The Iron Lance (43 page)

“Does that mean you will not tell me?”

“It means,” replied the monk, “that you would do well to count the cost of following the True Path.”

“How can I count the cost,” complained Murdo, “if no one will ever tell me what it is? Who are the Célé Dé anyway, that you treat everyone with such suspicion?”

Emlyn sighed wearily, as if a sleeping dog had woken to snap at him once more. “Ever since King Oswy—that poor benighted man, weak-minded and easily led by his pernicious wife and that grasping Saxon bishop—we have been made to suffer Rome's insults. The Célé Dé, longer in the land than any Saxon, have everywhere been hounded by the pope's noxious minions and driven to the wastes and wilderness.” The priest's hands clenched at the ends of his arms.

“We, who established the church among the pagan folk from the first, are reviled and rebuked by those who received salvation from our hands,” Emlyn continued, his voice rising steadily. “We, who should sit at the banquet table with our noble brethren, are forced to stand in the yard with the lepers and malefactors! Almighty Rome gluts itself on the rich food of power in the realm of kings, yet our modest portion is denied. Having brought light and life to those who long dwelt in darkness and death, we are made wanderers and outcasts in the very lands that once rejoiced to speak our names.”

Murdo stared at the monk. He knew that there was some contention between Rome and the Célé Dé, but never had he heard any of the brothers complain so forcefully. “So that is why you chose King Magnus to be your protector,” mused Murdo, thinking about what he had been told earlier.

As Emlyn drew breath to reply there came a distant rumble
like the sound of a storm far away. Both he and Murdo turned instinctively to look behind them on the road. In a moment the sound came again, a little louder this time.

“More soldiers, I expect,” surmised Emlyn. “It seems we will never be lonely on this road.”

The drumming of the hooves, rolling relentlessly towards them, sounded ominous. “They are coming this way fast,” Murdo said. “And there are more of them.”

“Perhaps we will have some company on the way.”

“No,” Murdo countered, swiftly scanning the land around for a place to hide. “Get off the road.” Further on, the road passed through the remnant of a cedar and pine forest, but they would never make it. The last farm was too far back to be seen now, and there were no others ahead. Save for rocks of various sizes, and the occasional lonely olive tree and thorn bush, the land around them was barren.

“Over there—” Murdo pointed to a thorn bush growing from a little heap of rocks; together the bush and pile protruded above the surrounding landscape. Perhaps if they could get the camel to kneel, they might have a chance of hiding there.

Taking hold of the animal's harness, Murdo urged the beast off the dusty track towards the rock pile. They had just left the path, however, when, with a jerk of its head the camel stopped. Murdo pulled on the harness, but the beast refused.

“They are coming!” shouted Emlyn. “I can see them!”

Murdo whirled to look behind them. The riders could be seen now as they came up over the hill, but they were still too far away to be counted; there might be six or sixteen, he could not tell.

“Help me!” Murdo called, pulling hard on the rope rein. Emlyn dashed to the grain bag and dug in his hands. Then, holding his hands before the camel, he succeeded in coaxing the
beast forward a few more steps. But precious moments had been lost; the riders were now much closer.

There were not six or sixteen—there were more than sixty—and they were neither crusaders, nor Immortals. Murdo glimpsed the white-turbaned heads of the riders and his heart quailed. “Turks!”

The rock pile stood little more than a few dozen paces, but already it was too late. For although he and Emlyn might reach it in time to get themselves out of sight, the foul beast never would.

“Leave it!” said Emlyn.

“No!” shouted Murdo defiantly. “They will have to kill me to get their hands on my treasure.”

“They
will
do just that, and think nothing of it.” The monk tugged on his arm. “Come away, Murdo.”

“No!” Murdo darted to the camel's side and reached for his father's sword. “Hide behind the rocks. I will hold them off—”

“Murdo, stop!” said Emlyn, his voice taking on a note of authority Murdo had never heard him use before. “Think! It is not worth your life, son.”

“It
is
my life!” spat Murdo. “You cannot know what it means.” He drew the sword, and then unloosed the shield.

Emlyn stepped beside him and gripped him hard by the arm. “No, Murdo,” he told him. “Do not imagine that you will defeat them. Put aside the sword.”

“This is our only protection,” Murdo said, quickly strapping the sword belt around his waist.

“Listen to me closely; there is not much time. I can protect you,” the cleric said. “I can protect us both, but there can be no weapons.”

This was said simply, but with such confidence that Murdo felt his conviction wavering. He gripped the sword hilt in his hand, feeling the comforting heft of the blade. He glanced again
at the onrushing Turks; there were over a hundred, and still more appearing over the hill.

“You have trusted me in small things; will you trust me in this?” asked Emlyn. “Will you do what I ask of you?”

Still watching the enemy's approach, Murdo reckoned that, at best, he would only be able to strike three or four times with the sword before the enemy drove him down with their spears.

“What must I do?” asked Murdo.

“Stand next to me,” Emlyn instructed, “and take hold of my mantle.”

Although it made no sense, Murdo did as he was told. “Now give me the sword,” the monk directed.

Murdo hesitated.

“Hear me, Murdo: we do not need it. You must trust me now.”

Emlyn took the sword in both hands, closed his eyes and spoke a few prayer-like words, then began scratching the rough outline of a circle in the hard-baked, rocky dirt. Murdo watched as the Turks raced nearer. The monk completed the circle, joining the ends so that it now enclosed them; he then drew back his arm and let the sword fly. It spun once in the air and landed with a dull thud in the dust a few dozen paces away.

“What are you doing? They are almost here!” he said, unable to keep the fear from edging into his voice.

“This is the caim,” said the monk. “It is a powerful symbol.”

“Symbol!” Murdo almost shrieked. He knew better than to trust a priest. Why had he given Emlyn the sword?

“It represents the all-encompassing presence and protection of God. Now do not let go of my mantle, and do not step across the circle—understand?”

Murdo nodded.

“Our Lord Christ said that wherever two or three are gath
ered in his name, he would be with them.” Closing his eyes, he raised his hands, palm outward, and began to chant.

The Seljuqs were almost upon them now. Murdo could see the foam gleaming on the horses' sides, and the dark, unfriendly eyes of the riders. It took all his courage, but Murdo closed his eyes, too, and listened as Brother Emlyn said, “In the holy name of Jesu, I invoke the powerful protection of the Three to encompass me even now. I stand within the circle of the Great King's might, and place my life, my spirit, my soul in his loving care. Dearest Lord and Saviour, be to me the Swift Sure Hand of deliverance in danger. While enemies gather round about me, hide me in the hollow of your hand.”

The invocation finished, the two opened their eyes as the foe thundered past; the horses' hooves cast up clouds of gray dust as the riders hurtled by only a short spear's thrust away. The horses, nostrils wide, legs stretching and gathering, raced on as their riders, faces dark beneath white turbans, stared straight ahead, looking neither right nor left.

On and on they came, and Murdo and the priest, absolutely still inside their protecting ring, stood and watched. Murdo held tight to Emlyn's mantle, feeling that any moment one of the riders would see them and attack. But the Turks streamed by without so much as a sideways glance.

Finally, as the last of the enemy warriors flew past, Murdo released his grip on the priest's garment and turned to look for the camel. He glanced around quickly, disbelief turning quickly to alarm. He couldn't see the camel anywhere; the vile creature had vanished.

“The camel is gone.” Murdo's head swivelled this way and that, trying to locate the beast.

“Stand still,” hissed the monk, taking hold of Murdo's arm to hold him in place.

Even as he spoke, another band of Seljuq warriors appeared on the road. Murdo turned to look, and the movement must have been seen, for suddenly a group of enemy warriors swerved from the main body, left the road, and reined to a halt before them. The foremost Seljuq spoke a quick word and twenty spears swung level.

The eyes of the Turks glittered black and hard as chips of jet. The horses tossed their heads, their mouths and flanks speckled white with foam, their slender, almost delicate, legs shifting and restless in the settling dust. Behind them, Murdo saw the main body of the Seljuq war host galloping by; he saw the silver tracings on the horses' tack and the riders' saddles, and the glint of gold-handled knives in their wide cloth belts. He saw the ivory flash of teeth behind black beards, and the snowy mounds of bulbous turbans above lean faces the color of bronze.

The leader of the war band spoke, and he saw the man's mouth twitch out the incomprehensible words; flecks of spittle flew from his lips, each beaded droplet agleam like a mote of dust caught in the sunlight, his chin thrust up and out in contempt, in menace, in judgment.

All this Murdo saw with a dreadful heightened clarity—made all the more terrible by the dire pounding in his ears. The roar of blood pulsing through his veins filled his head with a booming thunder which drowned out all other sound. His mouth was sticky and dry. His scalp tingled and his heart raced, leaping wildly in his chest like a captive thing trying desperately to free itself. His legs trembled, his muscles aching to run, to flee; it took every last grain of courage to stand within the circle of the caim.

The leader spoke again and as the blade of his lance darted
forth, the point came to rest at the base of Murdo's throat. He felt the honed steel bite into his soft flesh, but he did not flinch. He stood to the blade, wishing only for a quick end. His last thought would be of Ragna, and he tried to see her face in his mind. To his dismay, he could not remember how she looked.

How fitting, he thought in disgust. His life had been ruined by priests, and now he would die having trusted one. Despite his resolve never again to believe a priest, that very thing would be his demise.

Sweat trickled down his forehead and cheeks.
Just finish it
, he thought.
Kill me and be done
!

The Seljuq commander spoke again, and Murdo drew a deep breath, preparing for the lethal stroke as, beside him, Emlyn slowly raised his hand as if in greeting.

“La ilaha illa 'Llah,” said the priest. He spoke clearly and slowly, and the effect was extraordinary.

The Turks stared at the monk. “La ilaha illa 'Llah,” the commander replied, repeating the strange words. The spear blade dropped instantly from Murdo's throat, and the enemy leader shouted a word to his men.

The Turks turned their mounts and instantly the warriors were galloping away, following their war host down the road. The commander glanced over his shoulder at Murdo and the monk, and cried, “Muhammadun rasulu 'Llah!” Then he put spurs to his horse and raced after his men.

Murdo watched with mingled relief and amazement as the troop joined the last of the Seljuq host. From the many banners and flags streaming from upraised spears and standards, Murdo guessed the amir himself was passing with his bodyguard. There must have been two hundred or more, each on a white horse with black harness and tack, and each warrior wearing a pointed helm with a white plume, and bearing a round shield with a sil
ver rim. Some of the warriors were leading horses laden with boxes and chests. Murdo stood and watched as rank after rank passed, disappearing at last over a rise further down the road.

When the Seljuqs had gone, he stirred and made to step from the caim. “Wait,” cautioned Emlyn.

Murdo looked down at the circle scratched in the dirt. Emlyn knelt and put his hands together, spoke a silent prayer, and then put his hand to the circle and rubbed out a portion of the mark, breaking the caim. “Now we can go.”

They stepped from the broken ring, and it seemed to Murdo as if he were waking from a dream. Emlyn, on the other hand, raised his hands and began a paean of praise for God's wide mercy and saving power. “We are alive, Murdo!” he cried. “Rejoice and praise God!”

“You said you would save us,” Murdo agreed, “and you did.”

“I did nothing but call upon God,” the priest corrected mildly. “It was Our Lord who delivered us out of the hands of the enemy.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Murdo. “The Turk battle chief—what did you say to him?”

“La ilaha illa 'Llah,” repeated the monk. “It is all the Arabic I know. It means: “there is no God but God alone,” and it is the one point on which all Christians and Muhammedans agree. I learned it from the brothers at Arles. You should rejoice in your good fortune, Murdo. It is God's good pleasure that we should yet remain in the land of the living. We were spared! Allelujah!”

Murdo nodded, still trying to comprehend what had happened. Had the charmed circle—the caim—saved them? Or, had the Turks simply had more urgent affairs to pursue? Perhaps the lives of a half-mad monk and a ragged, unarmed youth were not worth taking. Perhaps there was nothing more to it than that.

“We were rescued out of the hands of Death,” Emlyn continued, his face glowing with delight. “Our Good Shepherd has brought us through the Valley of the Shadow; he has shown favor to us according to his great and generous mercy. Today is a day to rejoice in the Lord and be glad.”

“I am glad,” Murdo insisted, and turned to look for the camel.

They found the lazy animal at rest in the scant shade of the little brush-topped hillock they had been making for when the Turks came upon them. The beast was asleep, motionless, its head upright, eyes closed, its dusty color blending into the dun-colored land around it—which is why, Murdo decided, he had not seen it when first he looked.

Murdo took hold of the rein rope, and began yanking at it to rouse the creature. It was then he noticed all the water had been spilled; the clumsy animal had sloshed every last drop from the pots as it swayed and tilted to fold its long legs under its belly.

“There is no more water,” Murdo said, indicating the empty pots as the monk joined him. “Do you have a charm for that, too?”

Emlyn gave him a disapproving frown. “O, ye of little faith.”

Murdo made no further comment and, with both of them yelling and tugging on the rope, they succeeded in rousing the reluctant beast. The camel gave out a loud blatter of complaint as it climbed awkwardly onto its legs. Emlyn led the animal to the road, and Murdo walked beside, pausing to retrieve his sword; they continued on—the priest rejoicing in God's saving power, and Murdo in a more reflective mood. As the sun dipped below the horizon, they reached the rise over which the Turks had disappeared.

It came into Murdo's mind that now he knew why the road had been so lonely, why they had seen no sign of anyone at any
of the farms and settlements they had passed. Most likely, the Seljuq army had been travelling this way for some time, driving the inhabitants into hiding.

Upon arriving at the top of the rise, they paused to look down the other side. In the glare of the setting sun they saw the road falling away in a long, gently rolling descent to the sea which gleamed as a thin silver strip on the horizon. Away to the left, still far off but easily visible as a lighter glimmer amidst the shimmering sea, was the port of Jaffa. They stood for a moment and gazed upon their destination.

“It looks as if
they
are making for Jaffa, too,” observed Emlyn, pointing down the slope to the white cloud of dust which marked the passage of the Seljuq war host.

“I suppose so,” said Murdo.

“Maybe we should go back to Jerusalem,” the monk suggested helpfully.

“We cannot go back to Jerusalem,” Murdo told him. “We have no water. Jaffa is closer. We can make it that far at least.”

“But if there is going to be fighting at Jaffa—”

“We have no choice,” replied Murdo, moving off.

The sun set and the evening twilight gathered around them. For the first time since leaving Jerusalem, Murdo felt the gnawing ache of hunger in his empty stomach. His mouth was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; he wished he had drunk some more when he had the chance.

The air began to cool as the last glimmer of twilight left the sky and night closed around them. They walked on through the night, until fatigue at last overtook them and they found a place beside the road to rest. They tethered the camel without unloading it, and then settled themselves for the night. Exhausted by the rigors of the day, Murdo took a stone for his head and slipped into a deep dreamless sleep, awaking only to
the rumble of distant hooves.

Murdo lay for a moment, listening to the sound seeping up from the ground through the stone on which he rested. The rumbling increased even as he listened, and he knew the riders were not far off. He rose quickly and looked around; the sky was already light. The sun had risen, but could not yet be seen from where they were below the ridge.

Rolling to his knees, he took Emlyn by the shoulder and shook him hard. The sleepy cleric came awake with a start. “What? What?”

“Horses,” Murdo said. “We should get out of sight before they see us.” Casting a glance up the long slope, he spied a little rocky outcrop behind which they could hide. Leaving the camel to sleep, they hurried up to the rocks, lay on their stomachs, and waited. It was not long before the first riders came into view. “Who are they? Can you see?” asked Emlyn.

“No, they are too far away, and the light is not so good.”

Hunkering down behind the rocks, they waited. The jingle of the horses' tack could be heard easily now—a light tinkling sound above the drumming of the hooves. The riders came on at a quick, yet measured pace—not as if they were chasing anyone, nor trying to escape. Murdo raised his head and looked again towards the road. At that moment, the sun broke over the ridgetop, sending its rays down the slope and illuminating a large company of riders.

“Crusaders!” cried Murdo. “Emlyn look! We are saved!” He leapt to his feet and gave a shout, waving his arms. “Here! Here!”

But the riders, if they saw him, took not the slightest interest. Not one of them so much as slackened his pace, but the whole company—perhaps a hundred knights in all—continued on towards Jaffa.

“They do not see us,” Emlyn said. “We must warn them about the Turks! Murdo, hurry! Run and tell them!”

Murdo ran to the road as quickly as the rough ground allowed, and stood waving his arms and yelling for the crusaders to stop. Aside from drawing a passing glance from several of the riders, he received no response. Emlyn joined him and added his voice to that of Murdo's. Perhaps because the pair of them, so far from any habitation, presented such an unlikely prospect, they succeeded only in arresting one of the last of the knights, who reined aside to glare down at them and demand what business they had accosting soldiers in the service of the Defender of the Holy Sepulcher.

“We are trying to warn you,” Emlyn said quickly. “We have seen Seljuqs on this road.”

“There are always Turks around,” sniffed the knight. “Raiding parties. It means nothing.”

“It was more than a raiding party,” maintained the cleric.

“Are you a chief of battle that you know about such things?” demanded the crusader. He pulled on the reins and made to spur his mount away.

“He is telling the truth,” said Murdo. “There were Turks—
hundreds
of them—on this road yesterday. We both saw them. They were heading for Jaffa.”

“Did you see them ride into the city?” the soldier challenged.

“No,” said Murdo, pointing back the direction they had come, “we were on our way from—”

“Worthless beggars,” sneered the knight. “Be gone with you!” He lashed the reins across his mount's shoulders and the horse lurched away.

“Wait!” called Murdo. “We need water—a drink only. We have lost our wat—”

“Drink piss!” shouted the knight as he rode to rejoin his companions.

Thirsty and disappointed, they turned their attention to rousing the camel and, after repeated threats to flay it alive, succeeded in getting the belligerent creature onto its great flat feet. They then started off once more, following the crusaders' dust.

They walked along, and Emlyn began saying prayers in Gaelic to occupy himself. Murdo listened, picking out a word here and there which he recognized. Hearing the familiar sounds put him in mind of his mother. He wondered how she would take the news of her husband's death, and her sons' refusal to come home and fight for the return of their land. He wondered how Ragna was faring, and what she was doing, whether she missed him as much as he missed her, and whether they would ever see one another again. He vowed, not for the first time, that if he ever got home, he would never leave her side.

The sun gained strength as it ascended, and the morning warmth gave way to an oven-like fire which baked the arid hills and rocks all around, and caused the lowlands before them to liquefy and run in the heat haze. When they could not stand to walk any longer, they stopped to look for a place to rest and escape the sun. There were no trees nearby; a fair-sized thorn bush not far from where they stood offered the only shade for leagues around.

Leading the camel to the bush, Murdo flicked its forelegs with a stick and the beast knelt down. Next, Murdo stripped off his sweat-soaked siarc and draped it over the bush. He settled in the bone-dry dirt beside Emlyn, and the two of them rested in the combined shade of the siarc, stinking camel, and thorny bush. It was too hot to talk, or think, and they were beginning to feel the loss of their water. Murdo's mouth felt as dry as the stones on which he lay, and his tongue as if it was swollen to twice its size; his lips were cracking, and his eyeballs were cinders in his head.

He closed his burning eyes and rested his head on his arm. In a moment, he heard Emlyn's breath slow and deepen as the monk drifted off to sleep. Though he tried, sleep eluded Murdo; his mind kept returning to the awful moment when he thought the Turks would kill him while he stood there clinging to Emlyn's mantle like a toddling child. He felt again the sharp spear point bite into his throat, and he heard the warrior say, “Build me a kingdom, brother.”