Free The Pirate's Revenge by Kelly Gardiner Page B

keep walking along, staying close to the houses on one side. There were more people than I had ever seen in one place. There must have been hundreds: people of all ages, some armed with hay-forks or ancient pikes, mostly peasants in their best Sunday clothes, like those we had seen on the road.
    We pushed our way through to the main piazza , where the crowd had spilled right across to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral. The Duke de Santiago and Hussein Reis stood on one corner, like brightly coloured parrots in a flock of sparrows. The Duke’s silken coat was the colour of dark wine. Beside him, Hussein looked like a street hawker or an Arab trader down on his luck. He had seen us the moment I spotted them, and pointed us out to the Duke. De Santiago’s face changed like a sudden squall at sea. I nudged Carlo.
    â€˜Your father is here. He’s seen you.’
    â€˜What are they up to?’ Carlo asked as he sought out the two familiar figures standing side by side.
    â€˜I have no idea.’
    â€˜I do not trust the Turk,’ he said. ‘I trust no man who can change his allegiance from one country to another. I do not understand it.’
    â€˜I don’t think it’s Hussein you have to worry about,’ I warned.
    But Carlo was too excited by the moment to be concerned. ‘Papa!’ he shouted across the piazza . ‘I have come home to join the fight.’
    People nearby heard him, and some applauded politely. They made way for us as we weaved through the crowd, Carlo leading the way.
    â€˜Follow me,’ he called to us. The Vella brothers ran after him, greeting everyone like long-lost friends and family. Perhaps they were.
    â€˜Who does he think we are?’ Jem scowled.
    â€˜Stay calm and stick close,’ Miller warned. ‘I don’t like the feel of this. If the French are stupid enough to turn up, there’ll be the Devil to pay and no pitch hot.’
    Jem, Moggia and I moved closer to him, and walked, tight-knit, through the mass of bodies. None of us liked the feel of it. We weren’t used to the sight of so many people at once. We were like fish out of water on land, and unsure of our footing. We all kept one hand on our swords.
    As we drew near, we could tell that Carlo and his father were already arguing.
    â€˜Papa, forgive me, but I could not stay away while my islands were in peril.’
    â€˜You’ll be in peril when I get you home, boy.’
    Carlo pouted. ‘I have risked life and limb to come home to you.’
    â€˜You were sent away so you wouldn’t risk life and limb,’ his father grumbled. ‘Saint Lorenzo, preserve my family and my foolish son.’
    â€˜Malta needs all its sons,’ Carlo retorted. ‘That’s what Hussein told me. Isn’t that right?’
    But the Duke had already taken Hussein by the arm. ‘The boy is quite mad. What am I to do with him?’
    Hussein shrugged. ‘I’m not the man to ask about children. I know nothing about them.’
    â€˜I am not a child.’ Carlo stamped his boot on the paving. But his words were drowned out by the voices of the people in the piazza — a murmur at first, then an exclamation, and finally a full-throated roar.
    Carlo leaped up and down to peer over the hundreds of heads.
    â€˜It’s the French,’ he said. ‘They’re here.’

9.
Rising up
    We could see nothing, but a low growling noise rippled through the crowd towards us. Ricardo and Francesco ran off to see what was going on, then came back full-pelt, faces brimming with excitement.
    â€˜It’s a bloodbath!’ Ricardo’s exhilaration made his voice crack. ‘A Frenchman tried to disperse the crowd, but they have turned on him.’
    â€˜Rally the villages!’ someone shouted. ‘Call the menfolk.’
    â€˜I will go,’ Ricardo volunteered.
    â€˜We will run like the wind,’ said Francesco.
    â€˜We must send a