The Iron Lance (39 page)

“Listen to me now, Murdo. I am a priest, and I am your friend,” Emlyn declared. “And I will do what any friend might do: I will raise you from the pit into which you have fallen. And I will do what only a priest can do: I will redeem you and set your feet on the True Path once more, and guide you towards the Holy Light.”

“Please,” he begged, hope rising in him again. Only a heartbeat ago he had glimpsed himself so lost and utterly bereft of virtue, it did not seem possible that he could be redeemed. “Tell me what I must do, and I will do it. Shrive me, Emlyn.”

“Very well,” agreed the monk. He halted and, taking Murdo's arm, turned him around. “Kneel down and bow your head.”

The road was empty; there was no one around. Murdo did as he was told, bowing his head and folding his arms across his chest. Emlyn, placing a hand on his shoulder, began to pray, interceding on Murdo's behalf and begging forgiveness for him. He then said, “Murdo, do you renounce evil?”

“I renounce evil,” answered Murdo with conviction.

“Do you cling to Christ?”

“I cling to Christ.”

“Do you repent of your sins?”

“I do repent of my sins.” In that instant, he ached to be rid of them and make a clean start.

“God save you, Murdo,” said Emlyn. Then, placing his hands on Murdo's head, he spoke a rune of blessing over him, saying,

The priest then clapped his hands and said, “Rise, Murdo Ranulfson, and rejoice! Your sins are forgiven, and remembered no more. You may resume life's journey with a pure and unblemished soul.”

As Murdo climbed to his feet once more, he did feel the burden roll away from him. There was a lightness in himself he had forgotten; he felt calm and reassured and, for the first time in a very long time, at peace with himself.

He looked with astonished eyes at the round-shouldered monk before him. “How did you do that?” Murdo asked, astounded at the suddenness and intensity of the feeling.

Emlyn regarded him curiously. “I suspect you have never been properly shrift before. Oh, it is a splendid feeling, is it not?”

Murdo agreed with all his heart. Certainly, nothing any other priest had ever said or done had ever produced such a remarkable and profound effect on him. It occurred to Murdo that perhaps for the first time in his life he had, however fleetingly, brushed against true holiness, and the result was wondrous. His spirit fairly bubbled inside him like a fountain overflowing a too-narrow container. He felt as if he could life mountains with a single word, as if he could reach out and pluck the rising moon from the sky and hold it in the palm of his hand, as if he had but to stamp his foot to send whole legions of the Enemy fleeing back to their darksome dens.

They continued on then, but Murdo, no longer content to walk, wanted to run. He wanted to fly!

“Come along, Emlyn!” he cried, dashing a few steps ahead. “My brothers are waiting! Hurry! We are soon there! Hurry!”

“I am hurrying,” the cleric insisted, lumbering into a stiff-legged trot. “Patience is also a virtue, you know.”

They proceeded along the road through the valley beneath Jerusalem's high walls. When the path began to rise towards the hills, Murdo was persuaded to take a slower pace. “If you did not believe in the pope's decree for the crusade, why did you come to Jerusalem?” he asked, falling into step beside his friend once more. “If not for the crusade, why did you undertake the pilgrimage?”

“There are as many reasons for pilgrimage as there are paths and pilgrims,” answered Emlyn.

Murdo was not to be put off. “What was
your
reason?”

Emlyn pursed his lips. “We were…” he hesitated, “commanded to come to Jerusalem.”

“By King Magnus,” Murdo assumed aloud. “I remember.”

“No,” Emlyn answered. “We were commanded in a vision. King Magnus' appeal came later.”

Murdo looked sideways at the monk to see if he had heard him correctly. “What sort of vision was it?”

“A very ordinary sort, I believe,” the cleric said. “We were commanded to come and wait upon God to tell us what to do.”

“Well?” demanded Murdo. “Has God told you?”

“He has,” answered Emlyn. “What we learned in Antioch confirmed our calling beyond all doubt.” When he appeared inclined to let the matter rest there, Murdo grew impatient with his reluctance.

“You said you were my friend,” Murdo reminded him. “I have entrusted you with the shriving of my soul. I will not betray your secret.”

“We were commanded to rescue the lance.”

The reply was so far from what Murdo expected, it caught him out of step. “The Holy Lance?” he said, as if there might be some other.

“To be sure,” answered the monk. “We have been told to rescue the sacred relic from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy.”

“Who told you to do this?” inquired Murdo, already sensing the reply before it came.

“Saint Andrew,” Emlyn said, and explained that Ronan was the only one who had seen the saint. “In a vision, as I say. Fionn and I trust Ronan's judgment in these matters, Brother Ronan is a most holy and devout man.”

“I do not doubt it,” Murdo replied, his heart burning within him. Should he tell Emlyn about his own encounter with the mysterious saint?

Before he could work up the courage to say anything, the monk sang out, “There! On the hillside! I see Baldwin's camp.”

The Count of Edessa had established his camp atop the Mount of Olives, erecting his own tent on the crown of the hill. The campfires spread out on every side, spilling down the western slope overlooking the walls of the Holy City which rose straight and tall across the Vale of Kidron. As the night was warm, the fires of the soldiers were small—merely lights to illumine their faces while they talked and supped and drank the dark wine of Palestine.

Baldwin had brought four hundred knights and footmen, as many as he could spare from the defense of Edessa. They had arrived just after midday and he had proceeded into the city to hold close council with brother Godfrey, leaving his nobles to arrange the camp as they saw fit. As usually happened, the various groups—the Franks, Scots, Flemish, Normans, and others—had clumped together with their own kin and countrymen, pitching their tents together around a fire or two. Thus, it was a fairly simple matter for Murdo and Emlyn to locate the Dark Islanders.

“Pax Vobiscum, friends,” said Murdo, stepping up to the first group of soldiers they met. “We are looking for the sons of Lord Ranulf of Orkneyjar. Can anyone here tell us where they might be found?”

This brought a few mumbled suggestions and much shrugging of shoulders, but no firm answer. Murdo thanked them
and moved on. At the next clump of men, they received a better reception, and the information that the Orkney men were most likely with the Danes—although no one had seen them after arriving at Jerusalem. They might be camped anywhere, they said, why not try near the horse pickets?

The two proceeded to another campfire a little further on, and learned that the Danes were up at the top of the hill. “They are near to the count's tents,” one of the knights told them. “I saw them there before dark.”

As the count's tents were closer, they decided to try there next. They climbed the hillside in the dark and came upon the count's encampment—a cluster of large tents before which stood the count's standard and those of two other noblemen, the gold and silver trim glimmering in the fireglow. Below the encampment was a group of smaller tents. Murdo and Emlyn heard laughter from the camp, but the mirth died away quickly as they approached.

“Pax Vobiscum, friends—” began Murdo once more, breaking off as two large soldiers rose from their places.

“Move on, move on. We need no priest here tonight,” said one of the men.

“Torf?” The soldier, his face half in shadow, glanced towards him. “Torf-Einar,” said Murdo, coming into the firelight. “It is me—Murdo.”

The soldier stared as recognition slowly transformed his scowl. “Murdo?” he asked in amazement. “Is it you?”

“Torf, I—”

“God bless us, it
is
Murdo!” cried another voice as a third man rose from among those hulking at the fire.

“Skuli!” cried Murdo, stepping quickly over the fire to join his brothers.

Torf slapped him on the back in rough welcome, and
shouted to the others looking on. “Here now! It is our brother come to join us!”

“Murdo what are you doing here?” asked Skuli, thumping his back happily. “How did you find us?”

“Look at you now,” said Torf, breaking in. “Almost as tall as me. I never guessed it was you. How did you get here?”

“Skuli…Torf,” replied Murdo, shaking his head. “I am so glad I found you. Are you well?”

“When did you arrive?” asked Skuli. “Have you been here long?”

“What news from home?” said Torf. “Father is in Jerusalem. Did you know that?”

“Have you seen him?” said Skuli. “We parted company at Ma'arra.”

“Where is Paul?” asked Murdo glancing around quickly. “Is he here with you?”

Torf's smile faded. “Paul did not make it to Edessa,” he explained. “The fever at Antioch took him, and he died there. That was when we decided to join Count Baldwin.”

“Who is the priest?” wondered Skuli, brightening the mood once more. He turned towards Emlyn who stood looking on across the campfire.

“This is my friend, Brother Emlyn,” Murdo answered. “We have been travelling together.”

“Murdo and a priest on pilgrimage together!” hooted Skuli. “I never would have believed it. Do not tell me
you
have taken vows, Murdo. You
hate
priests more than Torf even.”

“No,” laughed Murdo, “I never would. There are two others—they are counselors to King Magnus. They allowed me to join them.”

“King Magnus is here, too?” asked Torf. “How many men did he bring?”

“A fair many,” Murdo said. “Nearly four hundred in all.”

“Then he should join Baldwin,” Torf said. “The count is paying his soldiers well.”

Emlyn spoke up then, saying, “Perhaps we might find a place to talk among ourselves. You all have much to say to one another, and I would like a drink after our long walk.”

“Yes! Yes, to be sure,” agreed Torf. “This way—there is a tree just here. Skuli, fetch us a jar and cup.” To Murdo and the priest, he said, “It is wine only—there is no ale hereabouts, but we are growing used to it.”

“I have found a taste for wine,” the fat cleric remarked. “It is wet, after all, and goes down tolerably well.”

Torf laughed at this, and led them away from the campfire to a twisted old olive tree a few paces away. The view across the valley to the Holy City—pale as bone in the moonlight, and silent as a tomb—brought the solemnity of his purpose to Murdo's mind once more.

They settled themselves beneath the branches. Emlyn rested his bulk against the trunk, and Torf reclined on the patch of dry grass around the gnarled and twisting roots; Murdo sat crosslegged opposite his brother, suddenly silent. All the things he had to say bubbled in a strong ferment inside him—but where to begin? What to tell first? There was so much, he could not think what to say, so merely stared at his brother, willing Torf to understand the need that had driven him over oceans to search them out, to lay his plea before them.

“How do you like Jerusalem?” asked Torf after a time. “They say the fighting was good. Were you here when the city fell?”

“We were here,” answered Murdo. Not caring to refresh the memory of that day, he asked instead, “Is it far to Edessa?”

“Aye, far enough,” replied Torf-Einar. “It took us ten days to get here. If they had prolonged the siege, we might have joined
the battle. We got word four days ago that the city was taken.”

“There is a lot of plunder, they say,” remarked Skuli as he rejoined them. He filled the cup with wine and passed it to the priest.

“Sláinte!” said Emlyn, raising the cup. He drank deeply and passed the cup to Murdo, who took a mouthful and passed it on to Torf; he drained it and gave it back to Skuli for refilling.

“Murdo,” said Skuli, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are the last person I ever thought to see here. But how is our lady mother to do with the farm? Is she to take care of it all herself now?”

Murdo, loath to darken the mood with bad tidings, nevertheless decided it could not be put off any longer. “That is why I have come,” he said. “Hrafnbú is lost.”

“Lost?” wondered Skuli over the rim of his cup. “Hrafnbú gone? Murdo, how could you let—”

Torf held up his hand for silence.

“That is not the half of it,” Murdo continued. “Father is dead—two days ago. I was with him when he died.”

This last was received in stunned silence, which Murdo allowed to endure. After a long moment, Torf said, “Tell us what happened.”

“He was wounded. Emlyn here, and the other monks—they found him in one of the tents,” Murdo said, and went on to explain how they had found Lord Ranulf, his death, and burial in the valley outside the walls of the Holy City. Torf and Skuli listened quietly, alternately frowning and shaking their heads. Murdo then told them how he had come to Jerusalem so that their father might return to Orkney and set about reclaiming their estate.

“You are Lord of Hrafnbú now,” Murdo concluded with a nod to Torf-Einar. “It is for you to come back to Orkneyjar and settle our affairs once and for all.”

Torf stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I am sorry to hear of your bad luck,” he said at last. “But I am not going back.”

“We can get a boat at Jaffa,” Murdo said, “I know many of the nobles are going home now, and we can get passage with one of them. We can leave at once, and—”

“Murdo!” Torf said, raising his voice. “I said I am not going back to Orkney. Skuli and I have sworn fealty to Count Baldwin. We are staying here to fight for him.”

“But the crusade is finished,” said Murdo, struggling to understand. “We can go home now.”

“The count has taken Edessa,” Torf told him. “He has made it the first city of a great kingdom, and he has promised that any who stay to help him will be rewarded with gold and lands of their own. There is much wealth here, and we mean to get our share.”

“It is true, Murdo. We will soon have enough plunder to become counts, too,” Skuli added. “We will have a realm of our own, with palaces and horses and treasure beyond counting. Baldwin has done it—and Bohemond—and we will do it, too.”

“We have lands in Orkney,” Murdo protested weakly. “There is wealth enough there once we reclaim it. I know who it is that holds the land—he is one of Magnus' men and he is in Jerusalem. We could—”

“What we had in Orkney is nothing,” Torf said bluntly. “Compared to the wealth of the East, we were beggars. Hrafnbú is gone maybe, but it is not worth fighting over. And it is never worth travelling all the way back to Orkneyjar just to take it away from some fool of a Norseman who wants it. Let him have it, I say. There is more
here
. And it is ours for the taking.”

“You should stay with us, Murdo,” suggested Skuli. “We will all be kings together.”

Murdo stared at the men before him. Were these really his brothers? How could they talk so? The death of their father had not even raised a sigh of regret, and the loss of their lands produced nothing but scorn.

“Kings!” Murdo mocked. “No king would refuse to fight for his lands and people. You want treasure? I have treasure, and wealth enough for all of us. Lord Ranulf saved all his share of the plunder won from the enemy, and I have it. We can go home and use it to win back our lands.”

“You do that, Murdo,” Torf said. “You take whatever Ranulf saved, and go back home.”

“We know about out father's treasure,” Skuli said. “A few bits of gold and silver—we've seen it. I tell you the truth, Murdo, there are men here—not lords, but soldiers like us—who have amassed more treasure in a single battle than any jarl of Orkney ever saw. We have gold and silver, too, and we mean to get more.”

“Take Hrafnbú if that is what you want,” Torf told him. “While you are scratching a living on your rock of an island, I will be Count of Tyre and Sidon. Think about that when you are wading in pig shit on your grand bú!”

Murdo shook his head in dismay. He had travelled from one end of the Earth to the other for the sake of his home and family—only to be told he was a fool for caring.

Anger, frustration, and humiliation warred within him. Anger won the fight, and he rose slowly to his feet, fists balled, arms trembling to contain his rage. “I have heard enough,” he said through teeth clenched so hard his jaws hurt.

He glared at his brothers—Skuli sitting smug-faced and superior, Torf sneering with derision—the moonlight making their features pale, like the corpses he had seen in the streets of Jerusalem. It came to him that he was looking at dead men, and that this was the last time he would see them.

“I have done what was required of me,” Murdo said. “I am going home, and I am taking the treasure with me.”

“Take it,” Torf said hotly. “Take the lordship, too. Lord of Hrafnbú—I give it to you, and it's not worth a fart. Hear me: we have offered you a chance to make something of yourself. If you cannot see that, then you deserve whatever you get.”

“Stay with us, Murdo,” offered Skuli. “Baldwin will give you a place in his war host. We will soon be getting lands of our own, and we will make you a duke.”

“I want nothing from you,” Murdo answered, his voice thick with disappointment and regret. “Fare well…” he hesitated over the word, then said, “
Brothers
…we will not see one another again.” Turning to Emlyn, he said, “We have done what we came here to do, let us be on our way.”

He turned his back and started down the hill.

“Murdo,” pleaded Skuli behind him, “stay the night at least. We will talk, and you will see the thing differently in the morning.”

When Murdo made no answer, Skuli rose and started after him. “Wait! Listen to me! Murdo, wait!”

“Let him go, Skuli,” said Torf. “He always was a sneaking little coward.” To Murdo he shouted, “Go on, coward! Run away home like you always do.”

The words were hateful; once they would have stung, but he felt nothing from them now. Murdo held nothing but pity for the man who had spoken them.

Emlyn fell into step beside him, but said nothing. They walked for a long time, descending to the valley where they found the road once more. The walls of Jerusalem loomed over them, black and imposing, and though the moon was fading as it drifted lower towards the hills, the sky was still bright with stars. “That did not go well,” the monk observed after they had resumed their march along the southern wall.

“No,” said Murdo. “It did not go well.”

“What will you do now?”

“I will do what I said I would do.”

“Return home and claim your farm?”

“Yes.”

“You said the man who holds your lands is in Jerusalem now,” Emlyn mused, “is that so?”

“He is,” Murdo muttered. Having just lost his brothers to greed and covetous ambition, he did not feel like discussing the finer points of his grievance.