Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The gloom of dusk was broken by the brief brilliance of a savage explosion and Thomas’s good eye squinted at the sudden glare. The sheet of flame and smoke was accompanied by an ear-shattering roar that echoed across Birgu. Pieces of the drawbridge spun lazily into the air, hung there for an instant, and then collapsed in a shower of debris that clattered across the roofs of the nearest buildings and splashed down into the channel that had been cut between the fort and the town of Birgu.

The Grand Master, his advisers and senior officers watched in silence for a moment.

‘There will be no retreat for us now, gendemen,’ La Valette said. ‘That is the message we send to the Turks just as much as to our own people. With God’s help we will hold Birgu. If we fail in that duty then we shall perish in its ruins. The final test is coming.’ He turned to survey the enemy-held heights above the town. ‘An enemy officer was captured this morning. He revealed that the Turks are steeling themselves for one last attack. That is why there have been no assaults for the last eight days and why Mustafa Pasha has concentrated his cannon fire on what is left of the walls. The enemy will strike at first light tomorrow.’ He paused while his officers took in the news.

‘If the attack fails then I believe Mustafa Pasha will not find it possible to stir his men to further action and we may yet survive this siege. Rest well tonight and be at your posts an hour before dawn.’ He looked round at his followers with a grim expression. ‘I am too weary to make fine speeches. I have only a few words to offer you now. We have battled the Turk in the best traditions of the Order. I count myself honoured to have commanded and fought alongside you and all those who have fallen defending the Holy Religion.

Heroes all. No men could have done more to win a greater share of honour and glory. If it is our fate to die on the morrow then so be it. Our martyrdom will inspire the rest of Christendom to fight the infidels. They will avenge us. If we should live then we shall have a tale to tell that will stir the hearts of men for generations to come. All who hear of our great deeds will stop and wonder, and say with full heart that in the long history of our struggle this was our finest time.’ He stepped among his officers and clasped each man’s hand in turn. ‘God go with you. I shall be at prayer in the cathedral if I am needed.’ Then he turned and walked stiffly back into the heart of Birgu.

Thomas stared after him, aware of the change in the Grand Master. Over the last months, as the strain told on other men, La Valette alone amongst the defenders had seemed to grow stronger and more fiercely determined. But now his long years had finally settled their burden upon his shoulders and for the first time he seemed thin, frail and weak, which was only to be expected in a man of seventy.

‘I’m surprised he has endured the strain for so long,’ Richard said softly, echoing Thomas’s thoughts. ‘Now I believe he has given up hope.’

‘No. Not him. Never him,’ Thomas replied. ‘He may be exhausted but his heart is as strong as ever.’

‘I hope you’re right. Without La Valette the Turks would have defeated us long ago.’

‘I trust you are content with the Grand Master’s decision?’

Thomas turned and saw Romegas standing at his side. Romegas nodded towards the shattered remnants of the drawbridge. ‘You should have supported my advice, Thomas. La Valette has only left enough men in the fort to man the guns. If Birgu falls tomorrow St Angelo will stand little chance of holding out for more than a few days. A stronger garrison might have endured for weeks, even months. But it’s too late now,’ he concluded bitterly.

Thomas shook his head. ‘You are wrong. If we had abandoned Birgu we would have lost the heart to fight and the enemy’s will to continue their attack would be renewed. This way, there is no retreat for our men. When they face the enemy tomorrow they will have iron in their hearts and will die before they give one inch of ground to the Turks.’

‘We shall see.’ Romegas turned and walked across the open ground to the fort, where he stood and stared at the splintered lengths of timber along the edge of the cutting forced up by the explosion.

The small gathering of officers began to disperse and Thomas beckoned to Richard.

‘Come, let us go back to Stokely’s house.’ They set off down the street, moving at a slow pace due to the continuing pain in Thomas’s leg. ‘I am unsure if I should say anything to your mother about the coming attack,’ Thomas muttered.

‘Why not?’ Richard was surprised. ‘She has a right to know. A right to make her peace in case tomorrow is the end. Surely?’ Thomas nodded. ‘I was thinking more about her fear for me. I have not fought since that last day at St Elmo.’

‘Are you fit to bear arms?’

‘La Valette thinks so.’

‘What do you think?’

‘My right arm is weak from lack of exercise. I can only see out of one eye and the flesh on my left arm and leg feels tight and it is painful when I flex the muscles.’ He glanced at Richard and forced a smile. ‘So I am no worse off than many men who will take their place on the wall. You must lead a charmed life. There’s hardly a scratch on you.’

Richard shrugged. ‘My luck will not last. I will be struck down one day soon.’

Thomas stopped and took his arm. ‘Are you afraid?’

For a moment Richard considered denying it. Then he nodded. ‘Of course, Father. I am not a brave man by disposition.’

‘That is not what I have heard. La Valette tells me that you fought like a veteran while I was in the infirmary. You have nothing to prove concerning your courage.’

‘On the contrary. I fight hard mostly because I am scared. So scared that I want it to end more than anything else. A bullet then would be a mercy. I face every attack with fear in my heart and cold sweat on my palms and running down my spine.’ He stared at

Thomas. ‘I would not be surprised if you are ashamed of me.’

‘Ashamed?’ His heart was torn by a helpless desire to protect his son, to shield him from his torment. He rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders. ‘I could not be more proud of you, Richard. You are the bravest man I have ever known.’

Richard shook his head. ‘I am a coward.’

‘A coward is one who imagines the risks and turns to run. Courage comes from having the will to stay and face peril. I know it better than most, Richard. It is the standard against which I have tested myself throughout my life.’

Richard looked at him sceptically and Thomas chuckled.

‘Did you think I was any different to you? Fear is the spur which drives men like us on. How else could we tame it and not let it become the master of our fate? It seems that we are alike in this, father and son.’

Richard nodded, his lips quivered for an instant and then he looked away awkwardly and hurriedly brushed at the corner of his eye. Thomas felt a stab of pain at his distress, which he took for shame.

‘There is no need to reproach yourself.’

Richard laughed nervously. ‘It is not reproach. I am happy. Happy to have a father . . . Happy to have you as my father.’

The distress inside Thomas instantly gave way to a serene joy and he drew his son close to embrace him and kiss his brow. Then, as if they had just shared a joke, he released him and punched him lightly on the chest. ‘We shall drink together tonight. God’s wounds! If ever there was a true test of courage, it must surely be the preserve of those who consume a bottle of the local wine.’

Richard grinned and they continued along their way, with Thomas contentedly resting his injured arm across his son’s shoulder.

When they reached the gate of Stokely’s house, Thomas stepped forward to reach for the latch. He raised it and pushed the gate inwards. Glancing back he saw that Richard was standing in the street.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Richard smiled. ‘Nothing at all. I’m not coming in tonight. I’ll sleep at the auberge.’

Thomas frowned. ‘Why?’

‘I have had my moment of closeness to you, Father. It is well that you should be alone with my mother tonight. I will see you tomorrow, on the wall. Good night.’ Richard nodded with a fond expression and then turned away into the gathering shadows of the street. Thomas stood on the threshold of the small courtyard, tempted to call after him.

‘Thomas?’ Maria’s voice came from the house. ‘Is that you?’

He turned away from the street and closed the gate behind him. He saw her standing in the doorway of the house, outlined by the pale glow of the candlelight in the small entrance hall. Above her the walls of the house rose up to the skeletal remains of the timbers that had supported the roof, before it had been dashed to pieces by a Turkish roundshot. Most of the tiles had crashed through to the floor below and now only one room above the ground floor was habitable. Thomas slipped the bolt across to lock the gate, crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps to take her in his arms and kiss her on the lips.

When they parted she asked, ‘Where’s Richard?’

‘He’s staying at the auberge tonight.’

‘Why?’

‘He wanted to give us the chance to be together.’

‘Why?’ A faint frown creased Maria’s brow. Thomas took her hands and stroked his thumbs across her soft palms. Maria looked hurt for a moment and then nodded. ‘As he wishes. It is a pity as I have prepared a meal to share with my family. I found some salted pork in the cellar, together with some cheese to go with the bread ration. ’

‘A veritable banquet,’ Thomas said lightly.

Maria gave a laugh as she drew him inside and closed the door behind them.

Later that night they lay naked on a couch behind the open wooden lattice of the balcony outside the surviving bedroom and looked up at the sky. The starry heavens were streaked with thin silver shreds of clouds. To the north a dense mass of shadow covered the horizon and steadily edged closer to the island. Despite the change in season the night was not so cold that it discomforted them. Their bodies still radiated warmth from their earlier love-making. Maria lay against his right side, head resting on his chest as she ran her fingers lightly through the hair that covered his stomach.

‘I want, more than anything, to talk about the future,’ she said softly. ‘But I know it is a luxury we cannot afford. Not for a while perhaps. Only when the siege is over.’

Thomas smiled sadly. ‘We should not look to the future, my love. We should not.’

She was silent for a moment and then propped herself up on an elbow. ‘The future is my only comfort, my dear Thomas. There is little but peril in the present and only darkness and despair in the past. There is too much pain there. All we have is this moment.’ Thomas touched her cheek, uncertain whether he should unburden his mind. He had no right to hide the truth from her. ‘Sweet Maria, this night may be our last together. The Turks are coming tomorrow. La Valette thinks that this will be their final attempt to crush us. Every gun and man will be used in the attack. We must meet them on the same terms.’

‘You will be fighting as well?’

‘I must. To defend the Order, Birgu, and most of all you.’

‘Then I shall fight with you.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘You can’t. There is no place for women on the battle line.’

‘Really? Do you think we shall stand idle while the Turks overwhelm you, and then turn their thirst for blood and lust upon us? I can assure you, Thomas, that every woman and child knows what is at stake. We shall do all we can to defeat the enemy.’

‘No. You will stay here, where you are safe.’

‘Safe?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘If the defences are breached then all will die, or be enslaved. I would rather die at your side than wait here to be raped and butchered. I will not have my life end like that. I will choose my own end.’ She pressed her fingertips gently on his lips. ‘That is my final word. You cannot dissuade me.’

‘I would not dare,’ he replied in a mocking tone. ‘No more of that now. Just hold me.’

She lay her head on his chest again and pressed her body against his and Thomas closed his eyes and let his mind dwell on the sensation of warm closeness. Outside, a bank of cloud closed over the island, steadily blotting out the stars. Shortly after the cathedral bell struck midnight, the first drops of rain began to patter on to the ruined town, swelling into a rattling hiss as the downpour passed overhead accompanied by a chilly breeze that blew drips in through the trellis. They rose from the couch and went back to the bed and held each other beneath the warmth of its coverings.

In the hour before dawn the rain had not abated and seemed to be falling harder than ever, accompanied by lightning and thunder. As the bell struck the appointed hour, Thomas lit a candle and rose and dressed, aware that Maria was awake and watching him. When he had buttoned his jerkin he turned his head.

‘Will you help me with my armour?’

She nodded, and reached for her gown as she sat up. She followed him downstairs to the hall where the armour and weapons lay on a chest by the door. Thomas pulled on his breastplate and held it to his chest while she fitted the backplate and fastened the buckles. She helped him with his gauntlets and fastened the mantlets to protect his arms and hands. When she reached for his thigh guards, Thomas shook his head. ‘I cannot wear those over my injuries. It is too painful. Just my helmet now, please.’

She carefully placed the padded cap on his skull and then lifted the morion helmet and eased it down and fastened the chinstrap. ‘There.’

Thomas tested the movement, concentrating hard on not betraying the agony flaring down his left side. He nodded with satisfaction and reached for his sword, slipping the strap across his shoulder. Maria hurried back upstairs and returned shortly afterwards in a boy’s gambison and breeches, her hair tied back. She slipped on a pair of soft boots and laced them up. Lastly, she took a belt and dagger from the weapons still lying on the chest and fastened it about her midriff, then faced Thomas. ‘I am ready.’

The wan glow of the candle flame made her skin look rosy and smooth and he smiled. ‘There is one last thing I would ask of you before we go. There is a letter I have written for Richard. I have left it on the chest by the bed. If anything happens to me, please see that it is given to him.’

Maria nodded.

‘Good.’ Thomas smiled. ‘Then let us go.’

A wagon, its sides reinforced with stout planks of studded wood, acted as the gateway of the hastily constructed inner wall. The wall was built from materials taken from demolished houses and rubble from sections of the wall that had collapsed. It stood no higher than ten feet along its length, curving in at each end to join two battered bastions that still held out against the Turks. A fighting step had been constructed behind the wall and women and children, together with old men, filed out along its length, heads hunched against the rain, and took up their positions under the orders of a handful of soldiers assigned to command this final line of defence. They carried a mixture of light pikes, swords, hatchets and studded clubs, together with baskets filled with rocks to hurl down upon the heads of the Turks should they force their way over what was left of the main wall.

Maria parted from Thomas at the wagon and took up a club before climbing the small ladder on to the fighting step. He passed through the gap. Ladders were ready on the far side, in case the men on the main wall were forced to retreat. Richard was waiting for him on the open ground beyond. Together they climbed on to the stretch of wall where the Grand Master had already taken his position, under the sodden banner of the Order. La Valette stood at the parapet, gloved hands resting on the glistening stonework, staring out towards the Turkish trenches.

Richard glanced up at the sky and blinked away the raindrops. ‘There’ll be no gunfire today. No one can keep their powder dry in this downfall. It will be a fight, man to man. There’ll be no threat to the Turks as they charge the walls.’

‘Not so, young man.’ La Valette turned away from the enemy. ‘It may be too wet for our cannon and arquebuses but not for our crossbows.’

Thomas looked down the length of the wall and noticed in the first hint of daylight that the men who would usually be armed with arquebuses were holding crossbows and carrying quivers at their sides packed with quarrels.

La Valette chuckled. ‘You reminded me of them the other day, Sir Thomas. Stored in the dungeon amid the relics of earlier wars. I had them ferried over from St Angelo during the night. Let’s hope our men can put them to good use.’

The Grand Master turned back to the parapet and the defenders waited in the rain as dawn struggled to break through the dark clouds obscuring the sky. As the thin light slowly strengthened, Thomas could see that the ground in front of the remains of the wall was slick and muddy. A hundred paces away the Turkish trenches were marked by their drenched standards. Faint movements could be seen as the enemy prepared for their assault. Every so often a faint chorus of prayer could be heard through the din of the rain as lightning lit the battlefield in a harsh silvery glare.

If there was a moment when the sun had risen, no one could know it because of the heavy clouds. At length a figure climbed out of the trench opposite the Grand Master’s standard and took several paces forward before he stopped and drew his jewelled scimitar. Despite his wet clothes, it was clear that he was a man of significance. He wore a large turban and a finely decorated breastplate.

‘It is Mustafa Pasha himself,’ said Romegas, squinting into the rain.

The Turkish commander’s chest puffed out as he drew a breath and bellowed an order that cut through the hiss of the rain. At his command, figures swarmed from the trenches, letting out a roar as they charged forward all along the length of Birgu’s battered defences. Lightning burst overhead, freezing the tableau of thousands, grim-faced, mouths open in savage cries as they half ran, half slithered over the dead ground, determined to wipe the defenders off the face of the earth.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

‘Ready crossbows,’ La Valette commanded.

Romegas cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed the order, struggling to be heard above the slashing rain. The order was repeated along the line of the wall and the crossbowmen raised their weapons and took aim.

Thomas looked to the side. There seemed to be more breaches than stretches of intact wall and the rubble from the damaged sections had tumbled into the ditch in front of the walls to provide practicable causeways leading up to the defenders. Some attempt had been made to create crude breastworks across the breaches but they would provide only limited shelter before they were torn down by the enemy. He glanced back towards the inner wall, looking for Maria, but it was impossible to tell her apart from the other sodden figures along the fighting step.

‘The Turks will get a nasty surprise once they come within range of the crossbows,’ Richard commented with cold satisfaction.

Thomas nodded. Before the rains, the attackers would have had to endure a hail of cannon and small-arms fire from the walls. This morning they would charge into battle unscathed. Or so they thought. The swiftest of the enemy were already drawing ahead of their comrades and the broad mass of Turks came on behind, providing a target that was impossible to miss. La Valette raised his right hand and waited until they were no more than a hundred paces away, then swept his arm down. ‘Now.’

Even as Romegas relayed the order, those who had been watching for the signal bellowed the command and there was a chorus of dull cracks along the wall as the arms of the weapons sprang forward, unleashing the short heavy bolts in a shallow arc through the driving rain towards the enemy. A moment later Thomas saw scores of the

Turks stop in their tracks. Some pitched forward and writhed on the ground, while others staggered and struggled to remove the barbed heads. A handful of men were killed outright.

At once the defenders lowered their crossbows, placed a foot in the iron stirrup at the end of their weapons and strained to wind the drawstring back ready to load the next quarrel. The strongest of them were the first to shoot again and more of the Turks were struck down as they increased their pace to close up on the wall before more of them fell victim to the antiquated weapon.

Thomas looked for the enemy commander and saw Mustafa Pasha’s large turban bobbing amid the drenched ranks of his men. The veteran general of the Sultan trudged forward, sword waving from side to side above his head. A small party of Janissary body-guards kept up with him, one of them holding aloft the personal standard of Suleiman and waving it from side to side so that the sodden horsetail crest would be more easily visible to the rest of the men.

The first Turk reached the ditch to one side of the bastion and Thomas watched as he scrambled over the wet masonry, his robes hanging on his body like loose folds of skin. One of the crossbowmen on the wall beside the breach aimed down at him and shot a bolt into his back, just below his neck. The Turk fell face first and his legs began to twitch violently. More of his comrades followed, clothes, armour, skin and weapons sleek and glistening in the rain. Scores were struck down by the quarrels as they struggled over the rubble to close with the defenders. At the last moment the crossbowmen threw down their weapons and snatched up clubs, swords and pikes. The air around the bastion was filled with the thud of weapons striking shields, the scrape and clatter of blade on blade and the mingled war cries, curses and howls of agony from the wounded, all underscored by the hiss of rain and light pinging as the heavy drops burst on helmets and plate armour.

‘Stand ready!’ Romegas ordered those on the bastion and a moment later an assault ladder slapped against the parapet. Thomas raised his sword and stepped over to the ladder as a pair of dark– skinned hands grasped the top rung and a spiked helmet appeared. Thomas swung his sword down hard and the edge bit through the cloth of the man’s shoulder but was held by the chain-mail vest beneath. The impact drove the Turk’s body down and numbed his arm enough to loosen his grip on the ladder. With a grunt he swung off the ladder and hung there for an instant before the strength in his other hand gave out and he dropped out of sight. At once, another Turk took his place and clambered up, warily looking over the parapet.

‘Richard,’ Thomas called out. ‘The ladder! Use your pike. Quick, my boy!’

The Turk raised a shield to protect his head as he struggled up the ladder. Thomas’s blade glanced off it and he drew the sword back to attempt a direct thrust instead. But the Turk was good and easily parried it aside. He reached a hand up on to the parapet in readiness to haul himself on to the bastion. There was a blur of movement as Richard lowered his pike and caught the crosspiece against the top rung, and thrust the ladder back with all his strength. The Turk’s eyes widened in alarm as he swayed back from the parapet and then, with a vigorous push from Richard, the ladder fell back into the breach, together with the three men who had been coming up behind.

Hundreds of men were locked in a deadly fight along the line of the wall and Thomas could see that the weight of numbers must inevitably force the defenders back. More ladders were placed against the sides of the bastion and the Grand Master and the officers and men with him were drawn into the desperate battle to hold their ground. As Richard drove his pike into a man’s face, Thomas looked round and saw La Valette brace his feet as he lowered the shaft of his pike and advanced on a Janissary who had gained the top of his ladder and had already swung his foot down over the side of the parapet. The Grand Master drove his point forward and the Janissary just managed to swing his scimitar across in time to parry the pike. La Valette drew his weapon back and, as if he was practising on a drill ground, calmly thrust again. This time, he dropped the point at the last moment, so that the other man’s blade failed to make contact and the point of the weapon stabbed into his stomach. The Turk’s face contorted in agony and he dropped his sword and grasped the shaft of the pike as La Valette pressed home. The

Janissary toppled back over the parapet and the point ripped free from his wound. Romegas pushed his commander aside, grasped the top of the ladder and wrenched it to one side, unbalancing those below who shouted in alarm as the ladder fell into the breach.

Looking down from the bastion Thomas saw that the defenders were already being forced back from the breastworks in several places. At once the Turks pushed the stones forward, collapsing the crude obstacles before clambering over the ruins to press the defenders back. Then his attention was drawn to another ladder appearing close by. He slashed at his enemy’s hand the moment it appeared above the edge of the parapet, cutting through the knuckles before splintering the wooden rung beneath. There was a howl of agony and the ruined hand was snatched back. Again Richard used his pike to thrust the ladder away from the wall.

‘Over here!’ Romegas bellowed and Thomas turned to see the senior knight and two sergeants battling several men who had managed to gain a foothold on the far side of the bastion. Thomas turned to Richard.

‘Go! Help Romegas. I can hold this position.’

A flicker of concern crossed the young man’s rain-streaked face before he nodded and turned to run across the bastion to assist Romegas. There was a clatter of wood against stone as another ladder appeared in front of Thomas. The Turk who scaled it wore a spiked helmet with a turban tightly wound about the rim and his eyes glared above a thick beard dripping water on to his breastplate. He was waist high to the parapet and raising his shield when Thomas struck. The blade forced the shield down before it deflected to the side and with a sharp clatter the end broke off.

‘Ha!’ the Turk exclaimed and immediately swung his leg over the parapet and drew his scimitar. Thomas saw that only a scant eighteen inches of blade, ending in a jagged point, was left to him. Too little for a conventional fight. He launched himself at the Turk. His left foot slipped on the wet flagstones and there was no impetus to his blow when he collided with the other man. They were pressed together, against the parapet, face to face. The Turk’s thin lips parted in a snarl as he struggled to wrench himself free and win enough space to wield his scimitar. Thomas tried to use his left hand to grasp his opponent and hold on. A fiery agony shot through the limb and he had to release his grip and let the arm hang uselessly. He stretched his right arm out, angled the broken blade in and thrust it under the rim of the Turk’s shield. The tip jarred against the bottom of the breastplate and Thomas drew it back, aimed lower and thrust again, feeling it drive home into the Turk’s groin.

His opponent let out an explosive groan and spittle struck Thomas in the face. Then the Turk hammered the side of Thomas’s helmet with the hilt of his scimitar, smashing his head again and again as Thomas desperately worked his blade deep into his opponent’s vital organs. Then his left foot slipped again and he fell back and the Turk came with him, landing heavily on Thomas and driving the air from his lungs. As the Turk tried to rise, Thomas wrenched the sword to one side and the man’s face contorted with agony. But with a huge effort he pulled himself up and rolled to the side. The blade came free of the terrible wound with a sucking noise. Blood smeared the hilt of Thomas’s weapon and covered his mantlet as far as the wrist. The Turk’s wound was mortal and he knew it as he loomed over Thomas, balanced on his knees. He batted the broken sword aside with his shield then his eyes glinted with rage as he raised his scimitar and aimed the point at Thomas’s face.

For an instant the terrible din around him seemed to fade to silence and the dull gleam of the sword point above seemed to be all that existed for Thomas; every ounce of his flesh froze in absolute terror.

Then the Turk lurched back as the point of a pike stabbed into his throat. He collapsed against the parapet, gurgling as blood spurted from the wound and sprayed from his lips. Thomas struggled to his feet as a hand supported his arm and helped him up. La Valette looked into his face with a concerned expression.

‘Are you wounded, Sir Thomas?’

He was badly shaken but felt no pain other than the burning sensation in his left arm. ‘No, sir.’

‘Then find yourself another weapon.’ La Valette clasped his pike, ready to fight, as he glanced round the bastion and then over the parapet. Thomas could see that the Turks were gaining footholds on the remaining sections of the wall and steadily forcing their way through the breaches. The weight of their numbers was proving impossible for the defenders to contain.

‘We cannot hold the line,’ said La Valette. ‘We must fall back to the inner wall.’ He turned to look for Romegas. The senior knight and Richard were just finishing off a Turk who had climbed on to the tower. They tipped the body down on to those still attempting to scale the bastion and a quick thrust of Richard’s pike sent the ladder reeling back. For the moment the bastion was cleared, although two of the bodies lying amid the puddles on the ground wore the surcoats of the Order. Another lay propped up against the parapet, his face a bloody mask of crushed flesh and bone, his body and limbs trembling uncontrollably.

‘Romegas!’ La Valette called. ‘On me!’

As soon as the knight reached him La Valette pointed towards the men desperately struggling to hold the line along the wall. ‘Give the signal to fall back to the inner wall once I have taken my position there by the gate, together with the standard. You stay here with the others and hold the bastion.’