unexpectedness of the move caught the Seljuk off guard and he made the mistake of throwing up his shield instead of dodging. The lance-head tore through the light buckler and crashed full on his mail-clad breast. The point bent on his hauberk without piercing the links, but the terrific impact dashed the Turk from his saddle and as he rose, dazed and groping for his scimitar, the great black stallion was already looming horrific over him, and under those frenzied hoofs he went down, torn and shattered.
Without a second glance at his victim Cormac rode under the gibbet and rising in the saddle, stared into the face of he who swung therefrom.
“By Satan,” muttered the big warrior, “ ’tis Micaul na Blaos – Michael de Blois, one of Gerard’s squires. What devil’s work is this?”
Drawing his sword he cut the rope and the youth slid into his arms. Young Michael’s lips were parched and swollen, his eyes dull with suffering. He was naked except for short leathern breeks, and the sun had dealt cruelly with his fair skin. Blood from a slight scalp wound caked his yellow hair, and there were shallow cuts on his limbs – marks left by his tormentor’s spear.
Cormac laid the young Frenchman in the shade cast by the motionless stallion and trickled water through the parched lips from his canteen. As soon as he could speak, Michael croaked: “Now I know in truth that I am dead, for there is but one knight ever rode in Outremer who could cast a long lance like a javelin – and Cormac FitzGeoffrey has been dead for many months. But if I be dead, where is Gerard – and Yulala?”
“Rest and be at ease,” growled Cormac. “You live – and so do I.”
He loosed the cords that had cut deep into the flesh of Michael’s wrists and set himself to gently rub and massage the numb arms. Slowly the delirium faded from the youth’s eyes. Like Cormac, he too came of a race that was tough as spring steel; an hour’s rest and plenty of water, and his intense vitality asserted itself.
“How long have you hung from this gibbet?” asked Cormac.
“Since dawn.” Michael’s eyes were grim as he rubbed his lacerated wrists. “Nureddin and Kosru Malik said that since Sieur Gerard once hanged one of their race here, it was fitting that one of Gerard’s men should grace this gibbet.”
“Tell me how Gerard died,” growled the Irish warrior. “Men hint at foul tales – ”
Michael’s fine eyes filled with tears. “Ah, Cormac, I who loved him, brought about his death. Listen – there is more to this than meets the casual eye. I think that Nureddin and his comrade-at-arms have been stung by the hornet of empire. It is in my mind that they, with various dog-knights among the Franks, dream of a mongrel kingdom among these hills, which shall hold allegiance neither to Saladin nor any king of the West.
“They begin to broaden their holdings by treachery. The nearest Christian hold was that of Ali-El-Yar, of course. Sieur Gerard was a true knight, peace be upon his fair soul, and he must be removed. All this I learned later – would to God I had known it beforehand! Among Nureddin’s slaves is a Persian girl named Yulala, and with this innocent tool of their evil wishes, the twain sought to ensnare my lord – to slay at once his body and his good name. And God help me, through me they succeeded where otherwise they had failed.
“For my lord Gerard was honorable beyond all men. When in peace, and at Nureddin’s invitation, he visited El Ghor, he paid no heed to Yulala’s blandishments. For according to the commands of her masters, which she dared not disobey, the girl allowed Gerard to look on her, unveiled, as if by chance, and she pretended affection for him. But Gerard gave her no heed. But I – I fell victim to her charms.”
Cormac snorted in disgust. Michael clutched his arm.
“Cormac,” he cried, “bethink you – all men are not iron like you! I swear I loved Yulala from the moment I first set eyes on her – and she loved me! I contrived to see her again – to steal into El Ghor itself – ”
“Whence men got the tale that it was Gerard who was carrying on an affair with Nureddin’s slave,” snarled FitzGeoffrey.
Michael hid his face in his hands. “Mine the fault,” he groaned. “Then one night a mute brought a note signed by Yulala – apparently – begging me to come with Sieur Gerard and his men-at-arms and save her from a frightful fate – our love had been discovered, the note read, and they were about to torture her. I was wild with rage and fear. I went to Gerard and told him all, and he, white soul of honor, vowed to aid me. He could not break the truce and bring Saladin’s wrath upon the Christians’ cities, but he donned his mail and rode forth alone with me. We would see if there was any way whereby we might steal Yulala away, secretly; if not, my lord would go boldly to Nureddin and ask the girl as a gift, or offer to pay a great ransom for her. I would marry her.
“Well, when we reached the place outside the wall of El Ghor, where I was wont to meet Yulala, we found we were trapped. Nureddin, Kosru Malik and their warriors rose suddenly about us on all sides. Nureddin first spoke to Gerard, telling him of the trap he had set and baited, hoping to entice my lord into his power alone. And the Moslem laughed to think that the chance love of a squire had drawn Gerard into the trap where the carefully wrought plan had failed. As for the missive – Nureddin wrote that himself, believing, in his craftiness, that Sieur Gerard would do just as indeed he did.
“Nureddin and the Turk offered to allow Gerard to join them in their plan of empire. They told him plainly that his castle and lands were the price a certain powerful nobleman asked in return for his alliance, and they offered alliance with Gerard instead of this noble. Sieur Gerard merely answered that so long as life remained in him, he would keep faith with his king and his creed, and at the word the Moslems rolled on us like a wave.
“Ah, Cormac, Cormac, had you but been there with our men-at-arms! Gerard bore himself right manfully as was his wont – back to back we fought and I swear to you that we trod a knee-deep carpet of the dead before Gerard fell and they dragged me down. ‘Christ and the Cross!’ were his last words, as the Turkish spears and swords pierced him through and through. And his fair body – naked and gashed, and thrown to the kites and the jackals!”
Michael sobbed convulsively, beating his fists together in his agony. Cormac rumbled deep in his chest like a savage bull. Blue lights burned and flickered in his eyes.
“And you?” he asked harshly.
“Me they flung into a dungeon for torture,” answered Michael, “but that night Yulala came to me. An old servitor who loved her, and who had dwelt in El Ghor before it fell to Nureddin, freed me and led us both through a secret passage that leads from the torture chamber, beyond the wall. We went into the hills on foot and without weapons and wandered there for days, hiding from the horsemen sent forth to hunt us down. Yesterday we were recaptured and brought back to El Ghor. An arrow had struck down the old slave who showed us the passageway, unknown to the present masters of the castle, and we refused to tell how we had escaped though Nureddin threatened us with torture. This dawn he brought me forth from the castle and hanged me to this gibbet, leaving that one to guard me. What he has done to Yulala, God alone knows.”
“You knew that Ali-El-Yar had fallen?”
“Aye,” Michael nodded dully. “Kosru Malik boasted of it. The lands of Gerard now fall heir to his enemy, the traitor knight who will come to Nureddin’s aid when the Moslem strikes for a crown.”
“And who is this traitor?” asked Cormac softly.
“The baron Conrad von Gonler, whom I swear to spit like a hare – ”
Cormac smiled thinly and bleakly. “Swear me no oaths. Von Gonler has been in Hell since dawn. I knew only that he refused to come to Gerard’s aid. I could have slain him no deader had I known his whole infamy.”
Michael’s eyes blazed. “A de Gissclin to the rescue!” he shouted fiercely. “I thank thee, old war-dog! One traitor is accounted for – what now? Shall Nureddin and the Turk live while two men wear de Gissclin steel?”
“Not if steel cuts and blood runs red,” snarled Cormac. “Tell me of this secret way – nay, waste no time in words –
His big hands clenched into iron sledges and his terrible eyes blazed; in his whole bearing there was apparent a plain tale of fire and carnage, of spears piercing bosoms and swords splitting skulls.
IV THE FAITH OF CORMAC
When Cormac FitzGeoffrey took up the trail to El Ghor again, one would have thought at a glance that a Turk
