The smoke, the blood and the clamor faded behind them and the upland desert closed in about them. Zuleika glanced up at the grim, inscrutable face of her new master and a strange whimsy crossed her mind. What girl has not dreamed of being borne away on the saddle bow of her prince of romance? So Zuleika had dreamed in other days. Long suffering had cleansed her of bitterness, but she wondered helplessly at the whim of chance. “On the saddle-bow she was borne away” but her garments were not the robes of a princess but the shift of a slave, not to the lilt of harps she rode, but the slavering howls of horror and slaughter, and her captor was not the prince of her childish dreams but a grim outlaw, stark and savage as the mountain land that bred him.
CHAPTER 2
The castle of the Sieur Amory set in the midst of a wild land. Built originally by Crusaders, it had fallen to the Seljuks, from whom it had again been captured by the craft and desperate courage of its present owner. It was one of the few waste-land hold that remained to the Franks, an outpost that rose boldly in hostile land. Leagues lay between Amory’s keep and the nearest Christian castle. South lay the desert. To the east, across the sands loomed the wild mountains wherein lurked savage foes.
Night had fallen and Amory sat in an inner chamber listening attentively to his guest. Amory was tall, rangy and handsome with keen grey eyes and golden locks. His garments had once been rich and costly but now they were worn and faded. The gems that had once adorned his sword hilt were gone. Poverty was reflected in his apparel as well as in the castle itself, which was barren beyond the wont of even the feudal castles of that rude day. Amory lived by plunder, as a wolf lives, and like a desert wolf, his life was lean and hard.
He sat on the rude bench, chin on fist and gazed at his guests. His was one of the few castles open to Cormac FitzGeoffrey. There was a price on the outlaw’s head and the slim holdings of the Franks in Outremer were barred to him, but here beyond the border none knew what went on in the isolated hold.
Cormac had quenched his thirst and satisfied his hunger with gigantic draughts of wine and huge bits of meat torn by his strong teeth from a roasted joint, and Zuleika had likewise eaten and drunk. Now the girl sat patiently, knowing that the warrior discussed her, but not understanding their Frankish speech.
“And so,” Cormac was saying, “when I heard the Turkomans had laid seige to the city, I rode hard to come up to it, knowing that it would not long withstand them, what with that fat fool of a Yurzed Beg commanding the walls. Well, it fell before I could arrive and when I came into it, the desert men had stripped it bare – the lucky ones had all the loot in sight and the others were scorching the toes of the citizens to make them give up their hidden wealth – but I did find this girl.”
“What of her, then?” asked Amory curiously, “She is pretty – dressed in costly apparel she might even be beautiful. But after all, she is only a half naked slave. No one will pay you much for her.”
Cormac grinned bleakly and Amory’s interest quickened. He had had much dealings with the Irish warrior and he knew when Cormac smiled, things were afoot.
“Did you ever hear of Zalda, the daughter of the Sheikh Abdullah bin Khor, chief of the Roualli?”
Amory nodded and the girl, catching the Arabic words, looked up with sudden interest.
“She was about to be married, three years ago,” said Cormac, “To Khalru Shah, chief of Kizil-hissar, but a roving band of Kurds kidnapped her, and since then no word has been heard of her. Doubtless the Kurds sold her far to the East – or cut her throat. You never saw her? I did – these Bedouin women go unveiled. And this Arab girl, Zuleika, is enough like the princess Zalda to be her sister, by Crom!”
“I begin to see what you mean,” said Amory.
“Khelru Shah,” said Cormac, “will pay a mighty ransom for his bride. Zalda was of royal blood – marrying her meant alliance with the Roualli – the Sheikh is more powerful than many princes – when he summons his war-men, the hoofs of three thousand steeds shake the desert. Though he dwells in the felt tents of the Bedouin, his power is great, his wealth is great. No dowry was to go with the princess Zalda, but Khelru Shah was to pay for the privilege of wedding her – of such pride are these wild Rouallas.
“Keep the Arab girl here with you. I will ride to Kizil-hissar and lay my terms before the Turk. Keep her well concealed and let no Arab see her – she might be mistaken for Zalda, indeed, and if Abdullah bin Kheram gets wind of it, he might bring up against us such a force as to take the castle by storm.
“By continuous riding I can reach Kizil-hissar in three days; I will waste no more than a day in disputing with Khelru Shah. If I know the man, he will ride back with me, with several hundred men. We should reach this castle not later than four days after we depart from the hill-town. Keep the gates close barred while I am away, and ride not far afield. Khelru Shah is as subtle and treacherous – ”
“Yourself,” finished Amory with a grim smile.
Cormac grunted. “When we come, we will ride up to the walls. Then bring you the Arab slave upon the walls of the tower – somewhere you must contrive to find clothing more suited to a captive princess. And impress upon her that she must bear herself, at least while on the wall, with less humility. The princess Zalda was proud and haughty as an empress and bore herself as if all lesser beings were dust beneath her white feet. And now I ride.”
“In the midst of the night?” asked Amory, “Will you not sleep in my castle and ride forth at dawn?”
“My horse is rested,” answered Cormac, “I never weary. Besides, I am a hawk that flies best by night.”
He rose, pulling his mail coif in place and donning his helmet. He took up his shield which bore the symbol of a grinning skull. Amory looked at him curiously, and though he knew the man of old, he could not but wonder at the wild spirit and self-sufficiency that enabled him to ride by night across a savage and hostile land, into the very strong hold of his natural foes. Amory knew that Cormac FitzGeoffrey was outlawed by the Franks for slaying a certain nobleman, that he was fiercely hated by the Saracens as a hold, and that he had half a dozen private feuds on his hands, both with Christian and Moslem. He had few friends, no followers, no position of power. He was an outcast who must depend on his own wit and prowess to survive. But these things sat lightly on the soul of Cormac FitzGeoffrey; to him they were but natural circumstances. His whole life had been one of incredible savagery and violence.
Amory knew that conditions in Cormac’s native land were wild and bloody, for the name of Ireland was a term for violence all over Western Europe. But just how war-shaken and turbulent those conditions were, Amory could not know. Son of a ruthless Norman adventurer on one hand, and a fierce Irish clan on the other, Cormac FitzGeoffrey had inherited the passions, hates and ancient feuds of both races. He had followed Richard of England to Palestine and won a red name for himself in the blind melee of that vain Crusade. Returning again to Outremer to pay a debt of gratitude, he had been caught in the blind whirlwind of plot and intrigue and had plunged into the dangerous game with a fierce zest. He rode alone, mostly, and time and again his many enemies thought him trapped, but each time he had won free, by craft and guile, or by the sheer power of his sword arm. For he was like a desert lion, this giant Norman-Gael, who plotted like a Turk, rode like a Centaur, fought like a blood-mad tiger and preyed on the strongest and fiercest of the outland lords.
Full armed he rode into the night on his great black stallion, and Amory turned his casual attention to the slave girl. Her hands were soiled and roughened with menial toil, but they were slender and shapely. Somewhere in her veins, decided the young Frenchman, ran aristocratic blood, that showed in the delicate rose leaf texture of her skin, in the silkiness of her wavy black hair, in the deep softness of her dark eyes. All the warm heritage of the Southern desert was evident in her every motion,
“You were not born a slave?”
“What does it matter, master?” she asked, “Enough that I am a slave now. Better be born to
the whips and chains than broken to them. Once I was free; now I am thrall. Is it not enough.”
“A slave,” muttered Amory, “What are a slave’s thought? Strange – it never before occurred to me to wonder what passes in the mind of a slave – or a beast, either, for that matter.”
“Better a man’s steed, than a man’s slave, master,” said the girl.
“Aye,” he answered, “For there is nobility in a good horse.”
She bowed her head and folded her slender hands, unspeaking.
CHAPTER 3
Dusk shadowed the hills when Cormac FitzGeoffrey rode up to the great gate of Kizil-hissar, the Red Castle, which gave its name to the town it guarded and dominated. The guardsmen, lean, bearded Turks with the eyes of hawks, cursed in amazement.
“By Allah, and by Allah! The wolf has come to put his head in the trap! Run, Yusef, and tell our lord, Suleyman Bey, that the infidel dog, Cormac, stands before the gates.”
“Ho there, you upon the walls!” shouted the Frank. “Tell your chief that Cormac FitzGeoffrey would have speech with him. And make haste, for I am not one to waste time in dallying.”
“Hold him in parley but a moment,” muttered a Moslem, crouching behind a bastion, and winding his cross-bow – a ponderous affair captured from the Franks, “I’ll send him to dress his shield in Hell.”
“Hold!” this from a bearded, lean old hawk whose eyes were fierce and wary, “When this chief rides boldly into the hands of his enemies, be sure he has secret powers. Wait until Suleyman comes.” To Cormac he called curteously, “Be patient, mighty lord; the prince Suleyman Bey has been sent for and will soon be upon the walls.”
“Then let him come in haste,” growled Cormac, who was in no more awe of a prince than he was of a peasant, “I will not await him long.”
Suleyman Bey came upon the great walls and looked down curiously and suspiciously upon his enemy.
“What want ye, Cormac FitzGeoffrey?” he asked, “Are you mad, to ride alone to the gates of Kizil-hissar? Have you forgotten there is feud between us? That I have sworn to sever your neck with my sword?”
“Aye, so you have sworn,” grinned Cormac, “And so has sworn Abdullah bin Kheram, and Ali Bahadur, and Abdallah Mirza the Kurd. And so, in past years and in another land, swore Sir John Courcey, and the clan of the O’Donnells and Sir William le Botelier, yet I still wear my head firmly on my shoulders.
“Harken till I tell you what I have to say. Then if you still wish my head, come out of your stone walls and see if ye be man enough to take it. This concerns the princess Zalda, daughter of Sheikh Abdullah bin Kheram – on whose name, damnation!”
Suleyman Bey stiffened with sudden interest; he was a tall, slender man, young, and handsome in a hawk-like way. His short black beard set off his aristocratic features and his eyes were fine and expressive, with shadows of cruelty lurking in their depths. His turban was scaled with silver coins and adorned with heron plumes, and his light mail was crusted with golden scales. The hilt of his slender, silver chased scimitar was set with gleaming gems. Young but powerful was Suleyman Bey, in the hill town upon which he had swooped with his hawks a few years before and made himself ruler. Six hundred men of war he could bring to battle, and he lusted for more power. For that reason he had wished to ally himself with the powerful Roualla tribe of Abdullah bin Kheram.
“What of the princess Zalda?” he asked.
“She is my captive,” answered Cormac.
Suleyman Bey started violently, his hand gripped his hilt, then he laughed mockingly.
“You lie; the princess Zalda is dead.”
“So I thought,” answered Cormac frankly, “But in the raid on the city, I found her captive to a merchant who knew not her real identity, she having concealed it, fearing lest worse evil come to her.”
Suleyman Bey stood in thought a moment, then raised his hand.
“Open the gates for him. Enter, Cormac FitzGeoffrey, no harm shall come to you. Lay down your sword and ride in.”
“I wore my sword in the tent of Richard the Lion-hearted,” roared the Norman, “When I unbuckle it in the walls of my foes, it will be when I am dead. Unbar those gates, fools, my steed is weary.”
Within an inner chamber of silk and crimson hangings, crystal and gold and teak-wood, Suleyman Bey sat listening to his guest. The young chief’s face was inscrutable but his dark eyes were absorbed. Behind him stood, like a dark image, Belek the Egyptian, Suleyman’s right-hand man, a big, dark powerful man with a satanic face and evil eyes. Whence he came, who he was, why he followed the young Turk none knew but Suleyman, but all feared and hated him, for the craft and cruelty of a black serpent was in the abysmal brain of the Egyptian.
Cormac FitzGeoffrey had laid aside his helmet and thrown back his mail coif, disclosing his thick, corded throat, and his black, square cut mane. His volcanic blue eyes blazed even more fiercely as he talked.
“Once the princess Zalda is in your hands you can bring the Sheikh to terms. Instead of paying him a great price for her, you can force him to pay you a dowery. He had rather see her your wife, even at the cost of much gold, than your slave. Once married to her, then, he will join forces with you. You will have all that you planned for three years ago, in addition to a rich dowery from the Sheikh.”
“Why did you not ride to him instead of to me?” abruptly asked Suleyman.
“Because you have such things as we desire, my friend and I. Abdullah is more powerful than you, but his treasure is less. Most of his belongings consist of cattle – horses – arms – tents – fields – the belongings of a nomad chief. Here in this castle you have chests of golden coins looted from caravans and taken as ransom for captive knights. You have gems – silver – silks – rare spices – jewelry. You have what we desire.”
“And what proof have I that you are not lying?”
“Ride with me tomorrow,” grunted Cormac, “To the castle of my friend.”
Suleyman laughed like a wolf snarling.
“You would lead us into a trap,” said the Egyptian.
“Bring three hundred men with you, bring as many as you like, the whole band of thieves,” said Cormac, “Where do you think I would get enough warriors to trap your whole host?”
“Where is she being held?” asked the Seljuk.
“In the castle of the Sieur Amory, three, four days ride to the west,” said Cormac, “You could never take it by assault.”
“I am not sure,” muttered Suleyman, “The lord Amory has only some forty men-at-arms.”
“But the castle is impregnable.”
“So I have heard.”
The Egyptian’s eyes narrowed.
“We might seize you and hold you for ransom,” he suggested, “And force the Sieur Amory to return the girl.”
Cormac laughed savagely and mockingly.
“Amory would laugh at you and tell you to cut my throat and be damned, or he would cut the throat of the girl as it struck him. Besides, though I am in your castle, surrounded by your warriors, I am not entirely helpless. Seek to take me and I will flood these walls with blood before I die.”
It was no idle boast as the Moslems well knew.
“Enough!” Suleyman made an impatient gesture, “You were promised safety – what’s that?”
A commotion had arisen without; a scuffling, shouts, threats and maledictions in the Arab tongue. The outer door was thrust open and a bearded Turk who had been guarding the door entered, dragging a struggling victim whose beard bristled with wrath. He clung to a pack from which spilled various trinkets and ornaments.
“I found this dog sneaking about in an adjoining chamber, master,” rumbled the guardsman, “Methinks he was eavesdropping. Shall I not strike off his head?”
“I am Ali bin Nasru, an honest merchant!” shouted the Arab angrily and fearfully, “I am well known in Kizil-hissar! I sell wares to shahs and sheikhs and I was not evesdropping. Am I a dog to spy upon my patron? I was seeking the great chief Suleyman Bey to spr
ead my goods before him!”
“Best cut out his tongue,” growled Belek, “He may have heard too much.”
“I heard nothing!” clamored Ali, “I have but just come into the castle!”
“Beat him forth,” snapped Suleyman Bey in irritation, “Shall I be pestered by a yapping cur? Lash him out and if he comes again with his trash, strip him and hang him up by his feet in the market-place for the children to pelt with stones. Cormac, we ride at dawn, and if you have tricked me, make your peace with Allah!”
“And if you seek to trick me,” snarled Cormac, “make your peace with the Devil for you will swiftly meet him.”
It was past midnight when a form climbed warily down a rope let down from the outer wall of the town. Hurriedly making his way down the slopes, the man came soon upon a thicket where was securely hidden a swift camel and a bulky pack – for the man was not one to trust all his belongings in a town ruled by Turks. Recklessly casting aside the pack, the man mounted the camel and fled southward.
CHAPTER 4
Amory rested his chin on his fist and gazed broodingly at the Arab girl, Zuleika. In the past days he had found his eyes straying often to his slender captive. He wondered at her silence and submission, for he knew that at some time in her life, she had known a higher position than that of a slave. Her manners were not those of a born serf; she was neither impudent nor servile. He guessed faintly at the fierce and cruel school in which she had been broken – no, not broken, for there was a strange deep strength in her that had not been touched, or if touched, only made more pliable.
She was beautiful – not with the passionate, fierce beauty of the Turkish women who had lent him their wild love, but with a deep, tranquill beauty, of one who’s soul has been forged in fierce fires.
“Tell me how you came to be a slave,” the voice was one of command and Zuleika folded her hands in acquiesence.
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