shields and heavy scimitars. They had been hanging back from the fight but now, seeing the two Christians before them, their confidence flowed back and they surged forward with enraged cries. Thomas parried the first blow before a second weapon glanced off the reinforced crest of his helmet. He blinked and struck back, hacking at a shield and driving it down, then grasping the rim and wrenching it away as he punched the guard into the man’s face.
He was dimly aware of a blur of action to his left and he heard Richard hiss a curse, before the savage scrape and clatter of blades that ensued. Then Thomas was dealing with his next foe, an older man, ten years or more older than Thomas himself. He held back as they briefly weighed each other up. Then the corsair feinted, testing Thomas’s reactions. He did not flinch, but stood poised as he stared back. The second attack was followed through and Thomas parried three cuts before he made a riposte that was knocked aside at the last moment by the corsair’s shield. As he drew back his sword and lunged again, aiming for the man’s face this time, Thomas’s boot caught on the limb of a body sprawled on the deck and he pitched forward and fell heavily, at the mercy of the corsair standing over him. He rolled on to his side and raised his left arm to protect his head, willing to risk it in order to save his life. The corsair raised his scimitar and his expression gleamed with bloodthirsty triumph as he swung the fatal blow. Then there was a blur and a sharp metallic ring as another blade blocked the scimitar, a swift arcing movement and then a deep grunt.
For a brief moment all was still and then Thomas felt several warm drops spatter across his face. He blinked them aside as a hand reached under his arm and hauled him up on to his feet. Richard glanced over his body.
‘Are you wounded, sir?’
‘No ... I think not.’ Thomas shook his head, and then saw the two bodies to one side, each mortally wounded by a thrust to the heart. Richard was holding a rapier in one hand. He drew a broad- bladed dagger from its sheath with his other hand. The man Thomas had just been fighting lay on his back, legs working feebly as he clutched his hands to his throat and tried to stem the blood pulsing from a ragged wound beneath his chin. Richard pushed in front of him, leaning slightly forward, his arms held loosely to each side, both weapons poised. A heavily built African with a studded club had stepped forward and with a loud roar he leaped forward and swung the club in a diagonal arc. Thomas watched as his squire ducked nimbly under the attack and then stabbed the dagger into the corsair’s powerful bicep and ripped it free, tearing the muscle apart. The African howled in agony but managed to hold on to his club and aimed a fresh blow at the squire’s head. Once again Richard moved neatly aside and this time swung his sword up and punched the tip under the corsair’s ribcage. The man’s momentum did the rest; the sword blade sliced up into his vital organs and cut through blood vessels. Stepping back, Richard twisted the blade and yanked it free before he resumed his en garde position.
Thomas was breathing heavily and nodded his thanks. ‘I thank you, young Richard,’ he said hoarsely.
‘There will be time later,’ he replied curdy, then stepped forward between two corsairs standing back to back. Both men were despatched with carefully executed blows that they never saw coming, and Richard took another couple of paces before he stopped long enough to allow Thomas to catch up and resume the lead.
‘Now do as I said and stay at my side,’ he said.
‘As you will.’
Around them the fight was clearly going the Spaniards’ way.
The corsairs had already suffered heavy losses from blasts of chain shot that had scourged the deck of the galley, and now they had been pushed back to the bows and stern of their vessel and only a handful of men continued to fight along the deck between the masts. Thomas and Richard were only ten or so paces from where the corsair leader and his officers were fighting the Spaniards pressing around them, anxious for the honour of killing the enemy commander and looting his body. Yet several of their comrades had already fallen under the bejewelled scimitars of the corsairs and as Thomas watched, another was struck down, the blade of the leader cleaving through his collarbone and deep into his chest so that his right shoulder and sword arm slumped to the side as the Spaniard collapsed on to his knees. Thomas was close enough now to see the deep lines on the enemy commander’s face and the scar across his brow and cheek. He had lost one eye. The other glittered, as did his teeth, within the dark weathered skin of his fierce expression.
‘Make way!’ Thomas called out to the Spaniards facing the enemy officers. ‘Move aside there!’
He roughly shoved one of the soldiers from his path and then thrust between two more before he stood a short distance from the enemy commander. Raising his sword, Thomas bellowed, ‘Hold fast! Hold fast!’
The Spaniards looked at him and then as reason mastered their fury they backed off a pace and regarded their opponents warily.
Thomas raised his left hand and thrust his finger at the corsair commander. ‘Surrender your ship.’
The corsair needed no familiarity with English to understand the instruction and his lips twisted into a sneer before he spat on to the deck at Thomas’s feet. Ignoring the insult, Thomas turned his head slightly towards his squire, while keeping his eyes fixed on the corsair.
‘Tell him the fight is over. His ship is ours. If he surrenders now, he and his men will be spared. If not, they will surely die. ’ Thomas lowered his voice. ‘I already have enough blood on my hands and wish no more. Tell him.’
Richard did so. The corsair chuckled and shook his head. He snarled a reply and raised his head haughtily and glared down his nose at Thomas with his remaining eye.
‘He says he would sooner die a thousand times than accept mercy from the son of a jackal,’ Richard translated.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was no sadness or regret in Thomas’s heart as he stared back, just anger at the needless loss of life the corsair had inflicted on his followers. He felt fire flow in the sinews of his muscles as he locked his fingers round the handle of his sword and nodded sombrely. ‘If that is his wish, then so be it.’ He cleared his throat and drew a deep breath that all might hear him. ‘No quarter! Strike the dogs down!’
On either side, the Spaniards surged forward, swords and pikes thrusting at the corsair officers. Thomas swept his arms wide and shouted, ‘Not him! Not the one in green. Their captain is mine!’ The men on either side drew back and a small space opened out for the corsair and Thomas as they paused to size each other up. Then the instant was past and Thomas lunged forward with all his strength. There was no attempt to feint, the blow was intended to finish the fight at a stroke. The corsair nimbly stepped to the side and parried the blow, and Thomas could sense the considerable strength of his opponent through the contact between their blades. The parry, having done its work, continued into a glittering swing upwards and then a slash at Thomas’s face. He just had time to throw up his sword hand and block the blow with the guard. Sparks flickered into the air between the two men. He stepped in, close to the corsair and inside the sweep of his sword. His left hand grasped the corsair’s throat and he clenched his fingers in the silk cloth wound round the other man’s neck. The corsair dropped his scimitar and snatched at Thomas’s hand, struggling to wrench it away. At the same time the fingers of his other hand locked round Thomas’s sword to thrust it away. They stood there straining for advantage, staring into each other’s faces. A sweet musty scent filled Thomas’s nostrils, vying with the stink of the rowers below deck and the tang of the sea. Then he felt his left hand drawn back a fraction and he knew that the corsair was stronger than he was. It was only the thought of an instant but it was enough for the first chill of dread to trickle down his spine.
‘No,’ Thomas hissed, and dipped his head and smashed it forward. The curved peak of the morion helmet caught the corsair on the forehead, tearing a flap of skin from his skull. He howled with pain and rage, and his grip slackened enough for Thomas to free his left arm. He splayed his fingers and thrust them against the other man’s chest with all the force he could muster. The corsair staggered back, then stumbled and fell heavily on to the deck. Even before the impact drove the air from his lungs, the tip of Thomas’s sword took him low in the stomach, under the breastplate he wore beneath his green jacket, the point driving deep into his guts before Thomas was at the end of his reach. The corsair let out a deep groan and sagged back, mouth agape as his single eye rolled up and fixed on the blue heavens above.
Thomas pulled his blade free and turned to Richard. ‘Tell his men to surrender. Tell them their captain has fallen. Do it!’
Richard cupped a hand to his mouth and cried out, above the sounds of fighting. At his words the corsairs closest risked a glance in his direction and saw the body. They broke away from the engagement as best they could and stood by the steps leading up to the aft deck. A handful of Spaniards pressed forward until Thomas commanded
