The Iron Lance (32 page)

The warrior bent the priest's arm and forced his hand behind his back. “She is a lady!” Hakon said, his voice low, but filled with menace. “Remember that.” He shoved the priest aside.

The priest staggered back, shaking with impotent rage. “You will do as you are told,” he gasped, rubbing his wrist. “You will perform your duty, or the bishop will hear of this.”

“I am Prince Sigurd's man, not yours!” the knight countered.

The priest turned and fled the room. In a moment, they could hear him calling for others to come and help him remove the women.

Turning once more to Niamh, the knight held out his hand. “Please, my lady. Give us no trouble, and I will see no harm comes to you, or the young lady and her child.”

Niamh looked to Ragna, clutching the infant to her breast.
Footsteps sounded in the room below as more men pounded up the stairs. “My lady?”

“Very well,” Niamh relented, delivering the poker to her captor. She moved to the bed and put her arms around Ragna, who was sobbing softly. “Be strong,” she soothed. “We cannot prevent this, but we must do now what is best for the child.”

Three more men burst into the room with drawn swords. They made to fall upon the women, but the knight put out his arm as they tried to rush past. “Stand aside!” he warned. “I have given them safe conduct. Touch a hair of their heads, and you will answer to me. Is that understood?”

The men glanced from Hakon to the priest, seeking direction.

“Is that understood?” demanded the knight, his voice filling the room suddenly.

The soldiers nodded, put up their swords, and stepped aside. Hakon turned to the priest. “Go and prepare the wagon. I will bring the women with me when they are ready.”

“You do not command me!” the priest objected.

Ignoring his protest, the knight signalled to the other warriors to leave the room—which they did quickly, relieved not to have to cross swords with their leader and friend. The priest followed them out, shouting at them to rouse their courage and perform their duty.

When the others had gone, the knight also departed. “I will leave you to gather your belongings for the journey,” he told them, moving towards the door.

“Where are we being taken?” asked Niamh.

“I do not know, my lady. There is much about this that we were not told.”

“I see.”

“I will guard the door so that you will not be disturbed,” he
said. “Gather your things and come out when you are ready. I will conduct you to the ship.”

“Thank you, Hakon,” Niamh told him. “Thank you for helping us.”

The knight made no reply, but inclined his head as he closed the door, leaving the women to themselves.

Ragna bent her head and began sobbing again. “Come, daughter, save your tears,” Niamh said firmly. “The time for weeping is not yet. I need your help now.” She opened the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and began pulling clothing from it. “The winter wind is cold, and we may have far to go. We must think carefully what to bring for the days ahead.”

Niamh emptied the chest, and then, coaxing help from Ragna, began to fill the box once more with the things they would need for their journey. When that was finished, Niamh helped dress Ragna in her warmest clothes, and bundled the babe in winding cloths. That finished, she dressed herself quickly, helped Ragna to her feet, and then summoned Hakon.

“We are ready,” she told him when he opened the door. Indicating the chest, she said, “I would be grateful if you would have your men bring the box.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

The two started towards the door. Ragna, unsteady after childbirth and three days in bed, swayed on her feet and staggered backwards. The knight was beside her in two strides. “Would you allow me?” he asked, holding out his hands for the child.

Niamh took the infant and gave him to the warrior. He turned and started from the room. “Wait,” said Niamh; she stooped and retrieved a sheep's fleece from the hearth, crossed to the knight, and wrapped the sheepskin around the babe. “Go,” she said. “We will follow.”

Together the two women made their way slowly down the stairs and outside to the waiting wagon. A watery gray dawnlight glowed low on the horizon, and a few flakes of snow fluttered on the gusting wind. A group of vassals were standing in the yard, one of them bleeding from his nose and forehead; some of the women were crying. A few of them called out to Ragna as she was helped into the wagon, but, unable to bring herself to answer them, she raised her hand in silent farewell instead.

The two men bearing the chest came out into the yard. As they made to heave the wooden box into the wagon, the priest emerged from the house and stopped them, demanding to know what the chest contained. “Open it!” he ordered. “The bishop has commanded that nothing is to be removed from this place.”

Handing the infant to Ragna, Hakon turned to the priest. “Leave it alone.”

“They might be taking valuables.”

The knight grabbed hold of the monk's robes and pulled him up close. “You take the roof over their heads in the dead of winter, priest. Do you begrudge them the clothes on their backs as well?”

The priest made to reply, thought better of it and held his tongue. Hakon released the priest and, to the men holding the chest, shouted, “On the wagon with it.” Then, taking the horse by the bridle, he led the wagon from the yard and down the path to the waiting ship.

Murdo roamed aimlessly around the walls of Jerusalem, oblivious to his surroundings. The burning sun scorched his flesh, and the thorns of the desert brush scratched his bare legs bloody. Upon leaving the Holy City, he had stripped off his blood-stained clothes and thrown them away, keeping only his knife and belt, which he carried over his shoulder. He neither ate nor drank, nor stopped to rest, but walked day and night, his mind filled with horrific visions of carnage and butchery.

This is how Brother Emlyn found him two days later: naked and lost, his legs and feet bleeding, his red, inflamed skin blistered and peeling from his shoulders, forehead, and lips, dazed, unable to speak.

“Murdo!” cried the priest, running up to him. “Oh, fy enaid, what have they done to you?”

Removing his own mantle, the much-relieved monk spread the garment gently over Murdo's sunburned shoulders. “Here, now, let us get you out of the heat. Come, the hospital is just beyond that hill—not far. Can you walk, or should I carry you? Oh, Murdo, what has happened? No, do not say a word. There will be time to talk later. Save your strength. Come with me, my son; you are safe now. I will take care of you.”

Gently, gently, the good brother turned Murdo and led him by the hand up the hill to a nearby olive grove where the crusader lords had established a camp for the care of the wounded
and sick. There, in the shade of the olive trees, priests and women—the wives and widows of the soldiers—moved quietly among the rows of tents, tending their charges. Despite the calming presence of the monks, the camp throbbed like a restless sea with uneasy sounds: the ceaseless moaning of the wounded over their injuries, the cries and whimpers of the dying, the juddering shrieks of the afflicted in their nightmares.

Emlyn led the unresisting Murdo to a place on the edge of the camp, and sat him down beneath the leafy branches of a low-growing tree. “Rest here, and do not move,” he instructed. “I will bring you some water.”

The cleric hastened away, and returned a few moments later, red-faced and puffing, bearing a gourd full of water, which he lifted to Murdo's mouth. “Drink you now. Open your mouth, and wet your tongue.” Murdo did as he was told. “Here now, drink a little.”

The water filled his mouth and he swallowed it down, and then began to drink in long, gasping, greedy droughts. “Slowly, slowly now,” Emlyn warned, pulling the gourd away. “Take your time, lad; there is plenty.”

Murdo put his hand to the gourd and brought it back to his mouth. “The Saracens have poisoned every well and spring for many leagues around the city,” Emlyn told him. “Until yesterday, the water must be fetched from the heights of Palestine, and beyond. We can get it from the city now, so drink it all.”

When at last Murdo pushed the gourd away, the monk sat back on his heels. “Look at you, my friend. What has happened to you? Ronan and Fionn will be happy to know that you are safe once more. We worried when you did not return with the others after the city was taken. I shall tell them the glad news as soon as they return—they are with King Magnus at the council. I was given leave to search for you. Are you hurt?” Without
waiting for a reply, he began examining Murdo's limbs and torso. “I do not see any serious injuries—” he announced at last, “save that you have been too long in the sun. I can make something for that, I think.”

Laying the gourd aside, Emlyn hurried off once more. Murdo leaned back, felt the cool shade on his sun-beaten head. All at once the water he'd drunk came surging up once more; he felt it swirl inside him and then it filled his mouth. He leaned forward on his hands and vomited. He felt better instantly and lay back, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Though it seemed only a moment, when he awoke again the grove was in deep shade. Across the valley, the walls of the Holy City glowed with the golden light of the westering sun. Murdo lay for a time, unable to think where he was, or what had happened to him. But as he gazed at the shining walls and the dark smoke billowing up in gilded columns, the whole terrible ordeal came winging back to him as if from a very great distance.

The tears came at once to his eyes, and Murdo wept. He saw again the poor drowned child, the helpless murdered babies, the burned Jews in their temple, and tears flowed down his cheeks and splashed onto his stomach and thighs. He gasped for breath and tried to stem the flood of sorrow, but it bore him up and carried him away, and he was powerless to resist. His body began to shake, and he was convulsed by loud racking sobs which tore up from his throat as if loosed from the bottomless black pit that was his soul. Great ocean waves of grief and shame rolled over him, and he, a rag tossed up and dragged under with each new surge, wept and wept—until oblivion claimed him once more, and he slept again.

It was late the next day when Murdo woke and looked up through the leafy branches of the olive tree to a yellowing sky. He yawned and wondered how long he had been asleep—one
day? Two? He had a vague memory of being roused from time to time and made to drink sweetened water, but no real sense of how much time had passed. As he pondered this, he became aware of a peculiar sound and realized it had awakened him: a droning, incessant, sharp-edged crackle falling from somewhere high above.

Turning his eyes to the sky, he saw that the crackling sound came from an enormous whirling dark cloud across the valley: thousands upon thousands of crows and ravens and, higher still, innumerable vultures and eagles.

Murdo gazed in awe at the endlessly swirling, squawking mass. He followed the downward spiral of their flight to a triple-peaked mound beside the road—the corpses of the crusaders' victims heaped into a pale mountain outside the northern wall. The mountain was alive with carrion birds.

Turning away from the sight, he sat up—wincing from the pain of his blistered skin. He touched his chest, and his fingertips came away slick and greasy. Looking around, he discovered that he lay on a mat of woven grass, naked beneath a thin cloth; his belt and knife lay beside him—along with Emlyn's mantle, neatly folded, and a gourd full of water which he took up at once and drained in long gulps.

His back and shoulders felt as if he had been scourged and then dragged by wild horses through flaming coals. There was a gnawing ache in his empty stomach, and his eyes and lips throbbed. But it was not until he tried to stand up, that the fiery pain in his feet burst upon him. He fell back whimpering; the soles of his feet were gashed and torn, the skin hanging from them in shreds.

He groaned, squeezing his eyes tight against the pain and breathing in quick, panting gasps. This awakened Emlyn, who was lying behind him on the other side of the olive tree.
“Murdo!” he cried, rolling to his knees. “You have come back to us! How do you feel?”

Before he could answer, the priest said, “Are you hungry? There is bread and broth; I will get some for you.” He darted away before Murdo could think to call him back.

Unable to lie down again for the pain, Murdo leaned on his elbow and looked out towards the city. The shadow of the hillside stretched across the valley, and the ferocious heat of the day was abating. He could see men and wagons moving on the roads outside the city. Although he could remember all too vividly what he had witnessed in Jerusalem, he could not recall what had happened when he left the city, nor how he had come to be in the olive grove.

He pondered this until Emlyn returned a little while later, bearing a big wooden bowl and two flat loaves under his arm. “The pilgrims here have been starving for months,” he said, “but now that the city is free, food is more plentiful.”

Yes
, thought Murdo grimly,
and I know why: the dead eat very little
.

Settling himself beside the tree, the monk helped Murdo sit up, and placed the bowl in his lap. Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, he put it in the broth to soften it. “Ronan and Fionn were here for a while today. They helped me prepare the unguent for your burns and cuts.”

“Where are my clothes?” Murdo asked in a voice as dry and rough as gravel. Taking up the spoon, he began to eat.

Emlyn shook his head. “God knows,” he said. “You are as I found you. I feared you had been set upon by Saracens. You were dazed by the sun, I think, and could not speak.” The priest looked at him with large, sympathetic eyes. “Were you attacked?”

Murdo, his mouth full of soggy bread, only shook his head.

“Some of the things they are saying…terrible things…I cannot…” the monk broke off and turned his face away. Murdo glanced up and saw Emlyn's eyes full of tears.

Murdo felt his throat tighten and his own tears welled up. He bent his head and began to weep anew. Huge salty tears fell from his eyes and into the bowl in his lap; ragged sobs seized him and he began to shake as the grief and shame descended all over again.

Emlyn, kneeling beside him, took the bowl away then and Murdo felt the priest's arms encircling him. Emlyn cradled Murdo to his breast, and whispered, “Let it go, Murdo. Let it all come out. Give it to God, my son. Let the Good Lord bear it away.”

Murdo gave himself to his sorrow. As before, he was helpless against the deluge. The waves of remorse tossed him to and fro, battering him without mercy.

Emlyn held him, stroking his head, and after a while began to chant in a low murmuring voice: “The Good God is my shepherd, I nothing want. In green pastures he makes me lie, and leads me beside the waters of peace; he renews my soul within me, and for the sake of his good name guides me along the right path. Even though I walk through the death-dark valley, I fear no evil thing, for you, O Lord, are with me, and your crook and staff are my very present comfort…”

When he finished the psalm, the monk began another, and then another—until at last the grief began to ebb. Murdo pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and smeared the last of the tears across his blistered cheeks. Emlyn released him and took up the gourd; seeing it was empty, he went to refill it, and returned to find Murdo with the bowl raised to his mouth, spooning broth into his mouth. He accepted the gourd gratefully, and drank deeply.

They sat together in the growing twilight, silent in one another's company, watching the campfires spark to life across the valley. Then, with the monk's help, Murdo rolled onto his side, put his head down, and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was Emlyn's promise to stay with him and watch over him.

Murdo woke twice during the night to the sound of his own screams. The atrocities and brutality stalked him in his dreams, and he imagined himself trapped in the burning mosq, or fighting for his last breath with a spear through his gut. Each time, Emlyn was there to comfort him and soothe him back to sleep with a psalm.

The next morning Emlyn was nowhere to be seen, so Murdo lay back and dozed. In a little while he heard the soft footfall of someone hastening towards the tree. He lifted his head. “Emlyn?”

“Murdo, I was coming to wake you,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “You must come quickly.”

“Why? What has happened?”

“Fionn has just come. It may be that he has found your father.” Emlyn took up his mantle, shook it out and began helping Murdo into the oversized garment. “We must hurry.”

“Where is he?” Murdo asked, painfully drawing his arms into the sleeves. The coarse cloth was savage next to his sore skin. “Is it far?”

“Not far. Fionn has gone in search of a donkey for you.”

“I can walk.” Murdo made to get up at once. His skin was still raw and sore from the sunburn, but it was his feet which hurt him more—cut and battered as they were, they had swollen and he could not put his weight on them. “Agh!” he cried, sitting down quickly. “No, it hurts too much.”

“Let me help you.” Taking the edge of his cloak, Emlyn tore
strips from it and began wrapping the bands around Murdo's feet.

“Cannot my father come here?” asked Murdo. He saw from the priest's expression that he could not. “Is he wounded then?”

“I fear he is,” Emlyn confirmed.

“How badly?”

“I cannot say.”

“How badly, Emlyn?”

“Truly, Fionn did not tell me. He said we must come quickly. Ronan is with him.”

While he was binding Murdo's feet, Fionn returned with the donkey, and hastened to help them. “We must hurry, Master Murdo,” Fionn told him. “Your father—if it
is
your father—is very ill. Are you ready? Put your arm around my neck.”

Together, the priests took him gently under the arms, lifted, and stood up. But even with his weight resting on the monks' shoulders it was still too painful. Murdo groaned and bit his lip to keep from crying out. Black spots spun before his eyes, and sweat broke out on his forehead. The monks steadied him, and then carried him the two steps to the waiting donkey and boosted him onto the animal's back.

Fionn led them higher up the hillside, passing through the hospital camp. Murdo was appalled and sickened afresh by what he saw: men were everywhere scattered on the ground, the blood of their wounds staining the earth dark beneath them. The fighting had been short, but fierce; many soldiers lost hands and arms to Seljuq blades, and others bore deep gashes and terrible slashes; most, however, had been pierced by arrows. The Turks routinely tipped their arrows with poison, so their victims lingered in agony for a goodly while before they died.

Of all the wounded Murdo saw, only a fortunate few had so much as a grass mat or cloth on which to lay, and fewer still had
tents. Consequently, many tried to escape the blistering heat of the sun by making shelters out of their shields, or flinging their cloaks on low-hanging branches to create sun-breaks for themselves.

Some of the wounded men watched him with sick, pain-filled eyes as he passed, but for the most part each pilgrim was too preoccupied with his own dying to notice anyone else. No one spoke and, save for the constant murmur of moans or the occasional death rattle, the hospital camp was unnaturally quiet.