by Harold Lamb
“Sigismund pursues the Saracen!” exulted a man among the archers on deck.
Wild hope leaped into the heart of Michael Bearn. Was the issue of the battle so soon decided? Had the armed chivalry of France outmatched the power and skill of Bayezid? He yearned for the first glimpse of victorious French standards. Yet, knowing the discipline and power of the veteran Moslem army, he doubted the evidence of his eyes that the emperor and the French could have pursued their foe so far.
“What ship is that?” cried a high voice, and the splash of hoofs sounded in the rushes as a man rode out toward the galleass.
“Venetian,” answered Michael promptly. “Is the battle won?”
The men on the vessel held their breath as the rider, before answering, swam his horse out to them and, grasping at ropes lowered over the stern where the oar-banks permitted him to gain the side of the galleass, climbed heavily upon the deck.
“If you are a Venetian—fly!” he cried, staggering against Michael. “Never have the eyes of God seen such a defeat. Bayezid has sworn he will stable his horse in Saint Peter’s. I am alone, of a company of knights who followed the Constable of France.”
Michael Bearn gripped the knight by the shoulder fiercely.
“The Constable of France—defeated—”
“Slain.”
The wounded man was too weary to be surprised at the fire in the eyes that burned into his. Michael drew a long breath. He was too late. And his countrymen had fallen before Bayezid.
The knight was removing his mail hood with shaking hands.
“We thought the Saracen was shattered,” he said hopelessly. “Our camp was surprised, yet the French mounted and rode to the attack, through the skirmishers and the cavalry with white woolen hats—”
“The Janissaries,” nodded Michael.
“—and past them, into the ranks of the horse-guards that are called Sipahis, of Bayezid. Our lances, forsooth, had broken them asunder. We had lost many and our ranks were ill-formed when we gained the summit of the hill where we found not a rabble of defeated soldiery, but a forest of forty thousand lances. Ali, Saint Denis!”
“Bayezid ever keeps his best troops till the last.”
“He has ordered slain ten thousand Christian captives, sparing only the Count of Nevers and twenty knights. I escaped.”
“And the emperor?”
“Floats down the river in a boat. He made a brave stand, ’tis said, until the Serbs joined the Moslems and struck his flank—”
“’Tis done. Rest you and sleep.” Michael spoke curtly, what with the hurt of the news. “There are wounded to be brought off from shore.”
Urging his vessel almost upon the shore, he formed his men-at-arms into lines to pass out what of the injured they could find, while he made his way inland to turn aside the fugitives he met into the galleass.
He saw only haggard and dusty men, weaponless and exhausted. On mules and purloined horses camp-followers dashed past along the highway, striking aside those who got in their path. Semblance of order or discipline there was none.
Wounded foot-soldiers who had cast aside their heavier armor limped into the light of the burning houses nearby, silent and grim-lipped. Michael was mustering a group of these at the water’s edge when a mailed horseman spurred up and grasped at his shoulder.
“For the love of—! Is’t true there is a ship at hand?”
Michael looked up under drawn brows and saw a handsome Italian cavalier, his velvet finery besmirched and his jeweled cap awry.
“A hundred ducats, sailor, if you will take me on your ship at once,” the horseman cried, fingering at a heavy purse with a quivering hand.
“Spare your purse-strings and wait your turn,” responded Michael shortly.
But the cavalier, befuddled by fear, was pushing aside the watchful foot-soldiers, to leap at the ropes that had been lowered from the vessel, when Michael’s left arm, thrust across his chest, stayed him.
“You are a captain, signor,” he observed quietly. “Help me to get these wounded to safety.”
The Italian glanced back and saw that a fresh route of fugitives had come into the light at the shore. A tall bazaar trader with his servants was striking down those who sought to climb into a muddy cart drawn by nearly exhausted horses. Michael could read the fear in the red-bearded face of the trader. A woman, her skirt dragging about her knees, ran screaming into the path of the cart, holding out imploring arms.
The servants, under the oaths of their bearded master, lashed the horses on and the woman, in all her sad finery, was cast to earth under the hoofs of the beasts. The cart disappeared into the darkness but she lay where she had fallen.
“You see!” cried the Italian. “Death is upon us unless we fly. Out of my way, dogs—”
Drawing back his arm, Michael struck the man, sending him headlong into the water. Heedless of the blow, the other rose and fought his way to the ropes that offered a way to safety.
“Wo!” His cry came back to Michael. “Death is upon us. Fly!”
“Fly!” echoed the wounded, struggling toward the ropes. “The Turks are at our heels.”
Those who could not stand unsupported were thrust down into the water. Men, striking at one another’s heads and tearing at the surcoats which bore a crimson cross—the stronger among the fugitives, up to their necks in water, fought for the ropes.
When Michael at last—seeing that the galleass was crowded to capacity—clambered up the gilded woodwork of the stern and gave the signal to get under weigh, the tumult on shore took on a fiercer note.
Looking back, he could see the flash of scimitars among the huddle of the flying. Lean, turbaned horsemen wheeled and charged through the burning houses. A shrill shout pierced the wails of the injured.
“Ya, Allah! Hai—Allah—hai!”
Michael Bearn, hearing this familiar cry of triumph of the Moslems, saw again in his mind’s eye the ruined villages of Armenia, the tortured slaves, and—most clearly of all—the grave in the sand before the Gate of Shadows.
He looked at the two men beside him, the sleeping French knight whose valor had been fruitless, and the sullen Italian officer who regarded him askance, fingering his bruised face.
The army of crusaders that he had journeyed for a year to join was no more. And Bayezid, angered by the loss of so many of his men, had doomed ten thousand captives to death. Was there no power on earth that could match the Thunderbolt?
“I wonder,” thought Michael. He knew that of one place Bayezid was afraid, or at least that the Thunderbolt shunned that place.
It was the Gate of Shadows.
CHAPTER III
The Blow in the Dark
It was an hour after vespers and the lights of Saint Mark’s were glowing softly against the vault of the sky over the great city of Venice. Along the narrow streets, however, and the winding canals the square houses with their grilled doors and carved stonework showed only slits of light from barred windows.
At that hour worthy citizens of the City of the Lagoons went abroad attended only by linkmen and with armed retainers to guard their backs. Those who were more cautious, or who had more powerful enemies, paid bravi to watch the retainers.
A stranger wandering from the lagoons and the main canals would soon have lost his way. In the poorer quarters where the high buildings seemed to lean together against the sky men looked closely into the faces of those they met and turned the corners wide.
Near the Piazza where the walled palaces of the nobles lined the canals the alleys were filled with refuse and ended more often than not in a blind wall. Servants stood whispering in the shadows of the postern doors and often a soft laugh came from an invisible balcony overhead.
“A pox on these castles,” said Michael Bearn heartily. “Is there never a place where a body can see before and behind him at the same time?”
He glanced up, trying fruitlessly to guess his direction by the few stars visible between the buildings. All that he could make out
was that he seemed to be standing in a space where two alleys crossed. Listening, he could hear the music of fiddles and flutes somewhere near at hand.
A fête, he knew, was going on in a nearby palace and he had promised himself a sight of it. It was exasperating to hear the sound of the festivity and still be unable to reach it. Michael laughed, realizing that he had lost his way completely.
There had been no lack of offers of a guide. For only that day Michael had received a gold chain and a key of the same precious metal from the Consoli di Mercanti—the Maritime Council—as reward for his services in bringing back a galley with the survivors of the army of the Count of Nevers from the ill-fated field of Nicopolis.
It had been a stormy passage, beset by Turkish pirates in the Levant, and Bearn, thanks to his skill as mariner and his knack of handling men, had been one of the few captains to return without loss.
But in spite of this honor Michael’s purse was light and he could not afford to pay a retainer, or even to take up his quarters at a good inn.
“Faith,” he thought, “’twould have availed more if the worthy council had given gold ducats instead of this chain, and as for the freedom of the city that they said went with the key—I can not find my way to yonder music.”
He had heard mention of the fete at the council, and also of a renowned voyager who was to be present. Two things had drawn Michael to the festivity; the hope of good meat and wine—he had not wanted to confess to the ceremonious members of the great council that he was penniless—and curiosity. Voyagers from the East were few in that age and Michael wondered whether he would find at the palace Fra Odoric, the priest who had built a church in Tatary or Carlo Zeno, the sea-captain.
Either one would have information that would serve Michael in his plans.
His reflections were interrupted by a light rounding the corner of a building and gliding toward him under his feet. He was surprised to see that he was standing on a wooden bridge. The light was in a gondola passing beneath him.
“Ho, my friends,” he called cheerfully, “in what quarter lies the palazzo or whatever it is called of my lord Contarini? I can find it not.”
If Michael had dwelt longer in Venice he would not have hailed an occupied gondola in the dark. His shout only caused the rower at the stern to glance up warily and thrust the long craft forward at greater speed. A shutter in the hooded seat was lowered briefly and a face looked out of the aperture.
Then the gondola passed under the bridge.
Michael grimaced, bowed, and was passing on when he hesitated. The light on the gondola had been put out.
This was not altogether strange, if the people on the vessel had believed that footpads, as personified by Michael, were on the bridge. But the keen eyes of the seaman caught a white swirl in the water. He fancied that the gondolier had checked his craft sharply and that it had halted a short distance beyond the bridge.
If the occupants of the gondola had been alarmed by his hail, they would not have chosen to remain in the vicinity. So Michael thought and was ready to smile at his own suspicion, when he heard a footfall and the clink of steel upon stones. From the direction in which he imagined the gondola had halted a man was coming toward him, feeling his way with drawn sword.
Michael planted his feet wide, with his back against a blank wall. Presently he could discern the grayish blur of a face moving toward him over the bridge. There was no sound and Michael knew that the newcomer was taking pains to be silent.
This quietude and the rapidity of the other’s approach from the canal were ominous.
Then Michael stepped aside. He had heard rather than seen a swift movement toward him in the gloom.
Steel clashed against the wall beside him and sparks flew. An oath came to his ears as he snatched out his own sword, hung by its baldric on his right side. Long practice had accustomed Michael to the use of his left arm—had given to that limb the unusual strength possessed by one-armed men.
In the darkness he sought the other’s blade, found it, thrust and when the thrust was parried, lunged again.
“By the Pope’s head!” snarled the stranger.
“Amen,” said Michael, drawing back alertly.
His weapon had bent against mail on the other’s chest and Michael, who wore no such protection, was fain to risk a leap and come to hand-grips.
But even as he tensed his muscles for the spring he heard footsteps and the darkness was dissipated by the light of a lanthorn which rounded a corner behind him.
For the first time he saw his antagonist, a tall man, very fashionable in the short mantle and wide velvet sleeves and cloth-of-gold cap that were the fashion of the day in Venice. The man’s olive face was handsome and composed, his eyes restless, his beard smartly curled.
His right hand held the broken half of a sword, his left a long poniard. Michael was rather glad that, after all, he had not made that leap.
Whereupon Michael frowned, for the other’s face, although not his bearing, had a familiar aspect. Sheathing his own sword, the Breton smiled and took his dagger in his left hand.
“Good morrow, signor,” he said from hard lips. “The light is better now than when you traitorously set upon me. Shall we resume with our poniards?”
The other hesitated, measuring Michael, noting the width of shoulder and length of arm of the Breton, whose featherless cap was thrust well back, disclosing black curls a little gray about the brows. Under the curls gray eyes, alight and whimsical, met the stranger’s stare.
“You ponder, signor,” prompted Michael politely. “Perhaps it surprises you that I who bore no weapon on shipboard have now mastered the use of blade and poniard with my one hand. Or perchance your sense of honor and the high courage you display in a crisis prompt you to refrain from matching daggers with a man in a leathern shirt when you wear a mail jerkin.”
At this an exclamation sounded behind him. Michael had not failed to glance over his shoulder at the first appearance of the light and had seen only a fox-faced merchant in a long ermine cloak and attended by a brace of servitors who looked as if they would have liked to flee at sight of bare steel.
Now he perceived that the merchant was staring at him round-eyed as if Michael had uttered blasphemy or madness.
“By the rood!” swore the tall stranger.
“By whatever you wish,” assented Michael, “so long as you fight like a man. Come, the sight of a coward spoils my appetite for dinner.”
He waited for the other’s rush. Michael had recognized in his assailant the Italian captain of mercenaries who had struck down his wounded countrymen in the effort to force himself aboard Michael’s galley at Nicopolis. The other must have recognized him from the gondola and had sought the revenge he had sworn for Michael’s blow.
Instead of resuming the duel, the Italian smiled coldly and stepped back, pointing to his chest where the doublet was slashed over the mail.
“I do not fight with cutthroats, Messer Soranzi,” the Italian said to the merchant, who was staring at them, excusing his action. “This sailor beset me on the bridge after hailing my gondola under pretext of asking his way. You can see where he struck me.”
The shrewd eyes of the merchant went from one to the other and he fingered his own stout belly tenderly.
“A lie,” remarked the Breton promptly, “and a base one, forsooth. This fellow’s blade is snapped and you can see on the stones behind me where it broke off.”
Soranzi stared at him curiously and uneasily.
“You must be mad, good sir,” he observed, “to wish to encounter further Pietro Rudolfo, the famous swordsman and condottiere.”
“Faith,” grinned Michael. “Is it madness to face the famous Rudolfo, instead of waiting to receive his knife in your back?”
He marked in his memory the name of his enemy. Rudolfo in spite of the open insult did not renew the fight. Instead he muttered that he had no time for night prowlers when he had already been delayed too long on his way to the house of a fri
end.
The merchant was sidling past Michael, holding up his long skirts, and shot a sharp question at the Breton, once he had gained the Italian’s side, accompanied by his men.
“Your name and state, signor?”
Michael nodded at Rudolfo to indicate that the condottiere knew both but Rudolfo was silent.
“You have an excellent memory, Ser Pietro,” the Breton commented, “for it impelled you to let out my blood. Yet must I salve it myself.”
To Soranzi he said—
“I am called Michael Bearn, the master-mariner.”
At this the merchant glanced at Rudolfo in some surprise for it was known from the Rialto to Saint Mark’s that the young Breton had been honored that day by the all-powerful council. The interests of Venice and its merchants lay upon the sea and the dictates of the Maritime Council were law.
Moreover Michael’s bearing was hardly that of a cutthroat. Soranzi murmured diplomatically:
“Now that you two worthy captains have reached an understanding it behooves me to press upon my way. I am in haste to hear a most wonderful tale of a voyager who has found a new road to the riches of the East, more vast than those narrated by Ser Marco Polo himself.”
Michael bowed, realizing that Rudolfo would not fight now.
“Will you direct me,” he asked, “to the fête of my lord Contarini, the leader of the great council? I have lost my way.”
Soranzi’s lips parted to respond, but Rudolfo nudged him.
“Follow this alley,” the condottiere directed curtly, “in the direction Messer Soranzi came for some distance.”
With that he turned on his heel, took the arm of Soranzi and with a backward glance walked away across the bridge. The lanthorn was soon lost to sight around a bend in a street where Michael had been wandering.
Sheathing his dagger, the Breton listened to the retreating footsteps, and laughed heartily but silently in the darkness.
“’Tis a rare jest,” he thought. “Soranzi perchance would have directed me aright, but the excellent Rudolfo saw fit to send me mum-chance in the wrong course. Aye, make no doubt they are bound to the Palazzo Contarini themselves.”