The Iron Lance (37 page)

“Brothers,” said Ronan, adopting the manner of a master curbing the enthusiasm of his wayward pupils, “this is not the time or place for such debate. These soldiers must be about their affairs.”

“Of course,” agreed Fionn placidly, “let them go about their business, I say. There is no need to detain them further.”

“Am I to believe what I am hearing?” complained Emlyn. He thrust an accusing finger into the face of the nearest soldier. “For all we know, their souls may be in danger of hell this very night. Why indulge such a needless risk? Let them be shriven, I say!”

At this the crusaders moved back a pace, suddenly anxious to leave.

“We do not have time for that now,” the soldier grumbled. “We are on our way to our camp in the valley. Our lord is waiting for us.”

“The church is not far,” offered Ronan helpfully. “The service would not take long, and you would soon be on your way.”

The soldiers moved back another pace, eager to be gone from these meddling priests; two or three of them began edging away.

“I told you we have more important affairs to attend to,” the warrior muttered.

“What affairs can be more important than the affairs of a man's soul?” demanded Emlyn.

“Our souls are no concern of yours, priest,” the crusader growled. “Go your way.”

Ronan acquiesced gracefully. “Come, brothers, we are not needed here.” He tugged on the camel's rope and the beast lumbered forward, almost throwing Murdo off his perch.

The soldiers stood aside, watching the priests and their camel depart. Emlyn turned aside to offer one last homily. “Remember, my friends, there is no sin too great for God's forgiveness. Our Heavenly Father stands ready to welcome all who truly repent.”

“Move on, move on!” snapped the soldier irritably. He motioned his companions away, adding, “A bane on all priests!” under his breath.

The monks began chanting their prayer again and continued on their way. They had gone only a few paces when Murdo, unable to help himself, risked a backward glance and saw that the soldiers were hurrying away down the road. “They are going away,” said Murdo, and realized he had been holding his breath.

“Of course,” replied Ronan. “Such sheep are seldom eager for their shearing.”

They reached the Church of Saint Mary to find the church precinct paved with bodies. All around the church, covering the slopes from the foot of the hill to the walls of the monastery, people lay upon the ground in knots and clusters; a few were wrapped in cloaks, but most simply sprawled on the bare earth where they had dropped. At first sight, Murdo thought the slaughter must have continued outside the walls of the city, but
these were somewhat more fortunate than their countrymen: they were not dead, merely sleeping.

Murdo looked upon the silent multitude and saw among the clustered throngs Jews and Christians and Muhammedans—all massed together, each against the other, having sought refuge from the storm of death in what must have seemed to them the one safe place in the world on that hateful day.

Here and there, he spied a family group, surrounded by a few pitiful belongings snatched from the destruction of their lives. He felt the emptiness of their loss, and understood how very little separated him from them.
All men are fleeing destruction
, he thought dismally;
some make good their escape for a time, many do not. Still, it catches everyone in the end
.

A narrow pathway wound through the mass of bodies to the monastery gate. Leading the camel carefully along the path, the monks picked their way among the sleeping bodies, and arrived at last at the monastery entrance directly behind the huge domed church. The timber doors were shut and barred, but a bell hung from the gatepost, and Emlyn gave the cord a single sharp pull. The sound wakened a few of the sleepers, who grumbled at the disturbance. The door gave forth a creak, and a small door in the larger gate opened. A round, dark face appeared in the gap. “Who disturbs the peace of this place?”

“Forgive us, brother,” said Ronan. “We would not trouble you if need were not hard upon us. As you can see, we are priests, too, and we are about a matter of urgency and beg admittance. We desire to speak to your abbot at once.”

The monk regarded them speculatively for a moment, and then said, “I am sorry, the abbot is holding vigil, and I will not disturb his prayers. You must wait until after terce when the abbot receives his guests—even then, I cannot promise he will
see you.” The porter paused, and added, “These last days have been very difficult for us all.”

“I understand,” replied Ronan equably. “If that is the best we can hope for, we will abide. But perhaps we might be allowed to wait inside?”

“Again, I must disappoint you,” the monk replied. “Owing to the sudden arrival of the emperor's emissary, the guest lodge is full to overflowing. Even the yard is full. As you can see, there is room neither inside, nor out.”

“We would not disturb the serenity of this place in any way,” Ronan assured him. “We require only a place to sit quietly while we wait. You need provide nothing more.”

“Very well,” relented the monk, “I will let you in.”

“Thank you, brother. May God bless you.”

The little door closed, and they waited. Murdo had begun to think the monk had changed his mind, when he heard a scraping noise coming from the other side of the gate, and a moment later, the door swung open to admit them. They led the camel into the yard, and the gate was closed once more.

The inner yard was a square of hard-packed earth, swept clean, and bounded on three sides by various buildings, and on the fourth by a long wing of cells. Candlelight glowed from the window and doorway of several cells, and from the tiny chapel. There were people sleeping in the yard, hundreds of them, but here the monks had imposed an order on the chaos by arranging everyone in circumspect rows—four ranks on either side of a central pathway.

“I will show you to the stables. You may find a place there to sit while you wait. This way, please.”

They passed along the rows of bodies, and came to a low-roofed open building lined with stalls. There were horses in all the stalls, and picketed outside as well. “See,” said the porter,
“even the stables are overcrowded. But you may wait here.”

Just then, a tall, white-robed figure emerged from the chapel and started across the yard. Upon seeing the visitors and camel, the figure stopped short and called out, “Thaddeus? Is something the matter?”

The monk turned. “No, abbot. I am sorry if we have disturbed your prayers. I was just making these visitors comfortable in the stable.”

“More visitors?” inquired the abbot, starting towards them. “Truly, we are blessed with an abundance of visitors tonight.” Upon joining the newcomers, the abbot smiled and spread his hands in welcome. “Greetings, brothers. I see we have the joy of receiving some of our own from other lands. You are welcome here, my friends. I am Philip, abbot of this monastery. Have you travelled far on your pilgrimage?”

“We have come from the land of the Scots at the world's farthest edge, where our monastery rejoices in its labors in the fields of the Lord. As it happens, I am also an abbot of our small, but excellent order.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Abbot Philip, much impressed by this. “We must sit together tomorrow when we can talk further. I would hear how the affairs of the church are conducted in the barbarous wilds of which you speak.” He smiled, and made a little bow to the good brothers looking on. “But you are tired and I will not detain you further. Unless there is something I can do for you, Brother Thaddeus will show you to your rest.”

“Time and circumstance are against us, I know,” Ronan said quickly. “And I would not trouble you if need were not pressing, but we have begun a work from which we dare not desist until it is completed.” So saying, he indicated the shroud-wrapped bundles on the camel, and invited the abbot to look for himself.

“Ah, I understand,” the abbot said, sorrow shading his tone. “Are they priests?”

“No, abbot,” answered Ronan. He beckoned the priest a little apart. They spoke to one another in quiet earnest for a moment, and when they returned to where the others were waiting, the abbot raised his eyes to where Murdo sat, still as a stone atop the camel. “May God bless you richly, my friend. May Our Blessed Lord console you with his loving spirit in your time of grief.”

Murdo made no reply, but nodded his acceptance of the abbot's condolences.

“Brother Thaddeus,” instructed the abbot, “open the crypt and lead our friends to the catacombs.”

“But abbot, we cannot—” objected the monk.

“Please, the night is far spent,” Abbot Philip told him. “Do as I say. All will be made clear in God's good time.”

“Thank you, abbot,” Ronan said. “God willing, perhaps we can sit down and talk together one day soon, you and I.”

“I look forward to that with keenest anticipation,” the senior replied, and departed with a blessing, leaving them to their work.

Brother Thaddeus, none too pleased with the abbot's intervention, nevertheless undertook his duties with good, if somewhat officious grace. “The crypt is this way,” he said. “Will you require help with the bodies? If so, I can summon some of our brothers.”

“Thank you, brother, but no,” Ronan declined. “I fear we have disturbed the tranquillity of your good community enough for one night. The labor is ours; we will shoulder the burden and complete what we have begun.”

“As you wish,” said the monk, and started towards one of the buildings across the yard. “This way to the catacombs.”

Fionn tugged on the rein rope, and the camel collapsed with a wheezing blat; Emlyn helped Murdo to his feet, and supported him as he limped across the yard, passing back along the rows of sleeping refugees and the line of now-darkened cells towards the chapel. As they approached the last cell, Murdo's eye was drawn by a movement in the darkness. He turned his head and was startled by the sudden appearance of a swarthy, dark-haired man in the doorway.

The man was tall and of regal appearance, and had neither the dress nor the manner of a monk. He glanced at those passing by his doorway and, finding nothing to interest him, stepped back into the shadowed cell once more. Murdo turned his attention to the chore at hand.

Brother Thaddeus led his night visitors behind the chapel to the kitchens and refectory; both were dark and quiet now. Beyond the kitchens stood two large ovens shaped, Murdo thought, like great bee hives. The ovens were still warm from the day's use, and Murdo felt the heat on his tender skin as they passed between them. Thaddeus brought them to a small stone structure which appeared to be a shrine, built against the wall separating the monastery from the Church of Saint Mary.

“Wait here a moment,” the porter said, and disappeared inside. He returned bearing two torches which he took to the nearest oven and lit from the embers. Returning to where the others were waiting, he handed one of the torches to Ronan, and indicated that they should follow him into the shrine.

The single room was bare and without windows, and Murdo soon discovered the reason why: it was not a shrine, but the entrance to an underground chamber; a wide flight of stone steps led down into the darkness below. Passing one of the torches to Ronan, Thaddeus instructed them to have a care for their heads, and started down.

Murdo, hobbling on his sore feet, leaned on Emlyn's arm and the two of them followed Fionn; Ronan, holding the second torch, came after. The steps went down and down, ending at last in a fair-sized room carved out of the stone of the Holy Mount itself. Hundreds of niches, large and small, lined the
walls, and in many of these Murdo could see dull gray lumps of bones—given a shadowy life by fluttering torchlight, which made them seem to quiver and shake in their little stone stalls. At the far end of the room stood a low door, its stone posts and lintel framing a black void beyond.

“The entrance to the catacombs,” Thaddeus told them, and led them on.

Cool air wafted over them like a chill breath as, stooping low, they entered a narrow corridor which ended in a short flight of steps. The stone ceiling of the corridor was black from the smoke of torches, and Murdo, bent almost double, descended the steps and emerged to stand upright in a long subterranean gallery. Row on row, and tier on tier, box-like cavities had been cut into the rock walls of the gallery. Some of these were sealed with stone rubble, but most were open, allowing the occupants to be viewed: shrunken dust-gray corpses whose withered brown leathery limbs showed through the ragged holes in their rotting shrouds.

Brother Thaddeus led them along the gallery, through another door and into another gallery identical to the first. They crossed this and entered a third, turned, and passed along this one until they came to yet another door and entered yet another gallery. This last was like the others, except that it was not yet finished; for, at the far end, ladders and tools lay against a wall of half-carved nooks amidst piles of stone-chippings and rubble. From the fine stone-dust which lay thick on everything, it appeared no one had touched the tools for many years.

They came to a row of empty niches. “I believe one of these should serve your purpose,” Thaddeus said. “If you wish, I will summon brothers to help you move the bodies.”

“You are most thoughtful, brother,” Ronan replied. “But we
have disturbed everyone enough for one night. We will undertake this duty ourselves.”

“That is your decision,” Thaddeus replied, manifestly grateful that his offer had not been taken up.

He led them back the way they had come, and upon reaching the end of the first gallery, Ronan passed his torch to Murdo, saying, “Perhaps it would be best if you waited here to light our way.”

Murdo accepted the torch, and watched the others disappear up the passage leading to the crypt above. He heard their footsteps fade quickly, swallowed by the great stillness of the catacombs. He stood for a while, looking around, and his eye fell on a nearby niche; there was an inscription carved into the side of the box-like hollow. Holding the torch closer, he made out the curious scratchings of Greek letters; the inscription on the next one was Greek, too—as were most of the others. He did, however, find one or two in Latin, and of one of these he was able to make out the name and the year of death: Marcus Patacus…Anno Domini 692.

Here was a man who had lived and died more than four hundred years ago. Murdo could not comprehend such a vast amount of time, but the discovery sparked in him the desire to see if he could find another, perhaps older still. He began hobbling along the gallery, holding his torch to the carvings. Upon coming to the end, he turned and entered another room which he had not seen before. This room was filled with columns and pillars of various kinds supporting a high, many-vaulted roof. As in the other galleries, there were many hundreds of corpse niches, but also a goodly number of larger, more ornate tombs, some carved into the walls, others free-standing. Most of the tombs boasted flat-featured carvings of men and women in flowing robes, seated or reclining, their faces serene and dignified.

He was examining his sixth or seventh tomb when he heard the patter of footsteps in the room behind him, and remembered that he was supposed to be waiting for the others. Turning quickly, he started limping back the way he had come and, upon reaching the doorway, saw the reflected glow of torchlight moving along the gallery beyond.

“Here I am!” he called, shuffling forward as fast as his sore feet would allow. He ducked through the door and came face to face with a tall, dark-haired monk robed in white. The monk carried a torch which burned with a bright light which seemed to fill the gallery. “Oh!” Murdo said in surprise. “I thought it was…I was just—”

Murdo's explanation died in the air as the realization broke upon him that he had seen this priest before. “You!” he gasped. Upon saying the word, his mind instantly returned to the little chapel he had found when wandering the streets of Antioch trying to find his way back to the marketplace and citadel.

“You were in Antioch,” Murdo said. “I saw you there—in the chapel. You showed me how to find my way.”

“Did you find the way?” asked the white priest.

“I did,” answered Murdo. The air seemed to have become heavy and difficult to breathe. He stared at the monk, and noticed the torch burned with a silent flame which inexplicably produced no shadows. “Are you the one called Andrew?”

The priest regarded him, his quick dark eyes gleaming with a disconcerting intensity. “I am,” he said. He held his head to one side, as if listening. After a moment, he said, “Night is far gone, and time grows short. Will you serve me, brother?”

Murdo swallowed hard. “Forgive me, lord,” he said, “I fear I must disappoint you, for I have no wish to become a monk.”

The priest laughed at this, and his voice echoed among the tiered ranks of bones and shrouds. Murdo felt a shock at the
strangeness of such mirth in the silent realm of the dead. He glanced around quickly, as if fearing the sudden onslaught of that joyful sound might be enough to rouse the dead.

“I have monks enough, my friend,” the priest told him. “But I need kings also.”

“I am no king,” Murdo replied, “nor ever likely to be. Indeed, I am but a farmer.”

“A farmer without a farm?” Andrew mused. “That is something new. But then all the world is turned upside down.” Holding Murdo with the strength of a gaze which pierced him to the quick, he said, “But tell me now: when the king seizes the farmer's fields, may not the farmer assume the king's throne?”

Murdo shifted awkwardly under the intense scrutiny of the man's gaze.

“All you possess was given you for a purpose, brother. I ask you again: will you serve me?”

The question hung between them, demanding an answer. “I will do what I can,” replied Murdo.

“If all men did as much,” the white monk declared, “it would be more than enough.” He raised a hand to Murdo's shoulder. Murdo, fearing for his sunburn, winced in anticipation; yet, the touch was so gentle it caused no pain. Instead, as the monk's grip tightened on his shoulder, Murdo felt as if he were held in place by a mighty and exalted strength. Moreover, he sensed an ardent vitality of purpose flowing through the touch. Powerless to move or speak, Murdo could only watch and listen.

“Build me a kingdom, brother.” Brother Andrew gazed upon him, urging him, willing him to accept what he had heard, and believe. “Establish a realm where my sheep may safely graze,” the earnest cleric continued, “and make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striv
ing. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.”

Before Murdo could think what to say to this extraordinary request, a voice called out from the catacomb entrance in the room beyond. “Murdo!—are you there? We need the torch!”

“Ronan!” gasped Murdo. “I forgot.” He turned towards the sound, and found that he could move again. He ran two steps, remembered himself, and looked back.

The priest was gone, the gallery lit with the light of Murdo's lone torch. The radiance of the vision had already vanished.

Murdo darted away; he ran down the narrow passage to the doorway which joined the two galleries. He ducked his head to pass through the low door, and ran back along the length of the first gallery to where Ronan was waiting at the entrance, holding a single torch.

“I am sorry,” Murdo said quickly. “I was looking at some of the tombs.”

“Lead the way,” Ronan said. “Our friends are anxious to return to their rest.”

At these words, Murdo glanced up and, looking behind Ronan, made out a line of monks stretching back up the steps to the crypt above. They were carrying the corpse-shaped bundles. Seeing Murdo's grimace of dismay, the elder priest bent his head towards him. “The about insisted,” he whispered. “I could not refuse. This way, we may finish before dawn.”

Straightening once more, Ronan called to those behind him. “We are ready now. Follow on.” To Murdo he said, “Go—I will stay here to light the passage.”

Retracing their footprints in the dust, Murdo led the line of monks to the gallery they had chosen. He did not like so many strangers entangled in his affairs, but with their help, the work
of stowing the bundled treasure was quickly accomplished. When the others had been dismissed, Murdo and Ronan made certain the treasure was tucked well out of sight. Murdo then placed his father's shield below the niche to mark the place. When he was at last satisfied that nothing unusual could be seen by anyone, he allowed himself to be pulled away.

“Come along,” Ronan urged, “it is getting on towards dawn, and we must return the camel to its owner.”

They quickly retraced their steps to the crypt and hurried out into the thin gray light of a fast-fading night. They crossed the yard, collected the camel and passed back through the gate, and it was not until they were well down the road that Emlyn noticed the smoothness and strength of Murdo's stride.

“Look at you now!” he exclaimed. “You are running!”

Murdo had to admit that it did appear to be so; he could not explain it, but his feet no longer hurt him, and his sunburned skin was no longer painful to the touch. “I suppose I am feeling much better,” he allowed.

“Oh, to be young again,” sighed Fionn, laboring along beside the disagreeable camel.

When they came again to the road leading past the Jaffa Gate, Fionn turned the animal westward and they began climbing towards a small cluster of arms nestled in the hills. Murdo fell into step beside the senior cleric. “Are you truly an abbot?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ronan confirmed, “but among our brotherhood, such distinctions are not so important that we make much of them.”

“What did you tell the priests?”

“Which priests?”

“Back there—at the monastery. They were not about to allow us to use their catacombs. But you spoke to the abbot.
What did you tell them to make them change their minds?”

“The truth, Murdo,” replied Ronan. “I simply told them the truth—that generally produces the most satisfactory result, I find.”

“You told them about the treasure?” cried Murdo, stopping in his tracks.

“Calm yourself,” the priest replied. “Have a little faith, son. How could I have told them any such thing, when I vowed to uphold your secret? No. I simply said that these were the last remains of a very wealthy family, and that I had every confidence that you—the youngest surviving member of that noble family—would be most happy to give the monastery a handsome reward in exchange for keeping them safe until you return to take them away to your own country.” Ronan smiled. “Was I wrong in any of this?”

Murdo shook his head at the priest's audacity. “No,” he allowed, “you were not wrong.”

At the first house they found a post in the yard, where they tethered the animal. They were just finishing this task when the farmer appeared in the doorway of the house. He shouted something at them, whereupon Ronan turned and spoke to him in his own language.

The man moved into the yard, clutching a stout wooden staff. Ronan spoke again, putting out his hand towards Murdo. The farmer stopped, regarded them coolly for a moment, and then answered, speaking quickly and harshly.

“What does he say?” asked Murdo.

“I have told him that we borrowed his beast, and have returned it. He does not believe me, however; he thinks we were trying to steal it.”

“Ask him if thieves pay for the things they take.” Murdo instructed.

Ronan obliged, and then said, “He says the crusaders have taken everything else, and paid him nothing. Why should he think us better than the rest?”

Murdo reached into his belt and produced a gold coin. While the monks stood looking on, he stepped before the man and placed the coin in his open palm. “Tell him we are not thieves.”

The man looked at the coin, but did not close his hand. He spoke to Ronan, who interpreted, saying, “Neither is our friend here a thief. He says it is too much for the use of his camel; he cannot accept it.”