The Iron Lance (35 page)

The monks, still singing, then started dragging dirt over the body using the flat stones with which they had dug the grave. They worked from the feet of the corpse upwards, but when they reached the head, Murdo said, “Wait.”

Reaching down, he pulled aside the burial cloth to reveal his father's face so that he could look upon him one last time. Lord Ranulf seemed to be calmly asleep. The lines of his face were smoothed now with a stillness that suggested he had come to peace at the end of his travail. Murdo looked upon the face he had known and respected and loved all his life.
My lord will never see the green hills of Orkneyjar again
, he thought sadly,
nor delight in the face of his lady wife, his best beloved. His bones will dwell forever in a strange land, far away from the home of his fathers
.

Placing the tips of his fingers to his lips, he then pressed them to Ranulf's cold forehead. “Farewell, Father,” he whispered, his voice cracking as his throat closed over the words.

He pulled the shroud back into place and pushed the earth over his father's face with his hands. When they had mounded up the earth, they gathered stones from the ground around them and outlined a white cross over the grave. Kneeling at the
head of the grave, Ronan offered up a long and thoughtful prayer for the soul of a man cut down on pilgrimage. Murdo listened, but his mind wandered as he raised his eyes from the mound before him to look out over the wide expanse of newly-made graves. There were hundreds, and these were but the few who had even reached their destination. He thought about all the rest, all the thousands upon thousands claimed by starvation and thirst, by the ferocious heat, disease, and the arrows and blades of the enemy.

Wicked the waste, his father had said, and Murdo felt the righteous fury stir in his grief-heavy heart. In that instant he vowed he would never die in a land not his own.

After the prayers, and another psalm, they helped Murdo onto the donkey, and walked slowly back to where Emlyn was waiting. The monks maintained a respectful silence until reaching the tent, whereupon Ronan spoke up. “Much as I might wish otherwise, we dare not linger here,” he said. “The tent is needed. It would be best if we left it quickly so as not to arouse interest in our affairs.”

“Let them have the tent,” Murdo answered. “It is nothing to me. I will find my brothers and tell them what has happened. They will help me protect the treasure.”

“There will be time later to consider what you will do,” the priest suggested. “First, we must think carefully how to conceal the treasure so that it can be moved.”

“We will need a wagon—a small one, at least…” he began.

Ronan pulled on his chin. “Every wagon is needed for moving supplies and water to the camps. It will not be easy to find one, and any wagon suspected of carrying treasure will fall prey to thieves. We will have to conceal it somehow.”

The three fell silent pondering how this might be accomplished. Try as he might, Murdo could not think of any way to
move the treasure from the tent without letting the whole world know he had it. Perhaps Ronan was right after all, he thought: here, he had not even taken possession of the treasure, and already the curse was beginning to bite.

“Maybe we could find a camel,” suggested Emlyn. “The desert folk use them as beasts of burden. We could get one to carry the treasure.”

“How would that help?” wondered Murdo. It seemed to him thieves could as easily steal a camel as a wagon full of treasure, and he said so.

“Not if they thought it carried corpses!” Emlyn said. “Many of the noble families of Jerusalem are carrying their dead to family tombs in the desert. We might pose as one of these and carry the treasure away.”

The idea seemed absurd and ludicrous to Murdo, but he had nothing else to suggest. “Even if we wanted to, how could we find one of these camels?”

“Leave that to me,” said Ronan. “Now, we must hurry.” He turned to the waiting Emlyn. “Secure some more burial shrouds and bindings. The three of you prepare the treasure as you would a body. I will return as soon as I can, and you must be ready.”

When all the bodies of the Holy City's former inhabitants had been collected by the few miserable survivors, the corpses were heaped onto great mounds outside the Gate of the Column and the Jaffa Gate. Whether Greek, Armenian, Egyptian, Turk, or Palestinian, all were flung onto the pile; Muslim and Jew and Christian, together in death as they had mingled in life. The corpses had been but one day in the sweltering sun when they began to bloat and burst, spilling a noxious stink into the air which permeated the whole city.

Count Raymond was especially distressed by the horrific stench. In anticipation of receiving the grateful call of his comrades to assume the kingship of the Holy City, he had appropriated the citadel for himself and his entourage of servants and advisors, and was therefore close to the Jaffa Gate, where a large number of bodies had been brought. The wind coming off the sea sent the odor rising up the walls and in through the open windows of the palace fortress. The cackle and cough of the scavenger birds became as constant as the stench was ghastly.

“Burn them!” he cried at last, suffocating from the ripe, putrid smell wafting through his rooms. “Burn them and be quick about it!”

“Lord count,” counselled his chaplain, “I urge you to reconsider your command. The smoke resulting from such a fire would be far worse than the stink itself.”

“I do not care,” Raymond snapped angrily. “At least it will silence those damnable birds! Nothing could be worse than listening to the corpse-pickers day and night. Burn them! Burn them
all
, I say! Do you hear me, Aguilers?”

“I hear and obey, my lord. It shall be done.” The abbot bowed to Raymond's authority, and wished, not for the first time that Bishop Adhemar was still alive. He made to leave, then remembered his previous errand and turned back. “Forgive me, lord, I was merely wishing to announce the arrival of Count Robert. He is waiting in your private chamber.”

“This soon!” cried Raymond. “Good! Good!” Leaping from his chair, he strode for the door where he paused long enough to throw another command over his shoulder. “See to the burning, abbot. I want it begun before I return.”

Raymond's long legs carried him quickly to the inner room he had chosen for the reception of his envoys and intimates. The count had let it be known that, as the lord chosen by the pope himself to lead the crusade, he would not refuse the summons of his peers to govern the Holy City. To this end, he had sent his chief supporter to the various camps to determine the mood of the other lords regarding his speedy accession to the Throne of Jerusalem.

Unfortunately, fever had claimed his most ardent and loyal supporter, Bishop Adhemar; and Counts Hugh of Vermandois and Stephen of Blois had departed the crusade after Antioch, leaving Raymond somewhat deficient in ready companions to champion his cause. Casting his net of favors more widely, he coaxed a reluctant Robert, Count of Flanders, to his side; Robert had quickly become Raymond's closest confidant. Owing to Robert's extraordinary lack of personal ambition, he also enjoyed the trust of the rest of the lords and noblemen. For the last two days he had been flitting from camp to camp, talk
ing to the various leaders, and gaining the measure of each lord's desire for the throne. Having completed his first survey of the field, Robert had returned to report his observations. He now sat slumped in his chair, hands folded over his stomach and legs straight out in front of him, eyes closed.

Count Raymond burst into the room to find his friend asleep, crossed to the table and filled two chalices with wine. Taking them both, he turned and shoved one under Robert's nose. “This will revive you, sir! Take and drink!”

Robert opened his eyes and accepted the cup. He drank long and deep of the sweet dark wine, and said, “By the god who made me, Toulouse, it is blistering hot in the camps.” He drank again and held out his cup to be refilled. “At least the wind is out of the west so it takes away the stink.”

“I have given orders to have the bodies burned at once,” replied Raymond as he filled the cup from the jar. “But tell me, what have you learned?”

Robert drank again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, that loosens the tongue somewhat.” Glancing at the count, he said, “Now, to business.” He placed the cup on the board. “This is the way of it: any direct opposition to your taking the kingship has vanished like the dew in the desert sun. Bohemond will no doubt be content with Antioch—likewise Baldwin with Edessa. Both have as much as they can do to hold on to what they have won so far without taking on Jerusalem, too.”

“Let them try!” sneered Raymond. “The cowardly dogs did not so much as lift a finger to help us win the city. It will be long and long before those two are welcome within these gates.”

“Just so,” agreed Robert. “There is great sentiment among the other nobles that neither of them should share in the spoils and plunder, since they did not see fit to complete the pilgrim
age. No one would support a bid by either of them to become king.” He raised his cup and took another long swallow before resuming his recital. “That just leaves Robert of Normandy, and Godfrey of Bouillon.”

“Yes? And what is their disposition?”

“My cousin the duke is making plans to return to Normandy even as we speak,” Robert replied, “and Godfrey is likewise so inclined; his brother Eustace is not well, and they wish to leave as soon as possible.”

“Then this time next week, God willing, I shall be king,” mused Raymond.

“I did not say that,” Robert cautioned.

“You said there was no opposition.”

“I said there was no
direct
opposition,” corrected Robert. “None of the lords will challenge you, that is true. But the clerics among us are saying that the Bishop Arnulf of Rohes should take the city for the pope. They insist Jerusalem should be placed under ecclesiastical rule, and he is considered the leading cleric since the demise of Adhemar.”

Raymond's eyes narrowed. “The bishop is a good and steady man, it is true,” he allowed, raising his cup to his mouth. “And his many preachments have been of great encouragement to the men—never more so than before these very walls. But he commands no army of his own; and unless the pope places a body of troops under his command, I do not see how any churchman can hope to protect the city, much less govern it. No, it is preposterous.” He drank quickly, and asked, “Is there much support for this ill-concocted view in the camps?”

“Some, it must be said,” the Lord of Flanders conceded.

“What of the bishop? Does he say whether he would welcome a move to place him on the throne?”

“Our friend Bishop Arnulf is keeping his thoughts to him
self,” Robert replied. “He says only that it is a vanity to be king in the city where the Holy Saviour himself reigned.”

“Twaddle!”

“Nevertheless, the sentiment enjoys considerable support,” Robert pointed out. “Godfrey agrees whole-heartedly.”

“It is a nonsense,” Raymond declared. “A kingdom must have a king. I take nothing away from our Lord Christ by ascending the throne of Jerusalem. Rather, I should in every way improve that throne which has suffered decline among the infidel so long a time.”

“The bishop could, I believe, be persuaded to become Patriarch of Jerusalem,” suggested Robert, “if he had sufficient cause to believe the interests of the pope would be best served by the king.”

“Perhaps we can find a way to persuade him.” Raymond smiled and took up the wine jar once more. “You are a good friend to me, Robert.” He poured wine into both cups. “But tell me now, what will you have out of this?”

“I am content,” Robert answered. “To see the Holy City returned to Christian rule is enough for me. I have lands of my own to redeem from my tight-fisted brother.”

“But the whole of Jerusalem is ripe for the taking. You must wish something for yourself,” Raymond suggested.

“What should I have wished for but the success of the pilgrimage? May God be praised, I have that already.”

Just then there came a knock at the door and the Abbot of Aguilers appeared. “Forgive me, lord, but a messenger has arrived from Jaffa to say that Emperor Alexius' envoy is on his way.”

Raymond's expansive mood shrivelled slightly. “Is he indeed?”

“Even now, lord,” the chaplain confirmed.

“When is he expected?”

“Before nightfall, I am told.”

The Count of Toulouse considered for a moment, then said, “When he arrives, he is to be met at the gate and conducted here. I would have him stay with me while in Jerusalem. Is that understood?”

“Certainly,” replied the chaplain.

“Good. Then see that rooms are made ready for his use,” Raymond commanded. “Alert me when he arrives, and I will welcome him myself.”

The chaplain nodded once and withdrew. As soon as the priest had gone, Lord Robert said, “This is unexpected. Word of our victory cannot have reached Constantinople so swiftly. They must have been waiting nearby to see how the battle went.”

“Yes.” The count's frown deepened and he stared into his cup. “I will not pretend delight at his coming. Indeed, I heartily wish the issue of succession had been settled before he arrived. That will not happen now, and we must deal with it as best we can.”

Robert drained his cup and stood. “I am tired. If you have no further use for me, I will go to my tent and rest.”

“By all means, my friend,” Raymond said. “But stay here and take your rest until the envoy arrives.”

“With all respect, Toulouse,” Lord Robert replied, “I find that the stench is far less offensive outside the walls. I think I would rest better in my own tent.”

“As you will,” the count granted. “But do return when the envoy arrives—we will sup together and discover the emperor's intentions for the Holy City.”

“You are most kind, Toulouse,” Robert accepted with a nod of his head. “I would be honored, of course.”

 

The flame-red sun dimmed to a foul yellow glare as it descended over the dry Palestinian hills. Dalassenus paused to drink from his waterskin and gazed upon the Holy City rising before him on its rock of a mountain. The thick black smoke rolling heavenward seemed like living columns holding up a hazy sky. He had been watching the smoke most of the day, and now he could smell it: heavy and oily, it stank of burned fat and meat and hair and bone. At first he feared the city itself was ablaze, but now that he was upon it, he could see that the fires came from outside the walls, and he knew the source.

“Drungarius?” asked his strategus.

“Yes, Theotokis?” he said, without taking his eyes from the endlessly rolling pillars of smoke.

“You groaned, my lord.”

“Did I?”

“I was wondering if you were feeling well.”

Dalassenus made no reply, but lifted the reins and urged his horse forward once more. A short while later, the imperial envoy and his company of advisors, officials, and Immortals reached the Jaffa road and proceeded directly to the city gate where they were met by Count Raymond of Toulouse's men, who led their party to the citadel where the count was waiting to receive them.

A short while later, the visitors passed through the gates and into the palace precinct where they were welcomed by Raymond himself, and several other nobles—including Duke Robert of Normandy, and Duke Godfrey of Bouillon, who had learned of the envoy's arrival and had come to see the first skirmish of the campaign ahead.

“Pax Vobiscum, drungarius,” said Raymond, stepping forward as the envoy dismounted. The count greeted his guest with open arms, and the two embraced stiffly. “I trust your jour
ney was uneventful. Now that the road from Jaffa to Jerusalem is in our hands, travellers will find their pains eased considerably.”

“Indeed,” agreed Dalassenus, “the road was hot and dusty as ever, but it was blessedly free of Turks.”

“Alas, we can do nothing about the heat,” Raymond replied. “No doubt the emperor has more influence in that domain.” He laughed loudly at his jest, and was joined in his mirth by his nobles, who chuckled politely.

“No doubt,” replied Dalassenus, somewhat awkwardly.

“Come now, you are tired and thirsty. We will allow you to refresh yourselves before supper.” Turning to his servants, Raymond commanded them to lead the envoy and his party to the rooms provided for them.

“It is a thoughtful gesture,” Dalassenus granted, “but it is unnecessary. My men and I will find lodgings at the Monastery of Saint John. The good brothers provide simple, but adequate, fare and accommodation. We will be more than comfortable there.”

Raymond's face fell. “That, I fear, will not be possible.”

“No?” Dalassenus regarded the count steadily. “And why should that be so?”

“Regrettably, the monastery suffered somewhat in the battle.”

Dalassenus' face hardened. “Are you saying it was destroyed?”

Raymond met the envoy's challenge with a show of pious remorse. “The monastery escaped destruction,” he explained, “not so the brothers themselves. They were unfortunately killed.”

This announcement caused a stir among the imperial visitors, who all began talking at once, demanding to know what had
happened. Dalassenus silenced them with a word, and then turned once more to the count. “
All
of them were killed?”

“Alas, yes—all of them,” admitted Raymond.

“In God's name, why?” demanded Dalassenus, his face darkening with rage. “They were Christians, man! Priests! Monks!”

Raymond lowered his head and squared his shoulders to the envoy's wrath. He deeply rued the blind zeal of his fellow crusaders which had purged the Holy City of its entire population, but he did not see what could be done about it now. He had little choice but to meet the imperial ire head on. “We are all aggrieved by the lamentable incident, to be sure.”