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  Sword and Scimitar

  Simon Scarrow

  SIMON

  SCARROW

  SWORD AND

  SCIMITAR

  Copyright © Simon Scarrow

  First published in 2012 by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Simon Scarrow is a former teacher who now- devotes himself to writing full time. He lives outside Norwich with his family.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My main thanks, as ever, go to Carolyn for supporting me through the writing process and then carefully reading through and com¬menting on the final product. I would also like to thank Chris Impiglia for letting me read his dissertation on the defences of Malta at the time of the siege. And Isabel Picomell provided some very useful background detail on the historical setting and together with Robin Carter checked through the final draft for me. Thanks to all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Mediterranean, July 1545

  The sea was pitch-black in the night and the galley rose and fell JL gently on the slight swell outside the bay. The Swift Hind was hove to half a league from the shore, just beyond the dark mass of the headland. A young knight stood alone on the foredeck, one hand clasped tightly around the shroud that arced down from the top of the foremast. The air was uncomfortably humid and he raised a hand to wipe the beads of sweat from his brow. At his back were two long brass cannon, their muzzles plugged up to keep out the spray. He was long used to the motion of the galley and had no need of a handhold on the calm sea, yet he held the rough tarry cord in a clenched fist as he stared intently across the dark swell. His ears strained to pick up the least sound above the rhythmic slap of the wavelets against the hull beneath him. It had been more than three hours since the captain and four of the sailors had taken a small boat ashore. Jean Parisot de La Valette had patted Thomas lightly on the shoulder and there was a dull gleam of teeth as he smiled reassuringly and told Thomas to take command of the galley in his absence.

  ‘How long will you be, sir?’

  ‘A few hours, Thomas. Just long enough to make sure that our friends have settled down for the night.’

  Both men had instinctively glanced in the direction of the bay the other side of the headland. No more than three miles away the Turk merchant ship would be lying at anchor not far from the beach, just where the fisherman they had encountered the day before had told them it was. Most of the crew would be ashore, sitting around campfires while a handful of men remained aboard the galleon, watching for any sign of danger from the sea. The waters along the African coast were plagued by corsairs but it was not the fierce pirates that the Turks would be looking out for. The writ of Sultan Suleiman in Istanbul protected their vessel from the depredations of the corsairs. There was a far greater danger to Muslim vessels journeying across the White Sea, as the Turks called the Mediterranean. That danger came from the Order of Saint John, a small band of Christian knights who waged ceaseless war against those who followed the teachings of Mohammed. The knights were all that remained of the great religious orders that had once held sway over the Holy Land, before Saladin had driven them out. Now their home was the barren rock of Malta, gifted to the Order by the King of Spain. From that island the knights and their galleys ventured on to the sea to prey on the Muslims wherever they might be found. On this moonless night one of the galleys of the Order was poised to attack the large merchant ship lying at anchor no more than three miles’ distance.

  ‘There will be rich pickings. . .’ Thomas had mused.

  ‘Truly, but we are here to do God’s work,’ the captain reminded him in a stern tone. ‘Whatever spoils we take will be put to good use in fighting those who follow the false faith.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know,’ Thomas replied softly, shamed by the thought that the older knight might think he was after plunder.

  La Valette chuckled. ‘Easy, Thomas. I have come to know your heart. You are as devout a member of the Holy Religion as I am, and as fine a warrior. In time you will have your own galley to command. When that day comes you must never forget that your vessel is a sword in the right hand of God. To him the spoils.’ Thomas nodded and La Valette turned to ease himself through the gap in the ship’s rail and down to join the four men in the small craft bobbing beside the bow of the galley. The captain had growled an order and the other men had set to the oars, stroking the small craft across the sea. They had been swiftly swallowed up by the darkness as Thomas stared after them.

  Now, hours later - too many hours, it seemed - Thomas’s mind was filled with fear for his captain. La Valette had been gone for too long. Dawn was not far off and unless the captain returned soon, it would be impossible to take advantage of the cover of night to spring their attack upon the Turks. What if La Valette and his men had been captured? The unbidden thought caused a deep chill in Thomas’s heart. The Turks often delighted in the torture and protracted death of any knights of the Order who fell into their hands. Then another alarming thought occurred to him. If La Valette was lost then the burden of command would fall on his shoulders and he knew with a sickening certainty that he was not ready to captain the galley.

  He sensed movement close behind him and quickly looked over his shoulder as a tall figure ascended the short flight of steps to the small foredeck. The man was bare-headed and his body was bulked out by a padded gambison beneath a dark surcoat whose white cross was faintly discernible in the light from the stars. Oliver Stokely was a year older than Thomas but had joined the Order more recently and was therefore his junior. Despite that, the two had become friends.

  ‘Any sign of the captain?’

  Thomas could not help a faint smile at the needless question. He was not the only one whose nerves were being exercised by the long wait.

  ‘Not yet, Oliver,’ he said, affecting an untroubled air.

  ‘If he leaves it much longer then we’ll have to call it off.’

  ‘I doubt he will do that.’

  ‘Really?’ Stokely sniffed. ‘Without the element of surprise we risk losing more men than we can afford.’

  It was a fair point, Thomas mused. There were fewer than five hundred knights still with the Order on Malta. The unending war against the Turk had its price in blood and it was proving increasingly difficult to replenish the ranks. With the kingdoms of Europe at war amongst themselves, and the strict entry requirements for those joining the Order, the number of young nobles presenting themselves for selection was dwindling. In the past, a veteran like La Valette could have gone to sea with a dozen younger knights on his galley, eager to prove themselves. Now he had to make do with five, of whom only Thomas had faced the Turks in battle.

  Despite that, Thomas knew his captain well enough to know that he would not refuse a fight unless the odds were overwhelming. La Valette’s heart burned with religious zeal, enflamed still more by the thirst for vengeance for the suffering he had endured as a slave chained to a slim wooden bench in a Turkish galley many years ago . La Valette was fortunate to have been ransomed. Most of those condemned to the galleys were worked to death, tormented by thirst, starvation and the agony of the sores caused by the heavy iron used to shackle them in place. For that reason, Thomas reflected, La Valette would fight, whether he succeeded in surprising the enemy or not.

  ‘What if something has happened to him?’ Stokely glanced round to make sure that they were not overheard by the men on the main deck. ‘If the captain is lost, then someone will have to take command.’

  Here it comes, Thomas thought. Stokely was about to stake his claim. He must assert himself before his friend did so.

  ‘I will take his place, as his appointed lieutenant, in the event of his death or capture. You know that.’

  ‘But I have been a knight somewhat longer than you,’ Stokely r
eplied in a restrained whisper. ‘It would be best if I was captain. The men would prefer to be led by someone with more experience. Come, my friend, surely you can see that?’

  Whatever Stokely might think, the truth was that Thomas’s fighting prowess had been noticed from the outset by his superiors, hi his first action he had commanded a raid on a small port on the coast near Algiers and captured a galleon laden with spices. After that he had been posted to serve La Valette, the most daring and successful of the Order’s captains, to wage war on the Turks. This was his third campaign at sea and he had forged a close bond with the crew and soldiers of La Valette’s galley. He had no doubt that they would prefer him to take command rather than a knight who had only joined the galley a month earlier, fresh from the offices of the Order’s quartermaster.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Thomas replied, sensitive to his friend’s feelings, ‘the matter need not concern us. The captain will return, soon, I have no doubt.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘He will/ Thomas said firmly. ‘We must be ready for battle the moment the captain rejoins the galley. Give the order for the rowers to be muffled. Then have the men prepare their weapons.’

  Stokely hesitated briefly before he gave a curt nod and returned down the steps on to the broad deck that ran along the centre of the slender galley for almost fifty paces before it reached the covered stem where the knights and senior officers shared their quarters. Above the deck the two broad yardarms crossed the twin masts of the galley, bowing slightly under the weight of the furled sails. Thomas heard his orders being relayed and a small party of men went below to fetch the cork plugs and leather straps from one of the chests in the small hold. A moment later a ripple of bitter murmurs rose from the men chained to their benches. Their protest was silenced by a harsh snarl from the officer in charge of the rowing deck, and the sharp crack of dried leather on bare flesh.

  Thomas could well understand the feelings of the hapless creatures who manned the galley’s long sweeping oars. In order to ensure that none of them could shout a warning to the enemy as the galley glided towards its prey, the captains of the galleys on both sides had adopted the expedient of fitting a cork plug in the mouth of each man, held in place by leather thongs fastened by an iron shackle. It was horribly uncomfortable and suffocating once the men began to exert themselves at the oars. Thomas had seen men choke to death after some of the battles he had taken part in. Still, he reasoned, it was a necessary evil in this crusade against those who held to the false religion. For every man who choked on his muffle, lives of Christians were saved for want of a warning given to the unsuspecting enemy. The only other telltale sign of the presence of a galley would be the stench of excrement and urine that lay beneath the rowing benches, where it was left until the vessels were hauled out of the water at the end of the campaigning season. If it was not for the steady offshore breeze, the foul odour might carry far enough to alert the enemy.

  Above the rowing deck the soldiers of the Order - Spaniards, Greeks, Portuguese, Venetians and some French, mercenaries all - rose to their feet. They struggled into their padded jackets and buckled on the small guards that protected their exposed joints.

  Their equipment was cumbersome and would be stifling when the sun was fully risen. Normally the order to prepare would not have been given until the galley began to close on its prey, but Thomas had sensed the tense mood of anxious expectation amongst the men and judged that it would be better to offer their minds some diversion while they awaited the return of the captain. Besides, it provided an opportunity to exercise his authority over Stokely and remind him of his place in the chain of command.

  Thomas’s ears pricked up at the sound of a splash away towards the dark mass of the headland. At once all other thoughts vanished from his mind as he strained his eyes and ears, searching the shifting black shadows of the sea for any sign of movement. Then he saw it, the almost invisible shape of a small boat, the men working hard at the oars. A thrill of relief surged through his heart as the craft edged closer to the galley, accompanied by the faint splash and swirl of the oar blades.

  ‘Rest. . .’ La Valette ordered in a low voice and a moment later there was a gentle bump against the solid timbers of the galley’s side. A rope snaked through the air and was grasped by one of the sailors. La Valette climbed over the side as Thomas descended from the foredeck to join his captain. The other knights and officers gathered round.

  ‘Is the galleon still there, sir?’ asked Stokely.

  ‘She is. The Turks are sleeping like babes,’ La Valette announced. ‘The men of the galleon will give us no trouble.’

  Stokely clasped his hands together. ‘Praise be.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The captain nodded. ‘Our Lord has blessed us with good fortune, which is the reason for my delay in returning . . .’ La Valette paused to make sure that he had the full attention of his followers before he continued. ‘That galleon won’t be the only prize we shall seize tonight. She’s been joined by a pair of corsair galleys. They’re at anchor, close by. A rich haul, gentlemen.’

  There was a moment’s silence as the other men took in the news. Thomas glanced round at the faces of his companions and could just discern that some were exchanging nervous looks. The galley’s sailing master cleared his throat anxiously. ‘That’s odds of three to one, sir.’

  ‘No. Two to one. The galleon is of little account. Once we have dealt with the galleys, she’ll fall into our hands easily enough.’

  ‘Even so, it would be reckless to attempt it,’ the sailing master protested. ‘Especially with dawn fast approaching. We shall have to withdraw.’

  ‘Withdraw?’ La Valette growled. ‘Never. Any man who serves the Order is worth any five Turks. Besides, we have God on our side. It is the Turks who are outnumbered. But let us not test providence too severely, eh? As you say, the mom will soon be upon us. Therefore, gendemen, there’s no time to be lost. Is the galley ready?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The sailing master nodded.

  ‘And the men?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Thomas replied. ‘I have already called them to arms.’

  ‘Good.’ La Valette looked round at his officers and raised his fist. ‘Then let us do the Lord’s work and visit his wrath upon the Turk!’

  There was already the faintest hue of lighter sky on the eastern horizon as the Swift Hind began to round the headland. Beyond, the bay opened out into a broad crescent some three miles across. The outlines of the galleon and the two galleys were clearly discernible against the pale loom of the sandy beach and a tiny faint orange glow showed where the embers of a campfire still warmed those huddled about it.

  ‘We’re too late,’ Stokely said softly as he stood beside Thomas on the deck. ‘The dawn will be upon us long before we reach them. The Turks are sure to see us.’

  ‘No. We’re approaching from the west - the darkness will shroud us for a while yet.’ Thomas had seen La Valette use the tactic before in his raids on the enemy and it was a proven way of concealing their approach until the last moment.

  ‘Only if the Turks are completely blind.’

  Thomas bit back on his irritation. This was Stokely’s first ‘caravan’, as the Order called their sea campaigns. The young knight would learn to trust the experience of the captains who had spent many years at war with the Turks - provided he lived long enough, Thomas reflected. There were many ways in which a knight might meet his maker while in the service of the Holy Religion. Combat, disease and drowning all took their toll, with no regard to whether a man was from one of Europe’s most noble families or raised in the sewer. Drowning was a particular danger. The plate armour that protected a knight in battle, and the rest of his equipment, was heavy enough to send him straight to the bottom of the sea should he tumble into the water.

  Thomas glanced down the length of the galley, taking in the clusters of soldiers, some armed with crossbows, and saw La Vaiette on the stem deck, standing tall and erect, with the stout shape of the
sailing master at his side. No man spoke above a whisper and the only sound was the dull crash of the ocean swell against the rocks of the headland, and the rhythmic creak of the oars and the splash as the blades bit into the sea. Once the galley had cleared the head-land, the steersman turned the Swift Hind in towards the shore, in line with the nearest of the galleys. Thomas had become accustomed to the captain’s habit of keeping his plans to himself but could nonetheless guess at his intentions. La Vaiette intended to attack the nearest galley first. Even if the galleon managed to weigh anchor and clear the bay before the galleys were dealt with, she would be easy enough for the Order’s sleek warship to run down and capture.

  To the east the light was now distinctly stronger and the outline of the opposite headland was stark against the sky. A stinking waft of the enemy’s galleys carried across the deck of the Swift Hind, adding to the foul smell of the Christian vessel.

  The galley had closed to within half a mile of the enemy before the shrill blast of a horn carried across the water, sounding the alarm. Thomas felt an icy twinge of anxiety snatch at the back of his neck and he grasped his pike more tightly in his hands. From the rear of the galley La Valette’s voice carried clearly to his men.

  ‘Paceman, battle speed! Gunners, prepare your port fires!’

  As the drum began to beat out a steady, insistent rhythm below the deck, a dull glow appeared at the bows as the first length of the port fires emerged from its small tub. For an instant it flared brightly as a gunner blew on it and then the other gun captain took his turn and both men stood poised by the breaches of their cannon waiting for the order to fire.

  Thomas’s heart quickened with the increased pace of the time keeping drum and the deck lurched slightly beneath his boots with each sweep of the oars. Off the port beam he could see tiny figures scrambling to their feet around the glow of the fire on the beach. Some simply stared at the galley cutting across the surface of the bay towards them. Others began to run to the water’s edge and wade out towards the galleon, then splash forwards as they swam towards their vessel. Those who could not swim began to heave the ship’s tenders into the gentle surf and scramble aboard. Over on the nearest of the corsair galleys dark figures began to line the sides of the vessel. Many wore turbans and gesticulated wildly towards the oncoming danger as they snatched up their weapons. Their shouts carried clearly across the intervening sea.