The swell lifted Don Garcia’s flagship and it crashed violently against the corsair so that the men on both vessels struggled to keep their footing. At once the captain shouted the order: ‘Fasten the lines!’
The men assigned to the grappling hooks pulled the ropes taut and looped them round the belaying pins to secure the two vessels together. About them the Spanish soldiers ran planks across the narrow gap between the two galleys and clambered up on to the bulwarks, yelling defiantly at the waiting corsairs. Thomas pushed his way through the soldiers and grasped a shroud and pulled himself up on to the wide wooden rail running along the side of the galley. He drew his sword and glanced back to see Richard right behind him. To his right a huge sergeant with an artfully patterned morion punched his sword towards the enemy and bellowed.
‘With me, boys! Death to the heathen!’
The sergeant leaped over the gap and landed on the rail before his impetus carried him on, falling amid the robes, dark-skinned faces and limbs, and curved gleaming blades beyond. Scrambling back on to his feet with a savage roar he began to lay about him with his sword, savagely hacking at the men scrambling to get clear of his reach. Blood arced across the deck. More men leaped after the sergeant while some dashed across the boarding planks.
Thomas sucked in a deep breath and leaped forward. For an instant he saw the gleam of the narrow strip of sea between the two galleys then he fell against one of the enemy, a slender man in dirty cotton robes, his head tightly wrapped in a turban. Both men thudded down on to the deck and at once Thomas thrust out his left arm to push himself back up as his feet found their grip. He felt a waft of warm breath and realised that the man he had landed on was screaming at him in rage as he lay pinned down under Thomas’s weight. He slammed the guard of his sword down into the corsair’s face, cutting off his shouts. He struck again, harder, and felt bone break and give way under the blow. Then he rose into a crouch and swung his blade in an arc to his front. Another Spaniard landed to his right before the corsairs surged forward, desperate to cut down the attackers before they could gain a foothold on the deck.
There was a glint to the left of his field of vision and Thomas saw a blade slicing through the air towards his shoulder. The blow rang in his ear as the edge glanced off his shoulder guard. The padded jacket beneath absorbed most of the energy and Thomas slapped the blade away with his forearm and then cut at the corsair’s bare arm with his sword, the muscled flesh giving way beneath the finely honed steel edge. The corsair’s sword clattered on to the deck and blood spattered down on to it as the injured man drew back, gritting his teeth in agony. Thomas looked quickly from side to side and saw the Spaniard to his right double over as a large Moor with a chain-mail vest and spiked helmet drove a pike into his stomach, carrying him back hard against the bulwark so the deadly point burst through his body and lodged in the timbers at his back.
As the Moor wrenched the shaft back, Thomas thrust his point into the man’s side but the chain links did not give way. The man grunted in pain and turned the bloodied point of his pike towards Thomas’s body. Then, seeing the breastplate, the Moor dropped the point and stabbed at Thomas’s groin. Twenty years before, Thomas would have nimbly dodged the blow but now he had to throw himself to the side against the mortally wounded Spaniard who had dropped his weapons and stood mouth agape as he stared down at the ragged tear in his quilted jacket and greasy grey length of gut that had been tom out as the Moor wrenched the pike free.
Thomas recovered his balance and struck back, cutting towards the side of the Moor’s head. The edge of the blade struck the cheekguard, bending it in half, and the Moor’s jaw shattered under the impact. Blood and teeth spurted from his gaping mouth. For an instant the Moor was dazed and Thomas snatched his blade back and thrust deep into the man’s throat, then ripped the blade free in a rush of bright crimson. Stepping back into a crouch, Thomas held the dripping tip of his blade up and glanced to both sides. The Spaniards were swarming over the bulwark and leaping into the fight. A thud to his left caused Thomas to twist round sharply and he saw Richard, wide-eyed as he held up a hand to ward off the point of Thomas’s sword.
‘Keep close,’ Thomas commanded, then moved cautiously across the deck. A sprawling melee extended on each side as the Spaniards pressed forward, cutting wildly about them as they struggled to create more space for their comrades to follow them. Towards the stem Thomas saw a richly robed man in a braided green jacket leading a party of armoured men down from the aft deck, and realised it must be the enemy commander and his officers. Strike him down and the rest of the crew might surrender, Thomas decided. Without their leader the rest of the corsair ships might also lose heart and break off their attack.
‘This way!’ Thomas gestured towards the man and beckoned to Richard to follow him. They had advanced no more than a few paces before a knot of corsairs blocked their path — five men, unarmoured but equipped with 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.