Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

the breast of the traveller’s tunic, and in his right hand the long sword flashed out. The traveller was caught flat- footed, his sword half clear of its sheath. But the faint smile did not leave his lips and he stared almost childishly at the blade that flickered before his eyes, as if fascinated by its dazzling.

“Heathen dog,” snarled the swordsman, and his voice was like the slash of a blade through fabric, “I’ll send you to Hell unshriven!”

“What panther whelped you that you move as a cat strikes?” responded the other curiously, as calmly as if his life were not weighing in the balance. “But you took me by surprize. I did not know that a Frank dare draw sword in Damietta.”

The Frank glared at him moodily; the wine he had drunk showed in the dangerous gleams that played in his eyes where lights and shadows continuously danced and shifted.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Haroun the Traveller,” the other grinned. “Put up your steel. I crave pardon for my gibing words. It seems there are Franks of the old breed yet.”

With a change of mood the Frank thrust his sword back into its sheath with an impatient clash. Turning back to his bench he indicated table and wine pitcher with a sweeping gesture.

“Sit and refresh yourself; if you are a traveller, you have a tale to tell.”

Haroun did not at once comply. His gaze swept the inn and he beckoned the innkeeper, who came grudgingly forward. As he approached the Traveller, the innkeeper suddenly shrank back with a low half-stifled cry. Haroun’s eyes went suddenly merciless and he said, “What then, host, do you see in me a man you have known aforetime, perchance?”

His voice was like the purr of a hunting tiger and the wretched innkeeper shivered as with an ague, his dilated eyes fixed on the broad corded hand that stroked the hilt of the stabbing-sword.

“No, no, master,” he mouthed. “By Allah, I know you not – I never saw you before – and Allah grant I never see you again,” he added mentally.

“Then tell me what does this Frank here, in mail and wearing a sword,” ordered Haroun bruskly, in Turki. “The dog-Venetians are allowed to trade in Damietta as in Alexandria, but they pay for the privilege in humility and insult, and none dares gird on a blade here – much less lift it against a Believer.”

“He is no Venetian, good Haroun,” answered the innkeeper. “Yesterday he came ashore from a Venetian trading-galley, but he consorts not with the traders or the crew of the infidels. He strides boldly through the streets, wearing steel openly and ruffling against all who would cross him. He says he is going to Jerusalem and could not find a ship bound for any port in Palestine, so came here, intending to travel the rest of the way by land. The Believers have said he is mad, and none molests him.”

“Truly, the mad are touched by Allah and given His protection,” mused Haroun. “Yet this man is not altogether mad, I think. Bring wine, dog!”

The innkeeper ducked in a deep salaam and hastened off to do the Traveller’s bidding. The Prophet’s command against strong drink was among other orthodox precepts disobeyed in Damietta where many nations foregathered and Turk rubbed shoulders with Copt, Arab with Sudani.

Haroun seated himself opposite the Frank and took the wine goblet proffered by a servant.

“You sit in the midst of your enemies like a shah of the East, my lord,” he grinned. “By Allah, you have the bearing of a king.”

“I am a king, infidel,” growled the other; the wine he had drunk had touched him with a reckless and mocking madness.

“And where lies your kingdom, malik?” The question was not asked in mockery. Haroun had seen many broken kings drifting among the debris that floated Eastward.

“On the dark side of the moon,” answered the Frank with a wild and bitter laugh. “Among the ruins of all the unborn or forgotten empires which etch the twilight of the lost ages. Cahal Ruadh O’Donnel, king of Ireland – the name means naught to you, Haroun of the East, and naught to the land which was my birthright. They who were my foes sit in the high seats of power, they who were my vassals lie cold and still, the bats haunt my shattered castles, and already the name of Red Cahal is dim in the memories of men. So – fill up my goblet, slave!”

“You have the soul of a warrior, malik. Was it treachery overcame you?”

“Aye, treachery,” swore Cahal, “and the wiles of a woman who coiled about my soul until I was as one blind – to be cast out at the end like a broken pawn. Aye, the Lady Elinor de Courcey, with her black hair like midnight shadows on Lough Derg, and the gray eyes of her, like – ” He started suddenly, like a man waking from a trance, and his wayward eyes blazed.

“Saints and devils!” he roared. “Who are you that I should spill out my soul to? The wine has betrayed me and loosened my tongue, but I – ” He reached for his sword but Haroun laughed.

“I’ve done you no harm, malik. Turn this murderous spirit of yours into another channel. By Erlik, I’ll give you a test to cool your blood!”

Rising, he caught up a javelin lying beside a drunken soldier, and striding around the table, his eyes recklessly alight, he extended his massive arm, gripping the shaft close to the middle, point upward.

“Grip the shaft, malik,” he laughed. “In all my days I have met no one who was man enough to twist a stave out of my hand.”

Cahal rose and gripped the shaft so that his clenched fingers almost touched those of Haroun. Then, legs braced wide, arms bent at the elbow, each man exerted his full strength against the other. They were well matched; Cahal was a trifle taller, Haroun thicker of body. It was bear opposed to tiger. Like two statues they stood straining, neither yielding an inch, the javelin almost motionless under the equal forces. Then with a sudden rending snap the tough wood gave way and each man staggered, holding half the shaft, which had parted under the terrific strain.

“Hai!” shouted Haroun, his eyes sparkling; then they dulled with sudden doubt.

“By Allah, malik,” said he, “this is an ill thing! Of two men, one should be master of the other, lest both come to a bad end. Yet this signifies that neither of us will ever yield to the other, and in the end, each will work the other ill.”

“Sit down and drink,” answered the Gael, tossing aside the broken shaft and reaching for the wine goblet, his dreams of lost grandeur and his anger both apparently forgotten. “I have not been long in the East, but I knew not there were such as you among the paynim. Surely you are not one with the Egyptians, Arabs and Turks I have seen.”

“I was born far to the east, among the tents of the Golden Horde, on the steppes of High Asia,” said Haroun, his mood changing back to joviality as he flung himself down on his bench. “Ha! I was almost a man grown before I heard of Muhammad – on whom peace! Hai, bogatyr, I have been many things! Once I was a princeling of the Tatars – son of the lord Subotai who was right hand to Genghis Khan. Once I was a slave – when the Turkomans drove a raid east and carried off youths and girls from the Horde. In the slave markets of El Kahira I was sold for three pieces of silver, by Allah, and my master gave me to the Bahairiz – the slave-soldiers – because he feared I’d strangle him. Ha! Now I am Haroun the Traveller, making pilgrimage to the holy place. But once, only a few days agone, I was man to Baibars – whom the devil fly away with!”

“Men say in the streets that this Baibars is the real ruler of Cairo,” said Cahal curiously; new to the East though he was, he had heard that name oft-repeated.

“Men lie,” responded Haroun. “The sultan rules Egypt and Shadjar ad Darr rules the sultan. Baibars is only the general of the Bahairiz – the great oaf!

“I was his man!” he shouted suddenly, with a great laugh, “to come and go at his bidding – to put him to bed – to rise with him – to sit down at meat with him – aye, and to put food and drink into his fool’s-mouth. But I have escaped him! By Allah, by Allah and by Allah, I have naught to do with this great fool Baibars tonight! I am a free man and the devil may fly away with him and with the sultan, and Shadjar ad Darr and all Saladin’s empire! I am my own man tonight!”

He pulsed with an energy that would not let him be still or silent; he seemed vibrant and joyously mad with the sheer exuberance of life and the huge mirth of living. With gargantuan laughter he smote the table thunderously with his open hand and roared: “By Allah, malik, you shall help me celebrate my escape from that great oaf Baibars – whom the devil fly away with! Away with this slop, dogs! Bring kumiss! The Nazarene lord and I intend to hold such a drinking bout as Damietta’s inns have not seen in a hundred years!”

“But my master has already emptied a full wine pitcher and is more than half drunk!” clamored the nondescript