The Iron Lance (25 page)

Skidbladnir
passed between the Pillars of Hercules and entered the warm blue waters of what the monks called the
Mare Mediterraneus
. “The Sea of Middle Earth?” wondered Murdo, thinking he must have heard it wrong.

“Exactly,” Fionn told him. “We have come to the sea in the center of the Earth. Of all the seas in the world, this is the best. It is the most peaceful and tranquil, and the fishing here is better than anywhere else.”

This boast was put to the test at once, and as the days went by Fionn's assertion did gather substance. Several places they coved for the night provided remarkable catches of fine-tasting fish of several kinds—some of which no one had ever seen before; one time they even caught crabs, which Murdo enjoyed, as they reminded him of Orkney.

A scant three weeks after entering this calm sea, however, the season changed; the good weather deserted them. The days grew colder and the winds increasingly harsh and fickle, and Jon Wing decided it was time to begin searching for winter harbourage. Accordingly, they searched the coastline for a suitable port, eventually settling on the small inland town of Arles, an ancient walled settlement on the southern coast of Gaul in the Kingdom of Burgundy. Jon Wing chose the town especially—rejecting larger port towns like Toulon and Narbonne, which were too big, he said: “Too many people, too many ships, also
too many snares for unwary sailors.” He liked Arles, however, because it was small and quiet; moreover, it was a much cheaper place to stay. Little Arles lay upriver a short distance from the sea, yet possessed a bay and harbor large enough to serve many sea-going trading vessels—a fair number of which had also chosen the inland town for their wintering.

The monks were pleased with the choice; they were more than happy to spend the cold, rainy days in prayer and discussion with the local clerics at the Cathedral and Priory of Saint Trophime. Their mighty disputations were enhanced with the liberal application of the region's good red wine, which they praised and consumed with equal ardor. The rest of the crew divided their time between the several drinking halls and brothels of the harbor precinct, indulging one desire while contemplating the other.

The enforced idleness hung heavily on Murdo, however; he found little in the town to interest him. Having no itch to enrich the whores of the town, nor thirst enough to keep the brewers busy—neither did the allure of learned debate with Gaulish monks tempt him—he instead occupied himself with climbing the hills beyond the town, or tramping along the quiet river. The hills were green with winter rain, and he liked the scent given off by the low-growing shrubs, but there was little else to recommend them, and he soon turned to exploring the ancient town.

The streets of Arles were narrow and the houses close and crabbed, and shut against the wind gusting chilly and damp out of the north and west. When the sun shone, Murdo strolled the twisting pathways. There were many peculiar-looking buildings: some had been built by the Romans, Brother Fionn told him; the rest were made by the Moors. The Moorish buildings were strange to the eye; with their white walls, and tall, slender
columns, curious onion-shaped arches, bulbous towers, and high narrow windows covered with hundreds of squares of glass, Murdo always thought they looked like palaces out of a dream.

The most remarkable of these was an imposing white building which stood on one side of the market square. The market itself was a forlorn place on rainy winter market days; inasmuch as there was little produce to be had, few people bothered to come and, save for a few forlorn sellers of eggs and cheese, Murdo often had the place to himself.

On one of his rambles, he discovered that the quiet little town boasted an armorer. There were two other smiths, he knew, and both supplied the port and farming trade, making fittings for ships and ploughs, and such like. But the third smithy was on the other side of the town, away from the port and market. Murdo stumbled upon the place one day while trying to circumnavigate the town by way of the wall. Drawn by the gusty whoosh of the bellows and the ring of hammer on anvil, he had found a low, dark dwelling built into the old Roman wall. Once a gatehouse, the gate had long since been sealed with stone; the house—little more than a covered recess excavated in the wall—now served a man skilled in making weapons.

The smithy was a warm place to stop on a dark, windy day, and as the craftsmen did not seem to mind his presence, Murdo paused to watch.

“Here now!” called the smith upon noticing the tall young man loitering at the open door. “You like to work with iron, eh? Maybe you want to be a smith like me.”

Murdo explained that he was a pilgrim in the company of a warband bound for the Holy Land. “Our ship is wintering here,” he said. “We will sail again in the spring.”

“Ah, you are from the longship!” answered the smith, his
Latin crude, but expressive. “Very fierce warriors, these Norsemen, I am told. Good weapons they have, too—but mine are better. Come, I will show you something.” He beckoned Murdo into the hut, which was almost completely filled by the enormous central hearth and forge. Taking a glowing stub of iron from the red coals, he said, “This will be a sword. It does not look like much now, perhaps—but soon! Soon it will fit the hand of a lord in Avignon.”

Murdo learned that the smith—a blunt, sweaty, black-fingered man named Bezu—had two apprentices and, owing to the increased demand for arms and armor brought about by the pope's crusade, two was not enough. Bezu was looking for a third man to help him meet the rising flood of orders for his wares. “A strong boy like you would make a good smith. I could teach you. I could talk to your father maybe; I think we might come to an agreement.”

Murdo politely declined the offer, but the smithy became the place he visited most often. Indeed, Murdo became such a familiar onlooker that one day they invited him to share their midday meal of salt beef, cheese, and bread; in return for this kindness, he stayed to help with some of the smaller chores. When they had finished for the day, Bezu told him he was welcome to come and work and eat with them the next day.

Murdo happily agreed, and was soon spending much of his time with the armorer and his apprentices. The three worked together in a convivial haze of heat and smoke and earthy conversation, and Murdo enjoyed their camaraderie as much as he enjoyed watching them hammer the glowing red iron into sword-blades, spearheads, and shield-bosses. Bezu let Murdo try his hand at the bellows, and when he professed to enjoy this labor, the smith asked him whether he would like to learn how to make a spear.

“First, we must select the iron,” Bezu said, pawing through a stack of long, flat lengths of the black metal, some almost as long as Murdo was high. This amazed Murdo, who had imagined the head of a spear to be more properly fashioned from a short, thick square.

“Ah, this is where you are wrong, young Murdo. We are making this lance in the old Roman way,” the armorer told him. Laying a finger beside his nose, he added, “It is a secret my family has kept for ten generations.”

“And you will tell me?” wondered Murdo, flattered by this unexpected confidence. “Why?”

Bezu shrugged. “Perhaps I show you, and you change your mind and stay to learn my craft.” He smiled. “Also, what good is a secret if you cannot tell it once in a while?” Bending to the stack of iron, he pulled out a long, thin strap, as wobbly as a snake. “Here!” he cried, handing the iron to Murdo. “This for you!”

Murdo grasped the cold shank of rusty metal, regarding the wobbly length dubiously. “It does not seem much to you now maybe,” the armorer suggested. “But soon—a spear fit for the hand of a lord.”

Bezu then began showing his new pupil the long process of shaping the strap of iron: heating it in the forge, flattening it, folding it, squaring it, and then gently rounding the upper half, a third portion of which was folded over upon itself, squared and flattened once more, leaving a ridge in the center and flaring the edges to form a stubby, leaf-shaped blade. Murdo liked working the iron, but regarded his handiwork as more of a curiosity than a weapon. Certainly, an iron spear was too heavy to throw, and the blade was too short and blunt to do much more than puncture.

“Just wait until you put the shank into the wooden shaft,”
Bezu told him, showing how the long iron core would be inserted into a shaped haft of ash or oak. “Like so, eh? The blade cannot become separated from the shaft, and the core makes the shaft as strong as iron. When it is finished, you have a spear which cannot be broken!
That
is the Roman way.”

Thus, Murdo occupied the wet winter months, coming early to the smithy most days and working until dusk, often spending the night beside the hearth as well. When the closeness of the smithy stifled rather than warmed, Murdo would go out and perch himself on the old Roman harbor wall and spend the day wrapped in his cloak gazing out across the low-lying countryside towards the sea. Rain or sun—it made no difference to Murdo. The damp spates of wind and rain which the realm of Burgundy suffered were balmy as summer showers compared to the howling, spitting, bone-cracking winter storms of Orkneyjar.

On these occasions, and much of the rest of the time as well, he thought of Ragna, and what he would do when next he saw her; he thought about the two of them making love, making a home, making a life together. He thought of Hrafnbú, and how he and his father and brothers would win it back from the treacherous usurper Orin Broad-Foot. He thought of his mother, and he hoped she was well and not worrying about him. He took great solace from the fact that she was with Ragna; that the two of them should be together enjoying one another's company warmed his thoughts on dismal days.

As the wheel of the year turned slowly around to spring once more, he grew restless to resume the voyage. Day after day, he watched the low clouds sailing southward, and wondered when Jon Wing would summon the crew and cast off. He went to the harbor often and almost always found the sea lord and two or three crewmen tending to small chores: braiding ropes, mending
the sail, repairing oars, and such like. Murdo guessed the time was fast approaching when they would leave, yet whenever he asked, the ship's master would squint up at the sky, taste the breeze, and announce, “Not today.” Jon would shake his head slowly. “Tomorrow maybe. You have one more day on dry land.”

“Tomorrow would come and the answer would be the same. Then, just when Murdo was beginning to think they would never sail again, Jon looked at the sky and pointed to the north-flying clouds. “Today we buy provisions. Tomorrow we sail.” He then ordered Murdo to go and fetch the crew from whatever hall or brothel they were to be found, and bring them to the ship.

The chore was quickly accomplished; most of the men, having squandered all their silver long ago, were now eager to sail on. Brothers Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn were dragged from the cathedral cloisters where they were holding forth, and were dispatched to the grain merchant, brewer, and butcher for provisions—this was because no wheedling tradesman ever got the better of the shrewd clerics when it came to striking a bargain.

While the monks were gathering the necessary victuals, the rest of the crew undertook to make certain the longship was seaworthy. The mild winter had left the hull in fine condition—with no water freezing in the joints and ropes, and no raging gales to batter the mast and rudder—so only scrubbing and cleaning was needed. They raised the tent over the platform behind the mast, and by the end of the day, when the casks and bags and boxes of provisions began arriving at the quay, the ship was fit for the seas once more.

Jon Wing, pleased with the work, released the crew to the drinking hall for one last revel in port, and Murdo went off with them. He did not go to the nearby hall, however, but to the smithy to bid farewell to his friends.

“If you stayed a little longer,” Bezu told him, “we might
have made an armorer of you yet.” Producing Murdo's spear, he gave it to him, saying, “I think you might have need of this where you are going.”

“But I have nothing to give you for it.”

“No matter,” Bezu replied. “It is my gift to you.”

“I meant to finish it,” Murdo said, regarding the naked length of hammered iron. Crudely worked, and lacking any appearance of lethal power, it was, in Murdo's estimation, handsome nonetheless. “I wish I had something to give you.”

“Take it—finish it,” the armorer insisted. “And when men ask you where you came by such a fine and fearsome weapon, you will tell them Bezu, the Master Armorer of Arles, will make them one just as good. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Murdo thanked him for the gift, and told them all that if they ever came to Orkneyjar, they would receive a hearty welcome. Bezu walked with him part way down the street, and then, looking up at the sky, eyes asquint in the quickly fading daylight, wished him a good journey and hurried back to his hovel. Murdo retraced his steps to the harbor and climbed aboard the longship.

“What is that you have there?” asked Jon Wing as he clambered aboard.

“It is a spear I've been making,” Murdo answered, holding the length of black iron out for admiration.

“Is it?” chuckled Jon. “It does not look much like a spear. Are you sure it is not a pole for prodding pigs?”

“It is not finished yet,” Murdo replied sourly. “It needs wood for the shaft, and then it must be sharpened.”

The seaman laughed. “So this is what you have been doing all this time! I thought you had a girl in the town.” Pointing at the lance, he said, “From the looks of this, maybe you should try your luck with the girls next time.”

Not caring to provoke any more mirth at his own expense, Murdo retreated to his customary place at the prow where he quickly tucked the unfinished weapon up under the ship's rail before anyone else should see it. The crewmen returned late that night, and the next morning at dawn Jon Wing roused them and gave the command to cast off. The longship was rowed into the bay and down the river. Once past the headland, they raised the sail and caught the first wind; the sail snapped taut, bellied out, and the
Skidbladnir
, as if delighted to be free once more, surged forward, cleaving the waves and throwing spray either side of the prow.