by Harold Lamb
Then he heard a woman laugh softly behind him and he swung around quickly enough.
She had not meant to pose there. Only she looked like a painting, like the stiff dragon on the shield. For pearl strings lay heavy on her young shoulders, and silver tissue made a crown on her dark hair. Such things did not fit her because her lips were quivering with laughter, and her eyes merry and knowing. She was holding a silver tray and on that tray, a dish of salt and a piece of broken bread.
"Chlieb sol," she said, curtsying. She chattered at him, the words meaning nothing to Mark. He had not seen a maid like this in his life's time, because he was newly come out of the East. "Eheu, hospes," she cried at him. "Oh, guest, speak, can't you?"
She was speaking Latin then, and Mark had once been taught that language by a wandering friar. Only this youthful Marya rattled it out like a bird singing: "I greet you, sir. And the bread and salt of my house I offer you."
A side of mutton was what Mark craved. Swearing silently, he took a morsel of bread, dipped it in the salt and chewed it. Then the girl Marya in her queenly garb fetched him a gold cup of spiced wine.
It felt heavy in his hand, and he guessed the gold to be solid and old. As he drank, he thought that this cup, slipped into his bag, would pay his way to Venice. "A kiss with the cup is good," he grinned, remembering a verse that the friar had not taught him.
For a second, Parma Marya's eyes searched his. Then they widened, fastening upon something on his shoulder. "A kiss, truly," she whispered, slipping up to him, taking his hand. She still looked into his eyes when his lips touched hers and his arm pressed hard against her slim back.
"Nay, you will spill the wine." She smiled. "I did not know that you were crucifer. An honor it is, so to greet a cross-bearer."
No more had Mark known that he was a crusader. The black mantle he wore had a cross sewn on the shoulder because it had belonged to his father.
But Parma Marya acted as if Michael the Archangel had dismounted in her hall. She clapped her hands, she cried out, the towheaded maids scurried around like hens when grain is scattered, old men climbed into the gallery among the stag heads and began to make music. The men-at-arms clanked around Mark, jabbering, and Marya skipped back to interpret.
The giant Kmita, captain of the men-at-arms, pulled off his iron cap and swept his beard below his belt in a bow.
"My people say it is a good omen that you should come at this hour," cried the girl. "And I say so, too."
She led him to the high seat by the fire and made him sit where the gold service gleamed on the boards, while a flustered maid offered him a silver basin of water to rinse his hands before eating.
Kmita drove the maids back to the hearth and brought the platters of smoking pigeon and pork and venison to Mark himself, bowing each time. It was the custom of her people, Marya explained-the Polish people. Didn't he know? He shook his head, eating fast.
When he got up, taking his bag on his arm, Marya looked at him, dismayed.
"But it is night. You must sleep and rest and break your fast with us, Mark!"
He did not think he had heard aright. "You mean to stay?"
"I? Yes."
"Here, in this castle?"
The girl Marya seemed to be troubled because he did not understand. She had been visiting Krakow, she said, for the Easter festival when she had heard the country was invaded. So she had hurried back to the Dragon-as she called the castle.
"You think you can defend this place?" Mark asked. "With what?"
Hesitating, she pointed at Kmita and the henchmen, chewing tranquilly at their meat.
Mark shook his head impatiently. "Lady, the horsemen who follow after me have laid Cathay in waste. Men say that they cracked open Kiev like a melon, and now they may be venturing into these mountains of yours-"
"True-we know. But I had hope" -her gray eyes appealed to him-"that you, a war wager, might abide with us."
How her eyes held him! He could feel the touch of her lips and he did not want to leave her behind.
"Listen"-he was glad the henchmen could not understand him-"it is too late now to evacuate the folks here. But we can drive our horses tonight and with luck get others at Krakow. Change your dress." He glanced at the old-fashioned strings of pearls. "Take your jewels in a bag. Have a fast horse saddled, but hurry!"
The girl Marya gripped tight the carved arms of her chair. "To go away, with you? Only we two?"
"It's a chance, a good chance. What did you say about an omen?" Mark was thinking of the road ahead, full of refugees. "In a month we can be in Venice. And if Venice is not safe, then, there is the sea and England."
"Eng-land?" She did not seem to understand. She said something-about her father the castellan, and her grandfather, and the way they had built the castle, and something else about a dragon that watched over it, protecting it.
"Dragons are not what they were," Mark laughed. It was so like the girl to think of a legend at a time like this. "Not in these days."
"But this one is!" She brushed the mass of dark hair from her cheeks and smiled at him. "Come! I want you to see!"
Slinging the bag on his arm, he followed her out of the hall through the massive doorway of the donjon. "Now, look," she said, holding to the door.
Bedlam resounded outside. Torches flared in the courtyard where wild figures pushed through the outer gate-huntsmen with game on their shoulders, peasants pushing long wagons creaking under loads of kegs and sacks of food. Women with babies lashed in shawls behind their backs, and older children herding in steers and sheep.
Mark recognized these people as refugees he had passed on the road.
"My father said the castle was of ours in time of peace, and it is for them in time of war. They have no other place to go."
"By the eyes of God," Mark muttered, "are you coming?"
"I-they would not know what to do without me."
Her fingers caught at his and then let go. Why had he sat here gossiping like a midwife for two hours?
He jumped down the steps, pushing toward his horse. "Close the gate and knock out those torches!" he shouted, his skin cold with the feel of danger here. Swinging into the saddle of the roan mare, he rode through the gate without looking back.
At the main road he stopped, listening. Evidently the Poles were all inside the castle, because he could hear nothing. But down the road the way he had come, a gray patch blacked out and then reappeared. Something was moving there without making any noise.
Wheeling the roan mare he trotted up the road. Drawing the morning star from his belt he held it where the chains would not jangle. He did not see the riders ahead of him until he was close to them.
There were three of them, waiting, silent. Mark dug in his spurs, bent his head and swung up the battle mace. A bow snapped and something jarred against the steel mail above his belt.
He took the middle rider on his right hand and lashed out with the morning star. The spiked balls smashed into metal and flesh, and that man fell from the saddle. Mark spurred through between the others.
He did not see the rope that caught him over the head and shoulder. Since he was bending forward, it tore him from the saddle when it tightened. Hours later he saw that one of the Mongols had a pole tipped with a long rope ending in a noose. If Mark had seen it cast-
But he felt the dirt of the road in his fingers and the soft run of blood in his mouth, and in a moment he felt the sharp wrench of a twisted arm. The rope held him tight, helpless as a trussed pig, with his horse vanished into the night. Leather creaked above him-he caught the stench of wet hides. A figure picked up something from the road, and he heard the clank of the morning -star chains.
The man standing over him groped for Mark's head. "Adam tzee!" this one demanded. "What man?"
"Farang," Mark said. A Frank of the West, he was.
The Mongols seemed amazed that he could speak a language some of them knew. One said, "This one truly has a voice. It will be of use to us."
; They pulled him to his feet by the rope, to see if he could stand. For a moment, curious as children, they examined the morning-star they had taken from him, passing the weapon from hand to hand. Then one of them noticed the light in the tower above the pine trees. At once they covered the blue, painted lantern, and a low command was repeated back through the ranks of the pagan riders.
Turning off the road into the pines they began to climb toward the castle, taking Mark with them ... At sunrise, Arslan Khan, the Mongol officer, called Mark up to him. "Our bows are strong, our horses swift, our hearts hard as the mountain rock," he said, smiling. "Do you understand my words, Farang?"
Mark nodded. It was easy enough to understand the words of Arslan Khan, but not so easy to guess what his meaning might be.
With an effort Mark drew closer, dragging the leg on his injured side and holding his wrenched arm carefully.
"Then tell me," demanded Arslan Khan, "why the white-faced men in that stone house do not come out?"
They had climbed to a knoll opposite the massive, iron-studded gate of the castle, over which floated a banner bearing a white eagle. The gate was closed. The round towers, nicely spaced for cross fire, appeared stronger than the Englishman had thought in the night. But along the battlements no heads showed. This silence puzzled the Mongol.
"How would I know?" Mark said thoughtfully, "Ask them."
Instead, Arslan Khan sat down on his leopard skin tranquilly. He leaned back against a stone slab on which the outline of a dragon showed. This slab, Mark thought, was the entrance to a tomb overgrown with ivy, set into the knoll. At least, it bore Marya's family crest.
"Nay, you will ask them, Farang, with these words."
Carefully Arslan Khan placed Mark's morning star by his knee. Two other gnome-like horsemen sat impassively behind the prisoner, apparently paying him no attention. Down by the road, a half-dozen Mongol troopers let their horses graze. No others were visible, although Mark felt certain that three or four hundred had come up the road that night. They want those Poles to sally out, Mark reasoned. So far, the Poles were lying low.
"Tell them," the Mongol went on, "we are servants of the great Khan who holds the world between his hands. We have no bad hearts toward the Christians. Tell them to throw their weapons over that wall and open that gate. Then if they give up to us what treasure they have hidden away we will take it with the weapons and go. The living people and their cattle we will not take." His eyes shifted to the silent Englishman. "Make your voice clear. We have no mind to kill those Christians."
"And if I will not?"
"I myself will kill you."
Mark shrugged. "I will do as you wish. Only give me a horse. I am too lame to move."
The Mongol glanced at him impatiently. "A wounded bird has no need of wings," he grunted.
That, Mark reflected, was true enough. Arslan Khan was much too experienced to give his prisoner a chance to ride for it. So Mark began dragging himself painfully down the rise toward the silent gate, a long bowshot away. Close behind him the two guards followed, not troubling to draw their swords.
Midway to the wall he stopped, noticing a movement within the embrasures over the gate. "Panna Marya!" he called.
After a moment her voice answered.
"Listen," he said clearly. "These Mongols who hold me offer you a fair surrender if you open that gate."
"Yes, Sir Mark." Her voice came down to him, muffled.
"Don't do it. Don't hear to their promise. Belike, they will try other tricks. Keep lights going at night and watch, or you are all dead."
"We hear, 0 Knight of the Cross," the voice quavered as if laughing, "and we bow to thy wisdom! It must have served thee well." Then the voice changed: "Only, listen to me now. Kmita hath a plan to reach thee. Aye, to go out-"
"Devil take Kmita! Keep him behind the gate."
"But he will not-"
"If he follows his feet a spearcast outside he will be dead before you can say orisons for him. Let be!"
For a moment the Polish girl kept silent. "What will you do?" she asked.
Mark hesitated. "What can I do? Nay, I go with these pagans and I will keep my hide whole."
Her foolish valor angered him. At least, he thought, now these Poles would trouble no more about him. Being angry, he almost forgot to drag his leg as he turned away with the two Mongols.
Painfully he dragged himself up to Arslan Khan's observation point. "Those Christians," he said bluntly, "will surrender. They ask only for the time until the sun is highest in the sky, to consult together and dig up their treasures."
Arslan Khan's eyes narrowed. "Kai-the voice that spoke for them was a woman's voice."
"Ay-a tak. Aye, so. Their commander is a woman, a princess."
Still the Mongol pondered. "What precious things have they? What treasure?"
"Cups of gold and strings of pearls. Enough to fill the arms of one man." For an instant, Mark remembered his own lost jewels.
The Mongol's eyes glowed green and he struck his hands together. "Now I will go over those walls and rip those Christians open like melons."
He shouted an order.
Mark heard, at first, only a stirring and trampling along the ground. Then he knew it to be a rush of hundreds of horses.
The charge came headlong out of the pines, along the road. Lashing their horses, the riders spread to each side. Sharply the speeding mass divided, half of it reining in almost under the shadow of the wall, the riders snatching arrows out of the sheaths at their hips and sending a flight of shafts upward at the summit of the wall. They kept their horses in motion, yelling, "Kiari-ghar!"
The first half of the riders did not rein in until their horses wheeled against the stones of the curtain and a tower. Those pressed against the wall stood up in their saddles, grasping at one another and the rough surface of the stones. Above them lances were thrust up against the wall, and men scrambled up on the shoulders of the first, hauling themselves higher on the locked lances, clutching at the crenels at the top.
In less than a minute they were at the parapet, climbing like monkeys, screaming their "Ghar-ghar!" Somewhere kettledrums pounded in cadence with the voices.
Mark knew the attack had been blinding in speed, the racket meant to confuse the garrison until the first Mongols could get their footing on the wall itself.
That wall, however, came alive. Men rose between the crenels, and battle-axes smashed down on the climbers. Giant Poles swung flails down as if threshing wheat. Two of them heaved a heavy beam over the parapet. Kmita's swordsmen, running up from the gate, began to slash with their blades, and the leather-clad Mongols were smashed down like fruit from a shaken tree.
For the moment, Arslan Khan was paying no attention to his prisoner. Swaying on his haunches, he was staring at the wall but not at the spot where his riders still struggled to climb on the bloodstained lances. He was watching another face of the wall, in deep shadow.
Here a half company of his men had slipped up to the foot of the wall. They had no horses and they wore gray felt capes that made them look like giant moles crawling up. And the first of them carried pole lariats that they cast up at the parapet. Metal hooks on the ends caught over the stones. Men hauled themselves up the ropes bracing their feet against the stones.
Mark swore silently. The racket by the gate drowned out the noise made by the climbers.
Then he saw figures running on the summit of the wall-figures of Polish women. They began to chop at the ropes with axes and to throw blankets over the climbers while they worked at the ropes. Parma Marya was among them. In a minute the ropes were cut. The Mongols below, enraged, could only loose arrows at the women.
Arslan Khan shouted an order, and Mongols began to run back clumsily toward the knoll.
From the wall, crossbow bolts flickered. The archers covering them circled desperately to avoid the iron bolts that smashed among them. They will not try that again, Mark thought.
Moving his head slowly, he saw that
the two men behind him were intent on the road below. Arslan Khan sat rigid as a statue before the tomb, his breath hissing from his body. For the moment he was not thinking of the prisoner who had deceived him.
Without hurrying, Mark got to his feet, crouching. The leg that had seemed helpless was firm beneath him as he jumped at the Mongol. And Arslan Khan moved with the swiftness of an animal. One hand snatched the long knife from his girdle, stabbing at Mark's throat.
Mark swung down his head, feeling his shoulder strike under the Mongol's arm. They rolled over on the ground. But Mark gripped hard the shaft of the morning star for which he had made his leap. He rolled over in the dust, gathering his feet under him, knowing that the Mongol was quicker than he. "char!" he heard at his back.
He gave himself no second to stand. Crouching, he whirled, lashing behind him. One of the spiked balls of the morning star caught the Mongol's leg and he staggered, off balance. Swinging up the steel flail, Mark brought it down on the Mongol's light helmet; and Arslan Khan whirled to the ground, his skull crushed-even as his dagger arm struck at Mark.
Reaching down to pick up the dead man's shield, Mark thrust his injured arm into it and stepped forward to meet the rush of the two guards, who had drawn their swords.
He took a blow on the shield and struck with the morning star. But the agile Mongols sprang back, having seen how death flashed from the flying spikes.
Facing them Mark backed toward the stone slab of the tomb. Other Mongols were running up from the road with bows. He could not reach a horse now and he tried to put the tomb at his back, to face them, as an arrow whirred by him.
He heard a grinding and a crash beside him. He saw the stone slab fall into the dust and a giant figure raced from the tomb. "Slava bohu!" it roared. And with flailing sword, it crashed into the nearest Mongol.
It was Kmita, mad with excitement. Behind him the dragon tomb spewed forth clumsy men in mail racing one another toward the leading Mongols. They struck with heavy battle-axes and they threw long spears.
Those Mongols, startled by the apparition of men pouring out of the hilltop, turned and ran down the hill dodging among the pines for their horses. Behind them labored the Polish men-at-arms arms, calling to them to halt and fight.