The Iron Lance (45 page)

“We saw it only from a distance,” Murdo answered, pointing to the hills away to the east. “By the time we arrived here, the battle was over. But there is—” he began, intending to tell the prince about the lone surviving knight they had found.

Before he could say more, the nobleman Bayard returned from his inspection of the wagons. “It is not among the weapons,” he called, reining in his horse. “I say the Turks have taken it. They cannot have gone far. We can catch them.”

Bohemond turned his attention to those searching among the dead. He called to the warriors, and asked, “Have you found it?”

“No, lord,” shouted the nearest soldier; the others answered likewise.

“Return to your mounts,” Bohemond commanded. “Come, Bayard, we will discover where the accursed Seljuqs have gone.”
He thanked the merchant and townspeople for the help, turned his horse, and rode away. Within moments the battle host was streaming after him; they passed by the walls of the city and headed south along the coast.

Murdo returned to where Emlyn was waiting. He had spread a cloak over the wounded soldier, and was sitting beside him, praying. He looked up at Murdo's approach. “What did you learn?”

“You were right—it was Bohemond,” the young man confirmed. “They are looking for something. They said the ambushed troops belonged to Godfrey, and that…” Murdo paused and gazed at the wounded soldier. “I know what it is.”

“Well?” asked the monk.

“
He
said it,” Murdo replied, indicating the unconscious knight. “He said, ‘Tell Godfrey the lance is gone.' He meant the Holy Lance.”

“They have lost the Holy Lance,” Emlyn said, his voice growing suddenly bitter. “These ignorant, foolish men! Blind and stupid, every one—from king to footman, not a brain among them. Cast them all into the pit and be done with it, O God!”

Once, such an outburst from the gentle monk would have alarmed Murdo, but not now. He knew exactly what the monk was feeling; he felt the same way himself.

Sinking to his knees, Emlyn raised clenched fists in the air. “They have made of your great name a curse, O Lord,” he cried, “and their deeds are blasphemy in your sight. Who will restore your honor, Great King? Who will overthrow the wickedness of the mighty?”

Murdo heard these words, felt his heart stirred to anger within him, and answered, “I will.”

Emlyn, hands still raised, looked at his young friend.
“Murdo?” Seeing the light of a strange and powerful determination in the young man's eyes, he said, “You have seen the vision, too.”

“I have,” confirmed Murdo. “A curse and a blasphemy, you said—you were told to rescue the sacred relic from those who—”

“—from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy, yes, but—” the monk began.

“I am going after it,” Murdo said, his confidence growing by the moment. “It is not right that they should use that holy relic as a trinket to be bartered for position and power. One way or another, I will bring it back.”

The priest rose quickly and stood before him. “Hear me, Murdo: once in every life the choice is given,” Emlyn said quietly, his voice taking on the tone he used when telling the stories that moved Murdo's heart, “to follow the True Path, or to turn aside. Your time has come, Murdo, and here is where it begins. You may lose everything you have worked for—you may even lose your life; but once you have begun, you can never turn back. Do you understand?”

Murdo accepted this with a nod. In that instant, he saw the path stretching out before him; he had taken the first step of a journey that would take a lifetime to complete. And for once in his life, he felt truly free. “I am going,” he said again.

“Give me your sword,” Emlyn said. “Men are forever taking up swords in spiritual battles. They forget who upholds them and delivers them; they trust instead to their own strength, and they fail. I do not want that to happen to you.”

Murdo hesitated.

“Look around you,” the monk instructed, indicating the corpses spread out upon the field. “Godfrey's best warriors could not avail; why believe one more blade will make any difference?” He held out his hand for the weapon. “It is not by
might or skill at arms that this battle will be won, but by faith and the will of God.”

Unbuckling the sword belt, Murdo handed the blade to Emlyn. “You are right,” he agreed. “Besides, it would only slow me down.”

“May God bless you, Murdo, and send a flight of angels to surround you and guide you safely home once more.”

Murdo thanked the monk, embraced him, and said, “Once you get inside the walls, go to the harbor. Find Jon Wing's ship and wait for me there. I will join you as soon as I can.”

Murdo drank some water then, and quickly refilled the waterskin from the contents of others he retrieved from among the belongings of the dead nearby. Meanwhile, Emlyn pawed around in the pouch behind the wounded knight's saddle, and brought out a chunk of dried meat and a bit of hard bread. Taking a cloak from behind the saddle of another dead knight, he returned to Murdo. “You will need this tonight, I think,” the priest said, handing him the cloak. “And take this bread and meat.”

Murdo slung the waterskin over his shoulder, and drew on the cloak. “I will return as soon as I can,” he promised, accepting the small hard loaf and scrag of meat the monk offered. He glanced up at the sky and saw the stars already shining over the hills to the east. “It will be a clear night and a good moon. I will be able to see the way. You should hurry, too, before the gates are closed for the night.”

He started off, making for the trail Bohemond and his war band had followed. “Fear nothing,” Emlyn called after him. “God himself goes with you.”

“See you do not lose the camel,” Murdo called back, lifting his hand in farewell. Then, turning his gaze quickly to the south, he saw the broad backs of low hills; he could make out their
smooth slopes in the twilight. These were the leading edges of the grassy dunes which ran along the coast south of the city. It was from there that the Seljuqs had sprung their attack, and that was where he had seen them disappear. Somewhere among these dunes, thought Murdo, he would find the Holy Lance.

Murdo reached the edge of the sand hills as the first numbing pangs of fatigue seeped into his bones. He paused only long enough to catch his breath and swig a few mouthfuls of water before he climbed the nearest dune for a better look around. Sea grass, tough and dry, covered the top of the hill, and hissed at him as he waded through the tall stuff to see over the other side.

The moon was rising above the line of the hills so he had a good view of the bay spreading out before him. Directly ahead, no more than half a league distant, stood the nearest walls of Jaffa. To his right, there were more dunes, marching off along the coast in staggered ranks that formed a series of little valleys whose mouths opened towards the sea. Away on his left, he saw the silver arc of the coastline beyond the city, gleaming in the moonlight.

As he stood looking, he heard the unmistakable sound of a battle taking place far away to the south. So! he thought, Bohemond has found the Seljuqs. Before he knew it, his feet were moving towards the fight.

He moved along at an easy dog-trot, alert to the sounds around him. Though it would have been easier to walk along the water's edge, he considered he would be too easily seen, so Murdo decided to keep close to the dunes where he would be more difficult to spot and catch. After a while, he came to a place where the coast bent sharply to the right. As he could not
see around this bend, he decided to climb up one of the nearby hills to discover what he could of the way ahead.

The moment he crested the hilltop, he knew what he would find—the battle sounds grew instantly louder as he stepped up to look over the top. Stretching below him was the long outward curve of the shoreline and the flats of a shallow beach. Midway between the glittering water and the sandhills was a dark swirling mass of men and horses where the battle was taking place. The sound of the clash echoed up from the sand, making it seem as if there were battles taking place in every wrinkled hollow and fold.

Uncertain what to do next, he hunkered down in the long seagrass to watch and wait. While watching, he became aware of a movement on the sands below—a company of men on horseback was fleeing the fight and riding directly towards him. Murdo lay down on his stomach in the tall grass and waited.

Closer, this dark shape resolved into a band of warriors—perhaps twenty in all—riding hard for the dunes. From the sheen of moonlight on their plumed helms, and from the quickness of their horses, Murdo could tell they were Turks. He pressed himself still closer to the sand and held his breath.

The enemy warriors raced by, disappearing into one of the little valleys between the sandy hills—only a few hundred paces further on from where Murdo was hiding. He watched and waited, and when the Turks did not appear again, he decided to find out what they were doing.

Creeping slowly, he moved along the sandy ridges, pausing to listen every few steps, until reaching the place where he had seen the enemy vanish. There he stopped. Down in the valley between the dunes, he could make out the large dark mass of something hidden in the shadows. No sound came from the object; nothing moved.

“The Arabs are a wandering people,”
his father had told him.
“So they always travel with their tents and treasure—even in battle they keep their treasure with them.”

There were a dozen or more horses picketed directly beneath him, and he first thought the warriors must have quickly dismounted and tethered their animals there. Yet, upon glancing quickly to the valley entrance, he saw that the warriors themselves were still mounted. The Turks' backs were to him, they all appeared to be watching the battle taking place further up the beach.

Murdo gazed at the dark object hidden in the valley—with the extra horses ready and waiting—and knew he had found the amir's treasure tent.

When he was certain no one else lurked nearby, Murdo slid over the crown of the dune and down the other side. He crossed to the tent quickly, flitting out of the moonlight and into the shadow to squat before the odd-shaped tent—like a great black wing resting on the sand—its entrance rising to a single opening tall enough for a man to enter standing up.

He stepped cautiously to the opening and peered inside; from the little he could see, the interior seemed to be filled with boxes and chests of various sizes and shapes. He paused, listening for a moment, and then went in, nearly falling over a wooden chest just inside the entrance. The chest was large and bound with an iron chain which rattled slightly. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out still more articles in the gloom—rolls of cloth, numerous jars and basins, and caskets. Fumbling over these, he found a box that was not chained, opened it, and reached inside.

His fist closed on a quantity of coins. He withdrew a handful and held them before his face. They were golden bezants, and the chest was full to overflowing with them.

Straining into the darkness of the tent, Murdo began searching for the Holy Lance. The amir's plunder had been thrown into the tent in haste, and lay in a haphazard jumble. Crouching, crawling, Murdo picked his way among the chests and caskets, praying he would know the lance when he found it, all the time working his way slowly towards the back of the tent where he discovered a shambling mound of hastily-stored loot taken from the crusaders. His hopes rose as he waded in and began carefully pulling mail hauberks and long swords from the heap.

The voices outside the tent took Murdo by surprise.

Mind whirling, he ducked down and glanced towards the tent entrance and saw the dark shapes of horses moving outside. Murdo squeezed himself further back in the tent, hoping against hope that they would not come inside.

As Murdo shrank away from the entrance however, one of the guards entered, took up a box and backed out quickly; another guard followed and likewise took up a chest, and backed out of the tent.

Murdo's heart fell. The Turks had begun loading the treasure, preparing to carry it away. He edged further back into the tent, his mind whirling furiously, trying to think how he would escape.

Four more guards entered the tent in rapid succession and retreated with boxes, which they took to waiting pack horses. There came a little space while the chests were bound into place on the pack frames.

Murdo realized what this meant: of the twenty or so guards protecting the treasure, only six were loading and packing it. Judging from all the boxes and chests, it would take them a fair while before they worked their way to the back of the tent. Murdo steadied his faltering courage; he still had time to work.

The guards returned for more chests; Murdo counted them
off one by one and, when the sixth had gone, sprang into action. Feeling with his hands in the dark, he seized upon various objects—bowls and cups, bags of coins, silken garments, banners, small aromatic boxes rattling with loose gemstones—discarding them even as he touched them. All the while, he listened to the Turks talking outside, trying to discern from the sound of their voices when they would return to the tent for more treasure.

The third time the guards returned, he heard their steps in time to hide again; but the fourth time, he had no warning at all. He had worked his way towards the center of the tent, and was on his knees, feeling among the boxes, when the first of the guards entered the tent.

He froze in place, hoping he would not be seen in the dark. The man stooped, picked up a chest and backed out. Murdo crouched swiftly, trying to hide before the next guard entered. As he went down, his elbow knocked against a long rod-like object which was leaning against the top of the chest beside him. The thing slid down and struck against a box with a solid thump. Murdo's hand snaked out and caught the staff as it fell.

The slender object, cold and hard under its splendid winding cloth, filled his hand with such a familiar weight that he knew, even without looking beneath the silken cloth and braided cord, that he had found the Iron Lance. In the same instant, the Turks outside stopped talking. Murdo's heart clenched in his chest. Had they heard him?

One of the guards shouted something, and Murdo, clutching the ancient relic, edged further back towards the rear of the tent. He watched the entrance and saw a flicker of flame kindle outside: torches.

He was out of time. Gripping the lance, he rolled to the side of the tent where it sloped down to the ground. The thick
woolen fabric was secured by stakes at the corners and along the edges, but the sandy ground was soft and he easily loosened the nearest stake and wormed his way under the heavy tentcloth and out.

Murdo found himself between the tent and the foot of the dune. A swift glance towards the valley entrance confirmed what he had already guessed—a dozen or more Turks on horseback stood guard there; six more were loading the pack horses on the other side of the tent, and one of these had a torch.

He drew a deep breath and pressed himself into the shadow at the foot of the dune. It took all his nerve to stay there, still as a stone, while the Turk searched the tent with the torch—only the thickness of the tentcloth separating him from discovery and death.

After a hasty search, the guard emerged once more, threw the torch onto the sand, and called to his fellows. They entered by turns to collect more treasure. As the last guard ducked into the tent, Murdo made his escape.

Moving in the shadow, he slipped along the steeply rising foot of the dune, keeping the tent between himself and the Turks as much as possible. He ran with an easy, silent, gliding lope, holding the lance low at his side, and making for the end of the little dune valley where he crouched to wait. He watched while the guards carried out six more chests, and then untied three horses and brought them to stand with the others.

The instant they turned towards the tent, Murdo was away again. With a last backward glance, he moved into the light, crossed the valley floor, and started up the opposite face of the dune. He had taken no more than ten steps when one of the Turks cried out behind him.

In midstep Murdo turned, leapt back, and ran for the shadows once more. He reached the opposite dune and, without a
quiver of hesitation, bounded up the shadowed slope. There were more shouts coming from the tent, and two Turks on horseback pounding after him. He reached the top just as the nearest rider started up the dune. Murdo caught the glint of moonlight on upraised steel, vaulted over the edge and down the other side.

Halfway down the slope, he changed direction, running along the face of the sandy hill to a crease formed by the meeting and merging of two nearby dunes. There he dived into the fold of the hill and hunkered down in a knot of tall seagrass, tucking the lance under him while the horse and rider crested the dune and plunged down the other side, passing within a few paces.

Upon reaching the bottom, the rider spurred his mount towards the mouth of the valley. Murdo watched him go, and in that moment his fear left him. This would be, he thought, just one more game of hare and hunter—the game he had played so often with his brothers in Orkney.

Murdo waited until his hunters had passed, and then, swift as any hare, he skittered up the sand hill to the top and crouched in the long grass. Taking the hem of his cloak, he teased out a few threads from the ragged edge and, pulling gently, he twisted them into a sturdy line and wound it around his fingers. He tied one of the threads to one of the tough stalks and, using all the stealth at his command, he crawled through the grass, back towards the valley entrance, paying out the line as he went. After a few paces, he paused and tied the other end of the string to a second stalk and continued, edging his way along slowly, slowly.

When his thread gave out, he stopped and waited. In a little while, one of the guards on foot appeared at the mouth of the valley and started forward. Murdo waited until he had passed by, and then gave the second line a furious pull. The grass stalk
jerked and rustled. The Turk whirled to the sound. Murdo saw his face in the moonlight as he opened his mouth and shouted to his companions. The fellow turned and started for the place where the grass was yet quivering.

Murdo allowed him to get halfway up the dune face and then gave the first thread a tug, paused and tugged again. The Turk shouted, and his cry was answered by the others as they came running. Murdo gave the string a final tug for good measure and, as the two on foot passed below him, he rolled to the other side of the dune.

The guard on horseback was already galloping away as Murdo slid down the slope behind him. No sooner had he gone, than Murdo started up the opposite slope and made good his escape. He worked his way eastward, away from the coast and, when he reckoned he was no longer being followed, he turned and skittered away over the tops of the north-lying dunes.

Upon reaching the last dune, he paused. He could see the broad plain of the first battleground stretching out on the eastern side of the city; it was bathed in moonlight. The still unburied corpses of the fallen knights and the butchered carcasses of their horses appeared as a great black stain over the plain, but the open ground stretched wide and without cover—anyone following would spot him long before he could hide himself among the dead.

Closer, the city's southern wall swept down to the sea. It, too, was awash in moonlight—save for a narrow strip of shadow cast by the tower surmounting the corner of the wall. There was no cover between the dunes and the wall, but he would be in the open only a short time; if he could make it to the wall he could hide there in the shadow of the tower, at least until the moon had moved on.

With a last backward glance, he started down the broad, banking slope of the dune and out across the open ground, heading for the base of the wall. He ran, keeping his head down, stretching his long legs, fighting the urge to look behind him. Better not to know if he was being followed, he thought; there was nothing he could do about it now.

The distance was further than it looked; he reached the base of the tower, exhausted, his lungs burning, and staggered into the shadow, collapsing thankfully into the darkness to lie with his back to the great stone blocks, and gaze at the dunes he had left behind. There was no sign of anyone, however, and as he lay there, slowly regaining his breath and strength, he began to think that he had eluded his pursuers.