The Iron Lance (4 page)

Nicetas, who had been waiting on the hilltop, joined the emperor, and said, “The Cuman are growing restless, basileus. They say that if they are not allowed to fight before midday, they will leave the battlefield.”

“It is a long time to midday,” Alexius replied. “Their patience is soon rewarded. See here!” He pointed to the approaching horde. No longer a single amorphous line, the barbarians had separated themselves into three distinct bodies, each under the leadership of a battlechief. “Tell our vengeful friends that we will soon deliver their enemies into their hands. Warn them to be vigilant.”

Nicetas saluted, turned his horse and galloped back to his position. The emperor returned to the head of his troops to lead the next assault. Aware that he was embarking on the most dangerous phase of the battle, Alexius uttered a brief prayer and crossed himself. Reining in among his standard-bearers once more, he signalled to Taticius, who turned and shouted the order: “Slow march!”

The trumpets sounded, and the long ranks of horsemen stepped out. The invaders reacted to the movement by increasing the distance between their divisions. Alexius could see that if he gave them half a chance, the enemy would try to outflank him. Should the barbarian horde succeed, the balance of the battle would shift perilously.

Alexius watched the two enemy clusters moving farther out
on either side of the central host. Behind the three advancing bodies, he could see the rest of the enemy horde taking up the positions vacated by the three advancing groups.

They were learning, he thought; their battles with the empire over the years was teaching them the rudiments of tactical warfare. Each encounter was more difficult to win, and more costly: all the more reason to make certain it ended here and now. He raised his hand and signalled his strategus. An instant later the trumpets sounded their high clarion call, and the imperial troops surged ahead.

As expected, the moment Alexius committed himself to his attack, the enemy's two flanking bodies turned and drove in on either side. At the same time, the greater host behind swept in to surround and crush the Immortals.

As before, the attack was halted by the dense numbers of foemen, who absorbed the assault with their shields and bodies. The horse soldiers abandoned their lances and took up swords to slash their way free of the enemy's grasp. Glancing quickly to the right and left, Alexius saw the enemy divisions closing swiftly. He gave Taticius the sign, and the trumpets sounded retreat.

Crouching low, Alexius jerked the reins back hard, wheeled his mount and led the Byzantines in full flight up the hill. The barbarians, amazed at the ease with which they had blunted the imperial attack, rushed forward to press their advantage. The three main bodies, followed by the great rolling wave—twenty thousand barbarians wide and twenty deep—swept on up the hill at a run, determined not to allow the Byzantines enough time to regroup for another charge.

With an earth-trembling roar, the barbarians rushed to the kill, their feet pounding the hillside, weapons gleaming in the bright sunlight. The Immortals, unable to order the ranks and
prepare the charge, had no other choice but to retreat further up the hill. The trumpets shrilled the call to retreat.

Within moments, the imperial horsemen were fleeing the field, cresting the hill and disappearing over the other side. The barbarians, screaming in triumph, pounded after them, baying for blood.

Upon reaching the hilltop, the enemy saw the Immortals galloping down the far slope toward a loop of the river. Eager to catch the horsemen as they floundered through the ford, the barbarians flew after the retreating troops, shrieking in triumph.

Down and down they came, streaming headlong into the valley, racing for the river. As the first barbarians reached the fording place, however, ten thousand foot soldiers suddenly appeared on either flank. Hidden in the rushes at the water's edge, the imperial infantry rose up with a shout. At the same instant, the Immortals turned their horses and started back, throwing the barbarians into a howling panic.

Desperate now to retake the high ground lest they find themselves pinched between the two opposing forces, the foemen turned and fled back the way they had come.

It was then that the Cuman mercenaries appeared on the hilltop behind them: an entire barbarian nation, thirty thousand strong, and each and every one of them nursing a long-standing hatred of their Pecheneg and Bogomil neighbors.

The trap was sprung, and the slaughter commenced.

Alexius, confident of the outcome, withdrew from the battle. Summoning his Varangian bodyguard, he charged Dalassenus to bring word as soon as victory was complete, then rode at once to his tent.

That was where the Grand Drungarius found the emperor, bathed, shaved, dressed in his clean robes, dictating a letter to the Magister Praepositus, who was taking Alexius' words and inscribing them on a wax tablet.

“Ah, Dalassenus! Enter!” he called as the young man appeared behind Gerontius. He waved the chief scribe away, saying, “That is all—bring it to me to sign as soon as you are finished. It will be sent immediately.” The scribe bowed once and withdrew. “Well? Tell me, how did the battle end?”

“As you predicted, basileus,” answered the commander.

“Indeed?”

“Down to the last detail. The Cuman auxiliary were merciless. Once they had the scent of blood in their nostrils, we had no need to engage the Immortals. We merely stood by to prevent the survivors escaping into the hills.” He paused, and added, “There were no survivors.”

“Gerontius, did you hear?” called the emperor. “Our victory is absolute! Pour the wine! Dalassenus and I will drink to the triumph.”

The elderly magister bent to the table, and turned a moment later bearing golden cups. The emperor lofted one of the cups and said, “All praise to God, who has delivered our enemies into our hands, and driven them into the dust of death!”

“All praise to God,” the Grand Drungarius answered.

They drank together and Alexius, laying aside his cup quickly, said, “See here, Dalassenus. I have already sent messengers back to the city. The ships will be ready to sail upon your arrival. It is a cruel thing to dispatch a man fresh from the battlefield, I know. But you will have a good few days' rest aboard ship.”

The young commander nodded. “It is no hardship, basileus, I assure you.”

“It is not that I do not trust the Logothete or the Syneculla,” Alexius continued. “Indeed, they will go with you. But this is primarily a military matter, and the Patriarch of Rome must know the importance I place on the victory we have achieved
today, and how much I value his aid. Now that the northern border is secure, we can turn our attention to the south and east.”

The emperor began pacing back and forth, clenching his fists. “We can begin taking back the lands the Arabs have stolen. At long last, all we have worked for is within our grasp. Think of it, Dalassenus!”

Alexius stopped, regaining control of his free-racing hopes. “Alas, the army is not ready to meet the challenge.”

“Your troops fight well, basileus,” Dalassenus disagreed mildly. “We could not ask for better soldiers, nor would we find them.”

“Do not misunderstand me. I agree: they are brave men—the most disciplined and courageous soldiers in the world—but they are too few. The constant warring has taken its toll, and we must begin rebuilding the themes. There is so much to be done, but it is within our very grasp now, and—”

The smile on Dalassenus' face arrested his kinsman's familiar tirade.

“Forgive me, cousin,” Alexius said, “I am forgetting myself. You, who have been with me from the beginning, know it all as well as I. Better, perhaps, in many respects.”

Dalassenus turned to the table, refilled the emperor's cup and handed it to him. “Let us savor the victory a moment longer, basileus.” Raising his cup, he said, “For the glory of God, and the welfare of the empire.”

“Amen!” replied the emperor, adding, “May the peace we have won this day last a thousand years.”

Murdo wilted under the abbot's interminable prayers and wished he was far away from Kirkjuvágr. His knees ached from kneeling so long, and the smoke from the incense made his empty stomach queasy. The dim interior of the great church reminded him of a cave: dank and cool and dark. Save for a smattering of candles around the altar, and a few tiny slit windows, he might have been deep in an earth-howe, or one of the ancient chambered tombs scattered among the low hills. Outside it was balmy midsummer, but here inside the cathedral it was, ever and always, dreary mid-November.

Craning his neck sharply to the right, he could see the stern countenances of saints Luke and John staring from the nearest wall in sharp disapproval at his fidgeting. Higher up, under the roof-tree, a frog-eyed gargoyle grinned down from a corbel—as if in merry mockery of Murdo's growing discomfort. To his left knelt his mother and father, and before him his brothers and cousin. None of them, he knew, shared his distress, which made it all the worse.

The Feast of Saint John was one of the few holy days Murdo truly enjoyed, and here he was spending it in the worst way possible. If he had been at the bú, the morning service would have been over long since and he would be filling himself with roast pork and barley wine. Instead, he was trapped in a damp, dark cavern of a church listening to some lickspit priest gabble on and on and on in irksome Latin.

Why, of all possible days, did it have to be this one? He moaned inwardly, contemplating the ruin of the day. The waste of a good feast-day was a mortal sin, yet the bishop, in typical ignorant clerical selfishness, had decreed the Feast of Saint John for the cross-taking. The only consolation, and it was cold comfort indeed, lay in the fact that at least Murdo was not alone in his misery.

Indeed, the entire church was full and so was the yard outside—full of men and women of rank, as well as merchants and tenants of various holdings large and small, from many of Orkney's low-scattered isles: hundreds of islanders in clutches and knots, all of them kneeling, like himself, heads down, faces almost touching the clammy stone, intoning their dull responses in a low, mumbled drone. Murdo imagined they were each and every one praying that the abbot would, for God's sake, stop.

Seeing them like this, their backs all bent, put Murdo in mind of a field of boulders, and it was all he could do to stop himself leaping up and making his escape by skipping from one humped back to the next like stepping stones. Instead, he lowered his head once more, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to think of the succulent roast pork and sweet ale he was missing.

When at last the ox-brained abbot
did
stop, Murdo rose to his feet, almost faint with hunger. He stared glumly, forlornly ahead, as yet another black-robed cleric ascended to the pulpit high above the upturned faces of the overcrowded sanctuary. Bishop Adalbert stood for a time, gazing beatifically down from his lofty perch. Satisfied that every eye was upon him, he thrust out his hands and declared, “This is the favorable day of the Lord!”

“Amen,” the congregation mumbled. The response sounded to Murdo like the sea when it lies uneasy on the shore.

Again, the bishop put forth his hands and proclaimed, “This is the favorable day of the Lord!”

“Amen,” muttered the crowd, sounding more and more like a fretful sea.

“Amen!” cried the bishop triumphantly. “For this day our Saviour King will receive into his service men of faith who will fight for him in the Holy Land.”

The cleric retrieved a square of parchment and made a show of unfolding and opening it. “This,” he explained, “has lately come into my hands: an epistle from our holy father, the Patriarch of Rome, bearing his seal.” He flourished the parchment to show the red blot of wax and the golden cord. Holding the letter before him, Adalbert began, “I read it thus: ‘Bishop Urban, servant of servants, to all the faithful of Christ, both rulers and subjects: Greetings, grace, and apostolic blessing. We know you have already heard that the frenzy of the barbarians has devastated the churches of God, and has, shame to say, seized into slavery the sacred relics of our faith, those blessed objects of veneration by which we recognize and proclaim the truth of our salvation. Alas! Not content to destroy our churches, the infidel have seized the Holy City of Jerusalem itself and would prevent God's people their rightful worship.'”

The good bishop paused to allow his listeners to more fully savor this dire state of affairs. “‘Grieving in pious contemplation of this disaster,'” Adalbert continued, making Murdo squirm, “‘we strongly urge the princes and people of every western land to work for the liberation of the Eastern Church. Who shall avenge these wrongs, who will recover the relics and lands if not you? You, my people, are the race upon whom God has bestowed glory in arms, greatness of spirit, physical energy, and the courage to humble the proud locks of all those who resist you.'”

Adalbert looked up from his reading to gaze upon the assembly as if to say,
I, too, have seen this glory, greatness and courage
. He then cleared his throat and continued. “‘We have heard that some of you desire to go to Jerusalem. Know then, that anyone who sets out on this journey, not out of lust for worldly advantage but only for the salvation of his soul and for the liberation of the Church, is remitted in entirety,'” the bishop paused so to repeat this astounding offer with appropriate weight, “‘
remitted in entirety
all penance for his sins, if he has made a true and perfect act of confession.

“‘O, most valiant knights, descendants of unconquerable ancestors, remember the courageous faith of your forefathers and do not dishonor it. I urge you to become Soldiers of Christ and follow the cross whereby you have received your strong salvation. For this purpose and to this end, we have appointed this a year of jubilee to be celebrated in the pursuit of Godliness and righteousness, the culmination of which is to be a pilgrimage to free Jerusalem from the wicked oppressor under which the Holy City languishes even now.

“‘Beloved in Christ, if God calls you to this task, know that this Most Holy Crusade will set out, with the aid of God, the day following the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. May Almighty God strengthen you in His love and fear, and bring you free from all sins and errors to the contemplation of perfect charity and true piety through this pilgrimage of faith.'”

Here the bishop laid aside the epistle and, gazing benevolently over his congregation, said, “Brothers and sisters, the day has come to declare our intentions in this holy enterprise. Whosoever would become a soldier for Christ, let them come forward now and, before this devout assembly, let them take the cross!”

At this, Murdo braced himself against the surge as the con
gregation started toward the pulpit. All around him, men and women were clamoring for the cross, reaching, stretching out their hands and calling on God to hear their heartfelt vows. The canny bishop was ready for the rush which met his invitation. No fewer than a dozen senior monks appeared on the dais below the high pulpit, each with a bundle of white cloth in his arms.

Murdo saw the bundles and, despite himself, his heart beat faster.
The crosses
! He had heard about the white cloth crosses, of course, and the thought that his brothers should receive them while he must go without was almost unbearable. He watched in an agony of jealous torment as the monks proceeded to distribute the white cloth crosses to the eager throng. The commotion of voices echoed among the roof beams like the din of bells.

When the crosses had been distributed all around, Bishop Adalbert instructed every recipient to kneel. He then led them in a vow of allegiance whereby they all swore a sacred oath never to abandon the holy pilgrimage so long as Jerusalem remained captive. His pilgrims duly forsworn, the bishop then took up his crozier and offered the benediction. “God bless you and keep you, and make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you now and forever. May victory be swift, and trials few, and may God speed your safe return. Amen.”

“Amen!” shouted the newly-recruited soldiers of Christ.

Murdo glared darkly at Torf and Skuli, who remained blissfully unaware of their younger brother's poisonous stare as they fingered the white cloth crosses and argued with Paul over whether it was best to wear them on the front or back. The interminable service finally over, Lord Ranulf led his family out of the church. Murdo shuffled after them, head down, defeated, and collided with Paul when the family was halted just outside
the door by a monk in a brown robe. The cleric exchanged a brief word with Ranulf, who made a courteous reply, and then turned and announced, “We have all been invited to observe the feast at the bishop's table.”

Murdo heard this and hope rekindled in his heart. The bishop's board was renowned throughout the isles, and second only to the jarl's table. Murdo allowed himself a smile at his unexpected good fortune. The bishop's table! Such lavish bounty, such wild abundance—who could have foreseen it?

The monk led them across the crowded courtyard, through an arched doorway, and into a sunny, cloistered square where at least ten long tables had been erected on the green. There were a good many people already gathered here and, to Murdo's increasing dismay, more, and still more guests, were arriving by way of other doors along the cloisters.

As no one had been given leave to sit, everyone swarmed onto the green, eagerly awaiting the summons to dine. There were so many! Had the bishop invited the entire congregation? By even the most casual estimation, Murdo reckoned he would be fortunate indeed to get so much as a gravy-soaked crust. And this, a true feast-day—in Murdo's regard, second only to the Christ Mass at Yuletide. All the other festal days, so far as Murdo could see, were unutterably dull and tedious, requiring, as they did, mass and prayers and obscure observances of various kinds. And anyway they were not true feasts at all since no special food was ever laid on, and chores still had to be done despite spending the whole day in church, which meant that he often ended up working in the dark, a thing Murdo loathed.

Saint John's day, however, was different. Though he still had to go to church, that hardship was made more endurable by the fact that, however long the services—and they could be bone-
achingly endless—there was the promise of good meat and ale and cakes afterwards. Occasionally, one or another of the priests was invited to Ranulf's board—an invitation, Murdo noticed, that was never, ever declined—and this made the festivities even better. Though Murdo resented the clerical intrusion, at least when monks were present the lord and lady tended to offer more lavish fare. Also, folk from neighboring farms often joined in, bringing food and drink with them so that the resulting feast was a celebration worthy of the name. What is more, falling as it did at midsummer, the festivities of this special day would inevitably extend far into the long-lingering twilight.

But now…now it was all ruined. Murdo watched the multitude assembling and his heart sank; he could not see how so many people could be fed, let alone feasted. There were not enough cakes and ale in all Orkneyjar to fill them. His stomach rumbled and he abandoned any hope of an adequate meal.

He was still occupied with this grim thought when he heard someone hail his father, and glumly looked around to see who might be joining them at the table. He saw a man he knew—Lord Brusi Maddardson—striding purposefully toward them across the green with his family straggling along in his wake.

Like Lord Ranulf, the Maddardson clan farmed a large estate on the island of Hrolfsey and consequently attended the same councils as Murdo's father. What is more, Murdo's mother and Lady Ragnhild were childhood companions, and had maintained a warm friendship over many years. The lord of Hrolfsey had three sons, the youngest of which was Torf's age, and one daughter, Ragna, who was only a year or two older than Murdo.

Owing to his age, Murdo had never been of interest to the brothers Maddardson, who always preferred the company of Torf and Skuli to the point of excluding Murdo entirely—not that Murdo minded overmuch, for he found the older boys friv
olous and loud, interested only in fighting, boasting, and besting one another.

Ah, but Lord Brusi's daughter was as different from her brothers as moonbeams from muck. She was, in Murdo's opinion, the sole saving grace of the entire Maddardson tribe. And this day, with its relentless indignities and insults, he had need of the sweet solace he always felt in her presence. Indeed, but one glance at the golden-haired Ragna approaching across the greensward, and the low dark clouds of despair parted and the sun shone full on Murdo again.

Tall and willowy, and with a fair and shapely form, the smooth-skinned Ragna embodied Murdo's idea of female charm. She possessed a kindly disposition, but was neither overly timid, nor too fastidiously female for Murdo's liking. Intelligent, and with a ready tongue to match, she held her own in any company, and Murdo respected that. To Murdo, her forthright demeanor seemed more boyish than maidenly, and it always struck him anew whenever they met; on those rare occasions, he wondered if it resulted from the fact that she was raised in a family of men, or whether her nature was in some way ordained by her childhood deformity.

The way Murdo heard it, she had been but a toddling babe when Lord Brusi's swineherd, upon hearing a squealing commotion, discovered her lifeless body in a field the pigs were gleaning. Upon driving off a recently-farrowed sow, he scooped up the child and, thinking only to wash away the mud and blood from the little mauled corpse, plunged her into the water trough. The cold shock revived her, whereupon the astonished swineherd ran with the screaming babe all the way back to the house where her wounds were swiftly tended. The damage was done, however; her badly-mangled foot had never straightened, resulting in a stutter-step limp. The horrid gash to her mouth
had healed in time, and was not usually noticed until she smiled: the hair-thin scar lifted the corner of her lip slightly, making her appear always somewhat sly and subtly mocking.