Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B

one-ounce stone ball down – laboriously chipped from Parian marble, no doubt , he thought. He took a goose quill from the pouch on Karl’s waist, ignoring the man, and aimed the gonne as he’d been taught – as he would a bow, a little to the left of the target because of the wind, and a little high – he put bricks under the front legs of the frame. In the time he did this, Peter loosed nine arrows.
    Karl shook his head. ‘We should wait for orders,’ he said.
    Swan was aiming again.
    He heard, very clearly, the unmistakable sound of steel on stone. Or rather, he felt it, rather than heard it. He looked around.
    He rammed the goose quill full of black powder into the touch-hole of the gonne. He felt the very slight grinding under his thumb that meant the goose quill was in contact with the powder in the barrel – the main charge.
    The Turks had four mantlets set up, and a shower of arrows began to fall on the English wall. The Burgundians backed away down the nearest ladder.
    ‘Fire?’ Swan said, suddenly feeling foolish. The youngest of the Burgundians, also Karl, had the portfire. And he was climbing down the ladder.
    Swan leaned over the wall. ‘Stop. I order you. And get your arses back on the wall or I’ll …’ Swan stopped, unsure what he’d do.
    ‘We’ll come back when you’ve fired the gonne,’ Elder Karl spat. ‘You’ve overcharged it. It might explode.’
    ‘Fuck you,’ Swan swore. He pulled the tinder box from his belt purse and struck a spark on to some tinder. He checked his aim one more time and touched the glowing char-cloth to the top of the quill.
    The little gonne barked like a bolt of sulphurous lightning. The mouth of the barrel rose a foot in the air and slammed down, and the whole frame jumped back a handspan, smacking into Swan’s arm, which might have been broken if he hadn’t been in plate armour.
    Across the ravine, on the hillside opposite, a man was screaming. Otherwise, there was no change – the gonne hadn’t hit anything. And yet a half-dozen Turks suddenly burst from the cover of the mantlets and ran back up their ridge.
    Peter loosed three arrows in rapid succession and scored two kills. As the last Turk vanished over the crest, he made a wry face. ‘ Niet zo slecht ,’ he said. ‘Not bad.’
    Sir John appeared from the other side of the English tower. ‘Who fired?’ he demanded.
    Swan pointed.
    One of the Turks was still screaming, his horrible cries echoing around the ravine in an unnatural way. ‘We killed three,’ he said.
    Sir John looked at Old Karl, who was just poking his head over the parapet. ‘We were not to fire without orders,’ he said.
    Old Karl looked smug.
    Swan was suddenly tired. ‘Why?’ he asked.
    ‘Because we were ordered not to fire,’ Sir John said gently. ‘Young man, obedience is one of our order’s virtues.’ He nodded to the Burgundians. ‘No more firing without orders.’
    ‘Ve told him not to fire,’ Karl said. Just at that moment, Swan hated all of them.
    Sir John was in full plate, and he didn’t shrug. He stood straighter. ‘It would take the wisdom of Solomon to decide whether it is better to disobey and kill three Turks, or to obey the original order and fail to kill the Turks.’ Sir John’s smile wasn’t genial. He leaned over to Karl, who shrank back. ‘It is Master Swan’s business whether he obeys me. It is your business to obey him. Understand?’
    The thin English knight went back towards the tower, his steel sabatons rasping on the stone.
    ‘ Obedience is one of our order’s virtues ,’ Peter quoted. ‘Along with chastity and poverty. Master Swan, you have brought us to hell.’
    Swan, angry as he was, had other thoughts crowding in. He raised a hand for silence.
    There it was again – the sound of steel on stone. Like Sir John’s sabatons. Somewhere under his feet.
    ‘Peter, did you see what they were doing on the hillside?’ Swan asked.
    ‘Heh!’ Peter said. ‘Dying?’ He laughed his