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  DURANDAL

  A Crusader in the Horde

  Books by

  HAROLD LAMB

  Iron Men and Saints

  Genghis Khan

  Tamerlane

  House of the Falcon

  Marching Sands

  White Falcon

  The Crusades

  The Flame of Islam

  Durandal

  Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc. Garden City 1931 New York

  printed at the Country Life Press, garden city, n. y., u. s. a.

  THIS BOOK

  IS DEDICATED TO

  MY DAUGHTER, CARY

  WHO WISHED TO HEAR MORE ABOUT

  THE SWORD OF ROLAND

  CHAPTER I - SIR HUGH IS CHOSEN

  It hurts not the sword that its sheath be worn, nor the hawk that its nest be mean.—MAQAMAT OF HARIRI.

  MAVROZOMES pushed back the flap of his tent and looked at the stars. Dawn was only three or four hours off, and he had a task to finish before the first light. Always, before a battle, Mavrozomes had this task.

  He took up the insignia of his office, which was armorer to the Emperor Theodore of Constantinople. The silver hammer he thrust into his belt, and the white leather glove likewise. Mavrozomes was a creature of habit.

  Through the mist of the ravine he watched the red eyes of light that were the fires of the men-at-arms, and he sighed. Ten thousand men lay or sat by their weapons in this ravine, and from the ten thousand he must select one. This was his task, and it troubled him.

  He had put off doing it until he heard the advance division getting their horses out of the lines, stumbling about in the mist, and talking low-voiced. If the advance was mounting to move forward, there would surely be a battle, because Sultan Kai-Kosru lay yonder in the plain, beyond the ravine, with a good many more than ten thousand paynims.

  In his own mind Mavrozomes was not quite clear as to whether the paynims were Turks or Arabs; but he knew very well they were Muhammadans—bearded gentlemen who wielded curved swords that had keen edges.

  Somewhere in the plain was a small river called the Meander, and on the river a walled town. The town was Antioch and belonged to Sultan Kai-Kosru, and this town the crusaders meant to take for themselves before the sun had set again. Mavrozomes wished that the paynims were not so numerous—or that the Emperor Theodore had decided not to give them battle.

  There was little chance of the helm or hauberk of the Emperor Theodore suffering harm on the morrow—so the armorer reflected. His work had been to polish, not to mend, his master’s chain mail.

  Theodore Lascaris, the gracious, the all-governing, the lord of Constantinople and Nicea, would not be within reach of sword edge or arrow tip on the morrow. But the paynims would seek him, and for this reason—and to hearten the Emperor’s men—someone else must wear the gold inlaid armor of Theodore, the surcoat with the royal purple border, and the shining helm surmounted by the griffon crest.

  Behind the bars of the steel casque the face of this unknown would not be seen. The foeman would notice him, would seek him out and perhaps slay him. But the person of the real Emperor Theodore would be safeguarded.

  It was not a simple matter to select this make-believe monarch. The man would need to be a weapon wielder of skill and daring to keep safe the imperial standard that would follow him through the course of the battle. He must be a man of clear mind and tight lip, and one who could hold up hand and head in chaos. Certainly many of the crusaders would believe that he was actually the Emperor Theodore.

  Since the odds were he would not live to see the sun set, he must needs be a man of courage.

  So Mavrozomes reasoned, and made his way past the snoring and growling ribalds who tended fires and horses and stole what they might. He avoided the groups of sergeants-at-arms. The mock Emperor should be of gentle blood.

  He circled around the pavilions of the nobles, before which motionless banners drooped. Once a lantern was swung close to his face, and he waited until the patrol had clanked and stumbled away into the mist. He waited because, in the gleam of light, he had seen a man sitting on a stone.

  Mavrozomes had never before seen a man just like this one, who sat alone in the mist. A long staff, iron-bound, lay across his bare knees, and his long, loose-jointed arms rested upon the staff. He wore a short, sleeveless shirt of clumsy plate mail. Over this a cloak was thrown carelessly, and the cloak was white with a gold clasp at the throat and a hood upon the shoulders.

  “What man are you?” asked the armorer.

  It was clear to him that this stranger did not wear a knight’s belt, and the only weapon hanging from his leather girdle was a short falchion with a horn handle, little larger than a knife.

  The stranger did not look up.

  “I am Donn Dera.”

  Soft as a woman’s was his low voice. But his face was dark and bony, the hair shaggy over eyes and forehead—shaggy and fiery red.

  “What lord do you follow?” demanded Mavrozomes, who was plagued by a demon of curiosity. “What do you here?”

  By the voice of the stranger, he was neither Greek nor Italian, Fleming nor Frenchman. His hairy, withe-bound legs were like a thrall’s, and he certainly had no helmet about him anywhere. Nor upon his cloak was there any sign of the cross worn by every follower of the Emperor Theodore.

  “I wreak destruction. Yea, I look for rapine.”

  Mavrozomes stepped back a pace, but the man in the cloak appeared to take no heed of him. About the stranger was something sad and lonesome and unyielding. Thralls did not speak to the armorer of the Emperor like that.

  “Are you noble born, Donn Dera?” asked Mavrozomes. For a space the stranger made no reply.

  Then he pointed toward the faint glow where the stars were failing.

  “Yea,” he said gruffly, as if giving tongue to the burden of his thoughts, “the day comes, and there will be a rare feeding of ravens and whetting of sword edges—there will be sorrow and blood that the wolves will drink. I have no more words for you, little man.”

  Reminded of his mission and the passing of time, Mavrozomes stifled curiosity and hurried on. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Donn Dera was still sitting on his stone, alone in the chilling mist.

  Mavrozomes picked his way through the tents and the sleeping groups to the fires of the Franks.

  These Franks, following their custom, had settled themselves at a little distance from the warriors of the Emperor Theodore. Eight hundred of them, from France and Norman England and Flanders had joined the master of Constantinople in his march against the Saracens. They were the flower of his fighting men—long-limbed and high-tempered—utterly reckless of themselves or others.

  He asked his way, and so came to a fire where a dozen men roared over wine cup and dice board. They greeted him with an instant’s silence and then quick outcry.

  “Ho, the pagan gods have sent a messenger! Here is Thor with his hammer.”

  “Nay—Saint Denis!—only mark the gauntlet. He has been flying pigeons!”

  A dark-browed Provençal—a minstrel, by token of the gittern resting upon one knee—smiled and swept skilled fingers across the strings.

  The eyes of the youth kindled, and he struck palm to the massive pommel of the sword at his side.

  “It likes me well, Messer Mavrozomes!”

  The Greek bowed.

  “Thus, the charge is accepted. The imperial standard will accompany you. And it would be advisable,” he added thoughtfully, “to choose certain of your brother knights renowned by name and deeds to act as bodyguard. Of a truth, the Saracens will not deal lightly with you and your fellows, my lord.”

  He could have said nothing better suited to the mood of the men. The minstrel cried that he would ride with Sir Hugh. Only the bearded stalwa
rt, the knight who had baited Mavrozomes, frowned blackly and stood up, folding his arms on his chest.

  “It likes me ill, Greek. I have fought ere now with sword and lance and mace against the Saracens. And I wit well that they will make a set upon Sir Hugh. Hath not your emperor men of valor to his command that he summons a boy such as this to a passage perilous?”

  To this Marcabrun took exception.

  “Ill said, Rinaldo! Were the Emperor to give this honor to a Greek, it would be an affront upon us.”

  “Now out upon thee, Marcabrun,” retorted Rinaldo, “with thy qualms and punctilios! If affront it be to choose a Greek for the mock Emperor, I say this—when the battle is at an end we will go over to the Greeks and wipe out the affront with our swords.”

  “Hast forgotten, Rinaldo,” quoth the minstrel, “that we have sworn fellowship with the Greeks and service to the Emperor?”

  “Well, we did not swear we would not draw blade upon them.” And the bearded Rinaldo glared at Mavrozomes. “I have said it likes me ill, and what I say I will maintain with hand and glove. Full well the cowardly Greeks know that this adventure will give Hugh’s flesh to the wolves and ravens.”

  “Too much have you said, unwisely, Rinaldo,” cried Hugh. “Theodore is our leader in this venture, and his men are our brothers-in-arms. It is their thought to do honor to the Franks.”

  “If ever a Greek thought of aught but his own skin and wallet,” quoth Rinaldo stubbornly, “then am I a cup-shot churl.”

  “Messers,” spoke up a man who had been silent hitherto—a gray-chinned Norman, blind in one eye—“it is true that among the Crosses there is no baron the equal of Sir Hugh. His valor and prowess at arms is proven. Methinks the honor would be greater did this Theodore yield to him the baton and horn of leadership in this battle. Right willingly would all the Christian knights follow Hugh in that case.”

  “Ay,” shouted Rinaldo, “let it be so! The Greeks shall give the command to Hugh.”

  Mavrozomes raised his hands in horror, as if he had witnessed sacrilege.

  “O ye peers of Christendom!” laughed the minstrel. “Are ye querulous churls, or men of faith? Theodore is crafty and wise in leadership. Have ye followed him a hundred leagues into Asia, to bay at him now, like dogs?”

  “Wherever your folly leads you, Marcabrun,” declared the morose Norman, “my step shall go as far as yours. But Theodore is a fox with an eye to his burrow. If it suited him, he would betray us.”

  “To whom?” exclaimed the minstrel. “To the jackals and kites? To the Saracens, who hate him in greater measure than they fear us?”

  Hereupon Hugh picked up his leather-bound sword, and lifted his hand.

  “An end of words! We must bear ourselves so that no foeman comes anear the person of the true Emperor, and this we shall do right willingly.”

  “Ay, so,” muttered Rinaldo, “we shall so bear us, by God’s grace. And before we mount into the saddle, Theodore shall have proof of our will.”

  And when Hugh had departed with Mavrozomes, Rinaldo summoned to him the men who had gathered around the fire, hearing rumor of the choice that had fallen upon the young knight. To them the big Frank spoke earnestly, low-voiced, and there was no more roaring of songs or clinking of cups.

  In the tent of the armorer, Marcabrun, the Provençal, fingered his guitar in high good humor. Marcabrun was already armed, and he followed with experienced eye the fingers of Mavrozomes, who had slipped over the stalwart body of Hugh a double chain mail threaded with gold inlay. From foot to throat the young knight was clad in the glistening mesh. Mavrozomes buckled on him the wide sword belt of the knight, and laced to the steel collar of the hauberk the unmistakable helm of the Emperor Theodore.

  It pleased the minstrel that this casque should be inlaid with gold and surmounted by a cleverly fashioned griffon with flaming rubies for eyes. The two cheek plates and the long nasal piece hid Hugh’s features except for eyes and chin. But Marcabrun did not think the shining helm would ward as stout a blow as his own plain conical steel cap.

  When the long triangular shield, emblazoned with the Greek cross on a purple field, was slung about the youth’s neck, the minstrel gave voice to his delight.

  “Ola, messers!” he cried. “It were well that this hour should be rendered joyous with a fitting lay.”

  “What were better,” ventured the armorer courteously, “than the illustrious song of the Franks, of the hero Roland and his sword?”

  A shadow crossed the minstrel’s brow.

  “God forfend! Roland, the peer of Charlemagne, came to death by treachery in a day agone—ay, and the chivalrous Olivier, his brother-in-arms.”

  “There is no song like Roland’s,” said Hugh calmly. “I know it well. Sing, O Marcabrun, for this is a joyous hour.”

  For a moment the minstrel scanned his friend, thinking that the erect form of the youth made a finer figure in the imperial armor than the lean and stooped Theodore. Smiling, he struck the strings under his hand, and the Greeks fell silent to listen.

  “It is the prelude of the great battle that I say and relate,” he chanted. “Give heed, O noblemen and lieges, to the words of Roland, in the vale of Roncesvalles, on the day that Charlemagne passed with his peers through the Pyrenees, and the two heroes held safe the rear of his host:

  “ ‘Olivier climbed to a mountain height,

  Glanced through the valley that lay to right;

  He saw advancing the Saracen men,

  And thus to Roland he spake again—

  “I have seen the paynim,” said Olivier.

  “Never on earth did such host appear;

  A hundred thousand, with targets bright,

  With helmets laced and hauberks white,

  Erect and shining their lances tall;

  Such battle as waits you did ne’er befall.

  In mighty strength are the heathen crew,”

  Olivier said, “and our Franks be few;

  My comrade, Roland, sound on your horn;

  Charles will hear, and his host return.”

  “ ‘I were mad,’ said Roland, ‘to do such deed;

  Lost in France were my glory’s meed.

  My Durandal shall smite full hard,

  And her hilt be red to the golden guard.

  The heathen foemen shall find their fate,

  Their death, I swear, in the pass they wait—’ ”1

  A swift roar of voices interrupted the measured tones of the minstrel, and a thudding of hoofs and grating of steel were heard without the tent. Rinaldo thrust in his head, coifed and helmeted.

  “Well and truly sung, Marcabrun. The Crosses have sent hither a bodyguard and await sight of Hugh. Come!”

  Going from the tent with the young knight, Marcabrun saw that a gray light overhung the dark ravine, and in the mist he made out a forest of spears. A close array of mounted men surrounded them, and Hugh’s battle horse was held in readiness before them. All the eight hundred crusaders had assembled to accompany Hugh, instead of the small band suggested by Mavrozomes.

  The knight in the imperial armor halted as if struck when he beheld them, and Rinaldo laughed under his breath.

  “Lo, sir brother, here is thy bodyguard, and if this day thou art slain, full eight hundred bold men will bear thee company.”

  Sir Hugh looked silently upon the restless war horses, the rows of grim-faced warriors. He went to his charger, picked up the curved horn that hung from its chain at the saddle peak, and sounded a blast that echoed from rock to rock in the ravine—a rallying note that the archers who had gone forward in the first advance heard and understood.

  But Mavrozomes slipped from his tent and ran, a shadow moving through the mist, to where a light Arab courser had been saddled and kept waiting in readiness. Mounting hastily, he trotted through the encampment of the Greeks—as the followers of the Emperor Theodore were called.

  Where a wall of cloth had been stretched across the ravine he dismounted and approached two spearmen i
n silvered mail, who lifted their weapons as he gave the password. At the entrance of a silk pavilion he was scrutinized sharply by the guards and recognized. Taking on one arm his basinet, he raised high his right arm and empty hand, and, bending forward at the waist, crept as a jackal crawls into the presence of Theodore Lascaris, the Emperor.

  When he beheld under his feet a long, narrow carpet, he bent still lower and drew his right arm across his eyes. Sidewise, he peered at the gilded sandals, the long cloth hose of Greek attendants, until he judged it was time to speak. There had been a deep silence in the pavilion.

  “Is it permitted, O greatest of the Comneni, to speak and live? The servant of thine Illustriousness hath gained the consent of the most renowned of the Franks, who now goes forth in thine armor—”

  “What was the trumpet call?”

  A quick, modulated voice asked the question.

  “May it please your Grandeur, that was the rallying note, to announce the advance of the Frankish crusaders. From horse sergeant to baron, they ride forth, led by the champion who is garbed for the day in thy royal semblance—may thy years be increased!

  “To them likewise I gave thine order, that they should pass from the ravine and attack, and that thy host would follow—”

  Mavrozomes paused, to discover if his master wished him to proceed, and again he took account of legs to make certain that no hostile ear should hear what next he said.

  “It has happened in all things as thou hast desired it. Lo, the Franks go against the Sultan and his array. The Saracens will be confounded by the onset of the barbarians. There will be a slaughter and a ceaseless play of weapons. When the day is near its end, then may the invincible host of the Emperor advance to victory.”