The Iron Lance (27 page)

Upon reaching the plain, they passed through several grain fields and proceeded towards the entrance to the city, meeting no challenge until, upon crossing the bridge, they came to the huge, open gate. Six guards in loose, light-colored mantles—three at either of the enormous doors—noticed their weapons and stopped them. “You there! Halt!”

Murdo was surprised to hear these dark-skinned men speaking Latin. “What is your business here?” demanded the foremost guard; he held a long, flat-bladed lance, and carried a short sword in his belt. A large man, he nevertheless looked ill-fed and haggard; those with him appeared even less robust. Murdo decided they looked like men dragged from their sickbeds and forced to stand guard.

Ronan answered. “Pax Vobiscum!” he declared benevolently, raising his hands in priestly blessing. “Greetings in the name of Our Lord Christ. My friend, we are pilgrims on our way to Jerusalem. We were told that this city was yet under siege, but it appears we were ill-informed.”

“The siege is over long since,” replied the soldier, eyeing them with tired suspicion. “The armies have moved on.”

“Ah, yes,” answered Ronan, nodding sympathetically. “As it happens, my brothers and I are priests, as you can see, and we travel in the company of vassals belonging to Magnus, King of
Norway, whom we were hoping to meet here. We were told he has come to Antioch, I hope we are not mistaken.”

“Oh, him,” said the soldier, relaxing at last. “He is here. You may enter.” He motioned them through with the head of his spear.

“You know him! Good. Could you tell us where we might find the king?” asked Ronan hopefully.

“All the lords are received at the citadel,” the guardsman said. “That is all I know.”

The elder priest thanked the man for his help, gave him a blessing, and they continued on their way, passing between the great, iron-bound timber doors, and into the cool, shadowed darkness of the gate-tower. The respite was all too brief, however; a moment later, they were stepping once more into the harsh sunlight striking off the stone pavements all around. Momentarily blinded, Murdo put up his hand to shade his eyes; when he looked again, he found he was standing in the middle of a street, the like of which he had never encountered.

Stretching as far as the eye could see was a wide, stone-paved avenue lined with tall, graceful columns either side; moreover, these columns supported a second row of columns bearing a vine-covered roof to shelter the walkway below. The civility of this feature amazed Murdo when he realized that the people of the city were not forced to walk in the street with the carts and animals, but beneath a leaf-shaded arbor which kept the hot sun off their heads.

Rising from the broad, flat river bluff on which the city was founded, this remarkable double colonnade swept gracefully towards the heights of the cliffs and mountains, whose peaks could be seen soaring above the rooftops and domes just beyond the city to the south. Straight as a rod along its entire length, the broad street passed the ruin of an old Roman
amphitheater, an enormous basilica, and an elegant palace faced with glowing yellow marble. There were so many churches that Murdo soon lost count and interest, delighting himself instead with the profusion of palm trees, and brightly-colored flowers growing in massive earthenware tubs everywhere.

Up the street they went, passing along the stately row of columns, past gleaming white houses with pierced-screen windows and bronze-figured doors. In niches high up in the walls of some of the more elaborate houses, statues looked gravely down upon the passing troop. Perhaps due to the heat of the day, the newcomers had the street and shaded walkway mostly to themselves. Apart from a few ragged water vendors pushing carts laden with clay jars there were few citizens about. They passed likewise empty sidestreets, and a vacant marketplace sweltering in the sun.

Over all the city, a quiet lethargy hung like a pall draped upon a gilded tomb. Murdo had imagined that a city of such size and grandeur must be thronging with people day and night, and the scarcity of citizens surprised him so that he began to wonder at it. Where was everyone? And where were the crusaders? Even if the whole population had been driven off, there should have been pilgrims aplenty to crowd the streets and marketplaces.

But, save for the occasional creak of a wagon wheel, or the rushing flap of pigeon wings as they passed another empty square, the city was quiet. The Norsemen noticed this, too, and their jovial exuberance grew more and more muted and subdued the further up the street they walked, until no one spoke at all, and they passed by the dark and silent houses in a bristling hush.

The wide central street ended at the citadel in the upper part of the city; the final climb to the fortress was the steepest part of the walk, and it left the seafaring warriors winded by the time
they reached the square fronting the stronghold. On the left-hand side of the square, beneath the stronghold, four pairs of low, wide doors marked out the stables. The foremost pair of doors gaped open, and from stone troughs on either side, twin vines grew and spread to form a bower before the entrance where five or six men sat lolling in the drowsy shade.

At the approach of the newcomers, one of the men stood and came forward a few steps. He turned and called behind him to someone inside, then came on to meet them. He raised his hand to halt them as five or six more men tumbled out of the stable doorway behind him. The company stopped uncertainly, and waited.

The man spoke to them in a tongue which none of them could understand. When he received no reply, he spoke again, in Latin this time. “What is your purpose here?” he demanded, hand on the knife in his belt.

“We have come to join Magnus, King of the Norsemen,” replied Brother Ronan crisply. “Is the king to be found here?”

Before the guard could answer, one of the men behind him pushed forward suddenly. “Jon Wing!” cried the man in loud Norsespeak. “So! You come dragging in at last.”

“Hey-hey!” replied Jon happily. “Here we are. And who is the first person we should meet?” Turning to the others just behind him, Jon called, “See here! If they are letting a skull-breaker like Hakon Fork-Beard prowl the streets in broad daylight, I know we have come to the right place.”

The two men clapped one another on the back and embraced like kinsmen. They began talking loudly together. More men were staggering out of the stables to join them; the priests, and some of the other crewmen gathered around, happily exchanging greetings with the others like long-lost kinsmen. Murdo stood looking on, suddenly very aware that the
moment he had long awaited was upon him, and that his carefully nurtured resolve was swiftly deserting him.

“Come, wayward Sea Wolves!” said the man, his voice booming in the quiet square. “The king will be glad to know his priests and pirates have arrived. Follow me!”

He led them to the door of the stables where he was met on the threshold by another Norseman—taller, younger, and dressed in breecs of brown leather, and a fine new linen siarc. His hair was long and fair, his braid thick. The two exchanged a word, and the one called Hakon motioned them inside, while the stranger stepped aside to greet the newcomers as they passed.

Murdo took his place behind Oski and Ymir at the end of the line. He hung his head and tried to creep by, hoping he would not be noticed. This hope died in vain, for as he came to the doorway, the fair-haired Norseman saw him, and put a hand to his chest and stopped him. “Here now!” he said. “Who is this with his bold glance?” He moved the hand to Murdo's chin and raised his face. “Where did these Sea Wolves get you, boy?”

Since he had no other choice, Murdo squared his shoulders, raised his head, and looked the man straight in the eye. “My name is Murdo Ranulfson,” he answered forthrightly. “I came aboard with the priests at Inbhir Ness.”

“Did you now!” The man eyed him up and down. “Why would you do that?”

Brother Ronan appeared at the Norseman's shoulder. “Murdo here has taken the cross and has come to join his father and brothers who are also on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

The fair-haired man accepted this with a nod. “Where is your home, boy?”

“Orkneyjar, my lord,” Murdo answered, and inwardly cringed. Why had he said that?

“Orkneyjar!” repeated the man, much impressed. “I have lands in the Dark Isles, too. It seems we are fellow countrymen, you and I. Greetings and welcome, Murdo Bold-Eye.” He offered his hand in friendship.

Murdo grasped the offered hand, and grinned at his new name: Murdo Bold-Eye. He liked that very much.

“We Orkneyingar should watch out for one another, hey?”

“Just so,” agreed Murdo readily, forgetting his wariness.

“If you find yourself in trouble, just sing out for Orin Broad-Foot, and you will have a stout sword at your side before you can turn around.” The lord slapped him on the back, and bade him enter and partake of the welcome cup.

Murdo stumbled forward into the cool darkness of the room, feeling lost and confused. He had just accepted the friendship and protection of his avowed and hated enemy.

In the short time King Magnus had been in residence, the main room of the citadel's stables had been turned into something which at first sight more closely resembled a drinking hall than a horse barn. Seven long boards with benches either side had been erected in the center of the great room, and the former stalls were filled with fresh straw to serve as sleeping places for the warriors.

Murdo sat at the end of the long board by himself, his head in his hands, his cup untouched. The realization that he had just pledged friendship to his worst enemy plunged Murdo into a sulky dejection. It would have been far easier to hate him if Orin Broad-Foot had revealed himself to be the pig-eyed, greedy, hump-backed brute Murdo had so often imagined him. That Lord Orin was a friendly and gracious—perhaps even honorable and trustworthy—nobleman would make it that much harder to betray him when the time came.

I have lands in Orkneyjar, too,
Orin had said. Murdo groaned at his own stupidity. How could he have missed that? He
knew
he was coming into the enemy's lair. He had foreseen this day a thousand times since leaving home. He should have been on his guard; he should have been ready.
Stupid, stupid, boy!
Why, oh why, had he allowed himself to be taken in by the amiable lord?

It took all Murdo's considerable stubbornness and determination to rekindle some small remnant of his enmity. It was only
when he reminded himself that he was now at long last among the very men who had conspired to steal his family's lands and deprive him of his birthright—it was only when he remembered Ragna, and the unthinkable barren future without her, that he was able to regain some portion of his former animosity.

Beware, Murdo!
he told himself.
These men are not your friends. They have robbed you and your family. Do not be distracted by their winsome ways. They would destroy you without a thought. Guard yourself against them. Remain vigilant. Your chance to avenge the wrong will come.

Still, he felt ill-used and vaguely cheated—as if he had been offered a boon of considerable comfort and value, but forced on principle to refuse it. He sat glumly by himself and watched the rest of the company as glad welcome turned into revel. He felt alone and angry with himself, and his hard circumstance.

The fact that his father and brothers were no longer in Antioch did not help improve his spirits. That hope had been dashed the very moment he set foot in the citadel stable, for Jon Wing, turning to Lord Orin entering behind him, had asked, “Where are all the people? Is the city deserted then?”

“Almost,” replied Orin. “Those who did not die in the battle were killed by the plague which followed the siege. We saw nothing of this, mind you—it was some months ago. The fighting and sickness was long over by the time we got here. The pilgrims were gone, too.”

“All of them?” wondered Jon. “Who holds the city now? King Magnus?”

“Nay,” Orin replied, “it belongs to one called Bohemond—a Frankish prince.” He then went on to explain how the crusaders had marched on to Jerusalem only a day or two before their arrival, and how this Bohemond had hired King Magnus and his men to help guard the city.

Murdo, hearing enough, had then slunk away to the end of the furthest bench where he now sat, gazing into his shallow cup as if it were the end of the world he saw glimmering dully within. He sat aloof from the others, and hardened himself against those he must now deceive for the sake of his vow. Brother Emlyn, seeing his friend sitting alone, begged him to come and join them. Murdo declined, saying that he was tired from the long walk, and wished only to rest.

“Come now, Murdo!” Fionn called, lofting the bowl. “A wee sip of wine before lying down.”

Still, Murdo refused. Placing his spear beside the others lined against the wall, he dragged himself off to a quiet corner and collapsed into it. He closed his eyes and pressed his hot back and shoulders against the cool stone, feeling the delicious shock of the chill against his skin.

He sat for a while, listening to the clamor of voices across the vaulted room and wishing he could join in the revelry. Instead, he crossed his arms across his chest and pretended to sleep—all the while grinding his teeth against the malicious tricks of an indifferent God—always giving with one hand, while snatching away with the other. The injustice of this bitter observation occupied him until the members of the king's foraging party trooped noisily into the stables, bearing the day's findings: sacks of greens and flat bread. Close on their heels came the rest of the king's men—over two hundred in all—returning from their duties at the garrison in the lower city. In the commotion caused by their arrival, Murdo slipped out of the stable and into the dusky light of a dying day.

Though the sun had set in a murky white haze in the west, and the streets were sinking into shadow, heat still streamed from the pavements and stonework of the buildings all around. Murdo began walking, passing along a path so narrow he could
have touched the buildings on either side with outstretched hands, and so low that the doors of the houses could only be reached by high stone steps set in the pavements. Shuttered windows fronted the street; the shutters were open now that the sun was gone, and strange smells reached him from open windows above; the scents of flowers, and food cooking, and fragrant smoke mingled to produce ineffably exotic aromas.

The street opened just ahead, and he soon came to a marketplace—deserted now, its only occupant a skinny dog nosing in a heap of dung and refuse off to one side of the square. The miserable dog slunk away the moment the lanky human appeared, head low, tail between its legs. And then Murdo had the place all to himself.

The square was bounded on one side by a stone breast work, and Murdo wandered over to see the entire city of Antioch spread out beneath him in a haphazard jumble of rooftops: flat squares beyond number, all falling away in dizzying terraces down the steep-sloped streets towards the all-encompassing walls.

Softened by smoke and evening light, the color fading into the gentler hues of night, the close-crowded chaos took on a friendlier aspect. On most of the rooftops he could see small trees and leafy shrubs growing, and even the smallest had a vine or two forming an arbor for shade; on many of the rooftops he saw people going about their chores, taking in the day's washing, perhaps, or cooking their evening meals; the smoke from the countless braziers drifted like silver threads in the still, heavy air. He could hear the voices of the people—shouts of children echoing unseen in the streets, and somewhere a baby was crying.

What must it be like, he wondered, to live so close to so many others? What manner of people built such cities as this?
Did they never yearn for the clean, empty sweep of sea and sky, or the softly-rounded hills progressing in their gentle undulations towards the far distant horizon?

He gazed out across the jumbled rooftops. Countless domes bulged among and above the flat roofs of the houses. Some of the domes boasted odd round towers beside them; from the tops of these he could see curious standards in the shape of crescent moons. Many more of the domes, however, bore crosses, identifying them as churches; Murdo began counting the crosses, but soon lost count and turned his attention instead to the many-towered walls and the land beyond. A handful of stars glimmered low in the swiftly-darkening skies above the Tarsus mountains to the north. Away to the west lay the sea, and to the east, the dark meandering thread of the dull Orontes river.

It was not a place he would choose to live, he decided. Even in such an enormous place as Antioch, Murdo felt the great walls looming, pressing in; the closeness of the city's houses and churches seemed to clutch at him. Feeling suddenly cramped and confined, he turned and walked from the square, returning to the citadel as the last light faded from the sky overhead.

The sound of raucous laughter spilled out from inside the stables and Murdo entered, hoping to creep back into his corner unnoticed. It was not to be, however, for Orin Broad-Foot saw him and called out, “Come, Murdo! I would have you meet your lord and king.”

Murdo took a deep breath, turned, and crossed the room to where the king and his noblemen sat at table. Jon Wing sat at the king's right hand, and Orin Broad-Foot on the left; the three monks, happy to be reunited with their benefactor, sat beaming beside Jon, and others Murdo did not know filled the rest of the places. But it was the sovereign alone who held Murdo's interest.

King Magnus, while not as tall as Orin, nor as well-muscled as Jon Wing, nevertheless possessed a powerful presence that commanded the regard, if not the respect, of all who came under his sway. His beard and hair were plaited, the dark braids oiled so they glistened; his eyes were pale as the Skandian sky, alert and intelligent. His smile was a sun flash of brilliant goodwill, and his manner at once casual and dignified.

As Murdo approached, taking the measure of the Norse king, he heard Orin say, “Here now, my lord, I give you one of your own—an Orkneyingar by the name of Murdo Bold-Eye.”

“So!” cried the king in good-natured surprise. “Hail and welcome, friend. How is it that one so young is to be numbered among my warrior host?”

Murdo was saved having to give an explanation by Jon Wing, who at that very moment leapt up from his chair and climbed onto the table, his cup in his hand. “Hear! Hear!” he called, lofting his cup. “Hail, King Magnus!” he cried, and began loudly pledging his loyalty to the king while the men all around pounded the boards with their fists, or the handles of their knives. The newcomers all drank the health of the king, whereupon others, not to be outdone, also rose to renew their vows of fealty and offer up compliments to the king.

Murdo did not stand waiting long, but took the first opportunity to slink away. He found a place at one of the tables and settled in between Tiggi and Arnor. There was bread in baskets before him, and soup in a small tun. Taking up an empty bowl, he dipped it into the tun, helped himself to a piece of flat bread, and began to eat. The soup, made from the greens collected earlier, was thin and tasteless, and the bread tough; still, after the day's walk, he was glad to get something warm inside him. He ate two bowls of soup, and three pieces of bread before stealing away again to one of the stalls to sleep.

He had just scraped together enough straw to make a bed when Emlyn appeared with a bowl, which he pressed into his hands. The wine was sweet and pleasantly cool. Murdo drank a deep draught, thanked the priest and handed back the cup, whereupon Emlyn sat down beside him. “Ah, mo croidh,” he sighed. “I do not think I will last very long in this land. All the saints bear witness, it is so
hot
!”

“You would not feel it so much if you were not so fat,” Murdo told him.

“Have you heard what they are saying?” asked the monk, sipping from the cup. “They are saying a miracle happened here.”

“What kind of miracle?” Murdo took the cup and drank again.

“Something to do with an earthquake, and the discovery of the Holy Lance,” the priest replied. “They say that was how they were able to defeat the Saracens, but inasmuch as none of them were here at the time, they cannot say more.”

The comment did not seem to require any reply from Murdo, so he lifted the cup to his mouth and drank some more. Miracles, so far as he could tell, always happened to someone else at some other time and in some other place.

“Also,” the breathless monk continued, “it seems the Patriarch of Antioch has been restored to his position, and the church of Saint Peter has been reconsecrated. We are going there tomorrow, so we will ask the priests what they know of this miracle. Come with us, Murdo. It is a very ancient and venerable church. You should see it.”

Murdo shrugged. “I have seen old churches before.” He drank again.

“Antioch, Murdo!” the monk exclaimed suddenly. “This is the city where the followers of Jesu received the name Christian. Think of it! Here the apostle Paul and the blessed Barnabas
preached and taught in the earliest days of our faith. Saint Peter himself ordained the first bishop, and commanded the church to be built on the very place where Paul stood in the market and proclaimed the Risen Lord to the Greeks and Jews of this land. It is a very holy place.”

Murdo nodded and passed the cup to Emlyn, and leaned his head against the cool wall. “How long must we stay here?”

“Who can say?” replied the priest. “King Magnus has agreed to help Prince Bohemond defend the city. In return he has been given a hundred thousand marks in silver, and this,” he gestured expansively to the room, “the former stables, for his retinue. The king has rooms above, and—”

“Why does this Prince Bohemond need the king's help?” Murdo interrupted. He could see no reason why they should not simply press on to Jerusalem.

The monk explained that, owing to the cruel predations of the Syrian campaign, Prince Bohemond now found himself in desperate need of mercenaries to help hold his newly-won city. So many of his own knights and footmen had succumbed to starvation, plague, and Seljuq arrows, that his formerly great army was reduced in size to that of a merely respectable regiment.

“Indeed, they are saying that more than twenty thousand followed the prince from Taranto, but only nine hundred remain,” Emlyn told him, adding that many of these were yet recovering from the fever that had swept the city in the wake of the crusader victory. Hence, fit fighting men were of such value, the wily prince had granted the lately-arrived Norsemen not only a vast quantity of silver, but also the best of food and shelter he had to offer as well—all in exchange for their vaunted battle skill and eagerness for plunder.

“I thought now that we were all together, we would go on to Jerusalem to join the pilgrimage.”

“I suppose we shall,” answered Emlyn. “But there is a time for everything, Murdo, and a season for every purpose under Heaven. We will get to Jerusalem in God's good time, never fear. But we are
here
now—so enjoy!” The monk raised the cup and drained it in a long, guzzling swallow.