Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Without waiting for a response he got up and walked out into the courtyard.

Richard, his expression dark, made to rise from the table but Thomas grasped his wrist firmly.

‘Leave him be.’

‘You heard him,’ Richard hissed. ‘He harmed my mother.’

‘Stokely has suffered enough. In any case, he is like the rest of us, walking in the shadow of death. It serves no purpose to hasten his end.’

Richard shook his head. ‘Are you so lacking in heart that you are not moved to act?’

‘My heart is replete, my son. Did you not hear him? She loves me, and always has. And you already know that she loves you. I would rather you were with her and spared this death but that is not to be.’ He released Richard’s wrist and took his hand. ‘At least we will be together at the end.’

Richard stared at his father, struggling to control his emotions, and nodded. ‘Together, at the end.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

23 June

In the hour before dawn, the enemy’s preparations for the coming assault were clearly audible to the survivors thinly spread out along the ruined walls of the fort. Most were clustered about the breach that had opened up when a section of the wall had finally collapsed under the weight of the Turkish cannon. Murmured exchanges carried up to the defenders as the Turks gathered in their trenches that surrounded the fort. Across the water, oars splashed and there were occasional cries from the men at the bows as they sounded the depths of the harbour. The dark mass of the galleys was easily visible in the darkness as they took up position to add the weight of their cannon to the preliminary bombardment of St Elmo.

Thomas, like most of the others, had not slept at his station. During the long hours of the night he had lain down, his head resting on a rolled-up gambison, and gazed up at the stars. The night sky was clear and the stars shone brilliantly. As he stared at them Thomas found some comfort in their eternal serenity. They had been there before he ever breathed and would be there still the following night, hours after he and the others had fallen. Their cold aloofness seemed to mock the petty tribulations of mankind. All the grand causes, all the heroic efforts, the religious fanaticism that motivated men to kill others and willingly face death, seemed trivial when considered in the round, Thomas reflected. He did not wish a martyr’s death. He wanted more than anything to live, now that he felt sure of Maria’s love. Thinking of the life he might have had caused him to smile sadly. When his mind drifted towards the coming day, he could not help fearing his death. He hoped it would be quick, and that he might die before Richard and be spared that hideous spectacle at least.

He turned to look at his son, sitting against the parapet a short distance away, his chin resting on his breast, breathing easily. Despite the circumstances, Richard’s exhaustion had got the better of him and had embraced him with a few hours of merciful oblivion. The sight moved Thomas unbearably and his throat tightened with grief at the thought of losing what he had only just been given, the most valuable treasure a man could find in life, the gift of a child. He had only had a handful of days in which to know his son and it was bittersweet to discern those precious virtues and quirks of character in him that would never have the opportunity to mature further.

Some distance along the wall beyond the breach Thomas could just make out the still form of Stokely hugging his knees as he stared across the heart of the fort. Thomas could only wonder at the private despair of that tormented soul and hoped that Stokely would also find peace in a swift death.

As the sound of muttered prayers rose around the fort like the sound of surf on a distant shore, Thomas leaned towards his son and gently shook his shoulder. There was no response and Thomas shook him again, more forcefully, until Richard snatched a deep breath and sat up quickly, startled and confused. He blinked for a moment and then stared at his father.

‘You let me sleep.’ His tone was accusing. ‘My God, you let me sleep through my final hours.’

‘It is better that you slept.’

Richard was still for a moment before he rolled his neck stiffly. ‘I dreamed I was back in England, as a child, hunting rabbits on a clear autumn morning . . .’

‘Ah, rabbit,’ Thomas mused. ‘Now there’s something I could willingly eat.’ He paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s the eve of the Feast of St John. ’Tis a shame that we will not be free to take a seat at the banquet.’ Thomas smiled at the image, then his expression hardened. ‘Get down to the chapel. Tell Mas and Miranda that the enemy are coming.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then come back here directly.’ Thomas felt a pang of anxiety. ‘Hurry. I want you here at my side, whatever happens.’

Richard nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’

He eased himself into a crouch and edged away from the shelter of the parapet, keeping close to the piles of debris and the bodies that had been dragged together to remove the risk of the survivors tripping over them once the fighting began. At the edge of the wall Richard slipped over the rim and dropped out of sight on to the stairs below. Thomas turned his attention back to the enemy. From the sounds on all sides their intention was clear enough. When the signal was given they would charge the fort, scaling what was left of the walls by ladder, and at the same time launching an assault through the breach. This time there would be little to hold them back. There was only enough powder left for a few more shots and only a handful of incendiary weapons remained. All of the naphtha had been used up. Once the defenders had expended the last of their firepower they would take up their hand weapons and fight to the end.

Along the wall the defenders stirred and here and there a bright glow showed where the arquebusiers were readying their fuses. Others pulled on their helmets and fastened the buckles securely beneath their chins; those with armour checked the straps and made minor adjustments. Some held pikes while others readied swords, daggers, hatchets and maces. Thomas glanced across the breach and saw Stokely take up the heavy two-handed sword he had chosen from the fort’s armoury – a cumbersome weapon but deadly in the right hands.

There was a pause in the gloom before dawn, a silence, a stillness, as if the defenders were part of a tableau composed of shadows. The sky to the east was smeared with the faint pearly hue of dawn and as the veil of darkness began to fade, Thomas made out details on the scarred landscape in front of the wall. The flags planted by the enemy to mark the ground they had taken hung limp in the still air. Discarded weapons and buckled and shattered shields and armour were strewn across the rubble before the walls amid bodies that had not yet been recovered for burial. Some were hideously swollen by c orruption, made worse by the heat of the sun, and limbs stuck out at an angle, grotesquely. And then there was the stench of the month-old battlefield, a cloying stink of blood and decaying flesh, overlaid with the acrid odour of burning and the gritty tang of masonry dust. For some reason it seemed to Thomas more pungent and revolting than ever this morning. Or was it that his senses were heightened now that he knew he was living through his final hours, he wondered.

He looked towards the stairs, willing Richard to return before the enemy launched their attack. Briefly he considered leaving his position to go and find him, and then chided himself. What example would that set to the men under his command? He hardened his resolve and stared in the direction of the enemy.

The first of the Turkish drums began to beat, quickly swelling out of the shadows as more joined. A crash of cymbals and the wailing of pipes added to the din and then, as the first rays of the sun pierced the eastern horizon, the imams led their worshippers in the shahada – the Muslim testament that there is no god but God, Mohammed is the messenger of God. A soft murmuring surrounded the fort as the men within braced themselves, knowing that the assault was imminent.

A faint scraping drew Thomas’s attention away from the enemy and he was relieved to see Richard returning from the top of the stairs, dragging a chair in either hand. A moment later more men appeared: four soldiers, half carrying and half dragging Colonel Mas and Captain Miranda. Richard set their chairs up a short distance to one side of the breach, close to Thomas’s position, and then helped to ease the two officers on to the chairs.

‘My sword,’ Mas ordered, holding out his hand.

A soldier unslung the scabbard from over his shoulder and passed it up. Another weapon was passed to Miranda.

‘I am ready.’ Mas gestured to the men who had carried them up on to the wall. ‘Get to your positions, and may God be with you.’

The soldiers bowed their heads in a final salute and crept away along the wall. Richard crouched beside his father.

‘What are they doing?’ asked Thomas, gesturing towards the two officers. ‘Why are they up here?’

‘It was the colonel’s idea. When I gave them your message he said he’d rather die where the men could see him than down in the chapel. Miranda agreed.’

Thomas shook his head as he regarded the two men sitting erect, their wounded legs sticking out in front of them, swathed in soiled and bloody bandages. ‘Madness . . .’

The murmuring from the Turkish trenches died away and the din from their instruments rose up with renewed fervour. Thomas turned his attention to his son, taking a last opportunity to regard him closely, with affection.

‘I wish . . .’ He tried to continue but there were no words adequate to the moment.

Richard smiled and briefly squeezed his hand. ‘I understand, Father. There is much I would have wished for if we had been granted the time.’

A single gun roared from the top of the ridge, the signal to begin the attack. The deep boom rolled round the harbour and then was drowned out by a frenzied roar as the Turks burst from concealment and rushed the short distance towards the battered mass of St Elmo. The defenders replied at once, without waiting for an order, and spurts of fire darted from the barrels of their arquebuses. The mass of enemy soldiers surged across the broken ground and up the mound of rubble lying in the breach. Thomas fixed his attention on them. The first died, shot through the head, and he crashed forward and was immediately trampled by those behind him. More men fell, shot in the head or chest, easy targets at such close range.

Thomas cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Incendiaries!’ The fuses smeared low arcs in the air before the pots shattered amongst the enemy in savage sheets of flame that set men ablaze as they screamed in terror and agony.

‘Give it to ’em, lads!’ Colonel Mas shouted, punching his sword into the air. ‘For the Holy Religion!’

Miranda echoed the cry and then his lips drew back in a fierce grin. ‘Kill them!’

Thomas raised the tip of his sword and held it ready. Beside him Richard hunched over his pike. The Turks came on, heedless of their comrades struck down by bullets, incendiaries or the rocks hurled at them from either side of the breach. The steep gradient of the rubble began to slow them down and they took several more casualties as they struggled forward to close with the defenders.

Thomas stepped forward, sword held ready, keenly aware of Richard close at his side, lowering his pike, ready to thrust. A Spahi, a few paces in advance of his comrades, rushed up towards the parapet, mouth open wide as he screamed his battle cry. He carried a spear in an overhand grip and thrust it towards Richard. The young man deftly parried the spear aside with a sharp clack as wood struck wood. Then he thrust home with all his weight and the steel point tore through the Spahi’s robes and punched deep into his chest.

More men surged up the rubble slope and Thomas hacked at a man’s turbaned head, stunning him even though the tighdy wound material resisted the keen edge of his sword. A thrust to the throat ripped through an artery and his adversary fell back. Thomas looked for the next opponent. He felt an impact on his shoulder and something flickered past his eyes – the shaft of an arrow. More arrows whipped up from the throng at the bottom of the mound of rubble, and then Thomas saw flashes and billows of smoke as the enemy arquebusiers picked their targets. The head of a Maltese militiaman close to Stokely burst like an overripe watermelon, spattering blood across the face of the English knight. Richard stabbed his pike into the shoulder of a wild-haired man in animal skins who howled in pain, then pulled himself free and slashed at Richard’s helmet with a club. Using his pike like a cross-staff, Richard blocked the attack then lowered the base of his weapon, hooked it round his foe’s leg and tipped him on to his back before ramming the point through the man’s chest.

From behind him Thomas could clearly hear Colonel Mas’s roar. ‘For God! For St John! Fight! Fight!’

Stokely stepped boldly into the breach to give himself space to wield his sword and swung it above his head in both hands before he slashed at an officer rushing forward madly to seize the honour of being the first man through the breach. He saw the dull gleam of the blade in the pale dawn light and raised his round shield to block the sword. The weight of the blade, together with the savage strength with which it was wielded, were more than a match for the best of shields. With a shrill clang Stokely’s sword shattered the shield and cut through the Turk’s elbow and on into his flank, tearing through scale armour, leather, jerkin and flesh and driving the air from the officer’s lungs. The blow sent him reeling to the side and he stood dazed, looking down at the blood pouring from the stump of his arm. Then, teeth gritted in a snarl, he swung his sword at the English knight. Stokely moved his blade to ward off the blow and then swung again, this time at the Turk’s neck. There was a wet crunch and the officer’s head leaped into the air and spun back above his men, spraying them with blood before it fell to the ground.

A groan rose from the lips of the enemy and for a moment they wavered. Already the Turks had lost a score or more of their number and more fell as they were caught between the defenders’ fire from both sides of the breach. They began to fall back down the rubble slope, stopping only when they found shelter to crouch behind.

‘Take cover!’ Thomas shouted.

His men moved back from the breach towards the safety of what remained of the parapet on each side as Turkish bullets ricocheted off the masonry. One of the Maltese volunteers was not quick enough and let out a cry as a ball smashed into his hip. He fell on to the rubble, dropping his sword. He struggled to sit up and examine his wound, then a second shot struck him in the face and the impact threw him back. Stokely stood alone for a moment, sword raised, defying the Turks. A shot deflected off his breastplate and nudged him a step to the side. Another shot glanced off the thick armour on his shoulder before he turned and picked his way steadily out of the line of fire and crouched down behind the parapet close to where Thomas and Richard squatted, breathing heavily.

Those men armed with arquebuses kept their attention on the breach and carefully picked their shots with the last of their gunpowder whenever an enemy showed himself. The Turkish snipers returned the fire with interest, firing several shots at any man risking a quick glance over the parapet. Looking along the line of the wall, Thomas could see that the perimeter still held. Mas and Miranda kept up their shouts of defiance and encouragement from their chairs, punching their gleaming blades into the cool morning air.

‘Ah, I thought so,’ Stokely said softly and Thomas turned to see him looking down at blood smeared across the tips of his fingers and the gleaming steel of his mantlet.

‘Are you wounded?’

Stokely nodded and gestured towards the midriff of his breastplate. There was a small hole there, below which a thin ribbon of blood had been smeared by Stokely’s hand. He smiled weakly as he met Thomas’s gaze. ‘I felt the impact of a third shot but thought the armour had kept it out. Alas, not.’

‘Richard!’ Thomas turned to his son. ‘Get Sir Oliver down to the chapel.’

As Richard made to lower his pike, Stokely raised his hand. ‘No. Leave me.’

‘But you’re wounded, sir.’

‘So I am, and soon I shall be dead. Better up here in battle than cut down like a dog with the other wounded. Leave me, I say. The wound does not pain me unduly just yet.’

Thomas saw the dark stain on the surcoat beneath the armour and guessed that the wound was mortal. Even if, by some miracle, St Elmo held out, Stokely would die from loss of blood or suppuration of his wound from any fragments of metal or cloth that had been driven into his body. Stokely’s expression was calm as he wiped the blood from his fingers on the hem of the surcoat and gripped the handle of his sword tightly.

‘I shall die a better man than I lived.’

Thomas said gendy, ‘There is no need for such remorse. You have done your duty and more ... I wish it had been possible for us to call each other friend, Oliver.’

‘Friends?’ Stokely smiled and shook his head. ‘Never.’

The sound of firing along the wall began to decrease and one by one Thomas saw his men putting aside their arquebuses and taking up hand weapons until, no more than an hour after the sun had risen clear of the horizon, there were no more shots fired from within St Elmo. It took a moment more for the enemy to realise that they were no longer under fire. A shout rose up from the trench in front of the breach and they emerged from cover and came on again.

‘Hold the breach!’ Miranda yelled. ‘Hold your ground, brothers!’

The sound of feet scrambling over the rubble and loose masonry grew closer as Thomas helped Stokely back on to his feet. Together with Richard and the handful of other survivors, they took position along the edge of the breach and readied their weapons. Thomas could see the heads and shoulders of the leading ranks of the enemy. Above them gleamed the curved blades of their swords and spear points. Amongst them were several archers and arquebusiers, no longer fearful of being picked off by the defenders. Even as Thomas watched, one of the enemy lowered his stand and took aim before applying his fuse to the firing pan. The weapon leaped as it spat flame and smoke, and Captain Miranda lurched in his chair. His sword arm slumped down and the blade slipped from his grasp as he looked down at the pigeon-egg-sized hole over his heart. His jaw sagged, then worked a moment as he struggled to speak. Then he threw his head back and uttered a last shriek. ‘Fight, brothers!’

More shots rang out and two of the defenders were struck down.

Richard brandished his pike. ‘Come and fight me like men, you cowards!’

At that moment Thomas saw a blur of motion and instinctively turned towards it. An incendiary pot was flying through the air towards him. There was no time to jump aside and the pot shattered against his breastplate. At once there was a bright flash of light and burst of heat and fire engulfed him from head to foot in glittering flames of red and yellow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

For a brief moment there was only the glare and the heat, and Thomas staggered back, out of the pool of fire on the wall. He dropped his sword and started to beat at the flames and then saw that his hands were alight. The pain hit him like a blow – a tearing, nerve-searing agony across the right side of his face and on his left arm and leg.

‘Father!’ Richard’s voice cried out.

Thomas did not reply but felt his throat tighten as a keening cry rose up in his chest and fought to escape his clenched jaw. He felt hands beating on the flames and he was grasped tightly by the arm and dragged away across the parapet. A short distance from the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard was a tub of seawater prepared for just such a moment, and before Thomas was aware of what was happening, he fell heavily into the water. At once the pain on his face subsided, and there was the sharp tang of saltwater on his lips. Then his head broke the surface and the raging pain returned. His right eye refused to focus and he clenched it shut, wincing.

‘Help me!’ Richard called out. ‘We have to get him down to the chapel!’

Some part of Thomas’s mind reacted violently to the words. ‘No! I will stay and fight!’ He struggled out of the tub and on to his feet, dripping. Through the pain of his burns he forced his mind to focus. ‘My sword, give it to me!’

Richard stared at him in horror, and it was Stokely who pressed the weapon into his hand. ‘There.’

Without hesitation Thomas stepped forward, towards the line of men locked in a bitter fight for the breach. Some of the Turks had forced their way on to the wall and two Janissaries had set upon

Colonel Mas. He wielded his sword desperately, parrying their attacks and stabbing one of his opponents in the throat. Then he was struck by a bullet and fell from his chair. At once the other Janissary leaped forward and hacked at the colonel’s exposed face, cutting his proud features to bloody ribbons. Before Thomas could rush to his aid, he felt a blow to his left shoulder and spun round and fell on to his knees. Again, hands grasped him and pulled him back.

‘We have to get him out of here!’ yelled Richard.

‘Take him,’ Stokely growled. ‘I’ll protect you both.’

Dazed and blinded by terrible pain, Thomas felt his arm pulled over someone’s shoulder and then he stumbled down the stairs, barely conscious as wave after wave of agony and despair swept over him.

A desperate cry went up. ‘The breach has fallen! The Turks have broken through!’

Richard tightened his grasp about his father’s body and glanced back as he struggled down the stairs. The Turks were spilling out of the breach and running along the walls on either side, cutting down the few men still in their way. All around the perimeter of St Elmo, more Turks were appearing and those defenders who could ran for the cover of the storerooms to make their final stand, or try and hide. Close behind Richard limped Stokely, holding his sword out, ready to strike down any of the enemy who came within reach.

As they reached the courtyard they joined a handful of men fleeing towards the entrance to the chapel. The bell had begun to toll, the rich tone struggling to be heard above the enemy’s shouts of triumph and the cries for mercy and despair from the defenders. But there was no mercy. The Turks had lost far too many men over the previous month and wanted only to satisfy their desire for bloody revenge. With Stokely protecting his back, Richard staggered on towards the chapel. To one side he saw a Spanish soldier fall to his knees at the top of the stairs and clasp his hands together as he was surrounded by several Turks. They did not hesitate for a moment before hacking at the Spaniard in a frenzy of blades and sprays of blood.

‘Come on, Father,’ Richard muttered. ‘A little further.’

A bullet struck the door of the chapel as they approached, splintering the dark wood. There were two soldiers with drawn swords at the entrance, desperately beckoning.

‘Inside, quickly!’ a sergeant in the surcoat of the Order shouted. Richard increased his pace, half dragging his father across the threshold.

‘Close the door!’ Stokely ordered as he followed Richard inside. It was too late for their comrades still outside. A handful fought in a cluster at the top of the stairs while the rest were run down and slaughtered by the Turks. The door thudded shut and Stokely helped the sergeant drag the nearest pew against the inside of the door. Then he turned to Richard and pointed to the far end of the chapel. ‘Take him over there, behind the altar. Quick!’

Richard nodded and continued to support the dead weight of his groaning father down the aisle of the chapel. On either side the pews had been pushed back against the walls to make way for the wounded. Many of the men were sitting up and staring anxiously towards the entrance as the jubilant shouts of the enemy echoed inside the fort’s walls. Richard dragged Thomas up the steps at the end of the chapel and made his way round the altar before gently releasing his burden on to the flagstones beside the drain cover.

‘Oh God. . .’ Thomas groaned through clenched teeth. ‘It hurts ... it hurts.’

Richard grimaced as he saw the raw blistered flesh covering the right side of his father’s face. Working quickly he unfastened the buckles and removed the helmet and armour, leaving his father in his quilted gambison and thick hose and boots. Thomas let out a cry as his gauntlets were removed, taking some flesh with them where the material had been burned through to the skin. Then Richard turned to the heavy iron grille of the drain cover, straining his muscles to lift it aside and expose the opening.

There was a thud from the chapel door and a cry of alarm from the sergeant. ‘They’re right outside!’

‘Hold them a moment,’ Stokely ordered as he staggered towards the altar, clutching at his bloodied side with one hand and dragging his sword along the floor with the other.

He panted a moment when he reached Thomas and Richard.

‘One last thing, Richard . . Stokely reached up to his neck and pulled out a key on a silver chain. He tugged it sharply, breaking the chain, and thrust the key into Richard’s hand. ‘Here. There’s a false bottom to my writing desk . . . inside is a small chest. . . That’s the key to it.’

‘Henry’s will?’

Stokely nodded. ‘It would be best for all if you destroyed it . . .’ Richard stared at the key and then quickly thrust it inside his shirt.

Stokely gestured towards Thomas who was moaning pitifully on the floor. ‘Save him . . . Get out of here.’

Richard nodded, and lifting Thomas under the arms he dragged him to the drain and eased him down before letting him drop the remaining distance. He sat on the rim and looked back at Stokely. ‘You’re not coming?’

‘No.’ Stokely indicated the blood oozing beneath the bottom of his breastplate. ‘The wound is mortal. I’ll stay here, with the others.’ Richard shook his head sadly. ‘God save you, sir.’

‘Go!’ Stokely waved him away.

As soon as Richard had disappeared from sight, Stokely hobbled over to the grille and heaved it back into place before taking up position in front of the altar, leaning on his sword for support as he gasped for breath. The pounding on the door had increased and despite the weight of the bench and the desperate efforts of the two soldiers, the door began to edge inwards. The tolling of the bell died away and Stokely saw Robert of Eboli emerge from the door leading into the chapel’s small bell tower. The friar carried a silver cross before him and raised it high as he strode into the middle of the chapel and turned to face the entrance before kneeling down. The Turks outside the door pressed forward, steadily forcing it open. As the gap widened, a shaft of light pierced the gloom and fell upon the symbol in the friar’s hands and reflected a giant ghostly cross on the wall above the entrance.

‘See?’ Robert cried out. ‘The Lord is with us! We are saved!’ The door lurched inwards and the two sergeants leaped back and readied their weapons as the Turks burst into the chapel. With a wild shout one of the sergeants swung his sword and struck down a robed warrior, splitting his skull open. Before he could recover his weapon, the enemy swarmed round him and the other sergeant, hacking and stabbing with their weapons until the two men were cut to pieces on the floor. More Turks spilled into the chapel. Stokely shook his head to try and dispel his giddiness.

‘Stop, infidels!’ Robert bellowed, in the same rich voice that had captivated his congregation. He thrust the cross towards the oncoming Turks. ‘The Lord God commands you to stop. In his name I order you to leave his house and quit this island, never to return.’

A Janissary officer approached the friar and sneered in French, ‘Where is your god, Christian?’ He glanced round, as if looking, and some of his men laughed. Then he raised his sword high and swept it round in an arc with all his strength. Robert had time to utter a shriek of terror before his head toppled to the floor at his side. His body collapsed and the cross clattered beside his head. The officer turned to his men and shouted an order. With a cheer they spread out across the chapel and fell on the wounded men lying on the ground, butchering them even as they begged for mercy.

Several approached Stokely. He gathered what was left of his strength, raised his sword and swung it round above his head to build up its lethal momentum. ‘For God and St John!’ The bloodied tip hissed through the air as the first of the Turks approached, a heavily built man with a broad-bladed scimitar and large round shield. As the blade swept round behind Stokely, the Turk rushed forward. Stokely had anticipated the move and stepped back with him so that his sword cut below the rim of the Turk’s shield and smashed through his knee, shattering the bone. As the Turk collapsed he swung his own blade and caught Stokely on the side of his helmet.

The force of the impact caused an explosion of light in his head and before his vision could clear the other Turks were upon him. They snatched the sword from his hands and knocked him down. Daggers pierced his flesh through the gaps in his armour before the officer bellowed at his men to stop.

‘This is one of the accursed knights, you fools! Why kill him like this when you could slaughter him like a pig? Take off his armour and put him on the altar!’

Stokely, still dazed, felt his limbs pulled about as the Turks stripped him of the plates that had protected him, then his clothes, until he lay naked. Then he was hoisted up from the floor and placed on the cold stone of the altar, his ears ringing with the screams and cries of the last of the wounded to be killed. He tried to move but strong hands held him down. As his vision began to clear he saw the officer leering down at him, a dagger held up for the knight to see.