‘Take this,’ Swan said, and handed his helmet to the sailor. He lifted the bishop, threw him over his shoulders, and staggered towards the market, now in sight.
A clod of earth hit the sailor. And he stumbled.
Swan thought, Why am I saving the bishop?
He staggered on.
A clod of earth hit him.
A young Greek man ran out into the street and yelled ‘Death to the heretics!’ in Greek, and another clod of earth hit – this time striking the bishop on his shoulders.
The weight of his armour and the weight of the bishop – thankfully, not the largest ecclesiastical size of bishop, but not a slim man – was cutting through his burst of spirit.
The oldest of the Venetian marines – the one that the others called ‘The Spaniard’ – turned, paused, and came back towards Swan. Without a word, he took the bishop’s legs, and they staggered on together, the sailor staying with them, eyes glazed with fear. He didn’t have a weapon.
Since no one came to drive them off, the Greek youths grew bolder, and there were stones mixed in with the clods of earth. They rang off Swan’s backplate and his arm harnesses.
Swan’s whole world narrowed to the effort of staggering, off balance, along the time-worn street towards the distant market. It didn’t seem to grow any closer.
He heard hoof-beats.
They started to cross a major thoroughfare and had only fifty paces to go to the market. The old ruin of the fountain was another fifty paces beyond. Swan looked to the left and saw the horsemen – three Turkish riders, with another dozen well behind them – coming at a gallop.
They were all but on top of him.
He and the Spaniard dropped the bishop in the street as the first arrow flew. It passed between them.
The second arrow screeched along Swan’s left shoulder, deeply marking the steel, and fell to the street.
The third arrow all but parted Swan’s hair and reminded him that he didn’t have a helmet. He got his sword out of his scabbard and his buckler off his hip. The bishop curled into a ball and prayed.
The first Turk hurtled by, an arm’s length away, leaning out over his horse on Swan’s buckler side, an arrow drawn all the way to his chin. Tom threw his buckler hand up as the man loosed, and the arrow struck his buckler’s steel boss and left a deep dent, all but numbing Swan’s hand.
The Spaniard didn’t wait for the second Turk, but stepped in front of his horse, severing the reins and slicing deeply into the horse’s neck – the horse was dead immediately and began to collapse under the Turk, who nonetheless took his shot at the range of a few feet. His arrow caught the Spaniard in the middle of the chest and knocked him down. Then horse and rider fell in a spectacular spray of dust and blood.
The third Turk changed direction to avoid the dying horse ahead of him, rose in his saddle, holding on with only his knees, bow drawn.
For what seemed like a brief eternity, Swan was looking down the length of that arrow, and then the Turk loosed. In the same heartbeat, the sailor holding his helmet lurched away from the dying horse and, tripping over the bishop, lifted the armet over his head. The Turkish arrow crashed into the Milanese helmet and careened away.
Swan saw the disgust on the Turk’s face as he went by.
The armet containing the head crashed to the earth.
The Spaniard was alive. The arrow had dented his breastplate and the man was struggling to breathe, but it hadn’t penetrated. The two Turks still mounted were turning their horses.
The other dozen were coming.
Swan gave the Spaniard his hand and lifted the man to his feet.
He took the bow from his bow case, whipped an arrow on to the bowstring, and loosed at the dozen horsemen charging them. As far as Swan could see, he missed, but his attention was now on the two horsemen behind him.
The sailor got to his feet and went to retrieve the helmet.
The nearest mounted Turk put an arrow into him from fifty feet. The sailor screamed, fell heavily on all fours, and screamed again, shot in the groin.
The two Turks started towards Swan.
Swan picked up a rock. It was all he could think to do.
An arrow whistled over his head.
He jumped, a move his uncles had taught him, leaping hard with both feet. He landed by the helmet, and his right arm went back.
The nearest Turk took a crossbow bolt just above the waist. He collapsed back, then forward, and still didn’t fall from his horse’s back, even though the bolt was sticking halfway out of his back. But he dropped his bow.
The farther man had to rein in to avoid his mate’s horse, and Swan threw, with all his fear and hate behind it, and his rock struck the man’s horse in the head, and the horse shied violently, sidestepping, rearing, and blew out a great breath, utterly spoiling his master’s aim, and that arrow vanished well over Swan, who charged the Turk while the man tried to get control of his horse, his right hand seizing his sword back from his left. A few paces behind Swan, the wounded Turk finally fell from the saddle, and his horse stopped immediately and stood over her fallen man.
The Turk nearest Swan gave up on fighting his mare, dropped his bow, and drew his sword.
Swan made it to his side and pushed his buckler at the man, drawing a heavy cut that rang off the buckler’s steel boss, and Swan’s counter-cut scored, cutting the man’s fingers and his wrist – having hit, Swan cut a reverso up into the man’s chin, and punched it home with a jab like a boxing blow – all in a pair of heartbeats. It was a set piece he’d learned from the maestro in Venice, and it worked beautifully, even when his opponent was four feet higher and cutting down.
He was still admiring his own swordsmanship when his victim’s horse knocked him flat. His backplate took the animal’s kick, and he rolled in the dust and saw the Spaniard loose an arrow.
The other group of Turks had stopped to shoot. It was a natural reaction for an archer, but it cost them time, and the Spaniard loosed shaft after shaft – not accurately, but the Turks were densely enough packed that many of his arrows hit horses, exposed flesh – even a ricochet, or a broken splinter in a horse’s hoof, could change the course of a small fight. And his flow of shafts disconcerted them.
And another carefully aimed crossbow bolt struck, tearing a horseman from his saddle.
Swan got to his knees, the pain in his back ebbing from unbearable to bearable where the horse had kicked him. He retrieved his sword, got to his feet, and stumbled from the pain.
The Turks had begun to return the marine’s arrows, with interest – six for one. But the Spaniard was canny – he loosed and moved, loosed and moved, always headed for the cover of the market plaza and the distant fountain.
Swan saw Giannis at the edge of the market as the Greek man-at-arms leaned out from the cover of an ancient pillar and snapped off another crossbow bolt. It hit a horse.
Swan went from walking to a stumbling, shuffling jog. Two arrows passed close to him, but the Turks were now concentrating all their arrows on the Spaniard, and all that came his way were overshots.
He managed to run.
The bishop lay unmoving. The head of St George lay in the middle of the street, wrapped in his armet.
He couldn’t think of rescuing either of them, right now. Instead, he passed the bishop, got a hand up, and seized the bridle of the horse standing by the corpse of the first man Giannis had killed. Without breaking stride he vaulted into the saddle, gathered the reins, and leaned way out over the horse’s neck.
‘No! Thomas!’ yelled Alessandro at his back.
I got them all into this, Swan thought.
He pointed the head of the Turkish horse at the enemy, pressed his spurless heels into her sides and rolled his weight forward over her neck. She got the message and leaped into a gallop. Swan finally got the reins under his buckler hand and concentrated on holding on with his knees.