by Harold Lamb
The great gate was unbarred and pushed back by the Tatars, who shouted down to their detachment on the far side.
"The way is open. The arrow stitches of vengeance have been taken. Come!"
Nial was setting a guard over the captured weapons when the cavalry from the Zarafshan camp filed past. Among the officers he recognized the long body and impassive face of Chagan, who had been at his heels since their meeting on the post road.
"Ai, Chagan," he called, "thou wilt find the silver tube that bore the tamgha of Barka Khan hidden in safety beneath the stones of the shrine beside the trail three days' ride down the Zarafshan."
"I will send for it. Yet now I no longer follow thy track, Nial. The order was given me to join this command to advance to Paldorak." He glanced curiously at the throngs of prisoners and the piled-up weapons behind the Scot. "Eh, it is well that I need not take thee and bind thee as a prisoner now."
In a week the aspect of the valley had changed. The Kara Kalpaks had scattered to distant haunts in the hills, herded off by patrols of the cavalry. Paldorak, divested of its unruly clans, had settled down to its village routine of cattle tending; many of the hillmen were busied under Basankor's orders in repairing the ruined citadel that would be the station henceforth of a Tatar garrison.
Already a caravan was being assembled, in readiness to make the first trip in years from Paldorak to the Far East, through the passes to Kashgar. This caravan was to take with it, as an offering to the great khan, Kublai, the spoil found in Gutchluk's chambers.
And Nial asked Basankor for permission to travel with it.
"Yes, certainly," the gur-khan assented readily. "It is a small thing as reward. Thou didst show us the path to enter Paldorak."
"Nay," Nial responded moodily, "it was a girl who opened the path."
Basankor clucked politely, inwardly wondering; he had seen no such woman. But then he considered the farangi a little mad.
Abu Harb had been absent from the city, rounding up sundry stray ponies that he had roped and hidden in a ravine, and not until the day of the caravan's departure did he hurry in to say farewell to the Scot. He searched down the line of kneeling camels without finding him. Nor was he with the Tatar officers. The Arab traced him to the lake and found him pacing through a poplar grove where a heap of broken sandstone lay against an outcropping of rock.
"Wallahi," he exclaimed, "what is this? It is the hour of departure. Where is thy horse?"
"Waiting."
Puzzled, the old Arab seated himself on the stones, and presently bethought him of the shrine and the khan's missive that had been found in it.
"Eh, Lord Nial, then it is true that the girl Alai hid it away. I knew naught of it. Ai-a, she was a piece of my liver, the delight of my one eye. May Allah watch over her."
Nial, on the point of telling the Arab that he sat beside her grave, realized that he wished to tell no one where the grave lay.
"After all," Abu Harb ruminated, scratching his ribs, "she was a woman. She loved thee. Thou wert blind in both eyes. Once she wept, saying that after she had lain once in thine arms, thou wouldst hold her fast in thy heart. But it did not happen."
"Yet it did happen," Nial said under his breath.
"Eh, what?"
"It is time to mount my horse."
He glanced around the grove, then strode away so swiftly that Abu Harb barely kept pace with him.
"Well," the Arab muttered, "that is the way. An hour for a girl, but a man must follow the path of war. May Allah shield thee-thou wert as a son to me, a piece of Iny liver. Before setting out, it would be well to buy more ponies, good ones, accustomed to the mountains. I have such. The very ones to delight thy heart."
Renald weighed three hundred and fourteen pounds, and the horse that carried him must be a horse indeed. He could eat at a sitting more than any two of his men-which was a great feat-and he had a tankard in his hand more often than a sword. His flesh was the color of crushed grapes. They said of him that he had a tight fist and a nimble mind, but he loved a jest well.
When he took the Cross and vowed to go to Jerusalem he got as far as the Taurus Mountains in Asia Minor. There, in the year of Grace one thousand and one hundred and six, he stormed and gained the castle of Montevirbo, which had been the stronghold of a Turkish sultan. It overlooked vineyards and cattle country, and my lord Renald stayed there with his knights and men-at-arms. Wine, women, and beef-he had them there, and was well content, at Montevirbo. In time, of course, he would go on to Jerusalem; meanwhile he pillaged the neighboring hills of anything that struck his fancy-droves of horses, silver and carved ivory, silks from Cathay, and jewels of all sorts. Here every man was his own master, if he had swords enough to follow him. And here Renald lived as he had lived in Normandy, where they called him a robber baron.
But he did not go near one castle, although Syrian merchants who wanted to buy from him the plunder of the Tower of the Ravens told him it was rich indeed. My lord Renald said little to his men about that. He meditated upon it frequently-the Tower of the Ravens.
It was not a Christian dwelling, nor a Moslem khalat, and he thought it was without a master at this time. But it had upon it a power of protection that even Renald respected. No, he would not go near it, himself. He could not send one of his vassals.
Because the tower belonged to the emperor of Byzantium, or to one of his immortals, as they called themselves. Byzantium* lay off there to the north, and Renald had never seen it. The last remnant of Rome in Asia it was, and the emperor served strange gods. He defended himself with a mysterious fire that could not be quenched, even upon the sea. And he had his slaves throughout all Asia. Besides, he was allied with the crusaders.
That would not have troubled Renald much, but the Syrians had told him long tales of the fire that burned on the sea and daggers that flew in the darkness, and he wracked his brains about the Tower of the Ravens. Until that midday at table, when the thought came to him that he could send another man-a stranger-to sack the Tower of the Ravens. And surely, if he lent his swordsmen to the stranger, he could claim anything that was found there.
And he had this thought because Hugh of Dol sat at the table. He pushed away his goblet, belched comfortably, wiped his chin and spoke.
"By the Horned One," he rumbled, "they tell me there is no chant you cannot sing and no horse you cannot back. Have you heart for a venture, Hugh?"
"If it likes me." Thus said the minstrel, who called himself Hugh of Dol.
The bearded knights around him stretched their legs under the table and stared at him mockingly, as a wolf pack eyes a newcomer. They were northerners-Normans-and the minstrel was of the south, of Provence.
He had a dark and thin face and a quick smile, and eyes that were steady and bold. He carried a long, light sword in a worn leather sheath. His cloak, worn with a flourish over one shoulder, was embroidered with gold, yet stained and faded by weather. That afternoon he had come to the gate of Montevirbo and thrown his rein to Bellame, the sergeant-at-arms. And Bellame had said in the hall that the minstrel's horse was Arab bred, fit for a lord. He added that the Provencal knew horses, because he had saddled and backed the spotted Turkish charger in the loose corral-having seen the men of Montevirbo trying to break in the horse when he went to the stables with the Arab.
"'Tis an enterprise," Renald explained, "will win you gear and gold. I have set my mind upon the sacking of a small tower, yet I dare not leave Montevirbo or these circumcised dogs, the Turks, will be after raiding it."
"What is your quarrel with the lord of this tower?" the minstrel asked carelessly.
"God's faith-I have not set eyes upon him. Yet is he a pagan, and so it will be a good deed to lighten him of his goods. Nay more, the Syrians say he is from home, and you will find no more than a small guard at the tower. Ride to the village of Baalbek, then east through the burned fields and look for the gray tower on the line of hills to the north. I'll give you twenty horsemen, full armed."
When
the Normans at the table would have spoken, Renald checked them by a gesture. He knew his man. These Provenecals were hotheaded and poor as plucked crows. Hugh of Dol had not the manner of a proper minstrel; he was some lordling's son with an empty purse faring from one castle to another and making shift to sing a ballad to pay for his board and bed-aye, working his way to the Holy City.
"A third of all you find will be for your keeping," Renald urged. "What, lad, you have fed in my hall. Does a man of Provence need to be bid twice to a venture?"
"I'll go."
The minstrel smiled, looking around at the five dour knights, Renald's vassals who sat by him, at the long-limbed esquires of arms who waited upon the table; but he kept his thoughts to himself.
"And, faith," he said softly, "it will not be the first time a Provencal rode where six Normans would not go."
Before anyone could cry out at that, Renald roared with laughter.
"A fair jest and a good gibe, Hugh of Dol," he acknowledged. "Now I promise to keep my retrievers in check and leave the field of the tower to you on the morrow. Mark ye, lad, they say in Provence, 'A swift horse and a swift sword'-but gold and gear is not to be passed by. The hour is late. I'll bid them light you to your bed. By nightfall on the morrow you'll be the richer by me."
And when the stranger was gone, he turned upon his liegemen who had chaffed at the minstrel's words.
"Will you bay like dogs when I have a matter to be done? This man from Dol knows not that the Tower of the Ravens is under the emperor's protection. He will go and gut it-I'll send Bellame to lend a hand-and the emperor's anger will fall on him, as the leader of the raiders. By then this man of Dol will be off on his way."
And my lord Renald, well content, loosened his belt to make room for yet another tankard of wine.
Hugh, the minstrel of Dol, turned in his saddle and looked at his men. They were climbing the mountain path in single file. Bellame, the sergeantat-arms, rode behind Hugh, and the glow of sunset flamed on the man's broad, sweating face and red beard. The Norman horsemen-long-limbed, powerful fellows, well clad in mail-made little noise. This was not their first raid and they knew that the ridge of the mountain was near.
"Faith," laughed Hugh, 'Ais well named."
Through the thick growth of cypress and lofty pine he had a glimpse of the tower's summit. It was round and gray, dark against the ruddy clouds, and black crows rose from it with a clamor and flew off. Bellame glanced up appraisingly.
"The lord of the mesnie is not there. They have no banner displayed."
The minstrel looked down at the tilled land below the forest-deserted orange groves and vineyards. The long handle of a well sweep stuck up into the air. It was good land, and fine pasture for cattle, but he had seen no slaves at work, and not so much as a sheep grazing.
"This is not a good road," he said over his shoulder. "There must be another."
"Aye," nodded the gray-haired sergeant, "on the far side of the ridge, for I have seen it. This, I ween, is the cattle path."
Hugh noticed that many horses had been that way not long since. The dry clay was hard, and the light bad under the trees, and he could not make out more than that. A stone, loosened by a horse's hoof, clattered down into the brush and the minstrel thought he heard voices above him in the twilight.
But no one appeared on the path, and it was almost dark when they crossed a fallow field and plunged into gloom again. Hugh reined in suddenly, and Bellame came to his side. Within a spear's length of them a stone wall was visible. The gates stood open between the gate towers, so that the raiders had almost passed the wall without seeing it.
Hearing only the snuffling and clamping of the horses behind him, Hugh rode forward after a moment. He expected to find huts and stables within the wall; instead he made out lines of poplars and dim shrubbery that seemed to be a garden. Under the starlight, water glinted in a pool, and he sniffed the fragrance of acacias.
Clear against the afterglow of sunset, the round tower loomed with a cluster of flat roofed buildings at its base. Light shone from several embrasures of the tower, but the houses beneath were dark.
"Look'ee, Messer Hugh! " Bellame's breath, heavy with ale, struck against his ear.
The sergeant pointed to the right, where a white figure stood motionless upon a square stone. Hugh peered at it and smiled. It was a slender warrior leaning on his spear, a strange round helmet covering his head.
"A statue," the minstrel explained, but Bellame went over to examine it.
"'Tis a stone pikeman," he admitted, "with a king's casque on his skull, and not even a shirt to his body. God send that I never need to stand watch unbreeched like that." He stooped to listen and shook his head. "Not a dog to bark at us. 'Tis no proper watch they keep, wi' the gates swung wide and yonder tower lighted like a beacon."
"A true word!" A hoarse whisper came from the cluster of Normans. "The powers of evil have been here afore us."
"Still thy gabble, Giles o' the Sheds!" growled Bellame.
"Nay, 'tis a true thing," spoke up another voice, "and where are the horses that climbed the path ahead of us, by token of the fresh dung that lay there?"
"By the body of Lazarus, I'll clip the tongue of him that speaks next!"
It was Hugh of Dol who spoke then in his deep voice.
"Dismount," he said, "and wait for me here. I will go forward and look at the tower. If I shout, come after me. If you hear weapon play, do as you will."
He knew that the Normans were uneasy, not because of possible danger but because the garden and the castle were silent-apparently deserted and yet occupied. Bellame offered to go with him, and he told the sergeant to remain and keep the men in charge. Then he gave the rein of his horse to the sergeant, swung down from the stirrup and paused to wrap his cloak around his left arm. He carried no shield.
He took his time going forward, keeping near the hedges and the lines of statues. The light from the stars and a quarter moon was enough for him to make out a long line of outbuildings beyond the garden that he took to be the stables. He went around a wellhead and climbed to a tiled terrace cluttered with bales and carts. Here he stopped to listen by the black square of an open door.
Although he heard nothing, he took for granted that the guards of the castle were above in the tower. He was used to making his way about the forest in the dark, and this was not his first night ride. The wars of that age had taken toll of him, for the household of Dol had been stormed and sacked and left to the flames when he was a child, and in the years since then he had fared alone, gaining a living in the hospitable halls of the nobles of Provence.
He knew well that Renald of Montevirbo had sent him on a pawn's errand to this place, but he was free to act as he chose, and he saw no reason yet to draw back. This was a pagan household and he had need of gold. The minstrel drew his sword and strode into the door-a narrow postern-probing the darkness with the point of his weapon.
The chamber proved to be small and led to a passage that brought him out into the open air again. Now he saw the plan of the castle. The outer building was shaped like a rough circle. He had passed through it and had come forth upon a balcony that overlooked the inner court. But this hollow was a moat-the water gleamed dark many feet below him. In the center rose the mass of the tower, sheer from the water. The tower was the keep of the castle, and it could be defended even if the outbuilding was carried. After a long scrutiny Hugh saw that a narrow wooden bridge crossed the moat to the tower. And from his balcony steps ran down to the end of this bridge.
"Faith," he thought. "They've left the draw down and lighted the keep as if for guests."
The place was unreasonably quiet. Either its warders had set a clumsy kind of trap for him, or the tower was deserted. Hugh could see into one of the lighted embrasures, although only a bit of the room within was visible through the slot in the stone. He could make out the corner of a disordered bed and a bench lying on its side. It looked empty enough, this round tower in the water within t
he castle.
The minstrel felt his way down the damp steps and crossed the wooden bridge. The ironbound door was not latched, and he thrust it open with his foot. It swung back slowly and clanked against the stone wall within. A lighted lantern hung from a bracket in the hall, and after a moment's scrutiny the minstrel entered without hesitation and took down the lantern.
Swiftly he went through the hall and up the steps. A few moments later he seated himself on the edge of a bed and laughed. The Tower of the Ravens had been pillaged-looted from hall to roof.
"Plucked like a capon," he thought.
Even the bed had been pulled apart, the silk sheets tossed on the tile floor. The chests had been shaken out, leaving piles of woman's gear all about him. A scent of rose water and incense hung in the air. Something had been wrenched out of the wall above the bed; broken plaster littered the lace pillows. Only the gilt crowns remained upon the bed posts. Whoever had owned this room was a nobleman, or noblewoman.
The looters must have been well rewarded. This tower was really a palace, built in the days of old Rome-the marble columns in the corners gleamed with the polish of ages. All the lamps and candleholders had vanished, and the guttering candles were stuck haphazardly upon ebony tables. Hugh eyed them thoughtfully.
The raiders had lighted those candles. So they had been in the tower when he and his men climbed the path in the rear. The light up here on the summit had been good enough to see by, until then. Had the raiders left by the main road, on the other side of the ridge? Laden men travel slowly in the dark. Their torches might be visible from the tower. He rose to investigate and stopped abruptly.
In the outer darkness a dog howled, as if it had come upon the carcass of a man. And Hugh, straining his ears, heard a faint stamping of hoofs.