The Making of the Morning Star/Chapter 3

ITH Allah are the keys of the unseen.”

Abdullah ceased his say and took his hand from his lute.

“But who will seek them out?” he added.

The listeners glanced at each other, and Mistress Bengli, chin on hand, smiled and watched the gleaming jewels on her fingers. Many had come to Palestine believing that it held the lure of the fabulous Khar and had found it otherwise.

“I have not heard the tale related so,” observed Hugo. “Ha, minstrel, you are skilled in your craft—for you make us think you have dwelt in Khar.”

“Sire, I have.”

Guiblo shook his head.

“Then, rogue; you must have crossed the great desert and passed through the Iron Gates of which your folk prate.”

Abdullah bowed assent.

“The road is no easy one. Nay, a full three moons must a man sit in the saddle, and the horse should be of good blood. In an elder day one of the heroes of the Franks led his host over the desert and saw the salt sea that lies in the desert.”

“His name?”

“Iskander.”

From the end of the table a monk who had not spoken until now looked up with a gleam of interest.

“By your leave, my lord, that should be Alexander, King of Macedon. Aye, the misguided scholasticists do relate in their profane books the deeds of the Macedonian.”

“And how did Alexander pass the Iron Gates?”

“With his sword,” Abdullah said calmly. “And yet—did he live to set foot in his own land again? Nay; the Iron Gates take their toll.”

“What manner of thing are they?”

“In the books of the cosmographers, Strabo and Herodotus, Messer Guiblo,” explained the monk, “there is a mark on the road to the east inscribed with the words Caspiæ Pylæ, or Gates of the Caspian. Their nature is unknown, for since the day of the Cæsars no Christian hath ventured there.”

“Riddles,” scoffed Hugo in his own speech. “'Tis a myth that holds no profit for us.”

Abdullah appeared to grasp his meaning.

“O king,” he observed gravely, “riders have come out of Khar on a foray, and the traces of their horses can be seen within your borders.”

“My watchers beheld them not.”

“Who can behold the stars in broad day, or the djinn folk who ride upon the winds at night? Does the lord of the castle wish to see a talsmin—a token that his servant's word is true?”

Thrusting his hand into his girdle, the minstrel drew forth something that flashed in the flickering candle-light—a neck-chain of rubies cut into the semblance of roses, strung on a cord of finely wrought gold.

“Such jewels as these the women of Khar wear on their throats.”

Mistress Bengli caught up the chain in her white fingers, and the others crowded close to stare from the gleaming rubies to Abdullah, who seemed inwardly amused by the excitement he had caused.

Now, considering him narrowly, Longsword thought that no playing of the lute could fashion such muscular hands, and no warbling of nights could give such note of command to a voice. Abdullah bore himself more like an atabeg—a leader of a host—than a minstrel.

“Here is a strange rogue forsooth,” muttered the seneschal, Piculph, “with a baron's ransom in his belly-band.”

Robert frowned, for he wished no ill to the teller of tales, and Abdullah might as well have cast his valuable chain into the Orontes as to have shown it to the woman of the Montserrat. Hugo would cheerfully slit open a hundred natives on the chance that one had swallowed a single ruby like these. But Abdullah seemed no whit fearful of the fate he had called down on himself, for he had ceased to watch Mistress Bengli and was eying the great tapestries that shook and bellied upon the walls as the gusts of a rising wind buffeted the castle walls and whined through the cracks. The man, heedless of the company at the table, was listening to the sounds of the night beyond the walls.

At that moment there was heard a mutter of voices at the entrance to the hall, the clank of a long scabbard on the stone flagging of the floor, and the captain of the warders stood within the curtain with uplifted hand.

“Pardon, good my lord, I bear tidings. On the river road we have seen an array of Moslems. At midnight I went forth beyond the hamlet to overlook the valley, and in the lower gorge armed men do assemble in ranks. Wilt give command to man the walls, or sally forth?”

“Ha—so!”

Hugo stroked his heavy chin and glanced at his companions.

“Sir Robert had the right of it, methinks—and the watchers upon the hill towers shall taste of the strappado. What is your counsel, messires?”

The young Sieur de la Marra struck the table with his fist and set the flagons dancing.

“By the Cross, messires, the paynims do challenge us. My men and I fare forth to seek them.”

Hugo exchanged a low word with Messer Guiblo, and the Hospitaler caught the mention of Longu' espée's name.

“Let it be so. Ho, armiger—my helm and shield. Without there, sound the oliphant to muster our followers.”

Mistress Bengli put her hand to her throat to stifle a scream, and the chain of rubies fell to the table and slid down upon the rushes, whence Abdullah picked them up without being observed. This done, the minstrel made his way quietly to the wind-whipped tapestries in a dim corner.

An ivory horn sounded a mellow note in the courtyard, and the clatter of horses, led from the stables, made answer. When Hugo's helm was laced on by a squire-at-arms, he summoned the captain of the guard and peered around the hall.

“In the fiend's name, where went the infidel? Seek him out—you, and you—and retrieve me his chain, or Piculph shall strip and flay you. He stood here but a moment agone”

“The knave hath a rare trick of foretelling the mind of your Grace,” muttered Guiblo. “And his crony the English boar hath forsaken us as well. Methinks he bears you ill intent.”

“Nay, the youth is a wildling no more. You dared much when you miscalled him. The man's courage is proof, and he will seek you out ere he parts from us.”

With a smile the Venetian pulled on his mailed gloves and tightened his belt.

“Grant me leave to deal with him—else he will hie him to the court and brew trouble for our quaffing. Harken, lord—there be too many eyes and tongues in this hall. Once in the gullies by the river, ere the search for the infidels is ended, my men will attend the Englishman. A blow from an ax, and he will lack his right hand. Thereafter will he bray less loudly of his wrongs.”

The marquis shrugged.

“I'll hear no more. Yet must I ride forth lest the cursed Hospitaler suspect something amiss.”

Pausing at the donjon gate to tell off a score of men-at-arms to remain and secure Abdullah, he strode to his horse and signed for the clarion to sound the march. Flaring cressets on the walls cast a smoky light over the courtyard and the lance streamers of the knights. Behind these dark masses of pikemen and archers were forming under Piculph's orders.

Under the lifted portcullis the Hospitaler and the Longsword sat their powerful chargers impatiently, having put aside their private grievances in the presence of the common foe. Hugo glanced around and saw that Abdullah could not have left the donjon without being seen; nor was he visible in the courtyard. Satisfied of this, the master of the castle called for his standard to be lifted, and the first line of riders lowered their lances to pass under the portcullis, following the Sieur de la Marra over the drawbridge.

HE great hall was being ransacked by servants and men-at-arms, who turned over tables and peered into chests, clustering upon the stairs that led to the chambers above, while Mistress Bengli cried to her serving women to lead the search for the Moslem and his jewels into the kitchen and cellars. Eagerly she urged on the men and ran to one of the doorways to listen to the tumult above-stairs.

Standing here in the shadow, a powerful hand closed over her mouth, holding firm her chin.

“O lady,” whispered the voice of the minstrel, “would you live to greet the king, your lover, this night? Ai-a, life is sweet, is it not? Nay, do not lift your hands, but walk between me and the light—so—and seek the way that leads to the kitchen—so!”

Rigid with fright, Mistress Bengli stumbled along the swaying arras and turned into an archway that brought them to a narrow hall. From the corners of her eyes she saw that Abdullah had his simitar in his left hand, and the gleam of bare steel sent a chill into her veins.

“It is not fitting, lady,” went on the minstrel, “that a man of Khar should loiter in the hall of the feasters when a battle is joined. So, pray that no man of yours shall meet with us, and lead me to the stables—nay, not into the light!”

While she grasped little of his speech, his intention was clear and Mistress Bengli breathed a sigh of relief when they stood in the shadow of the horse sheds. Abdullah whistled softly, and somewhere a charger neighed. Drawing the woman with him, he found and saddled his horse, taking his time; for the sheds were deserted after the departure of the riders. He had noticed a small gate in the outer wall, and toward this he walked the black stallion and tapped the bars with his sword.

Trembling, she lifted the bars and set them aside, then turned the key and tugged open the gate. Abdullah glanced out and saw that the moat did not extend to this angle. Mistress Bengli stepped back, only half believing she was to suffer no hurt from the wayfarer.

“Say to your lord,” he laughed, “that Abdullah ibn Khar rode to Montserrat upon a mission. Aye, to find one among the Franks who was worthy to adventure to the Throne of Gold. Say that he found not such a man within Montserrat, and so—the peace!”

T THE edge of the wooded land the Montserrat archers who were the advance of the marquis' array halted and studied the open valley below them. The remnant of a moon hung over the hills to the south, lighting the expanse of rolling sand that extended to the river bed. In a hollow by the water glowed the embers of a half-dozen camp-fires.

A raven croaked from the shadows, and the screaming snarl of a panther made response. Listening, the archers heard stealthy rustling in the dry brush on either side. They had come upon no sign of the Moslems in the march of a full league, down from the castle. And they saw nothing amiss in the camp of the pilgrims below them.

So they reported to Longsword and the Hospitaler who rode up presently, followed by the main body. After scanning the valley carefully Sir Robert surprized his companion by putting spurs suddenly to the bay and galloping out upon the sand.

He rode into the camp unchallenged and halted by the ox-carts that were ranged near the fire. The Sieur de la Marra paused to look down at the pilgrims who lay in scattered groups in the hollows, and to swear under his breath.

“! Montserrat feared an ambushment, yet methinks naught lies in wait here save Death.”

At the coming of the crusaders jackals and snarling four-footed things slipped out of the camp into the shadows. Even the oxen had been cut down, and one man still gripping an ax was prone in the ashes of the fire, his head half-burned away.

Torches were kindled by the archers while the riders quieted their horses, made rest less by the penetrating smell of blood. Some stared at the carts where a score of bodies lay about the woman who still held the baby in her arms—all pierced by arrows. In the shallows of the rivers the standard-bearer sprawled, the shaft of the banner floating beside his head. In all quarters the sand was trampled by horses' hoofs, yet the pilgrims had had no horses. The Hospitaler dismounted to examine one of the arrows and announced that it was a kind he had not seen before—a short shaft, unbarbed but with long feathering.

“It smacks of an Arab bow. Ha, messires, I wot well the minstrel spoke the truth! The riders who did this pretty business came from the desert, and mayhap from Khar.”

Whoever they were, the raiders had taken the camp by surprize and had wrought fearful havoc with small loss to themselves. No bodies of Saracens were to be seen, and if any had been slain they were borne off by their comrades. The attack—judging by the numbers of beasts that gathered about the scene—had taken place some hours before, so the Montserrat watchers must have beheld the foray riding back from the river to one of the trails that led through the mountains.

Pursuit was not to be thought of. The Croises had learned after bitter experiences that their heavily armed, warriors and sturdy chargers could not deal with the swift-moving Saracens in broken country.

“A fair riddance, messires,” mouthed Hugo, turning over the body of a ragged lad with his lance point. “We need no longer feed the rabble, though we must e'en bury it—Fra Anselmo will see to't. Come, who is for the castle?”

The archers and pikemen who had been combing over the scattered packs of the pilgrims, already pillaged by the raiders, began to move toward their officers, while Guiblo and his following with Piculph the Lombard and Hugo's squire drew closer about the three.

But the young Hospitaler stooped to the stained sand and held up a slender gauntlet embroidered with silk initials.

“E. de I.—requiescat in pace, whosoever ye be—a woman's hawking-gauntlet, or I'm a turn-spit. What—how now?”

Robert had taken the glove from him and turned to face the marquis.

“Messire,” said he, “it lingers in my memory that you did give your knightly word to the rabble that you would defend them against all foes upon this, your land.”

As Hugo was silent, in surprize he added—

"Those who utter what they will not defend with their bodies, I do hold arrant cowards, recreant to their vows.”

Whipping out his sword, he placed the glove near its point and, leaning forward, tossed it deftly on Hugo's saddle-peak.

“By this do I challenge your grace, Hugo Amardis of Montserrat, to try by combat in this hour which of us be true and which be false.”

Now at this the liegemen of Montserrat stared and muttered and drew closer, so that a ring of armed men was formed about the group, and there fell a silence in which the snuffling breathing of the horses was clearly heard. Passion darkened the swarthy face of the marquis, but before he could frame an answer Robert spoke again.

“My lord, the laws of Palestine do not permit one who hath been a vassal to summon his liege into the combat of justice. So, will your Grace name from among your vassals a champion to take your place?”

Hugo knew well that he could not have withstood the Englishman's sword, but his anger flared the higher with the thought. Snatching up the gauntlet and casting it down on the sand, he shouted hoarsely:

“Piculph—Guiblo—Sir Curthose, to me! Wilt suffer this upstart to badger me? A thousand, I say—to me!”

“Nay, one will suffice, your Grace,” laughed the Hospitaler, who had recovered from his surprize at Robert's plain speaking after his self-control in the castle hall. “It were a foul wrong, meseems, to set three devils on one Englishman.”

Two retainers of the Venetian who had been hovering close to the Longsword's flank, drew back when spectators thronged about them. Messer Guiblo urged his horse close to the powerful form of the Lombard and whispered to him swiftly. Piculph gnawed his lip, then nodded assent.

“I'll cut his comb, my lord,” he said aloud, “then he'll crow less loud, I ween.”

“Good!” cried Robert. “'Twas my wish to bid you farewell in this fashion.”

Hugo reined back his horse to glance questioningly at Messer Guiblo, who nodded reassuringly and slipped back among his men. The Sieur de la Marra also retreated to leave the ring clear for the fighters.

In the half-light of the low moon it was easily seen that the two were a match in bigness of bone and height, though the Englishman had the better horse. Piculph glanced about him once and swung down from his stirrup, choosing to fight on foot.

It was in the code of the law that in the lists of justice the two combatants should be armed equally in all particulars. Robert dismounted without hesitation, trying the firmness of the sand with a mailed foot and letting fall his shield—as the Lombard carried none.

But when Piculph drew his sword a grim laugh went up from the Montserrat liege men. The Lombard's weapon was no longer than his adversary's yet it tapered hardly at all, being blunt at the tip and heavier by half than the Longsword's brand. It was a sword to be wielded by two hands, and so Piculph had no need of a shield.

The watchers pressed closer, jostling one another and muttering between set teeth. The hollow where the camp lay was in a natural amphitheater that held the heat of the day, and they sweated under the weight of armor, their veins warmed by the late drinking. Many stood on the huddle of the slain to see the better.

Piculph was no loiterer. Striding forward, he swung the two-handed blade in circles, his muscular arms cracking.

“A purse of gold that he slays the Longsword or makes him cry mercy,” offered Sir Curthose of Var to the young Sieur de la Marra.

But the Hospitaler gnawed his lip in silence as he watched Robert, who stood erect in his tracks, his sword held close to his chest, the point upraised.

With a grunt Piculph struck down and sidewise at his foe's throat, and steel sang against steel. The Lombard's sword flashed in a circle that ended high above his own head. Robert, by moving his arms quickly, had deflected the heavy blade so that it passed harmlessly over his helmet.

Piculph recovered and smote again, straight down at the Englishman's head. Robert planted his feet and whirled up his blade, turning the other's aside and into the sand.

“Thy purse likes me well, Sir Curthose,” cried the Hospitaler. “Ha—treachery!”

Near at hand his quick eye had distinguished one of the Lombards kneeling with a short battle mace drawn back to throw. In that elusive light the iron club might have been cast unseen, and at such short range it could not fail to reach the Longsword. Drawing his sword, the young knight ran at the front of the circle of men-at-arms; midway in a stride he faltered and flung up his arm.

A dagger, wielded by one he had passed, had struck fair into the side of his throat, and gasping, he sank on his knees, choking out his life. The quick movement had caught the eye of Robert, who cried out and sprang aside from Piculph.

“A deed most foul!” he grated through set teeth. “Montserrat”

Picking out the man who had stabbed the knight and who was trying to work back into the throng, he slashed him full between neck and shoulder and used his point on the henchman who still balanced the mace.

“, Montserrat, since when have you plied the trade of cutthroat? Ah, Piculph!”

Whirling to meet a fresh onset from the seneschal, Robert gave back the Lombard blow for blow, until the clashing of steel drowned the shouts of the aroused liege men. Sweat gleamed on the Lombard's broad cheeks, and his breath labored as he exerted all his strength, fearing now for his life. Robert whipped his sword over the other's guard, and the edge of the blade thudded against Piculph's neck under the ear.

It struck upon the fold of the mail coif and glanced up, biting through the chain mail and stripped the end of the jaw-bone and the ear from the side of the man's head. The Lombard plunged down upon the sand, and Robert ran to his horse. The bay, trained to stand where he had been left, was in motion before the warrior had settled in the saddle.

An arrow whistled through the air, and Robert put his horse to a trot, making the round of the circle once, seeking Guiblo, the Venetian. But Guiblo had withdrawn far into the ranks of his men, and Sir Curthose and many of the older liegemen stood their ground, unwilling to draw weapon against the man who had once been castellan of Antioch.

“What, my lord,” Robert gibed, “do you lack of murderers? Then summon up your hunters and the hounds and so—fare well!”

He had reached one end of the irregular cleared space; now he wheeled the bay and raked its flanks with rowels. The charger leaped forward, gained pace, and the throng gave way in haste before horse and rider, permitting Longsword to pass through. He headed for the nearest gully amid the foot-hills, and the voice of the marquis roared after him.

“After him! A cap full of gold to the wight who brings him down.”

The bay charger, wise and swift of foot, swung clear of the running men and gained the shadows of the rocks before the riders could draw near him. Guiblo, his swarthy cheeks pallid, stared down at the lifeless eyes of the young knight whose white cross was slowly obscured by a dark tide. Beside him was the hawking-gauntlet.

“A good plan,” murmured the Venetian. “Aye—but three lie slain and a fourth maimed and another hunted by the liegemen, for so slight a thing as a ribald's glove.”