The Black Rood (9 page)

“And if you go, it will kill your father,” Ragna pointed out. She frowned again and reached out to squeeze my hand. “Believe me, Murdo could not stand the torment of your leaving.”

“The torment would be mine,” I said sharply, “not his.”

Lady Ragna shook her head gently. “No,” she said, “because he knows—even if you do not—what lies before you. He has been there, Duncan, and he knows the dangers you will face. He could not live with the hardship and suffering that would befall you.”

“If God has put it in my heart to go, and I do
not
go,” I replied, “what am I to do then? How am
I
to live with that?”

I
LEFT BANVAR
WITHOUT
speaking to my father again, and the regret of that bitter leaving pains me still. Believe me, Cait, I would give the world and all its treasures to have departed with a blessing from the one person in the world whose approval alone would have sustained me through the trials I have faced. But Murdo was implacable in his opposition. He refused to speak to me until I repented of my plan. This I could not do.

I have since had many occasions to wonder what he would have said if he had known the
true
purpose of my pilgrimage? Would it have made a difference?

Who can say?

Know this, my soul, and remember it always: I have no fear of death. For me to leave this life is to enter the next in triumph. But the thought that I will die in this foreign land without ever seeing the faces of those I have loved best in life fills me with grief so strong it does take my breath away.

Even so, I bear my lot patiently for your sake, and pray the caliph tarries yet awhile so that I may finish what I have begun.

It is a most curious captivity, I declare. I am given the best of food and drink; my modest needs are met without the humiliation that so often accompanies captivity. I even have a servant to attend me and, in many ways, I am treated as an honored guest with all courtesy and respect. Even so, I ac
cept all I am given with gratitude, knowing it could so easily be otherwise.

The Muhammedans are a noble people, never doubt it. If peace were ever possible, I think we should find ourselves brothers under the skin. Alas, too much blood has been shed on both sides of the battle line for it to be forgiven. There will never be peace between our peoples until our Lord Christ brings it at his return. This I most heartily believe.

Now I will tell how I came to Marseilles.

On the morning I took the boat, I asked Sarn to accompany me. I did not tell him where I was going. I had made my farewells the night before—not that anyone knew it—and rose at dawn and went down to the bay to rouse Sarn out of his nest of oars and sailcloth. In warm weather he always slept in the hut beneath the cliff on the strand.

I let him think we were going fishing, until we had made the headland, and then I told him to sail for Inbhir Ness. It was then he looked at the pack I had brought aboard. “Where are you going, lord?” he asked.

“I am going away for a while,” I told him.

“It is the pilgrimage, so?” A sly expression passed over his open, honest features, giving him a look of mild imbecility.

Of course, everyone in the realm knew about my desire to undertake the pilgrimage—
and
my father's unyielding opposition to it. The entire settlement had discussed it at length, and most had taken sides.

“Have you made a wager on me?”

He smiled readily. “Yes, lord,” he admitted without guile. “You are your father's son. Some of the others said you would stay, but I knew you would go.”

“Once you have seen me to Inbhir Ness, you can go back and collect your winnings,” I told him.

“The wind is good. We will be there before dusk,” he announced, looking at the sky. Indicating my small bundle of belongings, he said, “Are you certain you have enough food to see you to Jerusalem? The abbot says it is very far away.”

“I have enough,” I allowed, “to see me three or four days. After that, I am in God's hands. It is for him to provide.”

“Do you have a sword?” he asked, regarding my sad bundle doubtfully.

“If I need a sword, I will get one,” I told him. “True pilgrims carry no weapons.”

He frowned at this, but returned to his tiller, and I to the contemplation of the task ahead of me. It was my intention to follow my father's example by going to Inbhir Ness and begging passage as a crewman for any ship sailing south. I did not think it would be more than two or three days before I found a ship to take me on. Certainly, when I bade farewell to Sarn and sent him home, I did not think to see him again.

But, two days later, I was still waiting at the quayside when he returned. I saw the ship as it came into the harbor and recognized it; my heart sank. I imagined my lord had come to take me back. But it was not Murdo he had brought with him, it was Padraig.

“If you have come to talk me out of leaving, you can turn around and go home,” I told him bluntly. “My mind is made up. I am on pilgrimage.”

The tall, soft-eyed monk regarded me mildly. “Then I am a pilgrim, too,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously. “Did my father send you to bring me home, or not?”

“Lord Murdo says that if you leave now, you leave forever. You must never think to see your home again, for the dead do not return.”

“He considers me a dead man, is that it?”

“That is what he told me to say.”

“Well, you have said it. You can go back and tell him that I must do what God has given me to do.”

“My uncle said that is what you would say,” Padraig observed placidly. “Abbot Emlyn said that if you were determined to carry out your plan, then I was to accompany you.”

“Accompany me? All the way to Jerusalem?”

“Yes, lord,” affirmed the monk. “I am to be your servant and guide.”

“Thank you, Padraig,” I told him. “But this is my decision. You are free to go home. Tell the abbot I cannot accept
responsibility for any life but my own. I thank him for his kindness, however.”

“Sarn will tell him. I am going with you.” He raised his hand and declared, “Hear me: pilgrimage is a sacred undertaking. We go on faith, or we do not go at all. But if we travel with hope, trusting in our Great Redeemer, we need have no fear, for we shall meet angels along the way who will befriend us.”

“Look you, as much as I would like your company, I cannot allow you to go to Jerusalem with me,” I said. “You have no provisions, no cloak, no water skin.” Pointing to his bare feet, I added, “You do not even have shoes.”

Padraig smiled. “My cloak and staff are in the boat. If I have need of anything else, God will supply it out of his matchless bounty.”

Sarn, who had been listening to this exchange from his place at the bow rope, spoke up. “That is the same thing
you
told
me
, lord,” he chuckled.

“You stay out of this,” I snapped. I glared at them both. Daylight was quickly fading and twilight gathering; if I sent them back now it would be dark before they reached the estuary. “Very well,” I relented, “you can stay here with me tonight, but you must leave in the morning.”

Padraig said nothing, but set about making a fire. Sarn tied the boat to a post driven into the earthen bank that served as part of the harbor wall. That finished, he brought out a bundle and began unwrapping it—loaves of bread, dried fish and pork, and other things to make a meal. “There is ale in the stoup,” he said. “Lady Ragna thought you might like a last good drink before going to the Holy Land.”

Stepping over the bow and into the ship, I found the jar.

“How did you know I would still be here?”

The seaman shrugged. “There were no trading ships when I left you. If any came they would not have departed so soon.”

“So now it is Sarn the Shrewd, I suppose?”

He smiled. “We would have drunk the ale whether you were here or not.”

“See you do not drink too much,” I warned lightly. “You are leaving in the morning—
both
of you. Together.”

We ate our meal, and night gathered around us. Torches were lit along the bank, and we sat drinking ale and watching the flickering light along the quayside. It was quiet; there were few ships in the harbor, and most of the sailors were at one or the other of the town's inns.

“There are not many ships coming here, I think,” Sarn observed. “How long will you wait?”

“As long as it takes,” I replied, slightly annoyed by the question. “I talked with a man yesterday who was at Rouen in the spring. He said the Franks are raising men for the Holy Land.”

“Rouen,” repeated Padraig. “That is where Lord Ranulf and the northern noblemen joined the crusade.”

“It is,” I confirmed.

“Then maybe we should go there,” suggested the monk.

“Is that not the very thing I plan to do,” I retorted, my irritation growing, “as soon as I can get a ship?”

“You already have a ship,” Padraig pointed out. “Sarn could take us.”

I might have resented the idea if it had not struck me as faintly ridiculous. “He might,” I agreed haughtily, “if he had a chart and provisions enough for such a trip.”

Sarn brightened, his smile wide in the dark. “I have these things.”

I stared at him. Had the two of them conspired in this? “The boat is too small,” I complained. Truly, I had imagined sailing into Jerusalem aboard a Norse longship like the one my father had journeyed in.

“Small, yes,” Sarn conceded amiably, “but the boat is sound and the weather good. It could easily be done.”

“Where did you get a chart?” I asked.

“The monastery provided the chart,” Padraig replied, and explained how Abbot Emlyn had personally supervised the copying and preparation.

“And you have provisions?”

“These we have also,” confirmed Sarn. “Enough for three
men for several weeks of days—although the abbot does not think it will take so long.”

“We can depart in the morning,” Padraig pointed out. “If you have no objection, that is.”

“Since you both seem to be determined,” I said, “then I will allow it. You can accompany me to Rouen, and I shall be glad of the company. Once we reach the port, however,” I continued, raising a finger in warning, “you will turn around and sail home. Is that understood?”

They both regarded me curiously.

“Is that understood?” I repeated.

“It is a long way to Frankland,” Padraig mused. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until we see what we find when we get there.”

So, we sailed for Rouen, leaving the next morning as soon as it was light enough to navigate the river estuary. The winds were steady, and the weather stayed fair; we made good speed the first five or six days, keeping the coast in sight by day and night. Sometimes we made camp on land; most often we slept in the boat. We lost sight of land only once when fog stole the coast for a night and part of the next day.

It was only upon crossing the narrows and coming in sight of the Frankish coast that the weather soured, and we were lashed by the tail of a thunderous storm. The wind shrieked and hurled stinging waves over the rails time and again. Padraig clung to the mast and prayed; Sarn and I bailed with cup and water stoup. We stood off the coast until the storm had passed; then, almost shaking with relief and singing psalms of thanksgiving, proceeded south to the sea mouth of the river the Franks call Seine.

The city of Rouen lies a fair way upriver, and as there was considerable movement to and fro on along the coast we had no difficulty finding the right channel to take us inland. Indeed, we followed a large Flemish trading vessel and arrived two days later. While Sarn tended the boat, Padraig and I talked to the masters and pilots of other vessels to learn who might be heading south. Padraig's Latin was good, and I was pleased to find that mine sharpened
quickly as I regained the rhythms of the speech I'd been taught since boyhood.

It seemed that I had arrived at the right place, for the wharf was very busy. As it happened, I was offered passage on no fewer than three ships in exchange for work. After discussing the matter with Padraig, I decided to accept a place aboard a Danish ship sailing for Genoa—one of the places marked on Sarn's map. Indeed, we were walking along the wharf to inform the ship's master of my decision when two men appeared on the quay. Their arrival caused such a commotion of excitement that Padraig and I turned aside to see what they were about.

Tall and lean, they walked with the confident authority of kings, their dark-bearded faces haughty and lordly as they scanned the waterfront before them. The long swords at their belts were freshly burnished and gleamed; their high boots were new. They wore simple tunics—one brown, the other white. The one in white, I noticed, also had a broad cross of red cloth sewn upon his chest.

A group of sailors sitting on the wharf stood abruptly. I heard one of them murmur a name. I turned to the man, and asked what he had said. He pointed to the red cross on the man's tunic, and said, “Templars.”

Turning to Padraig, I repeated the word, and added, “Have you ever heard the name?” He confessed his ignorance, and suggested we join the crowd which was quickly gathering around the two men and see what they had to say.

“Friends!” shouted the man in the white tunic. “Come closer!” He motioned the people nearer, and when the throng had formed around him, he proclaimed, “In the name of our Blessed Savior, I greet you and beg your kind indulgence. My name is Renaud de Bracineaux, and you can see by the cross on my surcoat that I am a knight of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.”