by Harold Lamb
"Now, I must change my dress, Messer Andrea. But this man will set meat and wine before you, bidding you welcome to Rocafort."
She tripped away, and Doria, standing in the sun, was aware that heads appeared in the embrasures of the shadowed wall to stare at him. After a moment the steward emerged, bowing low. He ushered the stranger through a passage into a stone chamber, where a plate of food had been set on a table, and Doria, glancing at the smoke-blackened walls and the smiling Arab women working among the pots and pans, stopped short. This was the kitchen, and the solitary plate on the table held only broken bread and stew.
"By the hide of the sacred boar," he muttered, "would you have me break a week's hunger on scullery fare?"
And he thrust the plate to Dominic, who had followed them in.
"Where's Sir John," he demanded, "who welcomes his guests in this fashion?"
"He-he is not to be seen," the steward answered uncertainly.
Doria rubbed his chin. A strange household, but even so he must sleep. After his ordeal at sea, drowsiness beset him like the torment. Paying no heed to the cup that stood upon the table, he seized the great flood of wine and drank, tilting it higher and higher, while the servants stared. When it was empty he set it down with a crash.
"Now take me to a bed," he said briefly.
This the steward hesitated to do. He was imagining vividly the effect of so much wine at a draft upon a man of the stranger's size, and so he almost ran up the steps of a tower to throw open a narrow door. Doria found himself in a clean, sunlit chamber, and he flung himself down on the canopy bed. With his arm across his eyes, he was breathing deep in a moment. The servant tiptoed from the chamber, closing the heavy door carefully.
Then he sought out an iron bar and fitted it into holes in the solid stonework outside the door.
"And so," the girl said, "he would not sup or sip in the kitchen?"
"I made it ready, Mistress Marguerite," explained the steward, "as you bade me. Aye, he threw the food to the dog, but he did more than sip, for he downed a flagon of Cyprian at a breath, and now he lies on his back drunk as Fulk the Bowman at Candlemas."
This the steward imagined to be the case, and he did not add that he had barred the tall stranger in the tower room.
"What say you, Master Ricard?" Marguerite turned to the massive old swordsman, who was captain of the men-at-arms, and so had the castle in his charge during the absence of its lord, Sir John.
"Let him sleep off the wine," responded the soldier bluntly; "then will I talk with him. By the saints, Messer Andrea Doria was a woundy rover of the sea, serving no king or lord as I have heard, but still he was a bold and cunning gentleman. Nay, now that he lies in pieces at the sea's hottom-severed in such fashion by an infidel sword-'tis a shameful thing that a wandering boaster should take his name."
"'Tis a sinful thing," echoed the steward. "Look 'ee, Mistress Marguerite, there is a Venetian galley putting in. Let Master Ricard take this lying knave in hand and put him aboard the galley. Yonder men of Saint Mark are ever greedy of rowers for the benches. They will take him without ado, and so the matter will be at an end."
Marguerite looked thoughtful. Her two advisers having disparaged the stranger, she began to consider him more kindly. Ungainly he might be, yet he was no fool. She looked upon him as her prize, and wondered what he might prove to be.
"Nay," she answered, "my father would not wish us to hand a castaway to the galleys. Give him proper garments, Pietro, and when the wine is out of his head bring him down to supper with us."
She had greeted this tall man as a vagabond; now she would try him as a gentleman. "What," she wondered aloud, "if he is Andrea Doria after all?"
Master Ricard crossed himself. "May the Sieur Diett forbid! 'Tis true the sea gives up its dead at times-"
"Blessed Mary, aid us!" Pietro's jaw dropped. "He-he dripped water at first, and he had stains of blood upon him, and he had a look as-as of one walking in his sleep!"
"Now out upon it, Pietro!" The girl laughed. "Would a spirit heave Dominic through the air or drink a flagon down? Do as I bid thee." And she ran off to her chamber, clapping her hands for the tiring maid. She would put on the red-damask dress and headband with the embroidered silk girdle.
Pietro, however, did not go up to the tower. Dusk was falling, and he lingered in the hall, lighting the candles and chattering, until Ricard, who was growing hungry, growled at him.
"Cease thy mouthing and go up! If he be indeed the ghost of Doria thou canst make certain by looking under his garments. He will bear red lines upon his skin where he was hacked into quarters."
Vigorously Pietro shook his head. "I have seen enough as it is. He would touch no food, and bears neither headgear nor sword nor pouch-which humans are wont to have."
"Wilt disobey thy lady?"
"It is no part of my duty," the steward said with dignity, "to tend a ghost."
"He is naught but a vagabond."
"Then 'tis your duty to handle him, Master Ricard. I've heard tell that if you take a sword with a cross upon its hilt and thrust it into the floor by a sleeping spirit, the fiend will slide down it and vanish."
"Well, that may be." The soldier rubbed his shaven head. "But look 'ee, Pietro. I'll need a light, so thou must bear me up a candle."
"Listen!" cried the steward. The candle in his hand began to shake and scatter its grease. "Did you hear-"
Ricard heard. Through the twilight came a windy shout. "Doria! Doria! Yield to the steel!"
"'Tis his cry!" Peering at each other, they breathed heavily. A dog howled suddenly. Feet pattered across the yard. Near them in the darkness steel clashed.
"Ho!" roared Ricard. "Arms! We are beset."
Andrea Doria slept the sleep of exhaustion-he who would waken otherwise at a whisper. When the clamor pierced his tower room he sat up to stare into darkness. He heard his name shouted and his war cry. Then the unmistakable clash of weapons brought him stumbling to his feet.
For a moment he racked his brains. Then he felt for the wall and swept it with his hands to find the door. Lifting the latch, he thrust at it, then heaved his shoulder against it. When he heard iron grate against stone and knew it to be heavily barred, he crashed his foot against it, his deep voice roaring.
"Open, ye louts!"
No one heeded him. After searching in vain for another door, he shrugged in resignation and went to the embrasure to listen. Men were running below him, and at times he caught the flare of a torch against walls. Some women began wailing. In a few moments the tumult died down, except for the cries of the women.
Doria returned to the door, pounding upon it methodically. After a while he saw light against the crack, and the bar was taken down. An Arab serving woman stood in the hall with a lantern.
"What hath come upon this place?" he asked in her speech.
"Y'allah! Calamity!" She tore at her hair fiercely. "The anger of God-"
He took the lantern from her and went down the winding stair cautiously. At the foot a man crouched, coiled up like a dog. Doria surveyed him and recognized Pietro's jacket. "What is the fighting?" he asked.
Pietro glanced up with agonized eyes and howled. Leaping to his feet, he vanished into the darkness. Doria thought that he conducted himself like a man who saw a ghost.
Going into the hall, the corsair glanced warily to right and left. Candles flickered on the long table, set with silver dishes. Against the table leaned old Ricard, his head clasped in his hands. Through his fingers blood trickled.
"They have taken Mistress Marguerite," he muttered. "Look!"
He seemed dazed as he clutched Doria's arm and crossed the hall unsteadily to a dark corridor. Here he stumbled over a carcass and bent down to feel of it. The hound Dominic lay dead of a dozen wounds. "Ah, Sieur Dieu!" Ricard muttered. "This hound hath fallen in his duty-and I live."
Pushing forward into a lighted chamber, the two men saw it to be empty, except for an Arab serving maid who lay moaning on the floo
r bleeding from a cut across the face. Ricard clutched her shoulder. "Speak thou," he urged. "What befell thy lady?"
"Like the wind they came," she screamed. "Pietro, the dog, brought them with a knife held at his throat. They snatched her up and like the wind they went."
Doria saw that the embroidered covers of the chests had not been disturbed. The girl's gold headband lay on the bed, beside her white-linen dress that Dominic had soiled. So, the raiders had not lingered to plunder. They had sought only the girl. "What men were they?" he demanded of the wounded captain.
But Ricard only muttered brokenly. Sir John, the lord of Rocafort, had no enemies who would strike at him thus. Sir John was away on a journey with the best of the men-at-arms. The raiders had rushed the courtyard, knocking down all who stood in their way. "'Twas Andrea Doria," he said, "and his devils. Now they are clear of the castle with Mistress-"
"Man," cried the corsair, "Doria's men are fish bait beneath the sea. They are dead, or chained to galley oars. Would Doria use steel on serving wenches or ravish a girl like yours?"
"Living or dead, I heard their war shout. And-and I mind that one calling himself Andrea Doria came spying upon my lady this day."
"The devil!" Doria stared at the soldier blankly. Himself, he knew no more of this raid than dead Dominic. He had been asleep, locked in the tower room. But he was Andrea Doria, and Pietro at least knew it-and now he was loose, prowling about the castle. So they might well think he had a hand in this spoiling.
A sound of distant shouting came through the wide window, and Doria strode over to it. Beyond an outer wall a band of men some two dozen strong were making toward the road that led down to the bay, far below. They looked like seamen, well armed. They had torches to light the way, and Doria caught a glimpse of a girl's red dress between two of them.
A few men and boys had followed from the castle. The raiders halted suddenly and turned, to shoot a volley of bolts from the crossbows. Two of the pursuers dropped, and the rest scattered, running to cover.
Doria shook his head. These raiders knew their way about, and hit hard. They were more than a match for the men of Rocafort. The only chance to make another stand against them would be upon the road, before they reached the open beach. If he could rally these fellows of the castle with a few bows, and lead them-
Below him a torch appeared, lighting a small garden under the window. Pietro bore the torch, running, with three armed men beside him. They paused to look under the cypress trees that lined the walls, and Pietro exclaimed angrily, "Blessed Mary, I saw him coming down. He made his way through a barred door."
One of the soldiers said something Doria could not hear, and the steward shouted, "He named himself Doria, and pretended to be cast away. Aye, he made as if he were cup-shot. If we can hold him we can drive a bargain with those friends of his-or else strip the skin off him."
When they had hastened from the garden, Doria swung his legs over the window ledge. It was clear enough that he could not argue with these men, and he had no mind to leave his skin to dry on Rocafort's gate.
"Hark, ye with the broken head," he called over his shoulder, "and remember this. Doria had no hand in this onset until now, but he will bear a hand in it before sunup."
Ricard did not even look up, and Doria let himself drop into the top of a cypress. His weight tore through the thick mesh, which rasped his garments and skin. He fell out of it, rolling upon the ground, and got to his feet without other harm.
Then he went through the door by which the searchers had entered, and, finding the ground clear of men, began to seek for the path up which Marguerite had led him that afternoon. When he found it he broke into a run, leaping and sliding down the slope, dim in the starlight.
The worse for more than one tumble, Doria limped out on the beach. A glance over his shoulder told him that he had cut across the path of the raiders, who were not more than halfway down the hill.
Ahead of him, two fishing skiffs were drawn up on the beach, with three armed seamen standing guard over them. He thought that the raiders had got possession of these skiffs, and had rowed themselves in from the galley, which was anchored off the entrance of the bay-some half mile out.
A steady breeze was blowing across the bay-a night breeze that would not die away-and Doria sniffed it with relish. "It will do," he assured himself as he circled the skiffs to his own dhow.
"Wallahi," cried Khalil, "it is good that thou hast come, 0 my Rais. This is no place of peace."
"What men are they who have come from the galley?"
"Ziani's."
"And what is he?"
"A merchant. A slave merchant of Venice." Khalil lowered his voice. "I have seen him often in the market at Tunis, selling Christian girls to the pashas. He sells only a few, but he gets good prices."
"The devil!" Doria thought of Marguerite standing by the pillar of the souk, under the eyes of the rich pashas who were connoisseurs in women. So this Ziani raided the islands to carry off young girls who had few swords to defend them. And he used Doria's name to cloak him. "Khalil," he said grimly, "I will drive a bargain with this Messer Ziani, and I will take the girl from him."
The Arab shook his head indulgently, "Now thou art hot with anger, my lord. What can we do? Let us put off from the shore."
"Aye," said the corsair slowly, "thou shalt lift the sail and go, but I will not. Listen."
And he bent close to the old seaman, talking eagerly. Khalil listened intently. Once he lifted his hand to try the wind. Then he shook his head. "Nay, my Rais, they are armed-"
"And there is one place where weapons and armor avail not." Doria laughed, and thrust the slender forty-foot dhow out into the water. Khalil gave up argument, and hoisted the long yard. The triangular sail filled, and the boat slipped away into the darkness. Doria watched it until he saw it beat up against the wind; then he strolled down the beach.
The raiders were just leaving the road and crossing the sand, with two or three torches still alight. Beside Marguerite, holding her by the wrist, walked a man with the shoulders of a wrestler and the close-clipped beard and curled hair of a dandy. He stopped to peer at Doria's tall figure advancing into the torchlight.
"A good evening to you, Messer Ziani," Doria greeted him. "You use my war cry in a bad business, and I like it not."
One of the swordsmen took a torch and stepped up to the corsair, staring into his gaunt face. "The devil," the man cried. "This is Andrea Doria, who was taken by the Turks."
"Aye, I am Doria," acknowledged the corsair, "who was awakened by your clamor at the castle. Now I warn you that the Demoiselle of Rocafort is no merchandise for the slave market."
Marguerite checked the sudden cry that rose in her throat; but Ziani did not loose his grip of her wrist. He had planned her capture with some care, and saw a good profit in it, for the great pashas would pay high for a maid like this. On the other hand, he hoped to keep his share in it a secret.
While many merchants reaped a harvest from the secret sale of Christian Greeks and Georgians to the Moslems, he did not wish it known that he carried girls by force from the islands of Sicily. And he was startled by the appearance of the man he believed out of the way. "What do you want?"
"Will you set this girl free?"
Ziani glanced up and down the beach. No men were behind Doria, and his own skiffs were within reach. At the mouth of the bay his galley rode at anchor, and certainly no other vessel had come in. "What I will do," he parried, "is my affair."
"Then I will buy her."
The merchant scanned the seaman's torn garments. "With what?" he asked pointedly. He had heard tales of this man's daring, but he saw no reason to fear Doria now.
"With eight hundred gold sequins, to be paid in any Moslem port."
"Eh!" Ziani's brows went up. "It seems you do not care much for money."
Four to five hundred would have been a good price for the girl in Tunis. He might get more, of course, but he would have to pay certain bribes, and the
cost of the run and back with his ship and crew.
"Nay," Doria laughed, "as I have none. Make it a thousand, if you wish-and get it if you can."
"I have no interest in either promises or threats."
Doria folded his arms, still smiling. "Nor do I deal in promises, Ziani. I have a slight something in me which it seems you lack. 'Tis called honor. Since I was a guest at Rocafort and since you have beset it in my name, I must buy this demoiselle from you and set her free. Having no gold here, I will exchange myself for her."
"You-what?"
"I will surrender myself to you here. The Sultan will give you not only gold but precious stones for Andrea Doria-and you know it well. But you must release this girl at once."
Shaking his head in pretended amazement, Ziani calculated quickly. He could find envoys of the great Sultan at Tunis, and if he managed the bargain well, he could clear fourteen hundred profit-enough to buy three ships. More, he would have near two thousand gain.
He did not believe Doria-the corsair had meant to trick him-and he could not believe Doria had approached him without having aid within call. But in a moment he saw his way to make certain of everything.
"Done!" he cried.
"Nay!" exclaimed Marguerite suddenly. "Nay, he must not sell himself! "
But Doria walked into the group of staring men-at-arms with his hands lifted to show that he had no weapon. "Demoiselle, you see now that I am Doria."
She looked up at him, tears gleaming in her eyes. "And I-I thought to put shame upon you. Oh, why will you do this?"
He smiled slightly. "Set her free," he said to the merchant.
Again Ziani scanned the shore. "In a moment," he muttered, making a sign to the men nearest the corsair. Two of them stepped to Doria, caught his arms, and searched his mantle and shirt for weapons. They found nothing, and Ziani's brow cleared. The way was open now, the profit clear. After all, Doria was a fool-or else captivity had weakened his brain. "To the boats," he ordered.