The jetty was theirs.
‘What now?’ said Merridew, wiping gore from his boarding axe. He pointed to the iron ring set in the rocks, where the end of the boom was fastened in place. ‘Cut the boom?’
‘It would do us little good. We have no ship left to make our escape.’
A musket ball struck the wall. Out on the water, he saw the pursuing flotilla of gallivats closing in. The lead boat had already moored up against the wreck. Her men spilled out onto the deck, using it as a bridge to gain the jetty.
There was nowhere to hide on the jetty – but a small door led into the cliff.
‘Into the castle,’ Francis shouted. He waited until the last of his men had come through, then followed them in, barring the door. Three musket balls thudded into the woodwork behind him.
A lamp burned in a sconce on the wall. He counted his men. A round dozen, of whom more than half were wounded, plus himself and Merridew. A small force for storming a garrison of a thousand men.
The door began to shake under the impact of heavy blows.
‘That won’t hold long,’ Merridew warned.
Francis reloaded his pistol. ‘They’ll find a warm welcome awaiting them if they open it.’
‘Mebbe there’s another way.’ Merridew cocked an ear. ‘You hear that thunder up top? I reckon Mr Tom’s launched an attack to draw the pirates off us. He’ll be taking a terrible beating under those walls. If we could get up through the castle, open the gate, it could swing the balance.’
Francis glanced over his shoulder. A steep staircase led up through the rocks towards the castle. It was deserted. He presumed all the garrison had been drawn to the battle.
The door shook again. The tip of an axe blade burst through the timbers, withdrew, and came again. The hole grew wider.
‘Then let us waste no time.’
Francis led his men up the stairs, pistol in hand. They had not gone far when he heard a mighty crash of the door giving way, and the shouts of many men pouring in. He doubled his pace, taking the worn stairs three at a time, flinging himself around every corner without thought for what might await him.
They came to a chamber where the passage forked. One set of stairs led down to the right, while another led on upwards.
Francis pointed up. ‘This way. It must—’
A shrill scream sounded from down the lower steps. Francis paused.
‘No time to dilly dally,’ said Merridew urgently. From behind, they could hear their pursuers gaining quickly.
The scream came again – the excruciating sound of a woman in torment.
‘Make for the gate,’ Francis told Merridew. ‘I will follow.’
Without waiting to explain, he broke away and ran down the right-hand steps. He could hardly find an excuse for leaving his men now. But Sarah and Agnes were somewhere in these dungeons, and he could not leave them to their fate.
At the bottom of the stairs, he found an iron gate. He stiffened. But the gate was unguarded, and the key was in the lock – on the inside. When he pulled, the gate opened without complaint.
The screaming had not stopped. It came at regular intervals, as if someone was twisting a hot knife deep in the victim’s guts.
With his sword in one hand and his pistol in the other, Francis crept down the passage. He followed the sound, through a chain of rock chambers, until he came to a bend. The screams were so loud, here, they must be coming from the next cave. He pressed himself against the wall, steeled himself, then leaped out from his hiding place, brandishing his pistol.
He stopped in astonishment.
Sarah lay on her back, legs spread, presenting her whole body wide open to him. She was completely naked. Agnes knelt beside her, cradling her sister’s head in her lap and murmuring encouragement. Sarah’s eyes were open, but she did not register Francis’ arrival. Agnes saw the shadow fall across her, and looked up.
‘Francis?’ she said, amazed.
He ran to them and crouched beside her. Another paroxysm of pain wracked Sarah’s body – longer than the last. Agnes wiped her brow.
‘Is she—?’ Francis blanched and averted his eyes as he took in Sarah’s nakedness. ‘What is happening? Have they tortured her?’
Even in their desperate plight, Agnes had to smile. ‘She is having a baby, you ninny. And it will not be long now before it arrives.’
‘A baby?’ Francis echoed. ‘But how—?’
‘Do not fear: the pirates have not mistreated us that way. It will be Tom’s child – your cousin – if it survives this night.’
Sarah’s screams had given way to lower, sobbing breaths. Agnes lifted her shoulders and coaxed her up.
‘Help me turn her over,’ she said. ‘It will be an easier passage for the child.’
Francis had witnessed foaling and lambing on the High Weald estate: he was not entirely ignorant of the mechanics of birth. But had not expected to turn midwife in the midst of a battle. He put down his weapons, and helped Agnes manoeuvre Sarah so that she crouched on all fours, panting hard.
Guns rumbled overhead. Agnes looked up. Belatedly, as if she had only just registered the unlikelihood of Francis’ arrival, she said, ‘Is that your doing? How did you come to be here? Have you taken the fort? Where is Tom?’
‘In truth, I do not know what has happened,’ Francis admitted. ‘I led a cutting out expedition into Angria’s harbour – but we were discovered. We escaped by forcing our way into the castle by the sea gate. I think Tom must have launched an assault on the walls above to draw the pirates’ fire – but how he has fared, I cannot say.’
Sarah groaned. A different sound, lower and more purposeful than her earlier screams, as if she were trying to shift a great weight. Agnes put her arm around her.
‘The baby is coming.’
Christopher could not rest easy that night. Knowing the trap was set, waiting for the jaws to close: the uncertainty ate at his soul. He had told Angria about the proposed attack on the harbour, letting the pirate believe it had always been his intention to trick the enemy. He did not mention the pouch of diamonds he had obtained, safe in his room sewn into the lining of a belt; nor did he reveal anything of Tom Courtney. His revenge would be a private matter.
Christopher had wanted to lead the ambush in the anchorage, but Angria had forbidden it. The wily pirate feared treachery, that Christopher – having betrayed the Marathas – might yet make common cause with them. He had ordered Christopher to stay up in the castle. There, he paced the walls overlooking the cove, alone with his fears. What if Tom had recognized him? What if he had guessed Christopher’s betrayal? What if they did not come? He leaned on the parapet, staring into the night, turning the Neptune sword in his hands. The urumi clenched tight around his waist. He thought of Lydia, waiting in his chambers. She would provide a welcome distraction. But there would be time for that later. Her charms would be all the sweeter when he could exult in his victory.
When the first fire went up, he knew the plan had worked triumphantly. From the walls, he saw the enemy boats caught deep in the anchorage, Angria’s fleet closing around them. They would not escape from there.
And yet – they did not know they were beaten. He watched in amazement as one boat closed with one of the grabs, then boarded her. Somehow, the boarders got her underway, steering a course through the crowded bay. Despite the efforts of the pirate gunners, she was not sunk or dismasted. In fact, she managed to set some of the other ships on fire as she passed. She was getting away.
She could not escape. After the boats had entered the bay, Christopher’s men had closed the boom. Even if the grab reached it, she would be pinned against it like a butterfly on a card.
But as he awaited her destruction, he became aware of a new sound intruding on the night. Shouts, wails and the jangle of weapons. The sound of an army mobilizing.
‘What is happening?’
Angria’s voice hissed out of the darkness. Christopher had not heard him come up. He spun about, but Angria was already
on him. Without warning, he grabbed Christopher in both hands and swung him around, pushing him out over the edge of the rampart. He teetered there, with only Angria’s grip to keep him from falling.
‘Is this your doing?’ Angria demanded. ‘Was this whole stratagem a ruse to divide my forces and leave me open to my enemies?’
‘No, lord,’ Christopher pleaded. His toes scrabbled to keep their footing on the parapet. He did not dare look to see how far it was to fall. ‘I do not even know—’
‘The Marathas are coming. While our strength is concentrated in the harbour, they are coming at the walls.’
‘I never dreamed they would attack. Our spies saw no sign that their army was preparing an assault by land.’
Angria looked in his eyes. Whatever he saw, it convinced him of Christopher’s innocence. He hauled him in and let him slump against the battlements.
‘Go to the eastern wall. You will take personal charge of the defence of the gate – and I will give an order that if any man sees you falter in your duty, he should cut you down that instant.’
Christopher ran along the rampart, and climbed the stairs to the top of the north-east tower. He could hardly believe what he saw. The entire promontory had become a sea of men, charging forward, while in their midst strode three mighty elephants. The castle’s cannon had already carved bloody holes in the attackers’ ranks, but they did not falter. Some of them seemed to be stark naked. Christopher wondered if the Marathas had put prisoners in the front line to soak up cannon fire.
‘They are coming for the breach,’ he realized.
All the men left in the castle were hurrying to the eastern ramparts. Christopher found one of the gun captains. ‘Put two of your cannon at the foot of the breach. Load them with musket balls, grape shot, anything you can find. If our enemies reach the top, you will blast them off it like birds from a tree.’
He knew Tom Courtney must be behind this. He searched the darkness for him, trying to pick out his face in the flashes of muskets and cannons. Would he lead the attack? Or was he cunning enough to let other men die to achieve his ends?
The attackers were now so close that the castle batteries could not touch them. Christopher ordered the gunners to abandon their cannon, and join the marksmen on the walls. A furious storm of lead thundered down from the walls: he could not believe any man could survive it. Yet still they came. Through the smoke, he saw their pale bodies crawling up the slope, sheltering behind blocks of fallen masonry. However many the pirates picked off, more took their place.
He had to break them. ‘Slacken your fire,’ he said. ‘Let them think they have won.’
The order was passed along the walls. The fusillade of musket fire eased off. Christopher raised the Neptune sword so the gunners down in the courtyard could see. The Marathas, sensing their chance, broke from cover and scrambled the few last yards to the top of the breach.
‘Now!’ bellowed Christopher. He brought down his sword. The guns in the courtyard blasted out a cloud of musket balls and partridge shot, cutting the invaders to ribbons.
The breach was emptied in an instant. The pirates cheered. Sensing victory, they poured down off the walls to harry their broken opponents.
‘Wait,’ Christopher cried, but they did not hear him or heed him. Some of them discarded their muskets, drawing their swords for the close work of killing.
They assumed – as Christopher had – that the cannons would break the Marathas’ will to fight. Yet as the smoke cleared, Christopher saw that the men further down the slope were not in full retreat. One of them had risen, was urging his men forward even as he clambered towards the breach. Other men came up beside him: some with pikes and axes, one with a huge mace which he wielded like some medieval knight.
The pirates were not expecting resistance. In their eagerness, they had left themselves exposed. Now the Marathas took advantage. They cut the pirates’ legs from under them so they slipped down the loose stones. Those who had lost their weapons picked up pieces of rubble and dashed out their enemies’ brains. The pirates fell back in confusion.
For the second time, the invaders gained the top of the breach. Again, Christopher waited for them to be torn apart by the cannons. But this time, the guns were empty: the gunners had been drawn into the fray and had not reloaded.
Christopher cursed. In the middle of the breach, sword raised in triumph, he saw a figure he knew must be Tom Courtney. He seized a firelock from the rampart and trained it on Tom’s chest. Smoke drifted across the gap, obscuring his shot. When it cleared, Tom had gone.
He threw down the weapon in fury. All his plans were in disarray. He knew how the pirates fought. When they had the upper hand, they were invincible – but when the tide turned they lost all discipline. There would be no last ditch defence. Already, he could see the defenders fleeing across the courtyard, pursued by the Marathas who poured unhindered through the breach. The castle was lost.
A wave of loss and fury smote him. Tom Courtney had done this. Now, and at Brinjoan, and at every turn of his life from the very moment he was conceived, Tom Courtney had snatched away everything Christopher had ever wanted. He was his nemesis – his own natural father!
But even in defeat, he could make Tom’s victory turn to ashes. He ran along the walls and let himself through the door into the keep.
The rapine had started even ahead of the invaders. In defeat, the pirates turned on each other: every man for himself, each taking what he could in hopes he might escape. They scoured the store rooms, and plundered anything they could carry.
Christopher glided through the chaos with relentless purpose. One or two of the pirates saw the sword in his hand and were tempted to take it, but they thought better of it when they saw the look on his face. The others were too busy looting to notice him.
The chaos faded behind him as he descended into the bowels of the castle. He quickened his pace – then stopped. He could hear footsteps approaching, not from above but from below. He pressed himself into an alcove, deeply shadowed and waited.
A dozen men ran past. Marathas, judging by their garb, led by an English sailor. For a second Christopher wondered if it was Tom – perhaps he had not been on the walls after all. Christopher’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword. He could have taken off the sailor’s head simply by stretching out his arm.
‘This way,’ said the man, and Christopher relaxed. It was not Tom. He let them go, listening as their steps died away up towards the battle.
He continued down – to a small chamber where the path forked. But now he heard more footsteps coming, and here there was nowhere to hide. He raised his guard.
But these were men he knew. As they came into the lamplight, he saw they were Angria’s men, pirates he had sent to the ambush in the harbour.
They had not expected to find him there. ‘Where are the hat-wearers?’ they demanded. ‘We followed them in through the sea gate when they tried to escape.’
‘The castle has fallen,’ Christopher told them brusquely. ‘Our enemies are inside the walls.’ He indicated two of the men. ‘You and you, wait for me here. You others, go back to the water gate and prepare a boat for my escape. I will join you shortly.’
He hurried down the left-hand stair to the dungeon. He noted the open gate at the bottom, and paused. He could hear screams, the sound of a woman in immense pain. Had some of the pirates already come here to take their pleasure? But no: the screams were too regular. In between, he heard the murmur of soft, reassuring voices – a man and a woman’s.
He unwound the urumi from his waist. Coiling it in his hand, he advanced stealthily down the passage until he reached that part of the cave from where the noises emanated. He peered around the corner.
A man and a woman knelt beside a second woman, who was crouched, naked, on all fours, gasping and moaning. None of them had seen Christopher arrive. He smiled. This would be his parting shot – his gift to Tom Courtney.
‘Is the bitch going to whelp her pup?’ he c
alled.
The man turned, saw Christopher and sprang up. Exactly as Christopher had anticipated. The urumi blade hissed through the air and sliced open his leg. He dropped with a cry, rolling away in agony and clutching the wound. He tried to stand, but the leg gave way.
‘Francis,’ Agnes cried.
‘Francis?’ Christopher repeated. He had been about to run the boy through with the Neptune sword. Now he paused, hardly believing his luck. ‘Francis Courtney?’
Francis spat a gob of blood from his mouth and nodded.
‘I will enjoy making you watch what I do to your family.’
Tom leaped down the back slope of the breach, jumping across the lumps of rubble that had once been the castle wall. His sword was raised, but he hardly needed to use it. The defenders melted away in front of him, while behind him the Maratha army flooded in over the breach. The ghosia warriors were in an ecstasy of killing. They fought with the ferocity of demons, naked and wild. Those with weapons hacked their enemies to pieces; others simply tore them apart with their bare hands.
And somewhere in the carnage were Agnes and Sarah. Tom forced his way through the courtyard, Mohite beside him. A few pirates still fought on, pockets of resistance cut off from any escape. He avoided them, and made for the keep.
‘Where do you suppose they keep their prisoners?’ he shouted to Mohite.
Mohite shrugged. With a sudden burst of speed, he ran forward and grabbed one of the fleeing pirates by the shoulders. With a deft swipe of his foot, he dropped the man to the floor, pinned him down and put his knife to the man’s throat. He shouted something in an Indian dialect.
The pirate stared at him, baffled, and then jabbered a reply. Mohite let him go and stood.
‘The dungeon is in the caves beneath the castle. There is a stair in the north-east corner of the keep.’
They did not have to fight their way in. The mass of fleeing defenders swept them there effortlessly. No one paid them any attention. The pirates had lost all thought of fighting; they had turned to plunder, and Tom had nothing they wanted. At the foot of the tower, a stair dropped into the rock of the castle’s foundations. Tom hurried down.