“Thus Othman, son of Kilidg Arslan, deals with infidels!” The scornful words rang in Roger de Cogan’s ears above the wash of waves, the splintering of the oars, and the red clamor of battle.
Now the English knight found himself galloping in company with Turkish reavers, in a grim masquerade, bound for a destination of which he knew nothing, save that it would doubtless bring him face to face with Prince Othman and his grim sire. He kept looking back for signs of pursuit; but if Alexis’ soldiers had followed, they had missed the trail.
At noon the riders came upon a squat tower in the hills, where food and drink, and fresh horses awaited them. They were in the outlying domain of Kilidg Arslan, the Red Lion of Islam, but as yet they had seen no villages, and only ruins, relics of ancient Roman rule. They spent scant time at their meal, but swung to the saddle and spurred up their mounts again.
And all through the hot dry summer afternoon they swung through the rugged hills at a gallop, pushing their horses unmercifully. Roger had kept his eyes open for out-riders of the Crusaders, or signs of their march, but he realized that they must be riding to the north of the Cross Wearers line of march. He asked no questions, nor did Ortuk Khan vouch-safe any information; he rode along humming a song about a warrior whose skill at racing had gained for him the name of the Rider of the Wind. Roger sensed that this matter was the Seljuk’s one weakness and vanity.
At moonrise they came again upon a relay of fresh horses in the hills, and again when the moon had set with a dusty courier, with whom Ortuk Khan talked long. Then he seated himself cross-legged on the ground, and signed for the men to prepare the meal.
“We are within striking distance of our objective,” said he to Roger. “We have covered in hours what took the Cross Wearers days to traverse. We are now but three hours riding from the camp of the infidels. At dawn we will go forward, and join in the battle.”
Roger had been puzzling in his mind as to how Alexis meant to wipe out Bohemund without destroying the rest of the Crusaders, and he ventured a question. “Repeat to me the trap the Red Lion has set for the Cross Wearers.”
“Thus it is,” answered Ortuk Khan readily. “Maimoun – Bohemund – and his people march ahead of the main body of the infidels. This night they lie in camp where the hills slope down into the plain of Doryleum, awaiting the coming up of Senjhil – St. Gilles – and the rest.
“But Alexis has given these others a guide to lead them astray. You see yonder peak which stands up in the moonlight above the other hills? Were you to ride due south on a straight line from that peak for five hours, you would come upon their camp.
“At dawn the Red Lion will ride in from the east, and crushed Maimoun and his iron men between his hands. Then he will move on Senjhil and the others and sweep them from the earth.”
So Alexis was hand-and-glove with the Seljuk, as far as destroying Bohemund went; it had been obvious from the beginning. The traitorous guide mentioned by Ortuk Khan must be Theodore Butumites. Alexis had said the Greek was with St. Gilles. Roger looked long at the peak pointed out to him by the Turk, and fixed the land marks of the country firmly in his mind. Doryleum was three hours ride to the east; the camp of the others five hours ride to the south. On the eastern hills was crawling the first faint whitening of dawn. The Turks were bestirring themselves, saddling their horses and buckling their armor.
“Ortuk Khan,” said Sir Roger casually, rising and laying his hand on the mane of the lean Turkoman steed which had been given him, “dawn is lifting and we must quickly be on our way to join the Red Lion. But to breathe our steeds, I will race you to yonder knoll.”
The Turk smiled. “It is still three hours hard riding to Doryleum, my lord, and our steeds will have much work to do after we reach the field.”
“It is only a few hundred paces to the knoll,” answered Sir Roger. “I have heard much of your skill at racing, and wished to have the honor of striving against you. Of course, there are many stones and boulders, and the footing is perilous. If you fear the attempt – ”
Ortuk Khan’s face darkened.
“That was ill said, oh man men call the Smiter. The folly of one makes fools of wise men. Yet mount, and I will do this childish thing.”
They swung to their saddles, reined back their mounts even with each other, then at a word were off like bolts from a crossbow. The steel-clad warriors watched the race with interest.
“The footing is not so unstable as the Frank said,” quoth one. “Look, their flight is as that of falcons. Ortuk Khan draws ahead.”
“But the Smiter is close on his heels!” exclaimed another. “Look, they near the knoll – what is this? The Franks has drawn his sword! It flashes in the dawn-light – Allah!”
A yell of astounded fury rose from the lean warriors. Riding hard, the Norman had disappeared around the knoll; behind him a riderless horse raced away from the still form which lay in a crimson pool among the rocks. The Rider of the Wind had ridden his last race.
Shaking the red drops from his blade, Sir Roger gave the Turkoman horse the rein. He did not look back, though he strained his ears for the drum of pursuing hoofs. Guiding his course by the peak, he passed through the hills like a flying ghost. A short time after sunrise he crossed a broad track, with marks of broad wagon-wheels and the print of myriad feet and hoofs. The road of Bohemund. Among these prints were fresher hoof-prints, unshod, smaller. The prints of Turkish steeds. So the scouts of the Seljuks dogged the Norman column closely.
It was past the middle of the morning when Roger rode into the vast wide-flung camp of the Crusaders. His none too tender heart warmed at the familiar sights – knights with falcons on their wrists and giant hounds trailing them; yellow-haired women laughing under canopied pavilions; young esquires burnishing the armor of their lords. It was like a bit of Europe transferred to the bleak hills of Asia Minor. Two hundred thousand people camped here, their fires and tents spreading out over the valley. Some of the pavilions had been taken down, some of the oxen harnessed to the wagons, but there was an air of waiting. Men-at-arms leaned on their pikes, pages wandered through the low bushes, whistling to their hounds. It was as if all the west had streamed eastward. Roger saw flaxen-haired Rhinelanders, black-bearded Spaniards and Provencals – French, Germans, Austrians. The clatter of a score of different tongues reached him.
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.”