Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures Page 20

  A handful of defenders huddled in the door of the forecastle. The rest of the galley was in the hands of the triumphant Saracens. They swarmed over the deck, down into the waist. The animals squealed piteously as their throats were cut. Other screams marked the end of the women and children dragged from their hiding-places among the cargo.

  In the door of the forecastle the blood-stained survivors parried and thrust with notched swords. The pirates hemmed them in, yelping mockingly, thrusting forward their pikes, drawing back, springing in to hack and slash.

  Giles sprang for the rail, intending to dive and swim for the island. A quick step behind him warned him in time to wheel and duck a scimitar. It was wielded by a stout man of medium height, resplendent in silvered chain-mail and chased helmet, crested with egret plumes.

  Sweat misted the fat Englishman’s sight; his wind was short; his belly heaved, his legs trembled. The Moslem cut at his head. Giles parried, struck back. His blade clanged against the chief’s mail. Something like a white-hot brand seared his temple, and he was blinded by a rush of blood. Dropping his sword, he pitched head-first against the Saracen, bearing him to the deck. The Moslem writhed and cursed, but Giles’ thick arms clamped desperately about him.

  Suddenly a wild shout went up. There was a rush of feet across the deck. Men began to leap over the rail, to cast loose the boarding-irons. Giles’ captive yelled stridently, and men raced across the deck toward him. Giles released him, ran like a bulky cat along the bulwarks, and scrambled up over the roof of the shattered poop cabin. None heeded him. Men naked but for tarboushes hauled the mailed chieftain to his feet and rushed him across the deck while he raged and blasphemed, evidently wishing to continue the contest. The Saracens were leaping into their own galleys and pushing away. And Giles, crouching on the splintered cabin roof, saw the reason.

  Around the western promontory of the island they had been trying to reach, came a squadron of great red dromonds, with battle-castles rearing at prow and stern. Helmets and spear-heads glittered in the sun. Trumpets blared, drums boomed. From each mast-head streamed a long banner bearing the emblem of the Cross.

  From the survivors aboard the San Stefano rose a shout of joy. The galleys were racing southward. The nearest dromond swung ponderously alongside, and brown faces framed in steel looked over the rail.

  “Ahoy, there!” rang a stern-voiced command. “You are sinking; stand by to come aboard.”

  Giles Hobson started violently at that voice. He gaped up at the battle-castle towering above the San Stefano. A helmeted head bent over the bulwark, a pair of cold grey eyes met his. He saw a great beak of a nose, a scar seaming the face from the ear down the rim of the jaw.

  Recognition was mutual. A year had not dulled Sir Guiscard de Chastillon’s resentment.

  “So!” The yell rang bloodthirstily in Giles Hobson’s ears. “At last I have found you, rogue – ”

  Giles wheeled, kicked off his boots, ran to the edge of the roof. He left it in a long dive, shot into the blue water with a tremendous splash. His head bobbed to the surface, and he struck out for the distant cliffs in long pawing strokes.

  A mutter of surprise rose from the dromond, but Sir Guiscard smiled sourly.

  “A bow, varlet,” he commanded.

  It was placed in his hands. He nocked the arrow, waited until Giles’ dripping head appeared again in a shallow trough between the waves. The bowstring twanged, the arrow flashed through the sunlight like a silver beam. Giles Hobson threw up his arms and disappeared. Nor did Sir Guiscard see him rise again, though the knight watched the waters for some time.

  To Shawar, vizier of Egypt, in his palace in el-Fustat, came a gorgeously robed eunuch who, with many abased supplications, as the due of the most powerful man in the caliphate, announced: “The Emir Asad ed din Shirkuh, lord of Emesa and Rahba, general of the armies of Nour ed din, Sultan of Damascus, has returned from the ships of el Ghazi with a Nazarene captive, and desires audience.”

  A nod of acquiescence was the vizier’s only sign, but his slim white fingers twitched at his jewel-encrusted white girdle – sure evidence of mental unrest.

  Shawar was an Arab, a slim, handsome figure, with the keen dark eyes of his race. He wore the silken robes and pearl-sewn turban of his office as if he had been born to them – instead of to the black felt tents from which his sagacity had lifted him.

  The Emir Shirkuh entered like a storm, booming forth his salutations in a voice more fitted for the camp than for the council chamber. He was a powerfully built man of medium height, with a face like a hawk’s. His khalat was of watered silk, worked with gold thread, but like his voice, his hard body seemed more fitted for the harness of war than the garments of peace. Middle age had dulled none of the restless fire in his dark eyes.

  With him was a man whose sandy hair and wide blue eyes contrasted incongruously with the voluminous bag trousers, silken khalat and turned-up slippers which adorned him.

  “I trust that Allah granted you fortune upon the sea, ya khawand?” courteously inquired the vizier.

  “Of a sort,” admitted Shirkuh, casting himself down on the cushions. “We fared far, Allah knows, and at first my guts were like to gush out of my mouth with the galloping of the ship, which went up and down like a foundered camel. But later Allah willed that the sickness should pass.

  “We sank a few wretched pilgrims’ galleys and sent to hell the infidels therein – which was good, but the loot was wretched stuff. But look ye, lord vizier, did you ever see a Caphar like to this man?”

  The man returned the vizier’s searching stare with wide guileless eyes.

  “Such as he I have seen among the Franks of Jerusalem,” Shawar decided.

  Shirkuh grunted and began to munch grapes with scant ceremony, tossing a bunch to his captive.

  “Near a certain island we sighted a galley,” he said, between mouthfuls, “and we ran upon it and put the folk to the sword. Most of them were miserable fighters, but this man cut his way clear and would have sprung overboard had I not intercepted him. By Allah, he proved himself strong as a bull! My ribs are yet bruised from his hug.

  “But in the midst of the melee up galloped a herd of ships full of Christian warriors, bound – as we later learned – for Ascalon; Frankish adventurers seeking their fortune in Palestine. We put the spurs to our galleys, and as I looked back I saw the man I had been fighting leap overboard and swim toward the cliffs. A knight on a Nazarene ship shot an arrow at him and he sank, to his death, I supposed.

  “Our water butts were nearly empty. We did not run far. As soon as the Frankish ships were out of sight over the skyline, we beat back to the island for fresh water. And we found, fainting on the beach, a fat, naked, red-haired man whom I recognized as he whom I had fought. The arrow had not touched him; he had dived deep and swum far under the water. But he had bled much from a cut I had given him on the head, and was nigh dead from exhaustion.

  “Because he had fought me well, I took him into my cabin and revived him, and in the days that followed he learned to speak the speech we of Islam hold with the accursed Nazarenes. He told me that he was a bastard son of the king of England, and that enemies had driven him from his father’s court, and were hunting him over the world. He swore the king his father would pay a mighty ransom for him, so I make you a present of him. For me, the pleasure of the cruise is enough. To you shall go the ransom the malik of England pays for his son. He is a merry companion, who can tell a tale, quaff a flagon, and sing a song as well as any man I have ever known.”

  Shawar scanned Giles Hobson with new interest. In that rubicund countenance he failed to find any evidence of royal parentage, but reflected that few Franks showed royal lineage in their features: ruddy, freckled, light-haired, the western lords looked much alike to the Arab.

  He turned his attention again to Shirkuh, who was of more importance than any wandering Frank, royal or common. The old war-dog, with shocking lack of formality, was humming a Kurdish war song under his breat
h as he poured himself a goblet of Shiraz wine – the Shiite rulers of Egypt were no stricter in their morals than were their Mameluke successors.

  Apparently Shirkuh had no thought in the world except to satisfy his thirst, but Shawar wondered what craft was revolving behind that bluff exterior. In another man Shawar would have despised the Emir’s restless vitality as an indication of an inferior mentality. But the Kurdish right-hand man of Nour ed din was no fool. The vizier wondered if Shirkuh had embarked on that wild-goose chase with el Ghazi’s corsairs merely because his restless energy would not let him be quiet, even during a visit to the caliph’s court, or if there was a deeper meaning behind his voyaging. Shawar always looked for hidden motives, even in trivial things. He had reached his position by ignoring no possibility of intrigue. Moreover, events were stirring in the womb of Destiny in that early spring of 1167 A.D.

  Shawar thought of Dirgham’s bones rotting in a ditch near the chapel of Sitta Nefisa, and he smiled and said: “A thousand thanks for your gifts, my lord. In return a jade goblet filled with pearls shall be carried to your chamber. Let this exchange of gifts symbolize the everlasting endurance of our friendship.”

  “Allah fill thy mouth with gold, lord,” boomed Shirkuh, rising; “I go to drink wine with my officers, and tell them lies of my voyagings. Tomorrow I ride for Damascus. Allah be with thee!”

  “And with thee, ya khawand.”

  After the Kurd’s springy footfalls had ceased to rustle the thick carpets of the halls, Shawar motioned Giles to sit beside him on the cushions.

  “What of your ransom?” he asked, in the Norman French he had learned through contact with the Crusaders.

  “The king my father will fill this chamber with gold,” promptly answered Giles. “His enemies have told him I was dead. Great will be the joy of the old man to learn the truth.”

  So saying, Giles retired behind a wine goblet and racked his brain for bigger and better lies. He had spun this fantasy for Shirkuh, thinking to make himself sound too valuable to be killed. Later – well, Giles lived for today, with little thought of the morrow.

  Shawar watched, in some fascination, the rapid disappearance of the goblet’s contents down his prisoner’s gullet.

  “You drink like a French baron,” commented the Arab.

  “I am the prince of all topers,” answered Giles modestly – and with more truth than was contained in most of his boastings.

  “Shirkuh, too, loves wine,” went on the vizier. “You drank with him?”

  “A little. He wouldn’t get drunk, lest we sight a Christian ship. But we emptied a few flagons. A little wine loosens his tongue.”

  Shawar’s narrow dark head snapped up; that was news to him.

  “He talked? Of what?”

  “Of his ambitions.”

  “And what are they?” Shawar held his breath.

  “To be Caliph of Egypt,” answered Giles, exaggerating the Kurd’s actual words, as was his habit. Shirkuh had talked wildly, though rather incoherently.

  “Did he mention me?” demanded the vizier.

  “He said he held you in the hollow of his hand,” said Giles, truthfully, for a wonder.

  Shawar fell silent; somewhere in the palace a lute twanged and a black girl lifted a weird whining song of the South. Fountains splashed silverly, and there was a flutter of pigeons’ wings.

  “If I send emissaries to Jerusalem his spies will tell him,” murmured Shawar to himself. “If I slay or constrain him, Nour ed din will consider it cause for war.”

  He lifted his head and stared at Giles Hobson.

  “You call yourself king of topers; can you best the Emir Shirkuh in a drinking-bout?”

  “In the palace of the king, my father,” said Giles, “in one night I drank fifty barons under the table, the least of which was a mightier toper than Shirkuh.”

  “Would you win your freedom without ransom?”

  “Aye, by Saint Withold!”

  “You can scarcely know much of Eastern politics, being but newly come into these parts. But Egypt is the keystone of the arch of empire. It is coveted by Amalric, king of Jerusalem, and Nour ed din, sultan of Damascus. Ibn Ruzzik, and after him Dirgham, and after him, I, have played one against the other. By Shirkuh’s aid I overthrew Dirgham; by Amalric’s aid, I drove out Shirkuh. It is a perilous game, for I can trust neither.

  “Nour ed din is cautious. Shirkuh is the man to fear. I think he came here professing friendship in order to spy me out, to lull my suspicions. Even now his army may be moving on Egypt.

  “If he boasted to you of his ambitions and power, it is a sure sign that he feels secure in his plots. It is necessary that I render him helpless for a few hours; yet I dare not do him harm without true knowledge of whether his hosts are actually on the march. So this is your part.”

  Giles understood and a broad grin lit his ruddy face, and he licked his lips sensuously.

  Shawar clapped his hands and gave orders, and presently, at request, Shirkuh entered, carrying his silk-girdled belly before him like an emperor of India.

  “Our royal guest,” purred Shawar, “has spoken of his prowess with the wine-cup. Shall we allow a Caphar to go home and boast among his people that he sat above the Faithful in anything? Who is more capable of humbling his pride than the Mountain Lion?”

  “A drinking-bout?” Shirkuh’s laugh was gusty as a sea blast. “By the beard of Muhammad, it likes me well! Come, Giles ibn Malik, let us to the quaffing!”

  A procession began, of slaves bearing golden vessels brimming with sparkling nectar.…

  During his captivity on el Ghazi’s galley, Giles had become accustomed to the heady wine of the East. But his blood was boiling in his veins, his head was singing, and the gold-barred chamber was revolving to his dizzy gaze before Shirkuh, his voice trailing off in the midst of an incoherent song, slumped sidewise on his cushions, the gold beaker tumbling from his fingers.

  Shawar leaped into frantic activity. At his clap Sudanese slaves entered, naked giants with gold ear-rings and silk loin-clouts.

  “Carry him into the alcove and lay him on a divan,” he ordered. “Lord Giles, can you ride?”

  Giles rose, reeling like a ship in a high wind.

  “I’ll hold to the mane,” he hiccuped. “But why should I ride?”

  “To bear my message to Amalric,” snapped Shawar. “Here it is, sealed in a silken packet, telling him that Shirkuh means to conquer Egypt, and offering him payment in return for aid. Amalric distrusts me, but he will listen to one of the royal blood of his own race, who tells him of Shirkuh’s boasts.”

  “Aye,” muttered Giles groggily, “royal blood; my grandfather was a horse-boy in the royal stables.”

  “What did you say?” demanded Shawar, not understanding, then went on before Giles could answer. “Shirkuh has played into our hands. He will lie senseless for hours, and while he lies there, you will be riding for Palestine. He will not ride for Damascus tomorrow; he will be sick of overdrunkenness. I dared not imprison him, or even drug his wine. I dare make no move until I reach an agreement with Amalric. But Shirkuh is safe for the time being, and you will reach Amalric before he reaches Nour ed din. Haste!”

  In the courtyard outside sounded the clink of harness, the impatient stamp of horses. Voices blurred in swift whispers. Footfalls faded away through the halls. Alone in the alcove, Shirkuh unexpectedly sat upright. He shook his head violently, buffeted it with his hands as if to clear away the clinging cobwebs. He reeled up, catching at the arras for support. But his beard bristled in an exultant grin. He seemed bursting with a triumphant whoop he could scarcely restrain. Stumblingly he made his way to a gold-barred window. Under his massive hands the thin gold rods twisted and buckled. He tumbled through, pitching head-first to the ground in the midst of a great rose bush. Oblivious of bruises and scratches, he rose, careening like a ship on a tack, and oriented himself. He was in a broad garden; all about him waved great white blossoms; a breeze shook the palm leaves, and the m
oon was rising.

  None halted him as he scaled the wall, though thieves skulking in the shadows eyed his rich garments avidly as he lurched through the deserted streets.

  By devious ways he came to his own quarters and kicked his slaves awake.

  “Horses, Allah curse you!” His voice crackled with exultation.

  Ali, his captain of horse, came from the shadows.

  “What now, lord?”

  “The desert and Syria beyond!” roared Shirkuh, dealing him a terrific buffet on the back. “Shawar has swallowed the bait! Allah, how drunk I am! The world reels – but the stars are mine!

  “That bastard Giles rides to Amalric – I heard Shawar give him his instructions as I lay in feigned slumber. We have forced the vizier’s hand! Now Nour ed din will not hesitate, when his spies bring him news from Jerusalem of the marching of the iron men! I fumed in the caliph’s court, checkmated at every turn by Shawar, seeking a way. I went into the galleys of the corsairs to cool my brain, and Allah gave into my hands a red-haired tool! I filled the lord Giles full of ‘drunken’ boastings, hoping he would repeat them to Shawar, and that Shawar would take fright and send for Amalric – which would force our overly cautious sultan to act. Now follow marching and war and the glutting of ambition. But let us ride, in the devil’s name!”

  A few minutes later the Emir and his small retinue were clattering through the shadowy streets, past gardens that slept, a riot of color under the moon, lapping six-storied palaces that were dreams of pink marble and lapis lazuli and gold.

  At a small, secluded gate, a single sentry bawled a challenge and lifted his pike.

  “Dog!” Shirkuh reined his steed back on its haunches and hung over the Egyptian like a silk-clad cloud of death. “It is Shirkuh, your master’s guest!”

  “But my orders are to allow none to pass without written order, signed and sealed by the vizier,” protested the soldier. “What shall I say to Shawar – ”

  “You will say naught,” prophesied Shirkuh. “The dead speak not.”