CHAPTER IX
TEE VALLEY OF THE KUR
THE clans of the Khaukesh stretched as far as the eye could see, from the bank of the frozen Kur to some low hills covered with pines. They were moving down the valley, away from Hugh, in masses of a thousand or more grouped around the standards and the banners of the princes. As they marched they sang and clashed axes and swords against their shields.
All in the main battle were on foot, even the chieftains. But Hugh saw that the constable had kept apart in the rear of the warriors a body of horse—Circassians.
These, too, were in motion, the ponies plunging into drifts and kicking up a smother of snow when they trotted. A bleak wind swept the valley and the gray sky hid the sun.
Beyond the line of the Georgians Hugh could see the Horde clearly—the black patches that were masses of horsemen. The distance was too great to make out any standards, and Hugh counted the black patches. There were ten, and he knew that each numbered a thousand. They were advancing at a walk.
Map of the Chersonese
Though he searched the whole valley, even the low banks of the ice-bound river and the timbered foothills on the far side, he could not discover any other Mongols. The ten thousand looked no larger than so many flocks of sheep in the vast basin between the ranges.
Hugh urged on the tired horse, passing through the last camp of the Georgians where slaves and peasants with their carts stood at gaze. Here were visible the thatched roofs of a hamlet, and when the crusader passed near-by, stalwart mountaineers stared at him and shouted joyfully:
“Eh, Lord Prince, make haste or the onset will be over. 'Tis said the steeds of the accursed Mongols are helpless in the snow.”
“Their bowstrings will be damp! Satan is opening his gates for them.”
“We will slash them, and they will never see Tphilis!”
So the varlets of the camp cried out, beholding the goodly charger of the stranger and the gold inlay of his sword. And Hugh, who could have answered that the Mongol ponies were accustomed to snow and even to digging beneath it for the scanty forage of dry grass, and that the Mongol bowstrings were silk or waxed cord, passed on in silence, heavy with misgiving. The somber sky was like a pall over the valley and the bitter wind whispered of death.
He had not reached the Circassians before sudden tumult resounded on his right. Toward the foothills patrols of the invaders were retiring before the steady advance of the hillmen. But the shouting and clash of steel meant a charge.
Evidently the Mongol onset was repulsed, because Hugh, hastening on, saw presently the bodies of warriors outstretched and a few riderless ponies galloping off, while groups of Georgians clustered around the wounded and the clamor dwindled to a hum of voices.
No one paid him any attention and he sought anxiously for the standard of the constable, or for sight of Rusudan or Shotha Kupri.
Before seeking Subotai in the Horde he meant to warn Rusudan to leave the field—no easy task. She should never come into the mêlée.
Here were only bands of hillmen, ax and spear on shoulder, striding forward through the snow that was often knee-deep, shouldering and pushing to win nearer the front ranks that had halted.
The reason was clear in a moment. A roar of voices drowned all other sounds, and Hugh rose in his stirrups. The Mongol center was in motion—a long line of riders trotting toward the Georgians, followed by other lines that plied their bows from the saddle. Arrows whistled into the close-packed mass of Georgians, who answered with cross-bows and, in a moment, with a flight of javelins.
Stung by the flying steel, the shaggy ponies of the Mongols began to rear and plunge before the first line crashed against the spears and shield of the Georgians. Still the arrows whistled. Hugh heard the clash of armor when men dropped near him, heard the oaths of their comrades who pressed on, heedless of hurt, with the single thought of closing with the horsemen.
They did not lack courage, these men of the Khaukesh. Harried by shafts that tore through their leather shields and the chain-mail beneath, they wielded their swords and heavy axes, and the line that had yielded at first, stood firm.
The Mongol charge had been broken. The tumans were drawing away, scattering in groups without formation and apparently without leaders.
Hugh, who had seen these same veteran divisions crash through the chivalry of Islam, could not believe them broken; but the impatient Circassians, tossed simitars and spears over their heads.
And then Hugh saw the constable sitting a white horse with cloth-of-silver caparisoning, and beside him the Princess Rusudan, her cheeks aglow with excitement, crying to the mounted escort that hemmed her in—the youthful nobles of the Khaukesh, sons of the chieftains from Hereth and the mountains of Armenia, clad in the finest of velvets and inlaid Turkish mail, with damask-work in their weapons and silver and sapphires in the horse-trappings.
Heads turned inquiringly toward the crusader in tarnished steel, upon a sweat-soaked charger flecked with foam. Rusudan saw him and cried out, started to draw her rein toward him, but checked her brown Arab and waited his approach.
He raised his right hand and spoke:
“Princess Rusudan, where is the aid promised by the emperor? I saw none in the camp or the array of battle?”
She smiled, pointing down the valley with a slender ivory baton tipped by a little crown of gold.
“What need of them? Surely the eternal emperor hath pledged us aid, but, alone, we have cast back the pagans.”
“Aye, so.”
Rusudan's dark hair whipped across her eyes, and she tossed her head impatiently, her eyes dancing with the almost unbearable exhilaration of earth's utmost game.
“If God had spared my brother to see this day!” And she gazed up at Hugh earnestly. “Ai, your wound is not healed. Why are you in the saddle?”
And the crusader, leaning on his saddle-horn, besought her with outstretched hand:
“Ride hence. This is an ill place for a maid.”
“Did you come to tell me that? So the constable hath said, but I will not sit with the women.”
“You have seen one charge. Stay for no more.”
“I will not go.”
“The real battle is not yet,” answered Hugh patiently.
Rusudan beheld the pallor in his lined face, and hot scorn made harsh her clear voice.
“Is this the paladin who bears Roland's sword—who hewed his way to the Sepulchre of the Lord Christ? I cry you shame. Sir Hugh! O, you were quick to draw weapon in an alley brawl over the cups—”
She had seen the truth, that Hugh of Taranto was afraid. But of what he could not say himself. A heavy foreboding lay upon him—the fear that the Horde would still ride over the clans of the Khaukesh and the bright head of Rusudan would lie in trampled snow and blood.
The nobles, urged by fresh excitement, were clamoring around her now, but she reined the Arab to the gray stallion.
“Look up, Sir Craven. You will see that even a maid may strike a blow against pagans.”
A horn resounded near the constable, who had been watching the retreat of the Mongols intently. A chieftain had come up to him, a bearded Circassian who checked his steed with a jangle of bit-chains and thudding of hoofs and pointed down the valley beseechingly. The wild horsemen, held in restraint, were growing resentful of inaction, and the Circassian crâl had come to beg for leave to charge. With a nod, John the Constable gave the order.
The Circassian wheeled away as a hawk skims from a thicket, and his men, guessing the command—or resolved to await no command—put their horses to a trot and a gallop that carried them in full career past the princess and through the clans of the main battle, who parted to let them by.
“Forward with me!” Rusudan cried to the youths around her, and they shouted above the clamor of the Circassians. The nobles of Rusudan's escort joined the mass of riders, but Hugh leaned over and gripped her rein.
“Nay! he cried, realizing her purpose.
“Loose my horse. Back, I say!” Rusudan struggled to free her rein, then let it fall and snatched the light simitar from the silver sheath at her side. In her anger she trembled, whispering so that he scarcely heard, “I will strike!”
And the simitar swept up, and down toward his throat, for he made no move to release her. The steel whistled in the air, and was checked in mid-stroke by a mailed hand that held it firm.
John the Constable had heard the rasp of the blade in its sheath and had come to Rusudan's side. He forced the weapon from her hand, thrust it into its scabbard, glanced from the raging girl to the crusader.
“Nay, little Rusudan,” he said smiling, “there will be blows enough struck this day. Nor will I permit you to go forward into peril. See, the pagans give way before our horse.”
The onset of the Circassians—daring riders, loving well just such a charge as this—had carried them into the retreating squadrons of the Horde. Only Hugh noticed that no arrow flights greeted the constable's cavalry and that the Mongols scattered to the sides rather than fled ahead.
The array of the Circassians began to divide, some turning after the Mongols toward the hills, some spurring at the bands withdrawing to the river. Before long the fighting had broken up into smaller groups and the Mongols were using their bows at last at close quarters.
Seeing this, some of the clans began to run forward from the main array of the Georgians to aid the cavalry. The rest of the warriors on foot were stripping the enemy dead, and even building fires to warm themselves and to heat wine.
To the watchers it seemed that the battle was at an end, and John the Constable had taken the helmet from his head, when some of the men near him cried out. They were pointing at the river. From the forest on the far side long lines of Mongol horsemen were emerging.