocked him off his feet. He fell heavily on his back and Thomas thrust the pike again, into his chest, high up just below the collarbone. The point tore through the white robe, pierced the flesh beneath and shattered bones as it plunged on, deep into the corsair’s body. His face contorted, eyes and mouth tightly shut so that his features looked like charred wood. Then he sank back on to the deck, his hands clasped over the wound as blood welled up and spread through the stained folds of his robe.
Thomas placed his boot on the corsair’s chest and ripped the point of his pike free. He glanced round, ready to strike again. La Valette and a party of men were fighting their way towards the stern where the corsair captain and his officers stood, determined to defend their station. In the other direction Stokely and some men had gained the foredeck and were cutting down the gun crews. Elsewhere the deck was a chaotic battlefield. The superior armour of the knights and the mercenaries they led gave them the advantage. The enemy’s fanatical faith in their prophet’s teachings gave them fierce courage but it was of little avail. Their scimitars glanced off the plate armour and only a fortunate blow at the joints or a thrust towards the face caused injury to the Christians. A handful of
Thomas’s comrades had fallen but the rest were steadily cutting their way through the corsairs.
Some of the enemy still presented a formidable challenge. Thomas picked out a tall, thin, well-armoured fighter with a large shield and a finely decorated scimitar who appeared to be standing guard over a hatch leading down into the galley’s hold. A body lay sprawled at his feet, the white cross on a red surcoat revealing that it was one of the knights. The corsair grinned and held up his sword so that Thomas might see the bloodied edge. He ignored the taunt. The corsair was light-skinned, perhaps one of those taken as a child from the Balkans and raised as a Muslim, like the infamous Janissaries who formed the elite corps of the Sultan’s army. A plume of black horsehair shimmered from the point of his helmet, which was covered in a gleaming black lacquer, as were the small plates of armour that had been stitched on to his quilted jacket. A livid scar on his cheek told of his experience, and also that once a foe had got the better of him, Thomas realised.
He presented the point of his pike as he approached the man and feinted towards the corsair’s face. His opponent did not even blink, just shook his head mockingly.
‘Very well,’ Thomas growled through clenched teeth. ‘Then try this!’
He threw his weight behind his pike and leaped forward. The corsair nimbly stepped aside and then slashed his fine blade towards the side of Thomas’s head. Thomas ducked and the honed edge glanced off the curved steel of his helmet with a sharp ringing impact that stunned him for an instant. He stepped back and shook his head, weaving his pike from side to side to keep the corsair back. The other man grinned briefly, then the lips closed into a tight grimace and he stepped forward, the blade whirling, almost too fast for human eyes to follow. Thomas ignored the scimitar and abruptly changed his grip to hold the pike out like the cross staff he had used as a boy back in England. He was strong and well-built as all men who had been raised to become knights must be and now he charged forward.
The bold, and crude, tactic caught the corsair by surprise and he could not move fast enough to get out of the way of the length of the pike. Thomas crashed into him, driving the corsair back and causing him to stumble as he struggled to remain on his feet. Then he slammed against the bulwark, the impact driving the breath from his lungs so forcefully that Thomas blinked as the odour of the man’s morning meal washed over his face. The corsair released his grip on his sword and shield and let them slip to each side as he grasped the shaft of the pike and pushed back. Thomas met his thrust and with every muscle and sinew in his arms he pressed down on him, steadily forcing the corsair on to the deck. The shaft touched the top of the man’s chest and then Thomas pushed it up, under his chin and against his throat. The corsair’s jaw opened and he squirmed as he desperately tried to stop his opponent choking him.
‘Curse . . . you . . . Christian,’ he uttered in accented French. ‘Damn you ... to hell!’
Thomas’s face was now scant inches from that of the corsair and he could see every detail of the man’s features and the sweat pricking out from his brow as he fought for his life. His breaths were now laboured and harsh and his eyes rolled up and then something gave in his throat with a soft crunch. The corsair spasmed, his eyes snapped open, wide and fierce, as his mouth worked in a series of dry clicks and gasps. Thomas felt the other man’s strength fading but he kept pressing down on the pike, until at length the corsair’s head slumped back on to the deck, his hands slid from the shaft and he stared blankly at the pink sky, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth.
Thomas rolled to one side, his pike held ready in case there was another enemy about to attack him, but he had only the dead and wounded for immediate company. The fight for the ship was almost over. Stokely and the men with him had cleared the foredeck, while La Valette and the other soldiers were pressing across the stern of the galley. The corsair captain and a handful of his men were up against the stern, savagely hacking at the armoured men in front of them. As Thomas watched, La Valette raised his sword above his head and slashed it violently down at an angle. The veteran knight was a powerfully built man and the enemy captain’s attempt to parry the blow did nothing to alter the course of the sword. An instant later the sharp steel cut through his turban and deep into his skull, right down to the jaw.
When the corsairs on the stern saw that their captain was mortally wounded they threw down their weapons and fell on their knees to beg for mercy. Swords and pikes hacked and stabbed at the men on the deck for a few more moments and then the fight was over. La Valette wrenched his blade free, wiped it on the robe of the corsair and sheathed the weapon then turned to survey the carnage on the deck of the galley. He caught sight of Thomas.
‘Sir Thomas! Over here.’
Thomas quickly picked his way over the deck towards the stem, stepping over the bodies sprawled and heaped across the bloodstained deck. He stopped at the foot of the short flight of stairs leading up to the stern and looked up at his captain. La Valette had taken a blow to the head and his morion helmet had a deep dent in the wide brim, but there was no sign that he was wounded or even dazed as he calmly regarded his subordinate.
‘Take command here.’
‘Take command? Yes, sir.’
‘I’m taking the Swift Hind and going after the galleon.’ He gestured with his hand and Thomas looked round to see that the sails of the big cargo ship had filled with the light dawn breeze and she was about to clear the bay. If she got far enough out to sea then she would be more weatherly than the galley and might yet escape if a heavy swell picked up along with the increasing breeze.
‘I’ll leave Sir Oliver and twenty men with you,’ La Valette continued. ‘Free any Christians you find amongst the rowers. Take care, mind you. I don’t want any of the Muslims claiming that they are of the faith.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Chain the prisoners to the rowing benches. Then make the necessary repairs, clear the bodies away and set course for Malta.’
‘Malta?’ Thomas frowned. There was still plenty of time before the end of the campaign season. It was too early to return to the home of the Order. But the captain had made a decision and Thomas had no right to question him. He stiffened his back and bowed his head curtly. ‘As you command, sir.’
‘That’s right.’ La Valette regarded him with a stern expression for a moment before he relented and continued in a lower voice that was meant for the young knight alone to hear. ‘Thomas, we have sunk one galley and taken this one. I hope to take the galleon in due course. We must take our prizes to Malta where they will be safe and revictual the Sunft Hind before we continue. By noon we shall have three vessels and barely enough men to crew them. We cannot take the risk of any further clashes until we have returned our prizes to Malta. Do you understand?’