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.
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.