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 Some of the oars from each vessel had still not been withdrawn through the sides and there was a series of sharp splintering reports as the long lengths of wood shattered.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!’
CHAPTER THREE
La Valette clambered up on to the side rail and leaped over the narrow gap between the hulls and on to the enemy deck. Some of the crew had already begun to lob grappling hooks over the small gap and draw the two galleys together.
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.
