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.”
“It is you who are lost,” snapped Sir Roger. “Theodore Butumites is a spy and a traitor, sent by Alexis to lead you astray, while Kilidg Arslan crushes Bohemund – ”
“Dog, your life for that!” shouted the fiery Greek, striding forward, his hand on his sword. Roger fronted him grimly, gripping his own hilt, but the barons intervened.
“These are serious accusations you bring, friend,” said Godfrey. “What proofs have you of these words?”
“Why, in God’s name,” exclaimed Roger, “have you not seen that the Greek has swung further and further south? The Normans took the straighter course – it is you who have wandered from the route. Bohemund marched southeast by south – you have traveled due south. If you follow this course long enough, you may fetch the Mediterranean, but you will scarce come to the Holy Land!”
“Who is this rogue?” exclaimed Butumites angrily.
“Duke Godfrey knows me,” retorted the Norman. “I am Roger de Cogan.”
“By the saints!” exclaimed Godfrey, a smile lighting his worn face. “I had thought to recognize you, Godfrey! But you have changed – you have changed. My lords,” he turned to the others, “this gentleman is known to me aforetime – nay, he rode with me into the Lateran, when I – ”
He checked himself with the strange aversion he always felt toward speaking of what he considered his sacrilege in killing Duke Rudolph in the holy confines.
“But we know him not,” answered St. Gilles, with the caution that always ate at him like a worm in a beam. “And he comes with a strange tale – he would lead us on a wild chase, with naught but his own word – ”
“God’s thunder!” cried Roger, his short Norman patience exhausted. “Shall we gabble here while the Turks cut Bohemund’s throat? It is my word against the Greek’s, and I demand trial – the gauge of combat to decide between us!”
“Well spoken!” exclaimed Adhemar, the pope’s legate, a tall man who wore the chain mail of a knight, and was a warrior at heart. Such scenes warmed his heart, which was that of a warrior. “As mouth-piece of our Holy Father, I declare the righteousness of such course.”
“Well, and let us be at it!” exclaimed Roger, burning with impatience. “Choose your weapons, Greek!”
Butumites glanced over his dusty mail, and the light-limbed, sweat-covered steed, and smiled secretly.
“Dare you run a course with sharpened spears?”
This was a matter at which the Franks were more experienced than the Greeks, but Butmites was of larger boned frame than most of his race, well able to compete with the westerners in physical strength, and he had had experience, jousting with the western knights while they lay at Alexis’ court. He glanced at his giant black war- horse, accoutered with heavy trappings of silk, steel and lacquered leather, and smiled again. But Godfrey interposed.
“Nay, masters, this is but a sorry thing, seeing that Sir Roger has come hither on a weary steed, and that more fit for racing than fighting. Nay, Roger, you shall take my steed and lance, and my casque, too.”
Butumites shrugged his shoulders. In an instant his crushing advantage had been swept away, but he was still confident. At any rate, he preferred lances to sword-strokes, having no desire to encounter the stroke of the great sword that hung at Roger’s hip. He had fought Normans before.
Roger took the long heavy spear, and mounted the steed, held by Godfrey’s esquires, but refused the heavy helmet – a massive pot-like affair, without a movable vizor, but with a slit for the eyes. The joust had not then attained its later conventions and formalities; at that early date a lance-running was either a duel with sharpened weapons, or simply a form of training for more serious war-fare. A rude course had been formed by the crowd, pressing in on both sides, leaving a broad lane open. In this clear space the foes trotted apart for a short distance, wheeled couched their lances, and awaited the signal.
The trumpet blared and the great horses thundered toward each other. The shining black armor and plumed casque of the Byzantine contrasted strongly with the dusty grey armor and plain iron bassinet of the Norman. Roger knew that Butumites would aim his lance directly at his unprotected face, and he bent low, glaring at his foe above
