“I was born among the black felt tents of the south, master, and my childhood was spent upon the desert. There all things are free – in my early girlhood I was proud, for men told me I was beautiful, and many suitors came to woo me. But there came others, too – men who wooed with naked steel and me they carried off.
“They sold me to a Turk, who soon wearied of me and sold me again to a Persian slave-dealer. Thus I came into the house of the merchant of the city, and there I toiled, a slave among the lowest slaves. My master once offered me my freedom if I would return his love but I could not. My body was his; my love he could not shackle. So he made of me his drudge.”
“You have learned deep humilty,” commented Amory.
“By scourge and shackle and torture and toil I have learned, master,” she said.
“Do you know what we mean to do with you?” he asked bluntly. She shook her head.
“Cormac thinks you resemble the princess Zalda,” said Amory, “And it is our intention to cheat Suleyman Bey with you. We will show you to him on the wall, and I think he will pay a high price for you. When we have delivered you to him, you will have your chance. Play your cards well and perchance you may bewitch him, so when he learns of the trickery, he will not put you aside.”
Again Amory’s eyes swept over her slim form. A pulse began to thrum in his temple. For the time being, she was his; why should he not take her, before he gave her into the arms of Suleyman Bey? He had learned that what a man wants he must take. With a single long stride he reached her and swept her into his arms. She made no resistance, but she averted her face, drawing her head back from his fierce lips. Her dark eyes looked into his with a deep hurt and suddenly he felt ashamed. He released her and turned away.
“There are some garments I bought from a wandering band of gypsies,” he said abruptly, “Put them on; I hear a trumpet.”
Across the desert a distant trumpet was faintly sounding. Amory had his men in full armor lining the walls, weapons in hand, when the horsemen rode up to the castle gate, which was flanked by a tower.
Amory hailed them. He saw Suleyman Bey in heron plumed helmet and gold scaled mail, sitting his black mare. Close behind him sat Belek the Egyptian on a bay horse, and beside the chief, Cormac FitzGeoffrey on his great stallion. And Amory grinned. Was it not strange to see the man riding in the company of those who had sworn to cut his throat? Some three hundred riders were ranked behind the chief.
“Ha, Amory,” said Cormac, “Fetch forth the princess – let her be shown upon the wall of the tower that Suleyman Bey be convinced; he thinks us liars, by the hoofs of the Devil!”
Amory hesitated, as a sudden revulsion shook him, then with a shrug of his shoulders he made a gesture to his men-at-arms. Zuleika was escorted out upon the wall above the gate and Amory gasped. Rich clothes had wrought a transformation in the slave girl; indeed she wore them as if she had never worn the flimsy rags of a serf. She did not carry herself with the haughty pride of a princess, thought Amory, but there was a certain quiet dignity about her, a certain proud humility that many of royal blood might well copy.
Suleyman Bey gasped also; he gazed at her in bewilderment and reined closer.
“By Allah!” he said in amazement, “Zalda! Is it she? No – yes – by Asrael, I cannot say! She does not carry her chin as she did, if it be she, and yet – yet – by the gods, it must be she!”
“Of a surety it is the princess Zalda,” rumbled Cormac, “By Satan, do you think there is no faith in Franks? Well, chief, what say you? Is she worth ten thousand pieces of gold to you?”
“Wait,” answered the Turk, “I must have time to consider. This girl is alike the princess Zalda as can be – yet her whole bearing is different – I must be convinced. Let her speak to me.”
Amory nodded to Zuleika, who gave him a pitiful look, then raising her voice, said: “My lord, I am Zalda, daughter of Abdullah bin Kheram.”
Again the Turk shook his hawk-like head.
“The voice is soft and musical like Zalda’s, but the tone is different – the princess was used to command and her tone was imperious.”
“She has been a captive,” grunted Cormac, “Three years of captivity can change even a princess.”
“True – well, I will ride to the spring of Mechmet which lies something more than a mile away, and there camp. Tomorrow I will come to you again and we will talk on the matter. Ten thousand pieces of gold – a high price to pay, even for the princess Zalda.”
“Good enough,” grunted Cormac. “I’ll remain at the castle – and mark you, Suleyman – no tricks. At the first hint of a night onset we cut Zalda’s throat and throw her head to you. Mark!”
Suleyman nodded absent mindedly and rode away at the head of his riders, in deep converse with the dark faced Belek. Cormac rode in through the gate which was instantly barred and bolted behind him, and Zuleika turned to go into her chamber. Her head was bent, her hands folded; again she had assumed the manner of the slave. Yet she paused a moment before Amory and in her dark eyes was a deep hurt as she said: “You will sell me to Suleyman, my lord?”
Amory flushed darkly – not in years had the blood thus suffused his face. He sought to reply and groped for words. Unconciously his mailed hand sought her slim shoulder, half caressingly. Then he shook himself and spoke harshly because of the strange conflicting emotions within him: “Go to your chamber, wench; what affair of yours is it what I do?”
And as she went, head sunk on her breast, he stood looking after her, clenching his mailed fists until the fingers cracked, and cursing himself bewilderedly.
CHAPTER 5
Cormac FitzGeoffrey and Amory sat in an inner chamber, though the hour was late. Cormac was in full armor, except for his helmet, as was Amory. The mail coifs of both men were drawn back upon their shoulders, disclosing Amory’s yellow locks and Cormac’s raven mane. Amory was silent, moody; he drank little, talked less. Cormac on the other hand, was in an mood of deep satisfaction. He drank deep and his gratification led him into a reminiscent mood.
“Wars and massed battles I have seen in plenty,” said he, lifting his great goblet, “Aye – I fought in the battle of Dublin when I was but eight years old, by the hoofs of the Devil! Miles de Cogan and his brother Richard held the city for Strongbow – men of iron in an iron age. Hasculf Mac Turkill, king of Dublin, who had been driven into the Orkneys, came sailing up the strand with sixty-five ships – galleys of the heathen Norsemen, whose chief was the berserk Jon the Mad – and mad he was, by the hoofs of Satan! So Hasculf came back to win his city again, with his Danes and Dano-Irish, and his allies from Norway and the Isles.
“Word of the war came into the west, where I was a boy running half naked on the moors, in the land of the O’Briens. We had a weapon-man whose name was Wulfgar and he was a Norseman. ‘I will strike one more blow for the sea-people,’ he said, and he went across the bogs and the fens as a wolf goes, and I went with him with my boy’s bow, for the urge of wandering and blood-letting was already upon me. So we came upon Dublin strand just as the battle was joined. By Satan, the Norsemen drove the Normans back into the city and were shattering the gates when Richard de Cogan made a sortie from the postern gate and fell upon them from the rare. Whereupon Sir Miles sallied from the main gates with his knights and the ravens fed deep! By Satan, there the axes drank and the swords failed not of glutting!
“So Wulfgar and I came into the battle and the first wounded man I saw was an English man-at-arms who had once crushed my ear lobe to a pulp so that the blood flowed over his mailed fingers, to see if he could make me cry out – I did not cry out but spat in his face, so he struck me senseless. Now this man knew me and called me by name, gasping for water. ‘Water is it?’ said I, ‘Its in the icy rivers of Hell you’ll quench your thirst!’ And I jerked back his head to cut his throat, but before I could lay dirk to gullet, he died. His legs were crushed by a great stone and a spear had broken in his ribs.
“Wulfgar was gone from me now and I
advanced into the thick of the battle, loosing my arrows with all the might of my childish muscles, blindly and at random, so I do not know if I did scathe or not, or to whom, for the noise and shouting confused me and the smell of blood was in my nostrils, and the blindness and fury of my first massed battle upon me.
“So I came to the place where Jon the Mad was leagued with a few of his Vikings by the Norman knights – by Saint John, I never saw a man strike such blows as this berserk struck! He fought half naked and without mail or shield, and neither buckler nor armor could stand before his axe. And I saw Wulfgar – on a heap of dead he lay, still gripping a hilt from which the blade had snapped in a Norman knight’s heart. He was passing swiftly, his life ebbing from him in thick crimson surges but he spoke to me, faintly and said: ‘Bend your bow, Cormac, against the big man in chain mail armor.’ And so he died and I knew he meant Miles de Cogan.
“But at that moment Jon, bleeding from a hundred wounds, struck a blow that hewed off a knight’s leg at the hip, though cased in heavy mail, and the axe haft splintered in the Viking’s hand, and Miles de Cogan gave him his death stroke. Now all the Norsemen were dead or fled, and the men-at-arms dragged King Hasculf Mac Torkill before Miles de Cogan, who had his head severed on the spot. Now that sight maddened me, for though I loved not the Dane, I hated the Normans more, and running forward across the torn corpses, I bent my bow against Miles de Cogan. It was my last arrow and it splintered on his breast plate. A man-at-arms caught me up and held me high for Miles to view, while I cursed him in Gaelic and broke my milk teeth on his mail-clad wrist.
“ ‘By Saint George,’ said Miles, ‘It’s Geoffrey the Bastard’s Irish wolf-cub!’
“ ‘Crush him,’ said Richard de Cogan, ‘He’s half Gael – he’ll make a wolf for the O’Briens.’
“ ‘He’s half Geoffrey,’ said Miles, ‘He’ll make a good soldier for the king.’
“Well, both were right, but Miles came to curse the day he spared me. When I met him again in battle, years later, I gave him a wound that marked him for life.
“Barren fighting, in a barren land. By Satan, it seems though that now we are to be rewarded for our zeal. Did you station all the men-at-arms on the walls? It’s a dark, star-less night and we must beware of Suleyman Bey. Ha, we’ve cozened him! We are as good as richer by ten thousand gold pieces! Then you can rebuild this castle – hire more men-at-arms – buy armor and weapons. As for me, I’ll gather together a band of cut-throat ruffians and fare east in quest of some fat city to loot.”
“Cormac,” Amory’s eyes were dull and troubled, “What think you that Suleyman Bey will do with the girl Zuleika when he finds we’ve tricked him? Will he not slay her in his anger?”
“Not he,” Cormac drank deep, “He’ll use her to trick old Abdullah bin Kheram as we’ve tricked him. If the girl plays her cards right, she may be a queen yet.”
“Cormac,” said Amory abruptly, “I cannot do it.”
The Norman glared at him in bewilderment.
“What are you talking about?”
Amory spread his hands helplessly. “I am sorry. I realized it while she was on the wall – I cannot let this girl go – I love her – ”
“What!” exclaimed Cormac, completely dumfounded, “You mean you will keep her – not give her up to Suleyman Bey – why – !”
“I love her,” said Amory doggedly, “That is the only excuse I can give.”
Blue sparks of Hell’s fire began to flicker in Cormac’s eyes. His mailed fingers closed on the goblet and crunched it into ruin.
“You’d trick me, eh?” he roared, “You’d cheat me! Its wolf bite wolf, is it, with your damned lust? You French dog, I’ll send you to pare the Devil’s nails!”
Amory reached swiftly for his sword as Cormac lunged from his seat, but the giant Irishman plunged full at his throat, splintering the heavy table to match-wood. Before the young Frenchman could clear his blade, the impact of Cormac’s hurtling mail-clad body knocked him staggering and he was fighting desperately to keep the Norman’s iron fingers from his throat. One of Cormac’s hands had locked like a vise in a fold of Amory’s mail at his neck, barely missing the throat and the other hand snapped for a death-hold. Amory’s face was pale for he had seen Cormac tear out a giant Turk’s throat with his naked fingers and he knew that once those iron hands closed on his gullet, no power on earth could loosen them before they tore out the life that pulsed beneath.
About the room they fought and wrestled, those two great, mailed fighting men, in a strange, silent battle. Cormac made no attempt to draw steel and Amory had no time to do so. With all his skill, swiftness and power, he was fighting a losing fight to keep clear of those terrible, clutching hands. Amory struck with all his power, driving his clenched, iron guarded fist full into Cormac’s face and blood spattered, but the terrific blow did not check the Norman in the slightest – Amory did not even think Cormac blinked. They crashed headlong into the ruins of the table and as they fell, close-clinched, Cormac roared short and thunderous, as his fingers locked at last in the hold he had sought. Instantly Amory’s head began to swim and the candle-light went bloody to his distended gaze. Cormac’s fingers were sunk in the loose folds of his coif which, thrown back from his head, lay loosely about his neck, and only this saved him from instant death, but even so he felt his senses going. He tore and ripped futiley at Cormac’s wrists; his head was bent back at an excruiating angle – his neck was about to snap – there came a swift rush of feet in the corridor without – a wild eyed man-at-arms burst into the chamber.
“My lords – masters – the paynim – they are within the wall and the castle burns!”
CHAPTER 6
The sounds of the castle faded as the guardsmen took up their posts and the rest composed themselves for sleep. In the great hall the beggar stirred; from his rags eyes strangely unsuited to a beggar glinted; eyes like a baskilisk’s. With a swift motion he rose, throwing off his filthy, tattered garments, revealing the mephistophelean countenance and pantherish form of Belek the Egyptian. Clad only in a striped loin cloth and with a long dagger in his hand, he stole through the great hall and up the winding stair like a ghost.
Over all the castle silence reigned; before Zuleika’s door the sleepy man-at-arms yawned and leaned on his pike drowsily. What use for a guard before an inner chamber? What pagan could win through the walls without rousing the whole force of the defenders? The guard did not hear the naked feet that stole noiselessly along the flags. He did not see the dusky figure that glided behind him. But he felt suddenly an iron arm encircle his throat strangling the startled yell that sought to rise to his lips, he felt the momentary agony of a hard driven blade that pierced his heart, and then he felt no more.
Belek eased the limp body to the floor and swiftly detached the keys from the belt. He selected one and opened the door, working with speed but silence. He slipped inside, closing the door.
Zuleika wakened with the realization that some one was in her chamber, but in the utter darkness she could see no one. But Belek could see like a cat in the dark. Zuleika felt a sudden hand clapped over her mouth and as she instinctively lifted her hands to ward off that attack, her slim wrists were pinioned together.
“Keep still, princess,” hissed a voice in the gloom, “If you scream, you die.”
The hand was withdrawn from her lips and Zuleika felt her hands being bound; next a gag was placed in her mouth. Belek the Egyptian had his own ideas about handling women. He had been sent to rescue Zuleika, yes; but he knew that women quite often prefer not to be rescued from their captors and he was taking no chances that the girl might prefer to remain with her present masters than to ride away with Suleyman Bey. Belek did not intend that a woman’s scream should bring him to his doom.
He lifted his slender captive and carrying her carefully over one shoulder, stole down the corridor cautiously, dagger ready. He descended the stair and stole through the great kitchin. He heard the cook snoring in the pantry. Ordinaril
y it would have been impossible for a man to steal through the castle of the Seiur Amory without detection, but tonight all the men were on the walls, or else sleeping soundly awaiting their call to guard-duty.
Belek warily unbolted a small door and slipped outside, keeping close to the walls. It was dark as pitch, low hanging clouds obscuring the stars, and there was no moon. Belek hesitated, for the moment uncertain; then he crossed the courtyard swiftly and entered the stables. He knew that Cormac’s great black stallion was quartered here, and he trembled lest he rouse the full passion of the savage brute, which might make enough noise to wake the whole castle. But Belek’s stealthy entrance caused no commotion; the great beast had his stall in another part of the stables. The Egyptian laid the girl in an empty stall, first tying her ankles, then stole swiftly back to the castle. Entering the kitchin he crossed to the small room where firewood was kept piled, and busied himself a few moments. Then he shut the door and hurriedly left the castle once more. A faint, grim smile played over his thin lips.
And now he was ready for the most dangerous part of his daring night’s work. Crouching like a panther he stole across the courtyard to the postern gate. A single man-at-arms stood there, leaning on his spear and half asleep; it was the hour of darkness before dawn when vitality is at a low ebb. Belek crouched and leaped, silent and deadly as a panther. His mighty hands locked about his victim’s throat and the man died without a cry.
Belek worked cautiously at the gate, felt it move beneath his hands and swing inward. He crouched silently, almost holding his breath, straining his eyes into the night. He could make out the dim somber reaches of the desert knifed with ravines and gulches; were men moving out there? Not even the keen eyed Egyptian could tell for the clouds hung low and deep darkness rested over all. He thought of returning for the girl and slipping out with her, then abandoned the plan. The men on the wall above him were not asleep. Their low voiced snatches of conversation reached him from time to time. He had stolen to the postern gate and killed his man almost beneath their feet, but it was behind their back. Their gaze was turned outward; they would see anything that moved just without the wall and if he stole forth, arrows would fall like rain about him. Alone he would have taken the risk; but he dared not take the chance with the girl.
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