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.
Full armed he rode into the night on his great black stallion, and Amory turned his casual attention to the slave girl. Her hands were soiled and roughened with menial toil, but they were slender and shapely. Somewhere in her veins, decided the young Frenchman, ran aristocratic blood, that showed in the delicate rose leaf texture of her skin, in the silkiness of her wavy black hair, in the deep softness of her dark eyes. All the warm heritage of the Southern desert was evident in her every motion,
“You were not born a slave?”
“What does it matter, master?” she asked, “Enough that I am a slave now. Better be born to the whips and chains than broken to them. Once I was free; now I am thrall. Is it not enough.”
“A slave,” muttered Amory, “What are a slave’s thought? Strange – it never before occurred to me to wonder what passes in the mind of a slave – or a beast, either, for that matter.”
“Better a man’s steed, than a man’s slave, master,” said the girl.
“Aye,” he answered, “For there is nobility in a good horse.”
She bowed her head and folded her slender hands, unspeaking.
CHAPTER 3
Dusk shadowed the hills when Cormac FitzGeoffrey rode up to the great gate of Kizil-hissar, the Red Castle, which gave its name to the town it guarded and dominated. The guardsmen, lean, bearded Turks with the eyes of hawks, cursed in amazement.
“By Allah, and by Allah! The wolf has come to put his head in the trap! Run, Yusef, and tell our lord, Suleyman Bey, that the infidel dog, Cormac, stands before the gates.”
“Ho there, you upon the walls!” shouted the Frank. “Tell your chief that Cormac FitzGeoffrey would have speech with him. And make haste, for I am not one to waste time in dallying.”
“Hold him in parley but a moment,” muttered a Moslem, crouching behind a bastion, and winding his cross-bow – a ponderous affair captured from the Franks, “I’ll send him to dress his shield in Hell.”
“Hold!” this from a bearded, lean old hawk whose eyes were fierce and wary, “When this chief rides boldly into the hands of his enemies, be sure he has secret powers. Wait until Suleyman comes.” To Cormac he called curteously, “Be patient, mighty lord; the prince Suleyman Bey has been sent for and will soon be upon the walls.”
“Then let him come in haste,” growled Cormac, who was in no more awe of a prince than he was of a peasant, “I will not await him long.”
Suleyman Bey came upon the great walls and looked down curiously and suspiciously upon his enemy.
“What want ye, Cormac FitzGeoffrey?” he asked, “Are you mad, to ride alone to the gates of Kizil-hissar? Have you forgotten there is feud between us? That I have sworn to sever your neck with my sword?”
“Aye, so you have sworn,” grinned Cormac, “And so has sworn Abdullah bin Kheram, and Ali Bahadur, and Abdallah Mirza the Kurd. And so, in past years and in another land, swore Sir John Courcey, and the clan of the O’Donnells and Sir William le Botelier, yet I still wear my head firmly on my shoulders.
“Harken till I tell you what I have to say. Then if you still wish my head, come out of your stone walls and see if ye be man enough to take it. This concerns the princess Zalda, daughter of Sheikh Abdullah bin Kheram – on whose name, damnation!”
Suleyman Bey stiffened with sudden interest; he was a tall, slender man, young, and handsome in a hawk-like way. His short black beard set off his aristocratic features and his eyes were fine and expressive, with shadows of cruelty lurking in their depths. His turban was scaled with silver coins and adorned with heron plumes, and his light mail was crusted with golden scales. The hilt of his slender, silver chased scimitar was set with gleaming gems. Young but powerful was Suleyman Bey, in the hill town upon which he had swooped with his hawks a few years before and made himself ruler. Six hundred men of war he could bring to battle, and he lusted for more power. For that reason he had wished to ally himself with the powerful Roualla tribe of Abdullah bin Kheram.
“What of the princess Zalda?” he asked.
“She is my captive,” answered Cormac.
Suleyman Bey started violently, his hand gripped his hilt, then he laughed mockingly.
“You lie; the princess Zalda is dead.”
“So I thought,” answered Cormac frankly, “But in the raid on the city, I found her captive to a merchant who knew not her real identity, she having concealed it, fearing lest worse evil come to her.”
Suleyman Bey stood in thought a moment, then raised his hand.
“Open the gates for him. Enter, Cormac FitzGeoffrey, no harm shall come to you. Lay down your sword and ride in.”
“I wore my sword in the tent of Richard the Lion-hearted,” roared the Norman, “When I unbuckle it in the walls of my foes, it will be when I am dead. Unbar those gates, fools, my steed is weary.”
Within an inner chamber of silk and crimson hangings, crystal and gold and teak-wood, Suleyman Bey sat listening to his guest. The young chief’s face was inscrutable but his dark eyes were absorbed. Behind him stood, like a dark image, Belek the Egyptian, Suleyman’s right-hand man, a big, dark powerful man with a satanic face and evil eyes. Whence he came, who he was, why he followed the young Turk none knew but Suleyman, but all feared and hated him, for the craft and cruelty of a black serpent was in the abysmal brain of the Egyptian.
Cormac FitzGeoffrey had laid aside his helmet and thrown back his mail coif, disclosing his thick, corded throat, and his black, square cut mane. His volcanic blue eyes blazed even more fiercely as he talked.
“Once the princess Zalda is in your hands you can bring the Sheikh to terms. Instead of paying him a great price for her, you can force him to pay you a dowery. He had rather see her your wife, even at the cost of much gold, than your slave. Once married to her, then, he will join forces with you. You will have all that you planned for three years ago, in addition to a rich dowery from the Sheikh.”
“Why did you not ride to him instead of to me?” abruptly asked Suleyman.
“Because you have such things as we desire, my friend and I. Abdullah is more powerful than you, but his treasure is less. Most of his belongings consist of cattle – horses – arms – tents – fields – the belongings of a nomad chief. Here in this castle you have chests of golden coins looted from caravans and taken as ransom for captive knights. You have gems – silver – silks – rare spices – jewelry. You have what we desire.”
“And what proof have I that you are not lying?”
“Ride with me tomorrow,” grunted Cormac, “To the castle of my friend.”
Suleyman laughed like a wolf snarling.
“You would lead us into a trap,” said the Egyptian.
“Bring three hundred men with you, bring as many as you like, the whole band of thieves,” said Cormac, “Where do you think I would get enough warriors to trap your whole host?”
“Where is she being held?” asked the Seljuk.
“In the castle of the Sieur Amory, three, four days ride to the west,” said Cormac, “You could never take it by assault.”
