lead ball tore through his body.
‘Come with me, Richard,’ he commanded and led the way down on to the main deck and forward towards the armed men clustered between the two masts. The soldiers wore breastplates and helmets and their arms and hips were protected by studded gambisons. Some carried shields and heavy swords, and iron-headed clubs hung from their belts. Others held short pikes, ready to wield them double-handed. Thomas turned to his squire and looked him over, testing his straps and the buckle under his chin before he nodded with satisfaction. ‘You’ll do.’
Richard nodded too quickly and Thomas saw the fear in his eyes. A familiar fear - the terror of a man who is facing battle for the first time, his head filled with dreadful expectation of being wounded, or failing to acquit himself with honour. Thomas placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the crackle of musket fire and the beating of the drum below deck.
‘Stay close to me. I need you to protect my back. Are you ready?’
‘Yes. . . Of course . . . Why are we doing this?’
Thomas frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Richard gestured at the men around them. ‘Fighting. That is surely the job of these soldiers. We are merely passengers.’
‘I am a knight. It is my duty to fight. As it is yours, as the man who calls himself my squire.’
‘Yes, yes, you are right. But our place is there on the aft deck and our duty is to defend Don Garcia with our lives. That’s where we should make our stand.’
As Thomas looked at his companion he felt no anger or contempt at the young man’s reluctance to fight, only an ache of disappointment that Richard was resisting the chance to put himself to the test. Unless the young man could suppress his fears and face this peril, he would be crippled by self-doubt through the rest of his life. It was not through love of violence that Thomas had moved forward to join the men about to board the corsair lying directly ahead. It was, as he had said, a duty. But there was more. Regardless of his wider moral concerns about the endless war of the faiths, circumstance had placed him in this conflict and perforce he would fight and kill without reservation.
‘Don Garcia is surrounded by his officers. He is safe. Our place is here, where we can have a more immediate effect on the outcome of the fight. We will fight alongside these men.’
Richard’s mouth opened to protest but Thomas cut him off before he could utter a sound. ‘No more words. Steel your heart and take a firm grip of your sword handle.’
The young man swallowed anxiously. ‘Should I pray?’
‘If you wish. Many men pray before a battle but I never saw that it protected them from either bullet or blade.’ Then Thomas smiled reassuringly. ‘Fix your mind on surviving and do all you can to ensure it. That is the only right and proper thought for a soldier to have before battle. Ready?’
Richard breathed deeply. ‘I am ready, Sir Thomas.’
Ahead, the masts and slender yards of the corsair galley loomed up against the sky. The Spanish gunners fired their last shots across the enemy deck and then the order was given for the flagship to turn to port. The oars on that side dug into the sea while those to starboard made one last powerful stroke before the timekeeper shouted at the rowers to ship their oars. There was a dull rumble from below the deck as the lengths of timber were slid in through their ports and heaved across the width of the galley. Then the stern of the corsair passed down the side of the warship and the vessels closed beam to beam. Thomas could see the enemy fighters lining the galley’s rail, screaming their war cries and insults as the gap closed.
‘Boarding hooks away!’ the captain bellowed.through his cupped hands. The sailors who stood ready with the hooks tied to coils of rope swirled the iron prongs above their head before releasing them up and over the narrow gap. The grappling hooks arced over the sea, trailing snaking ropes, and then plunged out of sight amid the robed figures crowding the deck of the other galley. At once, several Spaniards took up the ropes and braced their bare feet on the deck, straining to draw the two vessels closer together. The air was filled with the staccato crash of arquebuses and the frenzied cries of the men waiting for the chance to launch themselves into battle.
The swell lifted Don Garcia’s flagship and it crashed violently against the corsair so that the men on both vessels struggled to keep their footing. At once the captain shouted the order: ‘Fasten the lines!’
The men assigned to the grappling hooks pulled the ropes taut and looped them round the belaying pins to secure the two vessels together. About them the Spanish soldiers ran planks across the narrow gap between the two galleys and clambered up on to the bulwarks, yelling defiantly at the waiting corsairs. Thomas pushed his way through the soldiers and grasped a shroud and pulled himself up on to the wide wooden rail running along the side of the galley. He drew his sword and glanced back to see Richard right behind him. To his right a huge sergeant with an artfully patterned morion punched his sword towards the enemy and bellowed.
‘With me, boys! Death to the heathen!’
The sergeant leaped over the gap and landed on the rail before his impetus carried him on, falling amid the robes, dark-skinned faces and limbs, and curved gleaming blades beyond. Scrambling back on to his feet with a savage roar he began to lay about him with his sword, savagely hacking at the men scrambling to get clear of his reach. Blood arced across the deck. More men leaped after the sergeant while some dashed across the boarding planks.
Thomas sucked in a deep breath and leaped forward. For an instant he saw the gleam of the narrow strip of sea between the two galleys then he fell against one of the enemy, a slender man in dirty cotton robes, his head tightly wrapped in a turban. Both men thudded down on to the deck and at once Thomas thrust out his left arm to push himself back up as his feet found their grip. He felt a waft of warm breath and realised that the man he had landed on was screaming at him in rage as he lay pinned down under Thomas’s weight. He slammed the guard of his sword down into the corsair’s face, cutting off his shouts. He struck again, harder, and felt bone break and give way under the blow. Then he rose into a crouch and swung his blade in an arc to his front. Another Spaniard landed to his right before the corsairs surged forward, desperate to cut down the attackers before they could gain a foothold on the deck.
There was a glint to the left of his field of vision and Thomas saw a blade slicing through the air towards his shoulder. The blow rang in his ear as the edge glanced off his shoulder guard. The padded jacket beneath absorbed most of the energy and Thomas slapped the blade away with his forearm and then cut at the corsair’s bare arm with his sword, the muscled flesh giving way beneath the finely honed steel edge. The corsair’s sword clattered on to the deck and blood spattered down on to it as the injured man drew back, gritting his teeth in agony. Thomas looked quickly from side to side and saw the Spaniard to his right double over as a large Moor with a chain-mail vest and spiked helmet drove a pike into his stomach, carrying him back hard against the bulwark so the deadly point burst through his body and lodged in the timbers at his back.
As the Moor wrenched the shaft back, Thomas thrust his point into the man’s side but the chain links did not give way. The man grunted in pain and turned the bloodied point of his pike towards Thomas’s body. Then, seeing the breastplate, the Moor dropped the point and stabbed at Thomas’s groin. Twenty years before, Thomas would have nimbly dodged the blow but now he had to throw himself to the side against the mortally wounded Spaniard who had dropped his weapons and stood mouth agape as he stared down at the ragged tear in his quilted jacket and greasy grey length of gut that had been tom out as the Moor wrenched the pike free.
Thomas recovered his balance and struck back, cutting towards the side of the Moor’s head. The edge of the blade struck the cheekguard, bending it in half, and the Moor’s jaw shattered under the impact. Blood and teeth spurted from his gaping mouth. For an instant the Moor was dazed and Thomas snatched his blade back and thrust deep into the man’s throat, then ripped the blade free in a rush of bright crimson. Stepping back into a crouch, Thomas held the dripping tip of his blade up and glanced to both sides. The Spaniards were swarming over the bulwark and leaping into the fight. A thud to his left caused Thomas to twist round sharply and he saw Richard, wide-eyed as he held up a hand to ward off the point of Thomas’s sword.
‘Keep close,’ Thomas commanded, then moved cautiously across the deck. A sprawling melee extended on each side as the Spaniards pressed forward, cutting wildly about them as they struggled to create more space for their comrades to follow them. Towards the stem Thomas saw a richly robed man in a braided green jacket leading a party of armoured men down from the aft deck, and realised it must be the enemy commander and his officers. Strike him down and the rest of the crew might surrender, Thomas decided. Without their leader the rest of the corsair ships might also lose heart and break off their attack.
‘This way!’ Thomas gestured towards the man and beckoned to Richard to follow him. They had advanced no more than a few paces before a knot of corsairs blocked their path — five men, unarmoured but equipped with
