Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  “Come, my lady. Time presses.”

  His followers were moving restlessly, climbing into their saddles and gazing down the valley into the haze of moonlight that might reveal the dreaded Mongol lancers at any moment. A contagion of fear was in the air. Moreover the Greek men-at-arms did not wish their horses to be seized by the fugitives.

  Rusudan stirred and stretched her arms toward the figures that stumbled through the snow.

  “My people!” she cried, her dark eyes tearless.

  Long did Choaspes look into her face, no longer that of a mischievous girl, but of a woman who feels her helplessness and the pang of suffering.

  “My lady,” he said, with sudden purpose, “the arm of the most magnificent Emperor is long and strong to aid. Come!”

  Rusudan allowed him to help her from the saddle and to prepare a seat for her in the sleigh beside him. The drivers snapped their whips and the harness bells jangled. The Greek and Georgian riders closed in after it, and no one paid any heed to the crusader, who stood by his spent charger.

  Once Hugh thought his name was called, but the sleigh and its escort gathered speed and soon vanished among the cottages. He put his hand on the heaving flank of the gray stallion and glanced at hanging muzzle, the bloodshot eyes.

  “Eh, my brother,” he said, “you must rest before we take the road.”

  He led the horse across the inn yard into the dark shed and loosened the girths. Then he searched until he found hay piled in a corner, and with a handful of this he rubbed down the horse, spreading a little under the foam-flecked muzzle. The charger had eaten all the snow that was good for him. Hugh threw a pair of saddlecloths over his back and left him for a moment to enter the tavern, where candles still glowed on tables cluttered with black bread and joints of meat.

  From the remnants of food Hugh cut some morsels with his dagger and filled a bowl with wine from one of the kegs. He went back to the shed and sat down beside the horse. For a night and a day and part of another night he had not eaten. The ache of his wound made him so weak that it was an effort to put the bread between his teeth. When he had drunk a little wine, he set the bowl before the charger.

  An hour later the horse, that had lifted one foot and was sniffing at the hay, tossed up his head and neighed. Hugh heard the clinking of bit chains and the soft stamping of hoofs outside the inn.

  He looked from the shed and saw a cavalcade of horsemen in the road, and recognized the white charger of the constable. The lord of Tiflis was examining a slender staff in his hand, an ivory staff tipped with a fragile gold crown, now trodden and broken.

  Seeing this baton of Rusudan, the crusader approached and stood by the stirrup of the chieftain.

  “The princess,” he said, “hath taken the road for the city with her attendants and the Greeks.”

  When this was explained to the constable, he clasped his hands together gratefully and breathed deep. His steel-linked hauberk was ripped and slashed about the arms and shoulders, and the winged crest was gone from his helmet.

  “God did not give victory,” he said.

  The clansmen in the street, leaning on their spears or binding up cuts in arm and leg, heard him and answered.

  “Eh, thawad, we will hold the castle. We will not be driven from behind walls!”

  For a while the constable waited, mustering the men who flocked into the village, asking for tidings. Hugh heard that most of the Georgians had taken to the hills, where they had made an end of pursuit with their axes and javelins. The clans had been broken but not slaughtered. And these men around the constable showed no fear of pursuit, because they knew that experienced warriors guarded their rear. When a thousand had assembled in the hamlet the constable took the road to the city.

  The chieftain of the Caucasus was of the breed of stubborn fighters who are more dangerous in retreat than in a charge, and Hugh understood why the Moslems had never won to Tiflis.

  “Will they attack the city, think ye?” the constable asked the crusader.

  “Ay, if it lies in their road. Otherwise they will not waste men. They are picked warriors, and they mean to pass beyond the Caucasus.”

  To this the constable made no answer. It seemed to him that the Mongols must desire the sack of the city and, besides, he did not see where else they would go.

  And Hugh in his turn asked a question—

  “The princess—will she seek safety in the cities of the Emperor?”

  “Nay, she is of the hills—she will not leave us, for another land.”

  And the chieftain pointed up at the forested heights outlined in the red glow of the setting moon.

  But it did not happen as he had foretold. Within an hour the mass of warriors ahead of them parted, and an armed peasant galloped up to the constable, reining in and casting himself on his knees at a distance.

  “Ivan Vartabad,” he cried out, “terror has come to the castle!”

  “How?”

  “Akh, it is not to be known how. Men lie lifeless in the western gate as if wolves had got in.”

  All the Georgians within hearing stopped and held their breath, while John the Constable asked whether the castle were lost. Had the pagans reached it?

  “Impossible that they should have reached it,” groaned the peasant, holding his head. “They were not seen in the town. But there are many dead in the western gate—aznaurs and Greek swordsmen. Grigol of Thor hath his skull split—”

  “Rusudan—what of her?”

  “With my eyes I saw the daughter of Karthlos ride up the ramp into the court at the hour when the moonlight passes from the dome of the Malaki. Now only God knows where she has gone, because the eyes of men cannot see her.”

  The constable gripped short his reins, and the peasant sprang aside when the white horse plunged forward.

  “In the name of the Father and Son, make way!”

  CHAPTER XXVI - THE TRAIL OF THE HORDE

  IT WAS high noon before the fate of Rusudan was known. The castellan who lay, as the peasant had said, in the courtyard with his head split open by a sword, could tell nothing, and those within the castle were certain of only one thing: The princess had come to the barbican gate with the strategos and his followers. In the courtyard there had been talk, and suddenly the clatter of steel. In that hour before dawn the place had been in darkness, and the frightened servants had seen lanthorns moving about swiftly, and the horses led from the stables.

  But Rupen of Kag, who had been listening at his window, knew the truth. Choaspes had insisted that Rusudan go with him beyond Tiflis and seek sanctuary in Trebizond, and she had refused. Then the Greeks had overpowered her few attendants and had led out every good horse from the stables. At the western gate they had met Grigol of Thor, the castellan, who had mustered a few men-at-arms when he heard the clash of weapons. Evidently the Greeks, who were in full mail, had ridden down the Georgians and had escaped from the city before dawn. They had carried off Rusudan.

  The wearied men who mustered around John the Constable took up pursuit, finding horses where they could. Shotha Kupri went off to rouse other bands in the forest.

  They came back late that night with sagging shoulders and scowling brows. They had not gained even a sight of the Greeks. Whether he had planned this move beforehand, or had taken measures for his own safety, the strategos had collected relays of fresh horses twenty miles from Tiflis and would be nearing the gates of Trebizond within the lines of the empire before the hillmen could overtake him. Nevertheless, Shotha Kupri had pushed on with some Gypsies.

  The constable and the few surviving chieftains could not leave the castle, because the Mongols might move against him any hour. Scouts from the forest reported that the Horde had gone into camp in the very hamlet where the Georgians had been quartered before the battle. And the remnants of the clans were drifting into Tiflis with their families and cattle and sheep.

  On the following day Mongol patrols advanced as far as the chapel in the firs and scanned the walls of the city.
The constable labored ceaselessly and without sleep, and the Georgians doggedly set to work carrying sheaves of arrows to the walls and making ready the cressets for lighting—if the attack should come at night. Not a man from the Kur to the castle keep who would not have given his life to have Rusudan safe among the clans. They knew that if she could be brought back, Shotha Kupri would manage it.

  “Nay,” said the mkhendruli now and again, “the Emperor has pledged aid. It cannot be that he will permit harm to come to the daughter of the Karthlos.”

  “And yet,” some responded, “the Greeks went against Grigol of Thor with edged steel.”

  They shook their heads and hastened to new labors. It was the first time that a ruler, or the child of a ruler, of the Caucasus had left the mountains. The noblewomen prayed hourly in the Malaki, and the chieftains sat with weapons in their hands.

  At the end of the week the Mongols had not come, but Shotha Kupri appeared in the hall of the keep where the thawads sat at meat.

  One glance at him, and some groaned, others took their heads in their hands.

  “The Greeks are beyond the hills,” said Shotha Kupri.

  “The Princess?” demanded John the Constable.

  “With them, bound to a sleigh. From the strategos, a letter.” Shotha Kupri held out a roll of parchment that the lord of Tiflis opened eagerly. It was in Greek, written on the back of a leaf torn from some priest’s manuscript, and he gave it to the old metropolitan to read.

  But for a moment the churchman fingered his beard, saying nothing.

  “ ’Tis addressed to Ivan,” he explained, “and the message is—secret.”

  The constable, who had been striding back and forth behind the patriarch’s chair, halted as if pricked by steel.

  “Read! I have no secrets.”

  The old man inclined his head.

  “Choaspes, Strategos of Anatolia, to John Lord of Tiflis and high Constable of Georgia—greeting. This is a time of trouble, and they who are wise will not lack fortune at the end. Thy name hath been extolled by friends at the court of the Eternal Emperor. Favor will be shown the Keeper of the Gate. The girl Rusudan, last of the Lasha lineage, is more fitted for a camp of vagabonds than a throne. Under the care of the Eternal Emperor she will meet no harm. Meanwhile a strong hand is needed in the Caucasus. Drive out the barbarians, and thou wilt earn a reward greater than that given the conqueror of Mithridates the Parthian.”

  “In God’s name,” cried the constable, “what means this?”

  The patriarch sighed and mused a while.

  “My son, the message was to thee.”

  “A hundred devils! Little skilled am I in statecraft or the writing of missives. To my mind, Choaspes tries to draw a bough over his tracks.”

  “More, Ivan. He promises more. He has carried the princess of the royal line from her people. Perhaps he will hold her hostage. Surely we must send emissaries to the monocrator, the Emperor.”

  Shotha Kupri, who had been standing in silence, lifted his hand.

  “Long have we served the Cæsars of Constantinople. We have bowed to them and sent our sons to man the legions. We have held the Gate. What was our reward? The Georgian and Circassian girls were taken not seldom and sold as slaves, not only to Greeks but to dog-believing Muhammadans. Now the Greeks have taken Rusudan. It will not avail to appeal to the Emperor. I say, ‘Go with naked swords.’ ”

  “Ay!” cried the brother of Grigol.

  “Shotha Kupri hath said well,” echoed others, nodding eagerly.

  But John the Constable smote the head of the ax in his belt.

  “Then tell me—who is to go? Where are the chieftains who will journey to the Chersonese with swords and leave the hamlets and the women to the pagans?”

  There was silence at this, and a muttering of rage at their helplessness.

  “The Greeks would have made you king,” cried the eldest of the Orphelians.

  “Choaspes has tricked us with words,” responded John the Constable, his brow darkening. “Eh, he is wiser than we. Did he not bid us to move down against the Horde?”

  “And you added your word, John of Tiflis. Now the wolves of the Kur are coming down from the timber to gorge themselves on the bodies of the mkhendruli. They will lack graves, our brothers.”

  At this they glared, one at another, remembering old feuds. The missive sent by Choaspes had been a brand that kindled suspicion and resentment among these men who had seen their kindred slain not many days since. Choaspes might have thought that the constable could be tempted, or perhaps he could not refrain from mocking the chieftains.

  The patriarch lifted both hands to quiet them, but John of Tiflis stretched out his bare right arm on which were wounds still unhealed and undressed.

  “Is that the hand of a traitor, my brothers?”

  Shotha Kupri stepped to the table, broad and surly as a scarred boar with broken tusks.

  “By the cross of Ani, you have held the standard with a firm hand! Traitor you are not, nor can the written words of Choaspes make you otherwise. Because the Greek dared not stand before us and say with his lips what he hath written down. Did he take his weapon in hand in the snows of the Kur? He did not, and that is the truth. Now let one who is wise say how we are to rescue Rusudan!”

  They all looked at the patriarch, but he shook his head moodily.

  “We cannot leave the walls,” muttered one of the Orphelians.

  “If we could,” added the constable grimly, “what then? There are two roads to the cities of the Greeks—one from Trebizond and the ships of the Great Sea. But the ships are manned by Greeks. The other, by the northern passes through the steppes.”

  “We cannot open a road, that is clear,” nodded the Orphelian. “We must trust in cunning, like a fox.”

  And they turned again hopefully to the patriarch, who sighed and clasped his hands.

  “There is no gift but from the Almighty. Pray ye to Him who is greater than the Emperor.”

  “For the ages of ages,” muttered Shotha Kupri. “Yet, as for cunning, a lamb will suckle a lioness before a Georgian will overmatch a Greek in cunning.”

  And John the Constable gripped the parchment between his fingers, tearing it into fragments and casting them into the fire.

  Though they talked until the most weary let their heads fall in slumber on the table, they could not think of a way to reach Rusudan. Calamity had come upon the Caucasus—first the Mongols, then the loss of their princess. Unwonted things were happening, and they were troubled.

  They were utterly astonished when a shepherd ran into the hall the next day with word that the Horde was moving. But not upon Tiflis. He had watched from the forest across the Kur, and the riders of the Horde had been crossing on the ice, driving the herds of cattle and captured horses.

  He had waited until he saw the first detachments enter the foothills. The Mongols were heading toward the north and the unknown steppes.

  It was several days before the Georgians would venture out of Tiflis. Having been tricked once by a feigned retreat, they feared the empty valley as much as the camp of the Horde.

  That day Hugh came before the council of the princes. He wore full mail, and some of the chieftains noticed that the falcon tablet was hung around his throat. They looked at him with attention and more than a little respect.

  Shotha Kupri had taken his part, and they had heard that he had brought Rusudan safely from the battlefield of the Kur. If Rupen, who had been crippled by the crusader’s ax, had no blame for the wanderer, they bore him no ill-will.

  Rabban Simeon had been talking to the Armenian merchants, and it was rumored that the Emperor of the Greeks had offered a thousand pieces of gold for the head of the Frank. Since the flight of the strategos feeling had been bitter against the Greeks.

  “He came to us from the pagans,” Shotha Kupri declared, “and he bore himself boldly. He warned us of calamity, and it happened as he had said. It is clear that he is no spy, but a man who has seen more
than one battle. He knows his own road. Let him go and come as he chooses.”

  Now Hugh greeted them, and asked leave of the constable to go from Tiflis.

  “Whither?” the chieftains demanded.

  “To the Chersonese.”

  Bethinking them of the thousand pieces of gold, they mused a while. If the Frank wished to put himself within reach of the executioner of the Emperor, that was his affair, not theirs.

  “It was said in the castle,” remarked the Constable, “that you have sworn an oath of fellowship with the lords of Cathay. Is that true?”

  “True.”

  “And you will go to the court of Theodore as an envoy?”

  “Nay.”

  “Well, you are free.” John of Tiflis nodded and pulled at his mustache. “Eh, Sir Hugh, we would well that you abide with us. Here you will not lack for bread and meat and wine.”

  “For your courtesy, my lord,” Hugh made answer, “I thank you. But I have far to go.”

  That day he rode from the western gate of the citadel, Shotha Kupri escorting him as far as the edge of the forest before turning back.

  “Go with God, Sir Hugh. Remember that the merchant Trevisani may be in Trebizond, and he is no friend to you.”

  Hugh smiled, looking down the narrow track that ran through the forest mesh.

  “Nay, I have few friends, Lord Prince. But I have the sword Durandal, and that will serve me well.”

  Shotha Kupri watched the crusader until he was lost to sight around a turn in the trail; then he sought Rupen and found the ax-man sitting by the door of Rusudan’s vacant chambers.

  “Eh,” said the master of Kag slowly, “the Frank came many times to share a cup with me. It is clear to me why he fares forth to the Chersonese.”

  Shotha Kupri considered this in silence.

  “The Father and Son know,” went on Rupen, “that I held Rusudan dearer than life. Messer Antonio tricked me with words so that I challenged the Frank, and he struck me down. Choaspes sought her, hiding his desire from all eyes, because he was clever and wary as a fox.”