Now in the dawn a grim, dark figure rode up to the deep, waterless moat which encircled the stronghold, and smote with iron-clad fist on hollow-ringing shield until the echoes reverberated among the hills. A sleepy man-at-arms thrust his head and his pike over the wall above the barbican and bellowed a challenge.
The lone rider threw back his helmeted head, disclosing a face dark with a passion that an all-night’s ride had not cooled in the least.
“You keep rare watch here,” roared Cormac FitzGeoffrey. “Is it because you’re so hand-in-glove with the Paynim that you fear no attack? Where is that ale-guzzling swine you call your liege?”
“The baron is at wine,” the fellow answered sullenly, in broken English.
“So early?” marveled Cormac.
“Nay,” the other gave a surly grin, “he has feasted all night.”
“Wine-bibber! Glutton!” raged Cormac. “Tell him I have business with him.”
“And what shall I say your business is, Lord FitzGeoffrey?” asked the carl, impressed.
“Tell him I bring a passport to Hell!” yelled Cormac, gnashing his teeth, and the scared soldier vanished like a puppet on a string.
The Norman-Gael sat his horse impatiently, shield slung on his shoulders, lance in its stirrup socket, and to his surprize, suddenly the barbican door swung wide and out of it strutted a fantastic figure. Baron Conrad von Gonler was short and fat; broad of shoulder and portly of belly, though still a young man. His long arms and wide shoulders had gained him a reputation as a deadly broadsword man, but just now he looked little of the fighter. Germany and Austria sent many noble knights to the Holy Land. Baron von Gonler was not one of them.
His only arm was a gold-chased dagger in a richly brocaded sheath. He wore no armor, and his costume, flaming with gay silk and heavy with gold, was a bizarre mingling of European gauds and Oriental finery. In one hand, on each finger of which sparkled a great jewel, he held a golden wine goblet. A band of drunken revellers reeled out behind him – minnesingers, dwarfs, dancing girls, wine-companions, vacuous-faced, blinking like owls in the daylight. All the boot-kissers and hangers-on that swarm after a rich and degenerate lord trooped with their master – scum of both races. The luxury of the East had worked quick ruin on Baron von Gonler.
“Well,” shouted the baron, “who is it wishes to interrupt my drinking?”
“Any but a drunkard would know Cormac FitzGeoffrey,” snarled the horseman, his lip writhing back from his strong teeth in contempt. “We have an account to settle.”
That name and Cormac’s tone had been enough to sober any drunken knight of the Outremer. But von Gonler was not only drunk; he was a degenerate fool. The baron took a long drink while his drunken crew stared curiously at the savage figure on the other side of the dry moat, whispering to one another.
“Once you were a man, von Gonler,” said Cormac, in a tone of concentrated venom; “now you have become a groveling debauchee. Well, that’s your own affair. The matter I have in mind is another – why did you refuse aid to the Sieur de Gissclin?”
The German’s puffy, arrogant face took on new hauteur. He pursed his thick lips haughtily, while his bleared eyes blinked over his bulbous nose like an owl. He was an image of pompous stupidity that made Cormac grind his teeth.
“What was the Frenchman to me?” the baron retorted brutally. “It was his own fault – out of a thousand girls he might have taken, the young fool tried to steal one a sheik wanted himself. He, the purity of honor! Bah!”
He added a coarse jest and the creatures with him screamed with mirth, leaping and flinging themselves into obscene postures. Cormac’s sudden and lion-like roar of fury gave them pause.
“Conrad von Gonler!” thundered the maddened Gael, “I name you liar, traitor and coward – dastard, poltroon and villain! Arm yourself and ride out here on the plain. And haste – I can not waste much time on you – I must kill you quick and ride on lest another vermin escape me.”
The baron laughed cynically. “Why should I fight you? You are not even a knight. You wear no knightly emblem on your shield.”
“Evasions of a coward,” raged FitzGeoffrey. “I am a chief in Ireland and I have cleft the skulls of men whose boots you are not worthy to touch. Will you arm yourself and ride out, or are you become the swinish coward I deem you?”
Von Gonler laughed in scornful anger.
“I need not risk my hide fighting you. I will not fight you, but I will have my men-at-arms fill your hide with crossbow bolts if you tarry longer.”
“Von Gonler,” Cormac’s voice was deep and terrible in its brooding menace, “will you fight, or die in cold blood?”
The German burst into a sudden brainless shout of laughter.
“Listen to him!” he roared. “He threatens me – he on the other side of the moat, with the drawbridge lifted – I here in the midst of my henchmen!”
He smote his fat thigh and roared with his fool’s laughter, while the debased men and women who served his pleasures laughed with him and insulted the grim Irish warrior with shrill anathema and indecent gestures. And suddenly Cormac, with a bitter curse, rose in his stirrups, snatched his battle-ax from his saddle-bow and hurled it with all his mighty strength.
The men-at-arms on the towers cried out and the dancing girls screamed. Von Gonler had thought himself to be out of reach – but there is no such thing as being out of reach of Norman-Irish vengeance. The heavy ax hissed as it clove the air and dashed out Baron Conrad’s brains.
The fat, gross body buckled to the earth like a mass of melted tallow, one fat, white hand still gripping the empty wine goblet. The gay silks and cloth-of-gold were dabbled in a deeper red than ever was sold in the bazaar, and the jesters and dancers scattered like birds, screaming at the sight of that blasted head and the crimson ruin that had been a human face.
Cormac FitzGeoffrey made a fierce, triumphant gesture and voiced a deep-chested yell of such ferocious exultation that men blenched to hear. Then wheeling his black steed suddenly, he raced away before the dazed soldiers could get their wits together to send a shower of arrows after him.
He did not gallop far. The great steed was weary from a hard night’s travel. Cormac soon swung in behind a jutting crag, and reining his horse up a steep incline, halted and looked back the way he had come. He was out of sight of the keep, but he heard no sounds of pursuit. A wait of some half-hour convinced him that no attempt had been made to follow him. It was dangerous and foolhardy to ride out of a safe castle into these hills. Cormac might well have been one of an ambushing force.
At any rate, whatever his enemies’ thoughts were on the subject, it was evident that he need expect no present attempt at retaliation, and he grunted with angry satisfaction. He never shunned a fight, but just now he had other business on hand.
Cormac rode eastward.
III
THE ROAD TO EL GHOR
The way to El Ghor was rough indeed. Cormac wound his way between huge jagged boulders, across deep ravines and up treacherous steeps. The sun slowly climbed toward the zenith and the heat waves began to dance and shimmer. The sun beat fiercely on Cormac’s helmed head, and glancing back from the bare rocks, dazzled his narrowed eyes. But the big warrior gave no heed; in his own land he learned to defy sleet and snow and bitter cold; following the standard of Coeur de Lion, before the shimmering walls of Acre, on the dusty plains of Azotus, and before Joppa, he had become inured to the blaze of the Oriental sun, to the glare of naked sands, to the slashing dust winds.
At noon he halted long enough to allow the black stallion an hour’s rest in the shade of a giant boulder. A tiny spring bubbled there, known to him of old, and it slaked the thirst of the man and the horse. The stallion cropped eagerly at the scrawny fringe of grass about the spring and Cormac ate of the dried meats he carried in a small pouch. Here he had watered his steed in the old days, when he rode with Gerard. Ali-El-Yar lay to the west; in the night he had swung around it in a wide circle as he rode to the ca
stle of von Gonler. He had had no wish to gaze on the moldering ruins. The nearest Moslem chief of any importance was Nureddin El Ghor, who with his brother-at-arms, Kosru Malik, the Seljuk, held the castle of El Ghor, in the hills to the east.
Cormac rode on stolidly through the savage heat. As midafternoon neared he rode up out of a deep, wide defile and came onto the higher levels of the hills. Up this defile he had ridden aforetime to raid the wild tribes to the east, and on the small plateau at the head of the defile stood a gibbet where Sieur Gerard de Gissclin had once hanged a red-handed Turkoman chief as a warning to those tribes.
Now, as FitzGeoffrey rode up on the plateau, he saw the old tree again bore fruit. His keen eyes made out a human form suspended in midair, apparently by the wrists. A tall warrior in the peaked helmet and light mail shirt of a Moslem stood beneath, tentatively prodding at the victim with a spear, making the body sway and spin on the rope. A bay Turkoman horse stood near. Cormac’s cold eyes narrowed. The man on the rope – his naked body glistened too white in the sun for a Turk. The Norman-Gael touched spurs to the black stallion and swept across the plateau at a headlong run.
At the sudden thunder of hoofs the Muhammadan started and whirled. Dropping the spear with which he had been tormenting the captive, he mounted swiftly, stringing a short heavy bow as he did so. This done, and his left forearm thrust through the straps of a small round buckler, he trotted out to meet the onset of the Frank.
Cormac was approaching at a thundering charge, eyes glaring over the edge of his grim shield. He knew that this Turk would never meet him as a Frankish knight would have met him – breast to breast. The Moslem would avoid his ponderous rushes, and circling him on his nimbler steed, drive in shaft after shaft until one found its mark. But he rushed on as recklessly as if he had never before encountered Saracen tactics.
Now the Turk bent his bow and the arrow glanced from Cormac’s shield. They were barely within javelin cast of each other, but even as the Moslem laid another shaft to string, doom smote him. Cormac, without checking his headlong gait, suddenly rose in his stirrups and gripping his long lance in the middle, cast it like a javelin. The unexpectedness of the move caught the Seljuk off guard and he made the mistake of throwing up his shield instead of dodging. The lance-head tore through the light buckler and crashed full on his mail-clad breast. The point bent on his hauberk without piercing the links, but the terrific impact dashed the Turk from his saddle and as he rose, dazed and groping for his scimitar, the great black stallion was already looming horrific over him, and under those frenzied hoofs he went down, torn and shattered.
Without a second glance at his victim Cormac rode under the gibbet and rising in the saddle, stared into the face of he who swung therefrom.
“By Satan,” muttered the big warrior, “ ’tis Micaul na Blaos – Michael de Blois, one of Gerard’s squires. What devil’s work is this?”
Drawing his sword he cut the rope and the youth slid into his arms. Young Michael’s lips were parched and swollen, his eyes dull with suffering. He was naked except for short leathern breeks, and the sun had dealt cruelly with his fair skin. Blood from a slight scalp wound caked his yellow hair, and there were shallow cuts on his limbs – marks left by his tormentor’s spear.
Cormac laid the young Frenchman in the shade cast by the motionless stallion and trickled water through the parched lips from his canteen. As soon as he could speak, Michael croaked: “Now I know in truth that I am dead, for there is but one knight ever rode in Outremer who could cast a long lance like a javelin – and Cormac FitzGeoffrey has been dead for many months. But if I be dead, where is Gerard – and Yulala?”
“Rest and be at ease,” growled Cormac. “You live – and so do I.”
He loosed the cords that had cut deep into the flesh of Michael’s wrists and set himself to gently rub and massage the numb arms. Slowly the delirium faded from the youth’s eyes. Like Cormac, he too came of a race that was tough as spring steel; an hour’s rest and plenty of water, and his intense vitality asserted itself.
“How long have you hung from this gibbet?” asked Cormac.
“Since dawn.” Michael’s eyes were grim as he rubbed his lacerated wrists. “Nureddin and Kosru Malik said that since Sieur Gerard once hanged one of their race here, it was fitting that one of Gerard’s men should grace this gibbet.”
“Tell me how Gerard died,” growled the Irish warrior. “Men hint at foul tales – ”
Michael’s fine eyes filled with tears. “Ah, Cormac, I who loved him, brought about his death. Listen – there is more to this than meets the casual eye. I think that Nureddin and his comrade-at-arms have been stung by the hornet of empire. It is in my mind that they, with various dog-knights among the Franks, dream of a mongrel kingdom among these hills, which shall hold allegiance neither to Saladin nor any king of the West.
“They begin to broaden their holdings by treachery. The nearest Christian hold was that of Ali-El-Yar, of course. Sieur Gerard was a true knight, peace be upon his fair soul, and he must be removed. All this I learned later – would to God I had known it beforehand! Among Nureddin’s slaves is a Persian girl named Yulala, and with this innocent tool of their evil wishes, the twain sought to ensnare my lord – to slay at once his body and his good name. And God help me, through me they succeeded where otherwise they had failed.
“For my lord Gerard was honorable beyond all men. When in peace, and at Nureddin’s invitation, he visited El Ghor, he paid no heed to Yulala’s blandishments. For according to the commands of her masters, which she dared not disobey, the girl allowed Gerard to look on her, unveiled, as if by chance, and she pretended affection for him. But Gerard gave her no heed. But I – I fell victim to her charms.”
Cormac snorted in disgust. Michael clutched his arm.
“Cormac,” he cried, “bethink you – all men are not iron like you! I swear I loved Yulala from the moment I first set eyes on her – and she loved me! I contrived to see her again – to steal into El Ghor itself – ”
“Whence men got the tale that it was Gerard who was carrying on an affair with Nureddin’s slave,” snarled FitzGeoffrey.
Michael hid his face in his hands. “Mine the fault,” he groaned. “Then one night a mute brought a note signed by Yulala – apparently – begging me to come with Sieur Gerard and his men-at-arms and save her from a frightful fate – our love had been discovered, the note read, and they were about to torture her. I was wild with rage and fear. I went to Gerard and told him all, and he, white soul of honor, vowed to aid me. He could not break the truce and bring Saladin’s wrath upon the Christians’ cities, but he donned his mail and rode forth alone with me. We would see if there was any way whereby we might steal Yulala away, secretly; if not, my lord would go boldly to Nureddin and ask the girl as a gift, or offer to pay a great ransom for her. I would marry her.
“Well, when we reached the place outside the wall of El Ghor, where I was wont to meet Yulala, we found we were trapped. Nureddin, Kosru Malik and their warriors rose suddenly about us on all sides. Nureddin first spoke to Gerard, telling him of the trap he had set and baited, hoping to entice my lord into his power alone. And the Moslem laughed to think that the chance love of a squire had drawn Gerard into the trap where the carefully wrought plan had failed. As for the missive – Nureddin wrote that himself, believing, in his craftiness, that Sieur Gerard would do just as indeed he did.
“Nureddin and the Turk offered to allow Gerard to join them in their plan of empire. They told him plainly that his castle and lands were the price a certain powerful nobleman asked in return for his alliance, and they offered alliance with Gerard instead of this noble. Sieur Gerard merely answered that so long as life remained in him, he would keep faith with his king and his creed, and at the word the Moslems rolled on us like a wave.
“Ah, Cormac, Cormac, had you but been there with our men-at-arms! Gerard bore himself right manfully as was his wont – back to back we fought and I swear to you that we trod a knee-d
eep carpet of the dead before Gerard fell and they dragged me down. ‘Christ and the Cross!’ were his last words, as the Turkish spears and swords pierced him through and through. And his fair body – naked and gashed, and thrown to the kites and the jackals!”
Michael sobbed convulsively, beating his fists together in his agony. Cormac rumbled deep in his chest like a savage bull. Blue lights burned and flickered in his eyes.
“And you?” he asked harshly.
“Me they flung into a dungeon for torture,” answered Michael, “but that night Yulala came to me. An old servitor who loved her, and who had dwelt in El Ghor before it fell to Nureddin, freed me and led us both through a secret passage that leads from the torture chamber, beyond the wall. We went into the hills on foot and without weapons and wandered there for days, hiding from the horsemen sent forth to hunt us down. Yesterday we were recaptured and brought back to El Ghor. An arrow had struck down the old slave who showed us the passageway, unknown to the present masters of the castle, and we refused to tell how we had escaped though Nureddin threatened us with torture. This dawn he brought me forth from the castle and hanged me to this gibbet, leaving that one to guard me. What he has done to Yulala, God alone knows.”
“You knew that Ali-El-Yar had fallen?”
“Aye,” Michael nodded dully. “Kosru Malik boasted of it. The lands of Gerard now fall heir to his enemy, the traitor knight who will come to Nureddin’s aid when the Moslem strikes for a crown.”
“And who is this traitor?” asked Cormac softly.
“The baron Conrad von Gonler, whom I swear to spit like a hare – ”
Cormac smiled thinly and bleakly. “Swear me no oaths. Von Gonler has been in Hell since dawn. I knew only that he refused to come to Gerard’s aid. I could have slain him no deader had I known his whole infamy.”