Ottoman Read online

  “You will not avenge him?” William demanded.

  “And what of your daughter?” Mary inquired coldly; at that moment she was clearly not considering Catherine to be her daughter.

  John Hawkwood buckled on the sword he had just discarded. “I must go to fetch her back. And, if necessary, I will avenge her.”

  “As will I,” William agreed, and picked up his weapon, too.

  *

  “Ah, General,” remarked the Grand Duke. “It is a late hour, but nonetheless you are welcome.”

  John Hawkwood’s gaze took in the huge room into which they had been shown. It was hardly smaller than a baronial hall, although ikons rather than shields decorated the walls. But there was no furniture beyond a large wooden table and several chairs, and it was overlooked by a gallery. Hawkwood saw men up there, and he did not doubt they were armed, as were the Grand Duke himself and his two sons, standing in front of the huge table. To one side there were several servants carrying staves, which would prove formidable enough at close quarters.

  But Hawkwood had faced greater odds than these, and at this moment he had a total contempt for the Byzantines; also he knew that William, as tall and strong as himself, was standing at his side.

  “I have come to escort my daughter home, my lord,” he said carefully.

  “It is your daughter that I wish to speak to you about,” Notaras said. “Catherine elected to spend the night here, General. The streets are not safe for women, and there have been cases of assault.”

  “Your own daughter was saved from one such assault by my brother,” William growled. “In gratitude for which your people broke his head.”

  “I apologise. There was a misunderstanding. But the boy is hot-headed. He drew on my servants, and they had to defend themselves.”

  “He drew in defence of his sister,” William said.

  “Be quiet, boy,” John Hawkwood snapped. “My lord, I have come for my daughter. I will have her brought to me now. And I will tell you straight, I intend to seek satisfaction should any harm have befallen her.”

  Notaras snorted. “Do you suppose you can give orders in my house. General?”

  “Catherine came here of her own will,” Alexius Notaras said slyly.

  “She is now with my sister,” Basil told them. “They are friends. She can come to no harm.”

  “I will have her now,” John Hawkwood repeated. “Or I will break down your house.”

  The Grand Duke stared at him from under frowning brows. Then he pointed. “Throw this carrion out,” he commanded.

  The servants advanced and John drew his sword. Behind him he heard the rasp of William doing likewise.

  “The lads,” John said in a low voice. “We’ll take one of them. That’ll settle the matter.”

  Shoulder to shoulder they charged the servants, who promptly turned and fled as they discovered themselves opposed by English steel, and knew that this time they were not faced by a boy but by two experienced soldiers.

  “Cut them down!” Notaras bellowed, sword drawn, but retreating with his sons towards the inner doorway.

  John heard the sound of men jumping down from the gallery, but he knew he could leave his back to William, who without bidding swung to face this new assault. He hurled himself forward, but before he could reach the doorway the Grand Duke and his sons were through it, and it had been closed and the bolt shot home. John heard the clash of steel behind him and turned, to see William performing a two-handed sweep which sent one of the Byzantines sprawling with blood pouring from his shoulder into which the broadsword had bitten. The rest had retreated against the far wall.

  “Bows,” Notaras shrieked, emerging on to the gallery above them. “Shoot them down!”

  Two of the men hurried from the room.

  “Father, we do no good here,” William said urgently. “If we both die, it will not help Catherine. This is a matter for the Emperor.”

  John Hawkwood hesitated, but he knew his son was right.

  “Then let us charge those servants,” he said. “And escape while we can.”

  *

  The Emperor Constantine sighed and threw the piece of parchment to the floor. “You stand accused,” he said.

  “Of behaving as a father should?” John Hawkwood demanded.

  “Of causing an affray. Of threatening behaviour. Of destruction to property.”

  “It was my intention to regain my daughter, Your Grace.” John allowed his gaze to play across the faces behind the throne, his lip curling as he saw Notaras standing half-behind the Patriarch.

  “And your son is accused of murder,” Constantine said wearily.

  “My son defended himself against armed men.’

  “But one of them died.”

  “That was likely to happen, Your Grace.”

  “The Frank has killed a Greek,” growled Gennadius.

  “My daughter had been raped,’ John shouted. “The boy’s sister had been raped. She is still held captive in the palace of the Grand Duke.”

  “I deny that,’ Notaras said. “She came to my house of her own free will. What took place between her and my son occurred also of her own free will.”

  “But lacking her parents’ permission,’ the Emperor snapped in obvious displeasure.

  Notaras drew a long breath. “My son will marry the girl.”

  Heads turned in astonishment. That the haughty Grand Duke was willing to let even his bastard marry an Azymite was virtually a confession of guilt.

  Notaras pointed at William Hawkwood, standing at his father’s shoulder. “In return, that scoundrel must die.”

  “He has murdered a Greek,’ the Patriarch repeated. “His life is forfeit.”

  Constantine gazed sadly at John — and John realised with horror that the Emperor did not feel strong enough to protect him.

  “I protest, Your Grace,” he said. “Had we not defended ourselves, we would have been cut down.” He pointed in turn. “That man commanded it.”

  “But you are alive, and one of my subjects is dead,” the Emperor said. “Your son must pay the forfeit.”

  “And do you suppose my daughter will wish to legalise her union with Basil Notaras if her brother is executed?”

  “They will be married,” Notaras asserted. “I will see to it.”

  John wondered if Catherine had any idea of the catastrophe she had caused by her careless, wicked behaviour. But he also realised that if he was to save William’s life he had to play his trump card — and let his daughter go to the devil. “If my son is condemned,” he declared, “then I can no longer remain in Constantinople.”

  As the Emperor stared at him, John could see that his friend was close to tears. But he slowly understood, and the sinking feeling in his stomach grew, that Constantine was not even prepared to defend his general of artillery if it meant antagonising the powerful Grand Duke.

  “Yes,” the Emperor said at last. “There is a Genoese carrack leaving Galata tonight. Be on it, with your wife and your younger son. No one will molest you before then.”

  John’s head came up. “And my elder son?”

  “His life is forfeit.”

  William gasped and glanced left and right; but they were not allowed to wear arms in the Imperial presence, and besides they were surrounded by guards.

  “Your Grace, you cannot do this!” John shouted.

  “I am giving you your life. I can do no more.”

  Still John could not believe his ears. “Your Grace,” he said in a lower tone. “You are committing an outrage.”

  “Treason!” the Grand Duke shouted, and the cry was taken up.

  “Silence!” the Emperor commanded. “I have given my judgement, John Hawkwood. Now leave my presence. If you or your son are found in Constantinople when the cock crows tomorrow, you will be executed. Get you gone, man, while there is still time.”

  *

  “Look lively now,” commanded the Genoese captain. He was a different one, of course, from the man who had b
rought the Hawkwoods to Constantinople more than two years before, yet might it have been no more than twenty-four hours between the two. “There’s half a northerly gale blowing. We’ll be out of the Bosphorus like a pip squeezed out of an orange.”

  John Hawkwood made no reply as he helped his wife up the gangplank and into the cabin. Anthony gloomily followed with the few bundles they had put together in the little time available to them.

  They had simply walked away from their fine house — and from the life they had built for themselves. Mary had been too thunderstruck by the sudden change in their fortunes even for tears. After enjoying for two years such luxury as she had never known before, she did not seem able to grasp yet that her family had just been sliced in half and her prosperity trampled underfoot.

  Anthony could understand her bewilderment. He was not at all sure how it had happened. Why it had happened, he certainly realised. His instincts were to feel himself guilty…but once Catherine had made up her mind to commit an act of criminal folly, what had followed had been almost inevitable. That she had sent no word of excuse, much less sympathy, for the disaster she had inflicted on her family, was even more heart-breaking.

  That the tantalising Anna Notaras had also clearly turned against him was but one of the many pains he now had to bear. But it was his pride that had suffered most. Even with constant twinges from his battered body, his cut face and hands, he still could hardly accept the reality that he had been punched and kicked time and again, rolled along the road like a barrel, and all the time helpless with his hands tied behind his back.

  He could not really believe that they had broken his sword, or that the following morning they would garrotte his brother.

  He placed the few bundles in the cabin and returned on deck. He did not wish to look at his parents’ faces.

  It was just dusk, and lights were glowing both in Galata and in the city across the water. After the excesses of the previous night, most of Constantinople would no doubt be early to bed. But William Hawkwood would be standing at his cell window, staring out at the night for the last time; he was to be executed at dawn.

  And Catherine Hawkwood? What would she be staring at? What would she be thinking?

  He was aware of a sudden, consuming anger. Worse than Catherine’s behaviour, his own humiliation or William’s condemnation was the terrible realisation that his father had accepted these catastrophes. It was easy to say he had had no choice. But Father, who had always faced up to his enemies, be they weather, pestilence or human foes, with his sword in his hand… Father had accepted this total defeat, and was now fleeing Constantinople like a thief in the night, while the Grand Duke and his sons no doubt were laughing over their wine at the abject figure the great condottiere had suddenly become.

  In a matter of hours, Father seemed to have been reduced from a demi-god to a very humble man. Anthony could not imagine where he could go from here — where any of them could go. Mother was shattered; since last night she had changed from a confident, attractive, middle-aged woman into a stricken old hag. Father’s dreams were ended. He could do nothing more than crawl back to England and seek employment as a man-at-arms. But would he ever truly have the courage again to look an enemy in the face?

  And he himself? They had broken his sword. They had taken his brother to strangle, and they had seduced his sister and turned her into a whore.

  He stared back at the city as the brisk wind, even inside the Golden Horn, took them over the dropped boom and out into the Bosphorus. Now they were rounding the Acropolis, where the Emperor was no doubt dining at that moment.

  “I hate you!” Anthony shouted, his words winging on the wind. “I hate you all. One day I will come back and destroy you. One day…” The wind tore his sentence to pieces — but it had already ended. Tears were streaming down his face.

  ***

  The wind freshened. Anthony had remained all the while on deck; he had no wish to be closeted below with his parents. Now he felt the storm tearing at his clothes and his hair, driving the moisture from his eyes, for as the carrack left the comparative shelter of the narrow strait and entered the Sea of Marmara the waves became huge, roaring up astern and yet sending spray flying over the decks. The very elements were sharing in his despair.

  “It is too much,” said the mate. “We must turn back.”

  “Turn back?” bellowed the captain. “What good would that do? Against both the current and a gale? We would sail backwards. God curse you for a poltroon. If the wind frightens you, shorten sail.”

  The mate gladly gave the commands, and men went aloft to reduce the canvas. It made little difference; the carrack still plunged along at ten knots, about double her designed speed. The lights of Constantinople remained abeam for no more than a few minutes, then fell astern. To starboard there were other lights, those on the Turkish side of the channel. But they, too, quickly fell behind.

  “It will be better when we leave the land,” the captain said. “You’ll see.”

  “I cannot hold her,” the helmsman gasped. “The wind has shifted.”

  The captain gazed aloft. Now they were well clear of the narrows, the wind had indeed backed to the west, and was blowing them off course. Hurriedly he gave orders to change the set of the sails, then himself went to the wheel to assist.

  Anthony clung to the taffrail and stared back at the dwindling lights, at the white-capped seas which battered at the stern, throwing the ship from side to side, causing her to yaw dangerously even with two men on the helm. The last light vanished, and the night was black. Farewell, Constantinople, he thought. Farewell, William. Farewell, Catherine. And farewell, Anna Notaras. The tears started to his eyes again. He would never return. He would never be, or do, anything, now. He would never… There were shouts from the watch, and he turned to look forward, at an even darker blackness than the night. Before he could grasp what it was there was a terrifying jar, and the ship turned broadside to the waves. Anthony lost his grasp on the rail and was thrown headlong to the deck. He was brought up against the mizzen mast, just as the mast itself went by the board, snapping off only a few feet above his head and crashing over the side with a fearsome rending sound.

  The other masts had also gone, and the ship itself was on her beam ends, grinding and rising and falling with shattering crashes as the waves pounded her.

  “Abandon ship,” the captain was shouting. “Abandon ship!”

  Father and Mother! Anthony clawed himself up from the sloping deck, gained the companion ladder in the midst of several other bodies, throwing them left and right. Out of the darkness and the noise he heard his father’s voice calling to him, and a moment later he grasped John Hawkwood’s hand. John in turn held tight to Mary, apparently paralysed by this sudden extra misfortune which had overtaken them.

  “What has happened?” John gasped.

  “We have been driven on to a sandbank,” Anthony answered.

  “The boat,” John said. “We must make the boat.”

  Amidships, sailors were launching the boat, and Anthony led his parents towards it, struggling to keep his footing on the steeply sloping deck, constantly swept by the waves and flying spray which hit the now helpless hulk. He gazed at the land, that deeper darkness he had noticed just before the ship had struck, which now lay very close: a beach backed by low cliffs. He had no idea what land it was.

  The boat was in the water, for the moment sheltered from the full force of the storm by the wrecked carrack, bobbing on the waves, held to the ship by two lines.

  “Make room,” Anthony shouted. “Make room.”

  They were allowed on board, grudgingly, and the captain gave the word to cast off. Anthony looked back at the wreck as the oars were thrust into the waves. There lay even the few pitiable belongings they had been able to take from Constantinople. Now they were truly destitute.

  He had not long to grieve. The boat was picked up by a wave as soon as it left the shelter of the ship’s side, and it was hurled forward. The ster
n went up, and men fell out of their seats. Oars flew through the air. So did Anthony, for the second time that night. This time he found himself in the water, went under, and touched ground. When he thrust his head up into air again, he was still standing.

  He groped around and found his mother, hauled her up the beach, while waves broke against his back and made him stagger. “Father!” he gasped. “Father!” he shouted.

  “Here, boy. Here!”

  Still alive! Anthony waded out of the water, and placed his mother on the sand. She gasped and groaned, but she was safe. Then he helped his father and the captain from the shallows.

  “That was a miracle,” John Hawkwood panted. “I had supposed us lost.”

  “Lost,” the captain said. “Oh, aye, we are lost.”

  “We are alive, man,” John told him.

  “But yet lost.” The captain pointed at the horsemen who were guiding their mounts down a steep incline from the cliffs towards the beach. Anthony had a quick impression of flowing robes and superb horsemanship,

  “Lost,” the captain moaned again. “Those are Ottomans!”

  3

  Hunkar

  The captain was soon proved right. The survivors of the shipwreck, some fifteen men and Mary Hawkwood, were quickly roped together and driven from the beach and up the incline to the cliff-top, encouraged by the whips of the horsemen. When Anthony tried to save his mother from being manhandled, he received several cracks across the head which stretched him all but senseless on the beach. It was the second time in two days he had suffered a beating, and he could now do no more than stagger in the gloom behind the sailor to whom he was tied.

  “Merciful God!” John Hawkwood begged. “What have we done to deserve this?”

  Mary could not even speak, but large tears rolled down her face.

  They reached the cliff-top panting, and were then force-marched to an encampment a hundred yards away, its tents hardly visible in the darkness. There they were belaboured into a group, and left to themselves, although surrounded by Turks on all sides.

  “Lost,” the captain moaned. “Lost.”

  “Do you not know their language?” John demanded.