Sarzeau was determined to object. “We can find boats. We have not looked up the river.”
“You are free to look,” the Hansgraf said, “but the rest of us should leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Grossefeldt exploded. “Impossible! It is too soon!”
“Already there is snow just fifty miles to the north. It can snow here. However, I shall hold none of you to our agreement of unity unless you wish to reaffirm it. We—our company—will leave tomorrow with all who wish to accompany us.”
“I shall go,” Flandrin said quietly.
Sarzeau and Grossefeldt hesitated, but I was not watching them, or listening. I was watching Yury Olgevichi. His face was blank and innocent, yet I believed I detected in his eyes a spark of satisfaction.
The Hansgraf rose. “At daylight, then.”
Suzanne stood near me, and Yury crossed over to her, bowing. “Madame, if you would prefer the river, I can offer you my boat.”
“With Kerbouchard and our company?”
“The offer was made to you, madame. After all, for a woman of your position the boat is more comfortable.”
“I shall remain with the company. We have been quite comfortable, thank you.” She half turned away, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “Have you visited Constantinople, Prince Yury? Have you walked its walls? It might be advisable. It might save much trouble and disappointment.”
Startled and angry, he started a reply, but we walked away.
“So you have the same idea I have?”
“He has had little successes, and he mistakes them for great victories. He has connived and intrigued in Novgorod and Kiev, and he believes he is prepared for Constantinople. Believe me, Mathurin, no people are so adept at intrigue as the Byzantines.”
“And if it comes to war?”
“He will be defeated before he comes within sight of the walls. While he is planning to make a dinner of them, they will make a breakfast of him.”
We stood together watching the sun sink, although the hour was early. There was a chill in the wind. Yes, I was ready to go, more than ready.
Leaves fell from beech trees at the camp’s edge; clouds caught the reflection of far-off sun-flame, blushing at the sight.
I did not like Prince Yury.
38
THE HANSGRAF RUPERT von Gilderstern led, mounted on his powerful charger. He sat erect in his saddle as always, holding his bridle reins breast high in his left hand. He was truly a monumental figure.
Some distance away was the bank of the Dnieper, on our right the fields of the few who ventured to farm in the neighborhood of Kiev.
Behind the Hansgraf marched his company and that of his brother Peter; a little further back came that of Flandrin. The others followed in their respective places, with Sarzeau and Grossefeldt bringing up the rear.
Of retainers I had but one, the thief, beggar, and philosopher, Khatib. Before leaving Kiev, I called the jugglers and acrobats around me, a motley group most of whom I had known from Córdoba.
“I have no claim upon you, but I fear that Prince Yury will attempt to seize the Comtesse; and I cannot always be with her. If you would help to watch over her, it would be the greatest of favors.”
“Worry not,” Lolyngton said. “Where the Comtesse is, we will not be far away.”
We camped at the edge of a forest of beech and maple, our circle tight, our stock held under guard in a nearby meadow.
At sundown the Hansgraf called me to his tent. Peter, Flandrin, Sarzeau, Grossefeldt, and the others were present.
“Kerbouchard, you are our master of geography. How far to the sea if we travel directly south?”
“Half the distance of following the river, which bends far to the east.”
“That is it, then. We strike directly south.”
There was no argument. Even Sarzeau seemed pleased. If we could reach Constantinople before the boats, our market would be much better.
The Hansgraf arose. “Prepare to move within the hour.”
We had started out of the tent; now all stopped. “What?” Flandrin protested. “Tonight?”
“Our enemies will have satisfied themselves we are following the river. Now we shall make forced marches. In ten days we shall reach the sea. If we are fortunate”—he paused, his eyes going from one to the other—“we shall do it in eight days, perhaps even in seven.”
Outside, Sarzeau muttered, “He is a good man. Sometimes I think not, but I am wrong. What do you think of this move, hey?”
“There will be fewer river crossings, and the rivers will be narrower than where they enter the Dnieper.”
“Yes, yes! Of course! I had not thought of that.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You are a good man, too, Kerbouchard. You should give up whatever plans you have and remain a merchant.”
At first we used marketing roads traveled by farmers, then we cut across country, for there was no road the way we had chosen.
It was open country, for the forest line was falling behind us, although there were patches of forest and, of course, thick growth along the streams. By daybreak we had fifteen miles behind us.
On the third day we entered the valley of the Bug River. Far away on our right was the Volyno-Podolak upland, but aside from dips into streambeds, the country was flat or gently rolling, presenting few obstacles. Usually, I rode out in front, discovering the way, removing obstructions, alert for danger.
The Bug River was now our guide, and we followed the western bank. Oak, which had been plentiful, had given way to beech; maple mixed with ash and occasional elm. Game was plentiful, grazing excellent. The grasses were blue or wheat grass, where we saw and sometimes killed saiga antelope, red deer, roebuck, and wild boar. From time to time we saw small bands of tarpan, or wild horses. They were mouse-colored with a dark stripe down the back.
Each company had hunters who ranged far afield to supplement our supplies and to scout the land as I was doing. By nightfall of that third day we had a hundred miles behind us, approximately a third of the distance. For the boats descending the river, progress would be slow except for a short stretch through the rapids of the Dnieper. Kiev was of no great elevation, and the rate of descent, including the rapids, was not more than eighty feet to the mile.
Long since we had crossed the Bug, which flowed into the river we had been following from the northwest, and now we approached the Chicheklaya.
Lolyngton, Johannes, and I had ridden far in quest of game. We had seen several bear and one moose, although no more than a glimpse, when Lolyngton suddenly drew rein, lifting a hand. “I smell smoke,” he said.
We were traversing a small meadow bordered by a fine stand of ash, and we held our mounts, trying the wind.
“A campfire,” I said, “it can be no more than that.”
We had seen no one in days, now we entered the woods, picking our way. Johannes, who was not feeling his best, remained with the horses. We wore chain mail with tunics over it and conical helmets brought from Spain.
Threading our way, we came to a blowdown where a number of trees had been felled by a great blast of wind. We stopped well back under the trees, for an observer who knows his business remains back under the trees where he is concealed but can see just as well.
Clustered around a fire not over a hundred yards away were a dozen strangely clad men. They wore conical helmets, somewhat different from our own, and tunics of hide that fell to the knee but were split up the sides for easy riding. Their boots seemed to be of soft leather, and they carried quivers of arrows and shorter, thicker bows than I had seen. They were swarthy men with broad, flat faces, narrow eyes, and square jaws. They looked a rugged and dangerous lot.
Eyes appear as dots at one hundred yards; mouth and eyes can usually be plainly seen at fifty yards, so we were actually somewhere between the two distances, not nea
rly enough if they gave chase.
These were the Petchenegs of whom we heard, hard-riding men from the steppes of Asia. Such as these had long ago attacked and destroyed Roman armies.
As we watched, one of the soldiers lifted his saddle and brought out a slab of meat. I recalled hearing such was their method of tenderizing meat, carrying it between the horse and the saddle and riding on it all day. The idea did not appeal to me, but the smell of broiling meat aroused our hunger. We drew back deeper into the woods, then returned to Johannes. “This must be reported to the Hansgraf at once,” he said.
“Do you return. I shall circle about to find where they come from and if there are more.”
“What of you? We shall move on, you know.”
“Drive hard for the sea. If they are some distance from their main body, we will gain distance.”
When they had gone I mounted and rode until I came upon the Petchenegs’ tracks. At a swift canter I rode their back trail, and coming to a rise, I turned in my saddle. In the distance was the flat plain over which we had crossed with the caravan.
Riding a short distance along the rise, I found where a large body of horsemen had stopped for some time, facing the river.
They had seen us then, but how far away was their main body?
The day was warm; a slight breeze stirred the few leaves remaining and rattled skeleton fingers among the bare trees. A heron flew up from a sphagnum bog, and I followed the back trail of the Petchenegs. Topping a rise, I saw their camp lay before me, and my heart lay heavy within me, for the black tents spread wide upon the plain.
How many tents? How many horses?
Five thousand men? Ten thousand? I looked at the horse herd, and even allowing for three or four horses per man as was often the case with the Petchenegs, it was a great number. If they came against us, we would be swept up like leaves in the wind. We would be destroyed, trampled into bloody dust.
Flight, swift, driving flight, was our only recourse. The Hansgraf would suspect, when Johannes reached him, that the party we had seen were not alone.
By now our company would be moving, flying toward the sea, but their scouting party would be riding in, and their army would mount.
Could I stop them? Slow them, even a little?
Far off, a party of horsemen were riding toward the Petcheneg camp, and the man riding that magnificent gray horse, surely two such horses did not exist, that man I knew, even at the distance.
It was Prince Yury.
They were some distance away, and the idea came as naturally as such an idea can come.
The attack on the convoy must be delayed, and the Petchenegs kept in their camp, and there was nothing, or so I had heard, they liked better than to witness a good fight.
Prince Yury’s presence could mean but one thing: that he had come to enlist their services against us if he had not done so already. Therefore, Prince Yury was my enemy.
Deliberately, I rode my horse into the bright sunlight, removing my tunic so the sun could strike my bright-polished armor. I wanted them to see me; they must see me.
“All right, Ayesha, let us hope you do not have a fool for a master and that his blade cuts sharply this day!”
Touching her lightly with a heel, I rode my mare down the gentle slope toward the camp of my enemies. I sat very straight in the saddle. I rode at an easy canter.
Perhaps I rode to my death, but at whatever the cost there must be delay for the caravan and my friends. Without it they would have no chance.
Nor would Suzanne.
39
THE PEOPLE OF the camp saw me coming from a distance, but I came as a visitor comes, and they had respect for visitors.
My route brought me into their camp at the opposite end from that of Prince Yury, as I intended. Immediately, I asked for the Khan.
They understood that word and no doubt believed I came as an ambassador or expected guest. They recognized my Arab armor, and there was murmuring among them as they looked at Ayesha.
Four horsemen fell in around me, and we came to a larger tent. There was Prince Yury, staring at me in blank astonishment, swiftly giving way to triumph.
“Seize that man! He is from the caravan!”
Knowing nothing of their tongue, I trusted to Arabic, which many of them would understand. “I have come to your camp of my own will. I have been told of the hospitality of the people of the Black Tents.”
Their Khan was a square, powerful old man with bowed legs and a grim expression. “Why come you here?” he demanded.
“In Kiev it was said you were followers of Prince Yury,” I lied cheerfully, to put my enemy on the defense, “but I do not believe the Khan of the Black Tents follows any man.”
Ayesha stepped about a bit, and when she quieted, I said, “I have come here, trusting to your hospitality as well as your nobility, to challenge Prince Yury to combat.
“You are noted men of the sword and respect those who fight. I do not ask your friendship, although to be your friend would make me proud; I ask only fair treatment, which I know you will give. The blood upon your swords has never been the blood of cowardice.”
“You come here, in the camp of his friends, to challenge Prince Yury?” The old Khan’s eyes glinted, and I felt I had won his respect where nothing else would have done so. These were men who loved daring. “Why do you seek him?”
“Because he tries to get other men to fight his battles, and because he is a knave, a coward, and a mongrel, fit only to be fed the meat of dogs!”
Prince Yury drew his sword. “By the gods! For this I shall have your blood!”
“Why fill thy belly on the east wind and give utterance to vain and foolish words?” I said contemptuously. “Will you meet me on foot or horseback?”
By now hundreds of the Khan’s followers had gathered about, eager for the fight. Yet all that I could think of now were ways to make the fight last. The scouting party I had seen had not yet come in. Could I hold them when they did come? Every minute gained would bring my people closer to the sea, and the boats that should be waiting.
Suddenly, there were shouts and a band of horsemen charged into camp. Men rushed to them for their report.
It was the scouting party. I was too late.
Amid the confusion, Prince Yury stared at me with hatred. He pointed at me. “Kill him! His coming was a ruse to distract your attention.”
“There speaks a coward,” I sneered, “who would have his killing done by others.”
“He has challenged you, Prince Yury,” a voice said. “His challenge deserves respect. Do you fear him, that you shrink from battle?”
That voice! Where had I heard it before?
“He is our enemy,” Yury replied coldly. “His coming is but to gain time.”
“How much time do we of the Black Tents require?” The speaker was behind me. “He has come to our camp as a guest, of his own will, and he shall leave it when he wishes.”
“Who says?” Yury demanded, his voice hard with anger.
“I say!” He walked forward and stood beside me. “I, Abaka Khan!”
A moment I stared, then remembrance. “Abaka Khan! The man for whom I bought a drink in Cádiz, so long ago!”
Prince Yury hesitated, and I could gauge Abaka Khan’s importance by that hesitation. Yury was suddenly uncertain of his ground.
“Do you speak for this enemy?” Yury demanded.
“Whose enemy? They have not attacked us. You say they are enemies.”
“There is loot among them.”
“And a woman,” I said, “whom he hopes to take.” Deliberately, I thickened my tone with contempt. “This dog cannot seize her for himself. He must have the Black Tents to win his woman!”
“Is this so?” The old Khan turned to Prince Yury. “You spoke of a woman when you told us of the caravan.”
“The woman is important. It is a matter of politics.”
Aside to those nearest me, I said, “What manner of mouse is this? That he claims politics as an excuse for taking a woman? Is he a man or a eunuch?”
Prince Yury heard my remark and took a step toward me, and the crowd opened to let him come, eager for the fight.
“A proper duel? Or do I spank you with my blade upon your bare bottom?”
“A duel it is,” Abaka Khan said sternly, “and we will see it properly done. Come, Prince Yury? Will it be foot or horse?”
“Horseback,” Yury said angrily, “and no quarter. A fight to the death!”
“Agreed.” I spoke carelessly, and drawing my blade, I rode Ayesha fifty yards down the course, walking her slowly, for we needed time, then turning to face Yury.
How long since Lolyngton and Johannes reached the caravan? How much time had I won? Was it twenty minutes? A half hour? An hour could mean five miles for the caravan, perhaps six at top speed. It was not much, but the sea was not far away. The Hansgraf would know how to use the time.
What I feared most was that the caravan might be caught crossing the Chicheklaya. Once across the river there would be nothing between them and the sea, less than fifty miles away.
“Steady, girl.” I spoke softly and caressed her neck, knowing she understood. Ayesha had been ridden in many a tilting and many a duel. She pranced eagerly, nostrils dilated, her delicate head bobbing as she tasted the bit.
The word was given, and we started forward. Despite my talk, which had been for the purpose of forcing a fight, I knew I was in trouble. Prince Yury towered several inches above me in height, and his long arms gave him a reach advantage. He was a powerful man with every appearance of the fighter.
His sword was ready. Suddenly his horse gathered speed, and of her own volition, Ayesha did as well. Charging, we swept at each other, but when we neared I simply parried his blow and slipped past.
An angry shout went up at my evasion, but wheeling Ayesha, I lunged at Prince Yury. Yury had turned, but despite the fact she had been ridden all morning, Ayesha was the quicker. My blade swung and was only partly parried, and Yury was off-balance in the saddle. There was a moment when I could have killed him, and it was seen by everyone.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 30