The Iron Lance (36 page)

“Lamentable incident!” howled Theotokis, struggling forward. “You slaughter fellow Christians out of hand, and call it a…a
lamentable incident?
” Drawing himself up, he spat at the feet of the Latin lords. “Barbarians!”

The western nobles, angered at such blatant disrespect, began shouting at the Byzantines. Some few started forth with curses and balled fists.

“Enough!” growled Dalassenus, quickly regaining his composure. To Raymond he said, “We will make our camp outside the walls. In the name of the Emperor Alexius, I demand that you and the other lords and leaders of the pilgrimage convene in council tomorrow morning when we will discuss this, and other issues arising from the recapture of the city.”

Raymond, eyes hard under lowered brow, met the envoy's anger with flinty obstinance. “As you will,” he muttered gruffly.

The imperial company withdrew to the Church of the Saint Mary on Mount Zion outside the southern wall, and made their camp within the grounds. Raymond and some of the lords returned to the citadel to drink and discuss the next day's council. Bewildered by the Byzantine response to their offered hospitality, they liberally doused their umbrage with the sweet dark
wine of their conquered realm and, as the night wore on, vowed increasingly elaborate revenge on the slight.

For their part, the Greeks spent the night praying with the monks of Saint Mary's church for the souls of their murdered brothers, and for Jerusalem's Christians who had been slaughtered by their supposed liberators. After the prayer vigil, the envoy retired to the cell prepared for him by the monks. Dalassenus slept ill, his spirit troubled by the insidious ignorance and brutishness of the Latin pilgrims; he feared for the day ahead and the demands he must make on behalf of the emperor. The lords of the West had shown themselves truculent and untrustworthy guests, no better than the infidel.

He shuddered inwardly to think what Alexius would do when he learned what had happened at Jerusalem. It would be best for all concerned if the crusaders could be convinced to hand over the Holy City to the rule and governance of the emperor, and as quickly as possible—tomorrow would not be too soon.

Dalassenus had just lapsed into a fitful sleep when he was awakened by the arrival of several monks begging places for the night. It was strange, he thought, for the night was far gone and these were western clerics, but unlike any he had met before. He looked out from the door of his cell and saw them—three robed monks and a fourth, a tall, anxious-looking youth—as they were led across the church's inner yard. The young man started at seeing his face in the doorway, but the four hurried past, and Dalassenus went back to his short and troubled sleep.

While Raymond was meeting the emperor's envoy at the palace gates, Murdo and the monks were busy binding Lord Ranulf's treasure into corpse-like bundles. Using the rags Fionn had secured, they bound the various items of gold and silver together and stuffed the spaces between them with dried grass and straw—as much to keep the metal objects from clanking together as to fill out a roughly human shape which they then wrapped in a burial shroud.

They worked quickly, gathering and binding, wrapping and tying. At Fionn's urging, Murdo reluctantly withdrew six gold coins from the heap. “You are not stealing it, Murdo,” the monk chided, “merely using some of the first fruits to help save the harvest.”

As soon as the last knot was tied, they dragged the bundles from the tent lest anyone become suspicious of their activity. Lastly, Murdo retrieved his father's sword, shield, and hauberk before abandoning the tent to the use of some other wounded soldier. The three of them settled under a nearby olive tree to await Ronan's return.

“What can be keeping him?” wondered Murdo. He cast an anxious eye over the ungainly bundles, of which there were four—three large, which might pass for adults, and one somewhat smaller, which might be seen as a child. Throughout the camp, the monks and women went about their chores, tending
to the wounded and dying. No one seemed to notice the little company waiting for the burial cart; Murdo, fearing they might be discovered at any moment, remained ever alert and watchful.

The baleful sun crossed the sky vault to extinguish itself in a blood-red haze, and still Ronan did not appear. “I suspect camels are more difficult to obtain than horses or donkeys,” Fionn suggested. “Ronan macDiarmuid will not fail us. Have faith, Murdo.”

“God is ever moving amidst the chaos,” Emlyn added grandly, “his subtle purposes to perform. Trust not in the works of men, but in the Almighty whose designs are eternal, and whose deeds outlast the ages.”

Despite repeated entreaties from the two priests to calm himself, Murdo could not rest. Even after dark, he found no peace—for, though he was grateful for relief from the heat, the rising moon shed more than enough light for thieves to work. He looked at the night-dark sky. The stars, veiled by a high-blown haze of smoke, glowed like the eyes of skulking hounds caught by torchlight in the dark.

He drew a hand across his face and tried to wipe away the fatigue. He was hungry and tired, and sore, and the first seeds of sorrow were beginning to take root. Murdo did not mind the hunger, nor his scorched skin, nor his hurting feet; those were small pains compared to the sharp, gnawing ache growing in his heart. He missed his father, and he missed his home; he wanted to see the low green islands of Orkney, and feel the cool northern wind on his face again; he wanted to see Ragna, to hold her, and he wanted this miserable day to end.

Fionn nudged him gently. “Someone is coming,” he whispered.

Murdo sat up. “Where?”

“Down there.” Fionn pointed to the trail which wound
through the valley below. He could see a gray shape moving on the tree-shadowed path, but it was still too far away to see clearly. Closer, the shape resolved itself into two parts, one large, one small. The large shape had long legs and a steeply-humped back; the smaller, walking beside it, was a man.

“It is Ronan,” Fionn confirmed. “I told you he would not fail us.” Standing up quickly, he said, “He will not know where to find us. I will bring him.”

Murdo watched as the monk hurried down the tree-covered hill, his pale form flitting in and out of the moonlight. Upon reaching the trail, he saw Fionn approach the elder priest, whereupon they both turned and proceeded towards them. The camel appeared to grow larger with every step; in fact, it was a far bigger animal than Murdo had realized. And it stank of rancid dung.

Indeed, it was one of the most repulsive creatures Murdo had ever seen. The beast was covered with a thick pelt of matted, mangy hair that hung in ragged clumps; bulging eyes gazed lazily out from a small, flat head perched atop a long, ungainly neck; huge flat feet splayed out from bony, scabrous legs, and its great hump sat like a shabby mountain above its distended belly. The thing shuffled when it walked, and folded itself awkwardly when it lay down—which it did as soon as Ronan stopped tugging on its rein rope.

“We must hurry,” Ronan said upon reaching them. From a yoke-shaped wooden frame he withdrew a wad of cloth which he handed to Murdo. “I brought you some clothes.”

“We have been waiting all day,” Murdo said bluntly, accepting the clothes.

“I thought it best to wait until nightfall,” the elder priest replied, “when I knew the beast would not be needed.”

“You stole it!”

“Borrowed it, yes,” corrected Ronan. “As it says in the Holy Scriptures: As they approached the Mount of Olives, Jesu sent two of his disciples ahead saying, ‘In the village ahead, you will find a camel tied there. Untie it and bring it to me, and if anyone should ask what you are about, tell them the Lord has need of it, and he will give it to you right away.' I simply obeyed the Good Lord.” The priest glanced at the sky to reckon the time. “Still, it would be best for us if the animal was found in its place by morning.”

“But I am going to Edessa to find my brothers,” Murdo declared.

“As to that, I have had a better thought,” Ronan replied. “For now, get you dressed while the brothers and I secure the treasure.”

The priest hurried away again, leaving Murdo to stew. He quickly shrugged off Emlyn's mantle, and pulled on the clothes Ronan had brought for him—a pair of breecs, with a wide cloth belt, and an ample siarc of a fine, lightweight material, much like the flowing robes favored by the inhabitants of the region. There were no boots or shoes, but he could not have worn them anyway. While he dressed, the others busied themselves with loading the treasure.

The work was swiftly done, and Ronan hastened to where Murdo was wrapping the belt around his waist. “Come, we will get you onto the camel's back.”

Murdo regarded the ramshackle creature dubiously. “I can walk,” he insisted.

“Your stubbornness does you no credit,” Ronan said firmly. “You will ride, and that is the end of it.”

Together Emlyn and Fionn hefted Murdo onto the front part of the yoke-shaped frame; he perched on the top, his feet dangling either side of the camel's long neck, the treasure bun
dles bound either side of the saddle behind him.

Stepping to the head of the camel, the senior cleric said, “Hist! Hist!” The sleeping animal awoke, tossed its head, and stood, unfolding itself awkwardly and shaking its burden from side to side. Ronan, holding tight to the rein rope, pulled hard and the beast gave out a dreadful blaring blat. “Hist!” said Ronan sharply. The camel blatted again, but turned and started slowly down the hill towards the trail. Murdo held tight to the wooden pommel with both hands as the animal lurched along, its ungraceful swaying threatening to throw off its reluctant passenger with every step.

They reached the trail and turned towards the city. “Now will you tell me where we are going?” asked Murdo; he had begun to get the rhythm of the creature's jerking undulations.

“Gladly,” answered the priest. “While searching around the city today, I learned of a monastery nearby—it is outside the walls, so it escaped pillage. I think we will find the good brothers eager to help.”

“A monastery,” grumbled Murdo. He could see the thing drifting from bad to worse. “How can that possibly help us?”

“Catacumbae,” said Ronan.

Murdo recognized the word as Latin, but could not recall its meaning, and begged an explanation.

“Often in the East,” explained the elder monk, “the faithful dead are buried in underground chambers. We can bury our secret there, and the good brothers will watch over it.”

Murdo remained unconvinced. Nothing was further from his mind than leaving the treasure in the care of a monastery full of thieving priests. “And who will watch the monks so they do not steal it?”

“Have a little faith, Murdo,” answered the monk. “All will be well.”

Murdo drew no comfort from this vague assurance, but lacked the will to argue the matter further. He settled dejectedly against the unyielding hump behind him, and watched the shadows for thieves. Soon the path met a wider way, and they continued on until the road diverged, whereupon they took the southern track and soon were passing beneath the city walls.

Outside the Jaffa Gate they passed a great smouldering mound. The embers crackled, sending sparks upwards from the glowing pile. Even from a distance, Murdo could feel the heat on his face and hands, and in amongst the flaming coals he saw human skulls—heaped and jumbled one atop another, skulls by the hundreds, and all of them gaping at him with empty-eyed malice. He imagined the heat he felt was that of their rage at the depravity which had stolen their lives. Unable to face them, he turned his eyes away.

The furtive party proceeded along the western wall towards the cragged hump of Mount Zion rising above the Hinnom valley. Upon reaching the southwestern corner of the wall, the dirt track divided once more: the main strand led away towards Bethlehem and Hebron, and the other bent slightly to the east to begin its winding ascent of the mount.

As they approached the Holy Mountain, Murdo could see the pale glimmer of white-washed buildings gleaming in the moonlight, the largest of which had a dome surmounted by a cross. A moment later, they stopped. “There is someone on the road,” Ronan said, his voice hushed and low. He pointed to a place where the road ahead bent to the left as it rose towards the mount. “I think they are coming this way.”

“We should get off the road until they pass by,” Murdo said, looking around. Unfortunately, apart from a few small thorn bushes scattered about, the hillside was barren. There was no place to hide.

The priests saw this, too. “We will have to trust to God for our protection,” Ronan concluded. “Come, brothers, a prayer for safe passage.” The three began to pray at once, chanting softly. Murdo continued to search the hillside for a hiding place.

Meanwhile, the strangers came nearer and, seeing the wagon, hastened to meet it. Closer, Murdo saw that there were eight or ten of them—some with swords, and some with spears—and, from the way they stumbled and reeled, he guessed most of them were drunk. Murdo braced himself for the inevitable confrontation.

“You there!” shouted the nearest of the warriors. “Stay where you are!”

Several of his fellows ran to block the path, even though the camel had already stopped.

The priests made no move, but continued to pray until the soldiers had gathered around them. “Pax Vobiscum,” said Ronan, not unkindly. “It is late and you are not abed,” he pointed out in ready Latin. “Or perhaps you rise early to avoid travelling in the heat of the day.”

Some of the soldiers glanced at one another and shrugged. Others exchanged gruff words in a language Murdo did not understand. Four of the men, he saw now, carried leather bags on their backs, which they swung to the ground as soon as they stopped. By this Murdo knew the bags were heavy with plunder, and the men would not hesitate to add his treasure to their own. He looked down beside his leg, and saw the hilt of his father's sword protruding from under one of the shroud-bound bundles. One quick move and he could have it in his hand.

“Does no one among you speak Latin?” inquired Ronan.

The group muttered menacingly, shifting from foot to foot and grasping their weapons. When no one made to reply, the priest repeated the question in Gaelic. He was on the point of
repeating it again, when a figure stepped forth from behind the others. “I speak a little,” the man said, observing the priests coldly. Turning his attention to the camel, Murdo saw a man of hard countenance; suspicion flowed from him in waves, and lifted the corner of his lip in a sneer. “What have you got there?”

Indicating the bundles, Ronan said, “Our dear brother, Lord Ranulf of Orkney, has died from wounds received in Jerusalem.”

The man frowned. “What about the others?”

“Lord Ranulf had three sons,” the priest explained. “All were pilgrims like yourself. We are on our way to the Church of Saint Mary. Do you know the place?”

“No,” growled the man. He called something to one of the men standing nearest the camel. The fellow answered, glancing suspiciously at Murdo. He stepped to the side of the animal and began prodding the bundles with the butt of his spear. It was all Murdo could do to keep from snatching up the sword and swinging at the man.

“Why slink around by night if you have nothing to hide?” the foremost soldier asked.

“The sun is hot and causes a corpse to stink prodigiously,” the elder priest explained. “We hoped to spare our brother this last indignity.” Stretching out his hand in a gesture of friendship, he added, “We would do no less for you, my friend—or any of your men.”

“Do we look dead to you, priest?” scoffed the soldier.

“May God be praised for his enduring mercy,” said Ronan. “I pray you will live to see your homes once more.”

Emlyn spoke up then, saying, “Perhaps you would care to accompany us to the church. We could hear your confessions, and offer prayers for your safety.”

“Forgive me, brother,” interrupted Fionn, “I would but hasten to remind you that the pope has given full absolution for all
sins committed while on crusade. These men are obviously pilgrims like the rest of us; therefore, they need no absolution. Hence, no confessions are required.”

“There may be something in what you say,” conceded Emlyn graciously. “However, I think you are forgetting that the pope's decree of absolution was to remain in force only for the duration of the crusade. Since the pilgrimage is now completed, I believe the decree has expired.”

The soldiers, uncertain what to make of this discussion, shifted uneasily. Murdo could not believe they would choose this moment to pursue a theological discussion.