The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  A flush tinged the gray cheeks of the man from Jerusalem, and he turned on his heel with only a silent salutation. It was not good to bandy words with Black Odo.

  But the Norman pondered what Sir Guy had said. He glanced over his shoulder at the couch where his helm stood—the polished steel crest of which was a rearing lion, nicely gilded. Few men of his day had such crests, but Odo liked to be known wherever he went. He liked to see foemen shrink away from him. As for arrows, he made mock of them—fit weapons for Genoese churls and Arab pagans who could not strike a good blow with steel. Still, he was too shrewd to make light of Sir Guy’s warning. The man from Jeru­salem had faced the Moslems too often, not to know their ways.

  And that morning Odo had had a sign. A raven, a grave bird, had croaked at his ear. He rubbed his chin reflectively. It would take more than the croaking of a grave bird and the maundering of a sick man to make the Duke of Bari dis­card his crested helm and gilt mail and wear the plain steel casque and mail that his weapon man, Arnulf, carried in his sack—

  Odo sat up abruptly, his hands grip­ping the arms of the chair. Down below his pavilion Sir Guy was walking away, slowly. And, hastening through the idle men-at-arms, that veiled girl came to meet him. She moved gracefully, and Odo thought that she must be strong, and not old. But others had noticed her, and a bearded Norman swordsman reached out an arm and tore the veil from her head. The girl was thrown to her knees and cried out involuntarily.

  The Norman stood over her, roaring out something about the veil being Mos­lem and accursed.

  Another man stepped to her side, a man great of bone who overtopped the Norman by half a head. Long, yellow hair fell from the edge of his round steel cap to his shoulders, covered with a bright crimson cloak, heavy bands of gold shone against the brown skin of his arms, and Odo saw that his only armor was a corselet of square steel plates, rudely fastened together.

  The stranger stepped forward and thrust out his left arm, the heel of his open hand thudding against the Nor­man’s forehead. To Odo’s muttered surprise, the bearded swordsman fell with limp limbs, and did not rise. There were shouts and other men hastened up, surrounding the tall stranger. Steel rasped against leather, and more than one weapon flashed in the sun. Wine, in that heat, was not soothing to the blood.

  Above the head of the stranger an ax was up-flung—a broad-ax, as long as a man’s forearm, with a curving, blue blade, the weight of the blade balanced by a heavy spike at the back. And at sight of this weapon in the tall war­rior’s hand, the Normans fell back.

  “’Ware ye, the Viking!”

  Meanwhile Sir Guy had made his way into the group, and at sight of him the Norman men-at-arms turned their backs. For a moment Odo had a clear view of the girl’s face, as she caught the knight’s arm and smiled up at him.

  An elfin face, with its pointed chin and fresh young lips. The girl had the clear skin of a child, and her dark eyes were more angry than afraid—the eyes of one who had never known harm. And the glimpse of her stirred Odo like hot wine. Then Sir Guy drew her away with him, leaning on her shoulder.

  Odo had encountered no woman of her sort for many weary months, and he followed the sick man and the girl with his eyes until they disappeared in Sir Guy’s tent.

  “God’s name—ho, Arnulf, what brat is that?” he exclaimed.

  A slender man in a black tunic has­tened forward and knelt by the duke’s chair. He had been polishing the silver plates of his master’s sword belt in the back of the pavilion, but Odo often said that Arnulf, his armiger—his weapon-bearer—could see out of the back of his skull, and could hear all the better for his ears being cropped.

  “Eh-eh! That one was the daughter of the Sieur Guy.”

  Odo grunted. “Her name?”

  “Ilga.” Arnulf considered. “He keeps her veiled, like a jewel in his tent. I have heard her sing­ing.” And, with a swift upward glance at his master, “Yet the Jerusalem knight is sick.”

  “The Fiend will not want a gossip, when thou diest. Nay, this sun­rise I heard a grave bird call.”

  The henchman crossed himself hastily, and Odo frowned at a new thought. “Who is the churl in velvet and gold? My men gave back at his ax, as if a mad bull fronted them.”

  The stranger, after knocking down the Norman, had seated himself on a stone, his weapon between his knees. He said nothing, but the men-at-arms took care to keep out of his way.

  Arnulf shook his head. “May it please my lord, he is not a liegeman of Bari. And I know not—”

  “Go, and learn, and return apace.”

  It puzzled Odo that his men should have taken a blow from the stranger, who was clearly no fellow of Sir Guy’s. Within an hour Arnulf enlightened him.

  “Eh—that one is a Viking, a sea king of the north. Body of an angel, he has no land to his name—only a galley that they call a dragon ship. Eric the Land­less they called him at Constantinople, where he served the great Emperor as Captain.”

  Why the Viking had left his mist-filled fjords in the north, Arnulf did not know. There were many northern war­riors in the Emperor’s guard. They fol­lowed the wars, and served faithfully the men who paid them—otherwise they were dull of wit and drowsy, fit only to wield their weapons and fall in their own blood. So said Arnulf. But with those heavy weapons they were deadly as mad giants, when aroused. Arnulf himself had seen this same Eric the Landless hew a man through the body, from shoulder to hip, in a brawl at sea.

  That Eric meant to go to Jerusalem was evident. He had joined the Nor­mans at the coast. He had offered to stand shield to shield with them if they were attacked, provided they guided him to the city.

  “He wears no cross,” Arnulf shrugged. “He eats his own bread, serves himself—ay, he carries a bundle wrapped in fur on his shoulder when we march.”

  “A Viking,” Odo mused. “Stands he to my height?”

  “Ay, that doth he, my lord.”

  The duke smashed down his hand upon his mailed thigh. “Then, by God’s life, is he my man!” He lowered his voice.

  “Harken—thy cropped ears heard Sir Guy’s warning? Who leads the Christians doth court death,” said he.

  “Ay, lord, and true it is. The Mos­lems will seek thee with their swords.”

  “On the morrow,” Odo said thought­fully, “one in my armor, wearing the crested helm and mounted on my charger, will lead the men of Bari. But I shall remain here.”

  “Eh—” the armiger laughed silently—“A mock duke!”

  It was often done, he knew. Another man would wear the garments and carry the shield of Duke Odo; the heavy helm, being of the basket type, would hide his face. And the Norman leader, from the safety of the pavilion, could watch the battle unharmed—could join his men in case of need.

  And the trick would succeed. The Moslems would naturally mark down the man in the crested helm, beneath the standard, riding the duke’s caparisoned charger. They would assail the mock duke. But who would take Odo’s place?

  “The Viking,” said Odo. “Fetch me him, after candle lighting.”

  * * * *

  That evening the Normans ate dry bread, and shivered in the chill air that stirred out of the gullies. The breath of the desert, it seemed, was not always hot, and they had no wood for fires. When candles were lighted in the tents, Eric the Landless strode through the camp at Arnulf’s heels. He thrust up the entrance flap of the duke’s pavilion and looked within before he entered, to find the Norman leader seated alone by a flagon on the table.

  “Who gives the welcome?” the deep voice of the Viking boomed.

  “I, Odo, lord of Bari, greet thee, Eric the Landless. Sit, and sup.” He signed to Arnulf to fill a goblet for the stran­ger, by the leather platter of broken bread.

  Eric flung himself into a chair that creaked under the weight of his long body. Limb for limb, the two were a match, but the dark, lined face of the Norman resembled in nothing the fair head of the Viking, whose soft mustache hid his lips, whose blue eyes above the hig
h cheek bones were as quiet as still water. Odo thought he might be twenty years in age. And he held the shaft of the great ax, dark with oil and usage, in one broad hand. Sipping his wine, the duke considered his guest.

  “Men say thou art a mighty giver of blows,” he observed.

  Eric emptied his goblet with a ring­ing “Skoal!” Then after a moment’s thought he responded, “That is not to be denied.”

  “’Tis said thou wert a captain of the Emperor’s Varangian guard, and hast faced the paynim before now.”

  The Viking nodded.

  “On the morrow,” explained the Nor­man, “my men go against the Moslems who hold the well.” And when Eric made no response except another nod, he added, “Thine armor is not proof against arrows. I have a mind to offer thee this chain habergeon, and the shield and the helm. Look!”

  Eric’s eyes gleamed when Arnulf held the heavy mail up to the light—a mesh of fine steel chain-work that would cover a man from chin to toe. The armiger pointed to the helm sur­mounted by the rearing lion, and the long shield bearing the same lion painted upon it in gilt. His own iron plates fastened together by leather thongs and girdled by his broad leather belt were poor stuff beside this armor of a prince.

  “The gear is good,” he said frankly, “and I like it well.”

  “I will lend thee likewise a good horse for the battle.”

  “That may not be.” Eric shook his head. “I will stay at the camp on the morrow.”

  “God’s life! With the merchants and churls?”

  “Ay, so.”

  Black Odo threw himself back in his chair frowning. Here was the stout fellow he wanted to take his place, a man whose life was spent in handling his weapons, and as accustomed to take blows as the iron-thewed Spartans or the trained gladia­tors of Rome. And he did not intend to fight. The duke knew of no one else, his very twin in size and bearing, fit to wear his armor. If he ordered one of his own men to take his place, the rogue would talk. Behind his chair, Arnulf whispered, “Offer him gold.”

  “Hark ye, Eric the Landless,” said Odo grimly. “I seek one to lead the charge, and to draw the onset of the Moslems—for they will come against the leader. If I should be unhorsed, the battle would go badly, for my men are new to this land and the Saracen. The peril is great, yet this armor is good, and I will give thee a score of stout lads to shield thy back—and a score of gold byzants to fill thy purse.”

  The mild blue eyes of the Viking dwelt upon the Norman curiously. “The risk is yours,” he responded. “And I have a duty at the camp. I am think­ing that the Arabs may reach to the camp, seeking loot, for that is their way.”

  The thin lips of the Norman curled. Only a victor in battle, he thought, could gain and plunder a hostile en­campment. “Thirty pieces—of Venetian weight,” he offered.

  Something troubled the Viking. For a moment he brooded.

  “I am thinking all this is not good. Perhaps there is a sign between us. But to wear the garments of another man is not good. Hark ye, Duke Odo! Do you hear a whetting of sword edges, and a rushing of ravens’ wings? There will be a breaking of shields and a coming of wolves and sorrow after the next sunset.”

  Arnulf crossed himself, but Odo smote his hand upon the table. “’Tis someone without!” Steps sounded on the ground, and a woman’s voice cried out. The Norman commanded, “Enter!”

  The entrance flap was lifted by a man-at-arms and Ilga stepped into the candlelight. Throwing back the hood of her robe, she hastened to the table and held out a slender arm to the Viking.

  “Messire, thy pardon,” she whispered, courtesying to the duke. “O come back to the tent, Eric. My father cannot rise from his bed, and he cries for water, the fever being upon him.”

  Her eyes were bright with anxiety. A child, Arnulf thought, frightened at the sign of death. He had watched her on the road, listening to Eric’s droning talk of northern trolls and elves. Surely she loved the yellow-haired giant, as she loved the great horse that carried her and the hound that ran by her. And because she was frightened, she had come to find him here.

  But Duke Odo spoke before the Vi­king. “Nay, little Ilga, water we have not, yet here is Cyprian wine, and cool.” Motioning Arnulf aside, he handed her the flagon on the table.

  “I thank thee, my lord,” she cried softly. “My father said thou wert an ill man to meet with, but surely thou art great of heart, to give this to him.”

  The ghost of a smile touched the Norman’s lips. “I give to the daughter, not the father.”

  Silent, she looked at the two men. Eric, hands clasped on his ax shaft, said nothing, and she bowed again, slip­ping from the pavilion while Odo watched, still smiling.

  And Arnulf—who knew his master’s whims—said to himself that the lord of Bari desired this brat of the Jerusalem­ite; and what Odo desired, he took. Ilga being gentle born, and Sir Guy still living, Arnulf felt that Odo might venture too far, unless the disorder of the march and fighting should place Ilga in his hands.

  “Now I see well, Eric the Landless,” murmured Duke Odo, “that thou art no man of thy word.”

  As at the sight of the fine mail, the Viking’s eyes quickened. “That is ill said. Nay, it has not been said before,” he responded in his deep voice. “And how is it true?”

  “Upon joining my company, thou madest pledge to stand shield to shield with my men, at need. Now, when the battle is near, thou art a coward and foresworn—bound to the tents by a woman’s girdle.”

  Swiftly Arnulf moved behind the Viking, his fingers on the dagger at his hip. Eric’s blue eyes had clouded, and his face was bleak. Odo’s thrust had touched him.

  What Arnulf did not know was that Eric all his life had been a leader of men—in the voyages over the gray waters of the north, and in the great palaces of Constantinople where he had ruled the warriors who fought the wars of an Emperor for pay. A Viking must hold to his service, and his sword.

  “That will not be said of me,” Eric answered grimly. “I will wear your gear”—with his ax head he pointed at the gleaming helm—“on the morrow, and sit in your saddle. And I will say nothing of that to any man. But there is this to be done. Before darkness, there will be weapons drawn between us, and the death of one of us.”

  “Granted,” Black Odo nodded.

  “But when I take your place,” Eric went on, “you must by your own hand safeguard the girl Ilga from danger. For I pledged her father that I would ward and shield her from harm, while he lies sick.”

  “I swear,” assented the Norman quiet­ly, “that no Moslem shall lay hand upon Ilga of the Mount while I live.”

  “Swear upon the cross.”

  Odo picked up his sheathed sword, holding the hilt high, and laying his hand upon the crosspiece. And sud­denly Arnulf laughed.

  When the curtain had fallen behind the Viking, the henchman stared curiously at his master. Odo rubbed his chin reflectively. He had got the Vi­king to serve him, but if Eric lived Odo would have a duel on his hands. Ordi­narily the Norman would not shun that—he trusted his arm and his sword edge. Yet Eric was Ilga’s watchdog, and Odo lacked not cunning.

  “By the mother that bore thee, if so be thou knowest her,” he observed pleas­antly to Arnulf, “mark well what I say. Choose thee some ten bold rogues, and follow this landless wight in his onset. Follow and keep his back, until he is hard pressed—then draw away and let him go down. But if he is not slain, put thy knife behind his ear. If he lives, thou wilt not. Am I clear?”

  Arnulf grinned, and touched the dag­ger hilt at his hip. He knew well where to find the ear hole in his master’s helm.

  “And then,” Odo mused, “stand thou guard over his body, saying that Duke Odo is stunned. Bear back the carcass—unhelm it not—to this pavilion, after sunset. I will await thee here in other guise, and speak with thee then.”

  And Arnulf’s bow was deep with re­spect. What a brain! Odo had ar­ranged everything to his will. He would be in his pavilion, watching the battle, yet no man wou
ld know this. He might even play with the daughter of the sick Jerusalemite, while everyone thought him in the saddle pursuing the Moslems, and afterward, in the pavilion—Ar­nulf’s ready mind played with still finer fancies—Odo might change places with the dead Viking—might say, if he chose, that Eric had been slain for an affront to the girl Ilga. He, Arnulf would be witness.

  Still amused at the baiting of the Viking, Arnulf went in the half light before sunrise, to call Eric to be armed. He found the warrior in Sir Guy’s tent—the sick knight awake upon his cloak, haggard and breathing swiftly. A gut­tered candle flared and smoked upon the ground and beside it the girl curled up on her pallet asleep. In both hands she held the Viking’s fist. He nodded to Arnulf, drawing free his cramped arm slowly, so that Ilga only stirred and sighed and slept on.

  But Sir Guy propped himself on an elbow and whispered:

  “Remember thy pledge, Eric—my daughter will be shielded?”

  “On the honor of Duke Odo,” said the Viking, “she will be.”

  * * * *

  When the glare of sunrise struck into the valley, the hills took shape, the mists thinned away, and the Normans moved forward as Duke Odo had com­manded, before the morning heat should be upon them.

  They kept no order, being only to come to grips with the bands of Moslem horse already in motion toward them from the rocks of the distant well. The men watched in silence, being sore with hunger and wracked with thirst. Only when their leader trotted up to them did they shout hoarsely.

  They had no slightest reason to sus­pect that this leader was not Odo—some of them indeed noticed that he carried upon his saddle horn a heavy ax instead of his sword, and that he did not speak to his knights as usual. Instead he sent Arnulf to bid them halt and form in a half circle, with the archers in front.

  It surprised Arnulf that Eric should sit the gray charger almost as easily as his lord the duke. From foot to head he was now encased in loose chain mail, and over his head had been thrust the steel helm with only an opening as large as his finger for him to see through. On his left arm—looped by a leather band over his shoulder—was braced the long painted shield of Duke Odo.