Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

by Robert E. Howard

  The English knight reined through the throngs which stared at his dusty mail and sweaty horse, and halted before the pavilions whose richer colors betokened the leaders of the expedition. He saw them coming forth from their tents in full armor – Godfrey of Bouillon, and his brothers, Eustace and Baldwin of Boulogne – a stocky grey-bearded figure which must be Raymond of St. Gilles, Count of Toulouse. With them was a figure in ornate armor, the burnished plates contrasting with the grey mesh-mail coats of the westerners – Roger knew the man must be Theodore Butumites, brother of the new-made duke of Nicea, and officer of the Greek cataphracts.

  The Turkoman charger snorted and tossed its head up and down, froth flying from the bit, as Roger slid to earth. Norman-like, the knight wasted no words.

  “My lords,” he said bluntly, without preliminary salutation, “I have come to tell you that a battle is forward, and if you would take part, you had best hasten.”

  “A battle?” It was Eustace of Boulogne, keen as a hunting hound on the scent. “Who fights?”

  “Bohemund confronts the Red Lion, even as we stand here.”

  The barons looked at each other uncertainly and Butumites laughed.

  “The man is mad. How could Kilidg Arslan fall upon Bohemund without passing us? And we have seen no Turks.”

  “Where is Bohemund?” asked Raymond.

  “In the plain of Doryleum, some six hours hard riding to the north.”

  “What!” It was an exclamation of unbelief. “How could that be? The lord Theodore has led us in a direct route, through valleys Bohemund missed. The Normans are somewhere behind us, and Theodore has sent his Byzantine scouts to find them and bring them hither, since it is evident that they have become lost in the hills. We are awaiting them before we take up the march.”

  “It is you who are lost,” snapped Sir Roger. “Theodore Butumites is a spy and a traitor, sent by Alexis to lead you astray, while Kilidg Arslan crushes Bohemund – ”

  “Dog, your life for that!” shouted the fiery Greek, striding forward, his hand on his sword. Roger fronted him grimly, gripping his own hilt, but the barons intervened.

  “These are serious accusations you bring, friend,” said Godfrey. “What proofs have you of these words?”

  “Why, in God’s name,” exclaimed Roger, “have you not seen that the Greek has swung further and further south? The Normans took the straighter course – it is you who have wandered from the route. Bohemund marched southeast by south – you have traveled due south. If you follow this course long enough, you may fetch the Mediterranean, but you will scarce come to the Holy Land!”

  “Who is this rogue?” exclaimed Butumites angrily.

  “Duke Godfrey knows me,” retorted the Norman. “I am Roger de Cogan.”

  “By the saints!” exclaimed Godfrey, a smile lighting his worn face. “I had thought to recognize you, Godfrey! But you have changed – you have changed. My lords,” he turned to the others, “this gentleman is known to me aforetime – nay, he rode with me into the Lateran, when I – ”

  He checked himself with the strange aversion he always felt toward speaking of what he considered his sacrilege in killing Duke Rudolph in the holy confines.

  “But we know him not,” answered St. Gilles, with the caution that always ate at him like a worm in a beam. “And he comes with a strange tale – he would lead us on a wild chase, with naught but his own word – ”

  “God’s thunder!” cried Roger, his short Norman patience exhausted. “Shall we gabble here while the Turks cut Bohemund’s throat? It is my word against the Greek’s, and I demand trial – the gauge of combat to decide between us!”

  “Well spoken!” exclaimed Adhemar, the pope’s legate, a tall man who wore the chain mail of a knight, and was a warrior at heart. Such scenes warmed his heart, which was that of a warrior. “As mouth-piece of our Holy Father, I declare the righteousness of such course.”

  “Well, and let us be at it!” exclaimed Roger, burning with impatience. “Choose your weapons, Greek!”

  Butumites glanced over his dusty mail, and the light-limbed, sweat-covered steed, and smiled secretly.

  “Dare you run a course with sharpened spears?”

  This was a matter at which the Franks were more experienced than the Greeks, but Butmites was of larger boned frame than most of his race, well able to compete with the westerners in physical strength, and he had had experience, jousting with the western knights while they lay at Alexis’ court. He glanced at his giant black war-horse, accoutered with heavy trappings of silk, steel and lacquered leather, and smiled again. But Godfrey interposed.

  “Nay, masters, this is but a sorry thing, seeing that Sir Roger has come hither on a weary steed, and that more fit for racing than fighting. Nay, Roger, you shall take my steed and lance, and my casque, too.”

  Butumites shrugged his shoulders. In an instant his crushing advantage had been swept away, but he was still confident. At any rate, he preferred lances to sword-strokes, having no desire to encounter the stroke of the great sword that hung at Roger’s hip. He had fought Normans before.

  Roger took the long heavy spear, and mounted the steed, held by Godfrey’s esquires, but refused the heavy helmet – a massive pot-like affair, without a movable vizor, but with a slit for the eyes. The joust had not then attained its later conventions and formalities; at that early date a lance-running was either a duel with sharpened weapons, or simply a form of training for more serious war-fare. A rude course had been formed by the crowd, pressing in on both sides, leaving a broad lane open. In this clear space the foes trotted apart for a short distance, wheeled couched their lances, and awaited the signal.

  The trumpet blared and the great horses thundered toward each other. The shining black armor and plumed casque of the Byzantine contrasted strongly with the dusty grey armor and plain iron bassinet of the Norman. Roger knew that Butumites would aim his lance directly at his unprotected face, and he bent low, glaring at his foe above the upper rim of his heavy shield. The hosts gave tongue as the knights shocked together with a rending crash. Both lances shivered to the hand-grips, and the horses were hurled back on their haunches. But Roger kept his seat, though half-stunned by the terrible impact, while Butumites was dashed from his saddle as though by a thunder-bolt. He lay where he had fallen, his burnished steel-clad limbs crumpled in the dust, blood oozing from his cracked helmet.

  Roger reined in his rearing steed and slid to earth dazedly, his head still ringing. The breaking lance of the Byzantine, glancing from the rim of his shield, had torn his bassinet from his head, and all but ripped loose the tendons of his neck. He advanced rather stiffly to the group which had formed about the prostrate Greek. The caque with its nodding plumes had been lifted off, and Butumites looked up at the faces above him with glazed eyes. It was evident that the man was dying. His breast-plate was shattered, and his whole breast-bone caved inward. Adhemar leaned above him, rosary in hand, muttering rapidly.

  “My son, have you any confession?”

  The dying lips worked, but only a dry rattle came from them. With a terrible effort the Greek muttered, “Doryleum – Kilidg Arslan – Bohemund – ” blood gushed from his lips, and he stiffened, a still figure of burnished metal, steel-sheathed limbs falling awry.

  Godfrey went into instant action.

  “To horse!” he shouted. “A steed for Sir Roger! Bohemund needs aid and by the favor of God, he shall not call in vain!”

  The throng yelped and the scene became a medly of confusion, knights mounting, men-at-arms buckling on their armor.

  “Wait!” exclaimed St. Gilles. “We can not go racing over these hills, wagons and footmen – some one must guard the supplies – ”

  “Do you this thing, my lord Raymond,” said Godfrey, a-fire with impatience. “Get the wagons under way, and follow with them and the footmen. My horsemen and I will push forward. Roger, lead the way!”

  Untitled Synopsis

  (The Slave-Princess)

  Cormac F
itzGeoffrey rides into a city that the Turkomans are looting. He arrives to late to share in the loot, but he captures an Arab slave girl, Zuleika, whose owner has just been murdered by a Turkoman. He kills the Turkoman and carries her off with him, riding to the castle of Sieur Amory. There he divulges his plan. He has noticed a striking resemblance between Zuleika and the daughter of Abdullah bin Kheram, the princess Zalda, who had been carried off three years before by Kurdish raiders, on the verge of her wedding to Khelru Shah, chief of the Seljuk Turks, who rules the hill-town of Kizil-hissar, the Red Castle. Amory keeps the girl with him, and Cormac rides to Kizil-hissar. He tells Khelru Shah that he has found the vanished princess, and that he will delivers her up to him for ten thousand pieces of gold. Khelru Shah threatens to keep him as hostage, but Cormac laughs at him, telling him that if he, Cormac, has not returned in a certain time, the princess’s throat will be cut. Khelru Shah refuses to believe that the princess still lives, and decides to ride to Amory’s castle with Cormac and see for himself. They set out with three hundred riders, and even before they set forth, one Ali, an Arab trader, who has spied upon their council, races southward on a swift camel. Meanwhile Amory has become somewhat interested in his fair captive, to the extent of attempting to ravish her, but refraining for some reason he himself cannot understand. Zuleika has fallen in love with her captor, but Amory, wild, and hardened by years of intrigue and battle, cannot believe himself in love with her. Cormac and Khelru Shah ride up to the castle wall and Amory displays Zuleika on the tower. Khelru Shah is puzzled; he finally decides that it is the princess Zalda, and demands a night to think the matter over. He retires with all his force a mile away and goes into camp, while Cormac enters the castle. Just at dark, a crippled beggar howls for admission at the castle gate and is allowed to enter and sleep in the castle hall. The Arab girl is locked into her chamber with a soldier on guard and Cormac and Amory drink and converse in another chamber. The walls are closely guarded in event of a surprize attack. When all the castle is silent, the crippled beggar rises stealthily, disclosing the countenance of an Egyptian right-hand man of Khelru Shah’s. He steals to the girl’s chamber, strangles her guard, enters, binds and gags her, and steals out of the castle. He conceals her in the stable, then slays the soldier guarding the postern gate and opens it, then sets fire to the castle. Khelru Shah’s men, who have stolen up on foot in the darkness, rush through the postern gate. Meanwhile, Cormac and Amory have quarrelled. Amory declares he will not let the girl go, and while the two are fighting hand to hand, a soldier rushes in shouting that the courtyard swarms with Turks. The handful of men in the castle cut their way out of the blazing hold, but are surrounded in the court-yard and about to be cut to pieces, when Abdullah bin Kheram rides up with a thousand men. The trader Ali has told him his daughter is captive there. Fighting ceases as all learn in wonder that Zuleika is indeed the princess Zalda. Khelru Shah is slain by Cormac who hacks his way through the Arabs and escapes, and Zalda makes known her love to Amory. The Sheikh gives his consent that they should marry and a powerful alliance is formed between the Arabs and Amory, for life.

  Untitled Fragment

  (The Slave-Princess)

  Outside the clamor mounted deafeningly. The rasp of steel on steel mingled with yells of blood-lust and yells of wild triumph. The young slave girl hesitated and looked about the chamber in which she stood. There was resigned helplessness in her gaze. The city had fallen; the blood-drunk Turkomans were riding through the streets, burning, looting, slaughtering. Any moment might see the victorious savages running red handed through the house of her owner.

  From another part of the house a fat merchant came running. His eyes were distended with terror, his breath came in gasps. He bore gems and worthless gew-gaws in his hands – belongings snatched blindly and at random.

  “Zuleika!” His voice was the screech of a trapped weasel, “Open the door quickly, then bar it from this side – I will escape through the rear. Allah il Allah! The Turkish fiends are slaying all in the streets – the gutters run red – ”

  “What of me, master?” the girl asked humbly.

  “What of you, hussy?” screamed the man, striking her heavily, “Open the door, open the door, I tell you – ahhhhhh!”

  His voice snapped brittle as glass. Through an outer door came a wild and fearsome figure – a shaggy, ragged Turkoman whose eyes were the eyes of a mad dog. Zuleika in frozen terror saw the wide glaring eyes, the lanky hair, the short boar-spear gripped in a hand that dripped crimson.

  The merchant’s voice rose in a frenzied squeaking. He made a desperate dash across the chamber but the tribesman leaped like a cat on a mouse and one lean hand gripped the merchant’s garments. Zuleika watched in dumb horror. She had reason to hate the man – reasons of outrage, punishment and indignity, but from the depths of her heart she pitied the howling wretch as he writhed and shrank from his fate. The boar-spear ripped upward; the screams broke in a fearful gurgle. The Turkoman stepped over the ghastly red thing on the floor and stalked toward the terrified girl. She shrank back, unspeaking. Long she had learned the cruelty of men and the uselessness of appeal. She did not beg for her life. The Turkoman gripped her by the breast of the single scanty garment she wore and she felt his wild beast eyes burn into her’s. He was too far gone in the slaughter-lust for her to rouse another desire in his wild soul. In that red moment she was only a living thing, pulsing and quivering with life, for him to still forever in blood and agony.

  She sought to close her eyes but she could not. In a clear white light of semi-detachment she welcomed death, to end a road that had been hard and cruel. But her flesh shrank from the doom her spirit accepted and only her attacker’s grasp held her erect. Grinning like a wolf he brought the keen point of the spear against her breast and a thin trickle of blood started from the tender skin. The tribesman sucked in his breath in fierce ecstacy; he would drive the blade home slowly, gradually, twisting it excruciatingly, glutting his cruelty with the agonized writhings and screamings of his fair victim.

  A heavy step sounded behind them and a rough voice swore in an unfamiliar tongue. The Turkoman wheeled, beard bristling in a ferocious snarl. The half fainting girl stumbled back against a divan, her hand to her breast. It was a mailed Frank who had entered the chamber and to the girl’s dizzy gaze he loomed like an iron clad giant. Over six feet in height he stood, and his shoulders and steel clad limbs were mighty. From his heels to his heavy vizorless helmet he was heavily armored and his sun-darkened, scarred features added to the sinister import of his appearance. There was no stain of blood on his mail and his sword hung sheathed at his girdle. The girl knew that he could be but one man – Cormac FitzGeoffrey, the Frankish outlaw who hunted at times with the Turkoman pack.

  Now he strode ponderously toward them, growling a warning at the warrior, whose eyes burned with a feral light. The Turkoman spat a curse and leaped like a lean wolf, thrusting fiercely. A mail clad arm brushed the spear aside and almost with the same motion, Cormac caught the Turkoman’s throat with his left hand in a vice-like grip, and with his clenched right struck his victim a mallet-like blow on the temple. Beneath the mailed fist, the tribesman’s skull caved in like a gourd and Cormac let the twitching corpse fall carelessly at his feet. Zuleika stood silent, head bowed in submission, as resigned to this new master as to the other, but the Frank showed no signs of claiming his prey. He turned away, with a single casual glance at the girl, then stopped short as his brief gaze rested on her pale face. His eyes narrowed and he approached her. She stood before him, like a child before his overshadowing bulk.

  He laid his mailed hand on her frail shoulder and her knees bent beneath the unconcious weight of it. She raised her head to look into his face. His blazing blue eyes seemed to her like those of a jungle beast.

  “Girl, how are you named?” he rumbled in Arabic.

  “Zuleika, master,” she answered in the same language.

  He was silent, as if he pondered. His scarred face was insc
rutable but she caught the new glint in his volcanic eyes. Without a word he picked her up in his left arm as a man might take up a baby. His captive voiced no protest as he carried her out into the street. Kismet. No woman knew what Fate held in store for her and Zuleika had learned submission in a bitter school.

  Smoke was blown through the streets in fitful gusts; the Turkomans were burning the city. Still rose the wails of terror and agony and the yells of gloating rage. Cormac stepped over the body of a Jew that lay in a crimson pool. Zuleika noted with a shudder that his fingers had been cut away – even in death the Jew clung to his pitiful treasures. A wave of nausea surged over her and she pressed her face against her captor’s mailed shoulder, shutting out the sights of horror. A sudden fierce shout caused her to look up again.

  Cormac was striding toward a huge black stallion of savage mien that stood with reins hanging in the street, and a tall warrior in heron plumed helmet and gold-chased mail was running toward him, holding a dripping scimitar. Zuleika realized that the warrior desired her, and even in that moment felt that he was mad to dispute possession of a slave with the grim Frank, when so many women could be had for the taking. Cormac shifted her so his body shielded her, and drew his heavy sword. As the warrior leaped in the Frank struck as a lion strikes and the Turkoman’s head rolled in the bloody dust. Kicking aside the slumping body, Cormac reached his steed which reared and snorted with flaring nostrils at the scent of blood. But neither his steed’s restiveness nor his captive hampered the Frank who swung easily into the saddle and galloped toward the shattered gates.