Swords From the Sea (58 page)

A few men and boys had followed from the castle. The raiders halted suddenly and turned, to shoot a volley of bolts from the crossbows. Two of the pursuers dropped, and the rest scattered, running to cover.

Doria shook his head. These raiders knew their way about, and hit hard. They were more than a match for the men of Rocafort. The only chance to make another stand against them would be upon the road, before they reached the open beach. If he could rally these fellows of the castle with a few bows, and lead them-

Below him a torch appeared, lighting a small garden under the window. Pietro bore the torch, running, with three armed men beside him. They paused to look under the cypress trees that lined the walls, and Pietro exclaimed angrily, "Blessed Mary, I saw him coming down. He made his way through a barred door."

One of the soldiers said something Doria could not hear, and the steward shouted, "He named himself Doria, and pretended to be cast away. Aye, he made as if he were cup-shot. If we can hold him we can drive a bargain with those friends of his-or else strip the skin off him."

When they had hastened from the garden, Doria swung his legs over the window ledge. It was clear enough that he could not argue with these men, and he had no mind to leave his skin to dry on Rocafort's gate.

"Hark, ye with the broken head," he called over his shoulder, "and remember this. Doria had no hand in this onset until now, but he will bear a hand in it before sunup."

Ricard did not even look up, and Doria let himself drop into the top of a cypress. His weight tore through the thick mesh, which rasped his garments and skin. He fell out of it, rolling upon the ground, and got to his feet without other harm.

Then he went through the door by which the searchers had entered, and, finding the ground clear of men, began to seek for the path up which Marguerite had led him that afternoon. When he found it he broke into a run, leaping and sliding down the slope, dim in the starlight.

The worse for more than one tumble, Doria limped out on the beach. A glance over his shoulder told him that he had cut across the path of the raiders, who were not more than halfway down the hill.

Ahead of him, two fishing skiffs were drawn up on the beach, with three armed seamen standing guard over them. He thought that the raiders had got possession of these skiffs, and had rowed themselves in from the galley, which was anchored off the entrance of the bay-some half mile out.

A steady breeze was blowing across the bay-a night breeze that would not die away-and Doria sniffed it with relish. "It will do," he assured himself as he circled the skiffs to his own dhow.

"Wallahi," cried Khalil, "it is good that thou hast come, 0 my Rais. This is no place of peace."

"What men are they who have come from the galley?"

"Ziani's."

"And what is he?"

"A merchant. A slave merchant of Venice." Khalil lowered his voice. "I have seen him often in the market at Tunis, selling Christian girls to the pashas. He sells only a few, but he gets good prices."

"The devil!" Doria thought of Marguerite standing by the pillar of the souk, under the eyes of the rich pashas who were connoisseurs in women. So this Ziani raided the islands to carry off young girls who had few swords to defend them. And he used Doria's name to cloak him. "Khalil," he said grimly, "I will drive a bargain with this Messer Ziani, and I will take the girl from him."

The Arab shook his head indulgently, "Now thou art hot with anger, my lord. What can we do? Let us put off from the shore."

"Aye," said the corsair slowly, "thou shalt lift the sail and go, but I will not. Listen."

And he bent close to the old seaman, talking eagerly. Khalil listened intently. Once he lifted his hand to try the wind. Then he shook his head. "Nay, my Rais, they are armed-"

"And there is one place where weapons and armor avail not." Doria laughed, and thrust the slender forty-foot dhow out into the water. Khalil gave up argument, and hoisted the long yard. The triangular sail filled, and the boat slipped away into the darkness. Doria watched it until he saw it beat up against the wind; then he strolled down the beach.

The raiders were just leaving the road and crossing the sand, with two or three torches still alight. Beside Marguerite, holding her by the wrist, walked a man with the shoulders of a wrestler and the close-clipped beard and curled hair of a dandy. He stopped to peer at Doria's tall figure advancing into the torchlight.

"A good evening to you, Messer Ziani," Doria greeted him. "You use my war cry in a bad business, and I like it not."

One of the swordsmen took a torch and stepped up to the corsair, staring into his gaunt face. "The devil," the man cried. "This is Andrea Doria, who was taken by the Turks."

"Aye, I am Doria," acknowledged the corsair, "who was awakened by your clamor at the castle. Now I warn you that the Demoiselle of Rocafort is no merchandise for the slave market."

Marguerite checked the sudden cry that rose in her throat; but Ziani did not loose his grip of her wrist. He had planned her capture with some care, and saw a good profit in it, for the great pashas would pay high for a maid like this. On the other hand, he hoped to keep his share in it a secret.

While many merchants reaped a harvest from the secret sale of Christian Greeks and Georgians to the Moslems, he did not wish it known that he carried girls by force from the islands of Sicily. And he was startled by the appearance of the man he believed out of the way. "What do you want?"

"Will you set this girl free?"

Ziani glanced up and down the beach. No men were behind Doria, and his own skiffs were within reach. At the mouth of the bay his galley rode at anchor, and certainly no other vessel had come in. "What I will do," he parried, "is my affair."

"Then I will buy her."

The merchant scanned the seaman's torn garments. "With what?" he asked pointedly. He had heard tales of this man's daring, but he saw no reason to fear Doria now.

"With eight hundred gold sequins, to be paid in any Moslem port."

"Eh!" Ziani's brows went up. "It seems you do not care much for money."

Four to five hundred would have been a good price for the girl in Tunis. He might get more, of course, but he would have to pay certain bribes, and the cost of the run and back with his ship and crew.

"Nay," Doria laughed, "as I have none. Make it a thousand, if you wish-and get it if you can."

"I have no interest in either promises or threats."

Doria folded his arms, still smiling. "Nor do I deal in promises, Ziani. I have a slight something in me which it seems you lack. 'Tis called honor. Since I was a guest at Rocafort and since you have beset it in my name, I must buy this demoiselle from you and set her free. Having no gold here, I will exchange myself for her."

"You-what?"

"I will surrender myself to you here. The Sultan will give you not only gold but precious stones for Andrea Doria-and you know it well. But you must release this girl at once."

Shaking his head in pretended amazement, Ziani calculated quickly. He could find envoys of the great Sultan at Tunis, and if he managed the bargain well, he could clear fourteen hundred profit-enough to buy three ships. More, he would have near two thousand gain.

He did not believe Doria-the corsair had meant to trick him-and he could not believe Doria had approached him without having aid within call. But in a moment he saw his way to make certain of everything.

"Done!" he cried.

"Nay!" exclaimed Marguerite suddenly. "Nay, he must not sell himself! "

But Doria walked into the group of staring men-at-arms with his hands lifted to show that he had no weapon. "Demoiselle, you see now that I am Doria."

She looked up at him, tears gleaming in her eyes. "And I-I thought to put shame upon you. Oh, why will you do this?"

He smiled slightly. "Set her free," he said to the merchant.

Again Ziani scanned the shore. "In a moment," he muttered, making a sign to the men nearest the corsair. Two of them stepped to Doria, caught his arms, and searched his mantle and shirt for weapons. They found nothing, and Ziani's brow cleared. The way was open now, the profit clear. After all, Doria was a fool-or else captivity had weakened his brain. "To the boats," he ordered.

Strong hands hustled Doria forward, and thrust him into one of the skiffs. Men handed in their weapons and jumped in. He felt the boat shoved clear, and turned to look anxiously for Marguerite when she was placed in the seat beside him.

"Ziani!" he cried. "Set her ashore! You agreed!"

But Ziani, seated in the stem behind him, with a drawn knife in his hand, roared with merriment. The men in the bow sneered.

He clasped his head in his hands, listening the while to the wash of water as the skiff drew farther from the shore, and the other boat, crowded with men-at-arms, followed slowly. And soft hands rested upon Doria's arm. "Why did you do it?" she whispered. "They have tricked you."

"They have," he said, "but now you are here at my side, I will not let you go."

He put his arm about her, and looked up at the bright stars over the bay.

"Eh, lads," Ziani grinned, "the mighty Doria courts his girl before us! We have a pair of lovers here."

Her cheek pressed against Doria's shoulder, the girl was weeping silently.

"Aye, Ziani," Doria answered, 'Ais a rare sight this, for never before hath Andrea Doria wooed a woman." He gathered Marguerite into his arms and stood up, facing the merchant, balancing in the swaying boat. "So greatly do I love this girl that I will have none other, nor will I let you lay hand upon her again-"

Someone shouted in the bow, and Ziani, frowning, clutched his dagger-glanced quickly to right and left. As he did so Doria set his foot upon the stem and leaped past the merchant. With the girl in his arms he went down into the water.

"'Ware, Messer Ziani!" cried the oarsman.

A shadow was rising against the stars. White water rippled nearer, and a dark prow entered the circle of torchlight. Men cried out and leaped from the skiff. The speeding dhow crashed into the skiff, crunching down its side and overturning it.

Doria had taken a long leap. He came to the surface, swimming with one arm, while he held the girl fast with the other. Someone blundered against him, and he kicked himself free as the boats crashed.

"Khalil!" he called.

He listened for the splash of a thrown rope, and swept his free arm across the water. But Marguerite, half choked, was in her wet gown. It needed all his strength to keep her head above the water. He had missed the rope, and now, with the torch gone, he could see nothing.

The dhow, staggering off the skiff, was gaining speed again. Doria forced his way toward it. The black side was over his head, and then it was past him. But he grasped for the steering oar and caught it.

Putting forth all his strength, he held the girl against the oar as they were jerked through the water. His fingers slipped down the wet wood slowly as Khalil, feeling the weight upon the oar, sought to free it.

"Yak ahmak!" Doria choked out. "Oh, fool-pull us in!"

A moment later Khalil had drawn them over the side. "The praise to Allah-surely it was a miracle."

Doria sat on the rail, getting his breath looking at the second skiff that had come to the rescue of the men clinging to the overturned boat. He laughed as he pulled himself in. "Aye," he cried to the Arab, "a miracle that this Ziani snatched the girl I meant to carry off!"

But he did not laugh as he carried her in his arms, silently through the darkness up the road to her home. Once he bent down and pressed his lips against the tangle of her damp hair.

"Tell me," she whispered, "what you said at the boat-it was to trick that Messer Ziani!"

"Certainly," said Doria gravely. "I wanted to be put beside you in the skiff without waking his suspicions. I bade Khalil sail past us, close by, and throw me a rope end. But the old man was excited. He ran down the skiff and forgot the rope."

"I know," she assented. Then, after a moment she said faintly, "But when you told them that you-I-"

"Ah!" Doria looked down into her face, dim in the starlight. "Then I was mad. I would have carried you to Sicily and made you a seaman's bride-I who love you so. Ever since we quarreled at the stream I have thought of that."

With a lift of his shoulders he trudged on up the hill road toward the lights of Rocafort. "Nay, little Marguerite! Doria is no more the great Rais Doria-he hath neither ship nor men nor gold. And he is afraid."

"Then you will let me go?"

"Aye, so."

"I would like a dry dress." The girl stirred in his arms, and smiled. "But, Rais Doria, I do not want you to be afraid."