by Harold Lamb
When she spoke to him, John of the Mount felt disturbed and irresolute in mind. Now he could not think of any words at all, and the younger Mocenigo smiled. Seeing this, the knight turned to him and dismounted.
"A word with you, messire."
Into the other pavilion he strode, flinging himself down upon an ebony bench. The air of the darkened tent was fragrant with the scent of sandal, the walls were hung with silk saddlebags, and serviceable chests stood against the two sleeping pallets. Upon one of these the old Mocenigo seated himself, caressing the ivory head of his staff, his eyes moving restlessly from his son to Khalil, who had chosen to sit unbidden in the shade of the entrance, and then to the giant Italian crossbowman who came to stand behind Khalil. The Mocenigo sire understood no Norman speech.
"Have you come hither, in truth," Sir John broke the constrained silence, "without the protection of the Moslems-of the Emir of Damascus?"
The youth looked at him curiously.
"Why should we pay for a safeguard we need not? And what, pray, is this word of yours we fain must hear? I have little joy i' this talk."
"Be that as it may, you are now upon my lands."
"The Well of Moses is yours?"
"The well here, at this spot, is dry. The Well of Moses lies a half league distant. Now this must be said between us: your men are not at home in this country, and you stand in peril of your lives. For yourselves I care not. But for the woman who is the niece of Kerak, I do care. Even now a Moslem caravan is within sight-know ye that?"
"By Saint Bacchus, I did not."
Many things were clear to the knight. These merchants had left the proper road; they had camped at a dry well. Strong as their following might be-they had nearly forty men-at-arms-they did not seem fit for desert travel. But the cold faces of the Italians were set against his warning. In this day and place no man might trust a stranger. Along the frontier few could be found who would not sell their kin for a good price.
"It is clear tome-" Sir John looked from one to the other-"that I must guard the demoiselle across the desert to Kerak."
"What would be our surety, if we yielded her to you?"
"My word."
"Undoubtedly, your word is good." The younger Mocenigo smiled. "But we have pledged the patriarch of Jerusalem to deliver the maid, unharmed, to the Lord of Kerak-since we are journeying thither."
Sir John was silent a moment.
"Then," he said reluctantly, "I must join your company with my men."
The two Italians spoke together swiftly, and the elder fumbled in his cloak. He took out a small leather wallet, loosening the cord and letting a stream of coins run into his other hand. Replacing the gold, he tied the wallet and thrust it across the table to the knight. Sir John looked up inquiringly.
"Messire," said the younger merchant, "this is payment for intrusion upon your lands and for your trouble, otherwise. We have no need of your escort to Kerak."
The gray eyes of the swordsman gleamed, and again his cheeks flushed dark. He picked up the wallet, weighed it in his hand and tossed it across the table. Then he left the tent, summoning Khalil from an interested inspection of the Italian crossbow. The Kurd, after a glance at his companion's face, strode after him silently.
"Where is Ibrahim?" the knight asked.
Khalil nodded toward the horses. Ibrahim had taken possession of the rein of Sir John's charger and was squatting in the nearest shade, thus establishing in the eyes of the distant Arabs his right to serve the Lord of the Mount. He rose when the knight approached and held the stirrup.
"Ibrahim," said Sir John, "knowest thou this sword?" And he touched the steel pommel of the weapon at his side.
The sword, a long, curved saber of Damascus make, was an old blade, inlaid with gold, although hilt and pommel were plain. It had a broad head, sweeping to the point, and men said they had seen its owner take it within his fingers and bend point to pommel.
"Aye, verily," said Ibrahim.
"Then wilt thou feel it within thy ribs if thou liest to me, now." Sir John spoke under his breath, but the old Arab shivered. "These Franks of the caravan say that no Moslems have been seen near here. If thou hast lied in the first place, it is forgiven. Confess, and I shall not lay hand upon thee. But if now thou liest, it shall be as I said. So bethink thee and say truly whether the Moslem horsemen were by the Well of Moses."
The tribesman breathed deep, and his bent fingers twisted in the strands of his gray beard.
"All things are appointed by Allah," he replied wearily. "And it may be that this is the hour and place appointed for my death." He looked up into the crusader's eyes. "I know not what these others say, but I saw the camels and the men as I told thee."
Sir John gripped the pommel of his sword, then his hand dropped and he called to his men to mount and ride off.
"Nay, not to the road-to the gully yonder."
"What is upon thee?" Khalil asked; and added, "Why didst thou throw back the gold? It was a good sum."
"It would have made me no better than a dog," the crusader responded through set teeth. "And now there is trouble upon my head. Tell me, canst thou manage thy horse at all times?"
"Can I breathe?" Khalil wondered. "Can-"
"Then mount thy saddle and keep close behind me, and be ready to ride off at any instant. But go into the ravine after the others. Is this clear to thee?"
"Aye, certainly," muttered the Kurd, his lean face alight with curiosity.
For a moment Sir John surveyed the bare stretch of the road, the deepening shadow of the cliff, where the Italian men-at-arms loitered, having put down their weapons at the departure of the strangers. He even looked up at the summit of the cliff, and at the young Mocenigo who stood talking to the girl at the pavilion. Leading his charger, he went toward them slowly, Khalil pacing behind him.
"Demoiselle," he said, "it is time to bid farewell."
Her brow puckered a little, as if she were trying to see the face under the shadow of the white silk.
"And yet-" she smiled-"I would not have thee leave, messire, without a cup of wine."
Although Mocenigo seemed ill pleased, she took a silver goblet from the serving woman and held it out toward him.
"Nay-" he laughed-"'tis time for thee to bid farewell to these others." And he tossed the goblet to the ground, slipping the rein over his arm. Bending forward swiftly, he caught her about the knees and the waist-turned and thrust her up, into Khalil's arms. "Now, ride," he said.
He moved aside as Mocenigo, snatching out a poniard, struck at him. Khalil, astonished, gripped his prize in a sinewy arm and wheeled his plunging horse. The crusader's charger snorted and started forward as the rein was slipped over his head. Sir John got a foot in the stirrup and was in the saddle when the Italian threw the long knife. It slapped into the crusader's cloak, the point catching in the links of his mail. Another moment, and the two horsemen were galloping clear of the tents.
"Bows!" screamed Mocenigo. "A thousand pieces to the knave who brings down a horse!"
But it took time to wind the crossbows and when the first quarrels whined in the air the riders were passing out of range. And it took longer to saddle the horses, so that the two had joined their men in the ravine before the Italians were able to go after them through the turns of the gully.
"I will take the maid," Sir John said then, "and do thou look to it that they do not press us too close."
"By the Lord," grumbled Khalil, "thou art a fool not to have taken the gold instead."
Marguerite de Chatillon brushed some of the dust from the solitary bench with the edge of her skirt and sat down. She was quite sore in her slender waist and knees, because it is no light matter to be carried at a gallop over rough country. Moreover, she was very hot. The cool air in the dark tower chamber felt pleasant after the sun, but it did not quench her anger.
Everything in the cell, from the hard pallet to the crucifix on the wall, was coated with dust; and Marguerite had searched in vain for a mirr
or. The single narrow embrasure overlooked a courtyard full of noisy infidels and clattering men-at-arms-quite different from the quiet garden and the cloisters of Mount Sion. Marguerite sat very still and thought. When she heard a knock at the door, she shook her tawny hair back from her shoulders, and said quietly-
"Come in."
She was more than ready to speak her mind to the lord of this tower.
But a native woman appeared, her bare feet moving noiselessly over the stones. She carried clean linen and a mattress stuffed with straw and, after staring without any evidence of pleasure at the girl, she proceeded to make up the bed. A second woman entered with a silver tray bearing wine and grapes and a bowl of water. This Marguerite did not touch. Presently they came back hurriedly with a towel and a parchment book.
When they had gone, the girl picked up the book and opened the stiff pages. It was a book of psalms, and music. She replaced it on the stand and, since she did not cease to be thirsty, she had reached for the wine when Sir John came in.
She knew his height and his stride and the long sword in the curved leather sheath, although he was now fully clad in mail and he had discarded his headdress for a battle casque. Because this was a solid cylinder of steel with only a narrow slit before the eyes, she could see nothing of his face. So, she thought, he had the manner of a brigand, to enter a woman's chamber wearing his helm. But she said nothing at all.
"Will you not take some wine?" he muttered, standing rigid before her.
"I thank you-I will not," and she took up the psalter, turning the leaves indifferently. And when Sir John continued to watch her in silence, she went on, as if to make conversation, "Know ye, Sir Rogue, that the Lord of Kerak will come with his spears and break through this tower of yours, pulling stone from stone. He will hang your men and take your life for this hour's work."
The man in armor seemed to ponder this.
"He could do all of that," he said, "but I do not think he will." And he went over to inspect the bed. "Is this comfortable?"
Receiving no answer, he explained.
"This place is the priest's hole. We have had no woman at the Mount for years, and so we lack woman's gear of all kind. The Arab wenches say they have no sugared fruits or tidbits of such nature. But if you will tell me, demoiselle, what other articles you may need-"
"Where are the chains?" she asked hotly.
"Chains-chains? Why, you may walk where you will!"
"Even from the gate?"
"Aye so, but not this day. The Venetians will be coming hither. But when we are rid of them, I will find you a fair horse, and the Mount lacks not falcons or hunting dogs for your sport."
"It is a most hospitable place," she assented. "But I find these same merchants more chivalrous than the Lord of the Mount, since they will adventure their lives for my sake."
If she could have seen Sir John's face then she would have known that he was sorely troubled and ill at ease. He had come to reassure the girl, but her talk of chains and chivalry set him aback. He knew so little of the language of romance.
"They must needs do it," he corrected. "If I have judged them aright. Did not they ask the patriarch to allow you to travel with them?"
Taking her silence for consent, he went on thoughtfully:
"This must be said. The Venetians were leagues from their proper road, and they told you they awaited an escort. Well, that is true. The Yamanite swore to me that he had seen such an escort waiting at the Well of Moses-a Moslem caravan, equipped for a woman's travel. Now the Venetians came to a dry well, which they took to be the Well of Moses. They would not come to the Mount for protection, nor accept aid from me. I could no longer linger in the plain with the Moslem riders within smell. So I carried you hither, demoiselle."
The demoiselle sat up very straight and opened her lips twice before she uttered a word.
"That is a clown's tale-a most stupid mummer's gibe. Why did you bring me hither?"
"So that you would not be sold to a Moslem emir. The Venetians could have gained eight thousand gold byzants by selling you."
"For me-eight thousand pieces of gold?" She shook her head slowly. "Nay, that is surely false. No slave would bring such a price."
"You are fairer than any woman who ever set foot beyond the sea. God knows the truth of that. And yet it is true that the emirs would pay less for you than for some Persian singing girl who has been taught the ways of pleasure. But for the niece of the Lord of Kerak they would pay all of that, because the Lord of Kerak would have to ransom you, even at the cost of his castle. And he is the foe most feared by the Emir of Damascus."
"Messer Mocenigo did not take me to Damascus."
"Nay, to the Well of Moses, upon my land. If the Moslems came for you-a secret payment, a mock attack, and you would have been in their hands. And no accusation could then be laid upon the Mocenigos. The dogs offered me a purse, which would have tied my tongue."
"They said an escort from Kerak would be waiting here."
"And they told me they themselves were journeying with you to Kerak."
Marguerite wished she could see the face behind the cylinder of steel. The Venetians had been most courteous to her.
"And where, Master Rogue," she asked, "is the proof of this thy tale?"
John of the Mount wished that she could understand Arabic, for the Norman words shaped awkwardly here upon the border. What proof lay in a wolf's track, or the shadow of a hand uplifted? Yet by such things men lived or died here.
And then like a ragged prophet of Israel, the old Ibrahim swept into the room without apology of any kind. Where he came from, Sir John could not guess, because he had last seen the Yamanite scurrying into the brush of the ravine.
"Wallahi!" he cried eagerly. "Behold, my lord, the caravan is here."
The knight strode to the embrasure, and for a moment the two men looked forth with evident interest. Then Sir John swung out of the chamber, calling to her over his shoulder to keep away from the arrow slot.
Before his tread had died down the stair, Marguerite was at the embrasure, and it seemed to her that pandemonium reigned outside the tower. Women were screaming and pulling cows through the courtyard gate. Dogs barked, and children tumbled over sheep. The whole Arab village was cramming itself within the walls of the castle.
Through the open gate the girl saw the familiar Italian horsemen riding into the village And with them came strange Moslem riders carrying a green banner and followed by a string of camels. Even while she watched, the gates of the Mount swung shut, and men-at-arms took their stand along the parapet.
Sir John thrust his way through the bedlam of the courtyard and climbed to one of the small gate towers with Khalil. For awhile she could see the Venetians and their companions ascending toward the rock. Then the wall shut them from sight, and presently silence fell like a curtain upon the courtyard.
She heard Sir John speak to men beyond the wall, but could not catch the words. Then he lifted his shield. Something bright flashed in the sun above his head. The men near him crouched down behind the stone parapet, some of them stringing their bows, others busying themselves about clumsy-looking wooden engines. She heard the thud-thud of missiles striking against the tower.
One of the Arab women came and pulled her back to the bed, and she sat there, listening. At home she had seen no more of war than the tournaments of Chatillon, but her kinsmen had borne arms, and she knew the sounds of a siege.
For awhile she watched the slit of blue sky deepening with the purple of sunset and wondered what was passing at the wall. The tumult, that had quieted, now grew apace, and the Arab girl went to the embrasure. Marguerite followed at once. The sun was setting behind the tower and crimson light flooded the rear of the wall and the gate. The villagers had withdrawn from it and four men stood close behind it-Sir John and Khalil and two men-at-arms with axes. Bewildered, she saw that they were taking down the massive iron bars that held the portals shut.
When the last bar was free, they swu
ng back the gates, clear of the entrance. And then all four of them took their stand shoulder to shoulder athwart the threshold, Sir John and Khalil in the middle, a pace before the others.
Above their heads Marguerite beheld a thing that made her clasp her hands, and the girl beside her breathed heavily. A score of men in mail, Moslem and Italian, rushed at the open gate, sword in hand. They shouted as they ran, and the wailing cry of Islam echoed against the tower.
"Allah-il-allahi!"
And with a spring and crash the wooden engines on the wall shot their stones and iron bolts. Some of the running men were dashed from their feet and others flinched aside. The rest flung themselves on Sir John and the Kurd.
The two swordsmen planted their feet, bracing their shields. Above their heads the long, curved blades swung, and slashed down. First one, then the other stepped back, and leaped forward again. At times the axmen behind them would strike over their shoulders.
The men on the wall were hurling down heavy stones, and the engines crashed again, over the tumult of shouting and grinding steel. More of the Venetians flung themselves against Sir John, and the long sword whirled and slashed-parried and cut while Khalil yelped in exultation and the archers above plied their bows.
Then the pressure of the attack ceased, and Marguerite saw men running down the slope. The glow of sunset faded along the wall and the gates were shut. But soon another glow sprang up in the village, where the mounds of hay and thorn bush were burning, and the Damascus men were plundering the huts. The village Arabs thronged the wall to stare down moodily at this destruction of their property. But Ibrahim the Yamanite slipped through the postern door in the rear, and when things quieted down toward morning he managed to steal two good horses from the besiegers' camp. With these he departed on an errand for Sir John.
Marguerite climbed the winding stair and seated herself upon the sunny parapet of the tower the next noon, to the delight of the solitary archer who stood sentry and who now found something more agreeable to look at than the bare countryside and the purple cleft of the Jordan gorge. And Marguerite beheld, in the camp of the besiegers, her own pavilion and the tiny figures that were her serving women. In that pavilion were all her clothes and brushes and chests. And yet even in the pitiless light of midday the girl seemed cool and fresh.