the night, clad in the mail of a Crusader?
Roger began to feel that he had stepped into a pit full of hidden snakes in the dark, but he drew the scarf closer about his features, and followed his guide through a short dark corridor into a small, dim-lit chamber. Some one was sitting in a great ornate chair, and to this figure the guide bowed almost to the floor, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The Norman stood straining his eyes, and as they became accustomed to the dim candle-light, the form in the chair slowly took form. It was a short, stocky man who sat there, wrapped in a plain dark satin cloak which hid all other details of his costume. A featherless slouch hat and a mask lay on a table close at hand, arguing that the man had come in secrecy, fearing recognition. The knight’s eyes were drawn to the other’s face; the blue-black beard was carefully curled, the dark locks bound back from the broad forehead with a cloth-of-gold band; beneath it wide brown eyes gleamed with an innate vitality. Sir Roger started violently. In God’s name, into what dark undercurrent of plot and intrigue had he fallen? The man in the chair was Alexis Comnene, emperor of the Byzantine empire.
“You have come quickly enough, Thorvald,” said the emperor – and Sir Roger did not reply, being too busy wondering what mysterious matter had brought the emperor of the East from his marble-pillared palace in the dead of night to an obscure tower in the outer city.
“You ride with a loose rein. The messenger I sent did not tell you why I wished your presence?”
Sir Roger shook his head, at a venture. Alexis nodded.
“I told him to only bid you hasten here. But tell me – in your cruisings among the Black Sea corsairs, have they ever suspected your true identity?”
Again Sir Roger shook his head.
Alexis smiled.
“Sparing of speech as ever, old wolf! It is well. But just now I have work for you even more important than keeping an eye on the Moslem pirates. So I sent for you –
“Thorvald, since you went spying among the Turks, the hosts of the Franks have come and gone. They did not come as came Peter the Hermit and Gautier-sans-Avoir – rabbles of paupers and knaves. They came with war- horses, and wagon trains, cavaliers, and women, archers, pikemen and men-at-arms – all afire with zeal for recovering the Holy Sepulcher.
“First came Hugh of Vermandois, brother of the French king, in a ship with a few attendants. I feasted him royally, made him rich gifts, and persuaded him to take oath of allegiance to me. Then came others – St. Gilles of Provence, Godfrey of Bouillon and his brothers, and that devil Bohemund. All took oath of fealty except the stubborn Count of Provence – but I fear him not. He is zealous, and all for Jerusalem. Bohemund is another matter; he would cut the throat of Saint Paul, to gratify his ambition.
“They took Nicea for me, but I tricked them out of it, sending Manuel Butumites to make a secret treaty with the Turks, and now the city is garrisoned with my soldiers. Now the host marches southward, toward Palestine, and in the hills of Asia Minor, Kilidg Arslan will doubtless cut all their throats. Yet it may be that they will prevail against him. At least, they will deal him such great blows that he will be no more a menace for Byzantium for years to come. Nay, I fear him less than I fear that devil Bohemund, whom naught but luck helped me to defeat some twelve years ago when he came up out of Italy with Robert Guiscard.
“Thorvald, I sent for you because there is no man east of the Danube able to stand against you in sword-play. I have laid my plans well, yet Bohemund has slipped through my fingers before. With the corsairs you have been my eyes and my brain; now you must be my sword. Your task is to see that Bohemund does not leave the field alive, when Kilidg Arslan comes up against the Franks. Hew not to the right nor to the left, but aim your strokes at him! This is my command – come what will, be the fortune of war what it may, who ever conquers or loses, lives or dies – KILL BOHEMUND!”
The emperor’s voice rang vibrantly in the chamber, his dark eyes flashed magnetically. Roger felt the force of the man’s dynamic personality like a physical impact.
“The Crusaders have already been a few days on the road,” said Alexis, “but they travel slowly, for their cavalry must keep pace with their wagons. It will be easy for you to pass beyond them and reach the Sultan before he joins battle, with the arrangements I have made. Your steed is already on a boat – a fresh steed, that is. The boat lies at the foot of the Green Pier – but Angelus will guide you thither. On the Asiatic side Ortuk Khan, he whom men call the Rider of the Wind, will meet you and lead you to the Sultan. Theodore Butumites is with Godfrey – ” he broke off suddenly, staring at Roger’s coif. “By Saint Paul,” said he, “there is fresh blood on your mail, Thorvald. Are you wounded?”
His mind full of whirling conjectures, Roger absently answered, “No.”
Instantly he was realized his mistake. Alexis started, and his keen eyes flared with suspicion. Every faculty of the man was as sharp as a whetted sword.
“That’s not Thorvald’s voice!” he snarled, and with a motion quick as a striking hawk, he ripped the scarf from the knight’s head. Both men leaped to their feet, the emperor recoiling with a scream.
“Spy! This is not Thorvald! Ho, the guard!”
Sir Roger’s sword flashed in the candle-light. Alexis leaped back, cat-like, and the blade sheared a lock of hair from his head as it hummed past. Instantly it seemed, the room swarmed with armed men, pouring in from each door. But the sight of the emperor fleeing desperately from the murderous attack of one they supposed to be a loyal servitor, momentarily froze their wits. Roger alone knew exactly what he had to do. No time for another stroke at the emperor who had sprung behind the great chair, and was shouting for his soldiers to cut down the impostor. The Norman wheeled toward the nearest door, where three men barred his way. The first went down, casque and skull cloven by the knight’s shearing stroke, and as the other two sprang in hacking, Sir Roger ducked and drove in headlong behind his shield. They reeled apart before the impact, and the Norman’s bull-like drive carried him through the door and into the corridor. Recovering his balance in full flight, he raced down the short hallway. The outer door had been left unguarded. A quick fumbling at the chains and bolts and he was through, slammed the door in the faces of his yelling pursuers, and fled down the narrow street, cursing the clang of his mail-shod feet on the flags. He could not hope to evade his attackers, but ahead of him were the broad rows of green marble steps leading down to the waters edge, known as the Green Pier. He knew it of old. At the foot of the steps lay a broad boat, the steersman holding the craft to the lower step by a boat-hook thrust into a ring set in the marble. A rangy Arab horse was held quiet by grooms, and the brawny oarsmen gaped at his haste, as the knight ran down the steps and sprang into the boat.
“Give way!” he growled. The boatmen hesitated. Up the street came the clamor of pursuit. Steel clanked and torches tossed.
“Push off!” the boatmen saw the glimmer of naked steel in the knight’s mailed hand. They were unarmed laborers, not fighters. The steersman disengaged the boathook, and thrusting it against the steps, shoved powerfully. The heavy craft swung out into the current, and the rowers bent to their labor. They moved out into the shadowy star-mirroring reaches, and looking back, Sir Roger saw mailed figures racing up and down the piers, seeking a boat. But luck was with him; the wharfs had vanished in the distance before he heard, faintly the clack of oar-locks, and knew that the pursuit had taken to water.
The rowers, eyeing his dripping sword, bent to their oars as strongly as if he had been Alexis himself. The noise of the pursuing boats drew steadily nearer; they dogged his trail throughout that three-mile row, and the last few hundred yards he saw starlight glinting on helmets. But he was still a few score paces ahead when the low prow nudged the Asian shore. Springing to the saddle, he spurred the steed over the side, and plunged into the darkness.
There he had the advantage. His pursuers were not mounted, although it was quite possible that there might be steeds for them in the vicinity. He headed eastward at a long swinging gallop. In the darkness he was aware only of a vague shadowy landscape of low hills and flat stretches, with occasional blurs he took to be herders’ huts. Clouds had again obscured the stars, and the moon had long set. He drew rein, moving along almost at a walk, in the thick darkness, when suddenly he realized that there was a movement about him. He heard the restive stamp of hoofs, and the jingle of trappings. A voice swore in a tongue alien yet hatefully familiar. Turks! He had ridden blindly into them in the darkness. They were all about him, hemming him in. Stealthily he reached for his sword, then a sibilant voice inquired, “Is it you, lord Thorvald?”
“Who else?” growled the knight, striving to assume the harsh accents of the Norseman.
“Strike a light,” muttered another voice. “Best be certain.”
There was the clink of flint on steel, and a tiny flame sprang up, illuminating a ring of bearded hawk-like faces –
