The Iron Lance (52 page)

Niamh thanked the king for his kindness and consideration, and said, “Your queen is a fortunate woman to have such a thoughtful husband.”

“Alas,” Magnus replied, “my wife and queen has not yet arrived from Norway, so I will not have the pleasure of commending you ladies to her acquaintance. Yet, I would be honored if you would take her place at table.”

“My lord,” Niamh replied, inclining her head gracefully, “the honor would be mine.”

The ladies took their leave and hurried away, whereupon Magnus declared himself parched, and called for ale to quench a thirst greatly inflamed by the incessant demands of kingcraft. “Noble friends, let us sit together and drink the sweet öl of brotherhood.” He led them into the hall where the vat had been filled to overflowing with sweet dark ale.

After the cups had made the circuit a fair few times, Murdo found the chance to slip away. Begging leave of the king to borrow his counsellors for a small duty, he asked Jon Wing to join him and the five left the hall together. He led them across the yard, out of the settlement, and down to the cove where the
Skidbladnir
had been pulled up onto the shingle.

“This is a day to settle accounts,” Murdo told them. He climbed over the rail and onto the deck, beckoning the others to follow him. Stepping to the platform before the mast, he entered the tent and untied one of the four shroud-wrapped bundles. Gathering it in his arms, he emerged and
presented the sea lord with the plunder.

“I promised you a reward for helping me,” Murdo said. “There are three other bundles like this, and they are all yours.”

“You paid for your passage with six silver marks, remember?” Jon Wing said.

“Even so, I can never repay your care and protection, less yet the debt of friendship I owe you. Take it,” he urged.

Lowering the bundle to the deck, Jon took his knife, cut into the windings and began pulling out objects: a golden bowl, two silver cups in the shape of horns, a gold bracelet with a plaque in the shape of a horse, and a gold chalice with two rubies and two emeralds set in a silver band around the base, and handfuls of coins.

Rising from the treasure, the sea lord said, “I cannot take it, Murdo. The plunder I got from the amir's tent is enough for me. And if I return to the Holy Land with the king, I will get more. Besides, you will need your wealth if you are to build a realm here.”

“Please,” Murdo said, indicating the hoard, “take something at least, so that I can say I began my rule with an easy heart and an open hand.”

At this, the Norseman relented. He stooped and retrieved the two silver cups shaped like horns. “As you insist, I will take these,” he said. “And I will keep them full so that when you come to visit me, we can drink together like kings.”

“That we shall,” agreed Murdo happily. “No doubt it is thirsty work building a kingdom.”

“You are always welcome on my ship,” the Norseman vowed happily. “A lord always needs men with ships to serve him. Who knows, maybe we will sail together again one day, hey?”

“I would like nothing better,” Murdo agreed. Turning to the monks, he said, “I have something for you, too.”

“We have no need of gold or silver,” Ronan demurred. “It is enough for us to see you reunited with your family and befriended by the king. We are well content, my friend.”

“Be that as it may, I would reward you,” Murdo insisted. Moving quickly to the ship's prow, he motioned to the others to follow. When the four had joined him there, he asked Jon Wing to witness the giving of the gift.

“I kept waiting for a good time to give this to you,” Murdo told them, “but there were always too many people around, and I was afraid of what Magnus would do if he found out. But that does not matter anymore.”

The monks, puzzled by his words, looked on as Murdo knelt and began running his hands along the underside of the railing. After a moment, his fingers closed on the prize. “Here it is,” he said, bringing out the long, slightly bent iron spear.

Ronan took one look at the relic and lapsed into an awe-stricken silence.

Emlyn was not so afflicted. “God save you, Murdo!” he gasped. “What have you done?”

“The Holy Lance!” Fionn murmured in amazement.

Ronan sank to his knees. “Can it be?” he whispered. He clasped his hands and raised hopeful eyes to Murdo. “Is it truly the sacred lance?”

“It is,” confirmed Murdo. “I wanted to tell you sooner, believe me. I could not risk losing it.”

“But I saw you give the lance away,” Fionn insisted. “With my own eyes, I saw it.” Seeking the consensus of the others, he added, “We all saw it.”

“You saw me give away the spear I made in Arles,” Murdo corrected. “Remember Arles?”

“Ah, yes,” nodded Jon Wing thoughtfully. “I had forgotten Arles.”

Murdo explained how he had eluded Baldwin's soldiers in Jaffa, reaching the ship in time to exchange one iron lance for the other. “I wrapped the one I made in the binding of the other. That was the lance I gave to Bohemond.”

“You lied to the lords.” Emlyn's eyes grew wide at Murdo's audacity.

Murdo shook his head. “No, brother, I told them the truth. Bohemond's arrogance and greed did the rest.”

“But Magnus gave you land in exchange for the lance. You have tricked him, Murdo,” Fionn pointed out. “That is a very great sin.”

“That is not precisely the way it happened,” answered the young man. “As Emlyn will doubtless recall, I told Bohemond and the king that I would accept nothing for the lance, nor did I. Magnus gave me land because Prince Sigurd seized my father's estate and gave it to Lord Orin. I only demanded justice, and that was my right.”

Silence descended over the group as the strength of the young man's determination, and the deftness of his cunning broke over them. Jon Wing, however, revelled in the brazen courage of the deed. “Such daring will be sung in kings' halls throughout Skania and Daneland!”

Murdo dismissed the praise, and said, “No one will ever know of this save us alone.” He paused, looking at the rough Iron Lance; then, holding it across his palms, he offered it to Ronan kneeling before him. “This is the Lance of Christ. I place it in your safe keeping.”

Ronan, still struggling to comprehend the magnitude of their good fortune, gazed upon the Iron Lance, and all speech fled.

“When I was standing on the Jaffa plain,” Murdo continued, “I decided to follow the True Path, and I have you to thank for
showing me how to find it. You have been better to me than my own brothers, and I am grateful. If anything good were ever to come of that wretched crusade, I wanted you to share in it. The Holy Lance belongs to you, and I cannot believe anyone else could revere and protect it half so well.”

Brother Ronan accepted the lance. “It is a very miracle,” he said, gazing lovingly upon the ancient relic and shaking his head slowly. “All this time I thought it was gone forever, and that our pilgrimage to Jerusalem had failed.” He looked at Murdo, his eyes filling with tears. “In truth, I had begun to doubt the vision we were given. I confess I doubted God.”

“Now you can fulfill the vision.”

Ronan, clutching the spear to his breast as if it were his very soul, stood and gathered Murdo under his arm. “You have shored up an old man's weak and tottering faith, and brought peace to an uneasy heart.”

Passing the lance to Fionn, the elder priest placed his hand on Murdo's forehead, and said, “May your fortunes increase with your wisdom, and may you live long in the land your lord has given you….”

At Ronan's touch, Murdo felt a sudden stirring in his soul, and he heard in the priest's blessing, the echo of Brother Andrew's words:
All you possess was given you for this purpose, brother. Build me a kingdom
.

In that instant he was in the catacombs. He smelled again the dry dusty closeness of the monastery tomb, and he saw the mysterious white priest before him, posing his question and waiting for his answer.
I ask you again: will you serve me?

His own reply came back to him.
I will do what I can
.

Build me a kingdom
, Brother Andrew had said. And now it seemed the question was before him again. Once, not so long ago, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to
renounce his promise, to walk away as if it meant nothing to him. Once, but not now. He had chosen the way he would go, and he would abide by his decision. Besides, this was the day for settling accounts, a time to pay debts and honor vows. On such a day, when he demanded justice of others, he could not himself be false.

“…May the Holy Light shine for you,” the priest continued, “and may your feet never stray from the True Path all the days of your life.”

Murdo thanked Ronan for his blessing and, accepting the burden of his vow, declared, “With your help, I will make my realm a haven for the Célé Dé, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Together we will make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace, and the Holy Light can shine without fear of the darkness.”

“Do that,” Emlyn told him, clapping him affectionately on the back, “and you will be a lord worthy of the name.”

“That,” said Murdo, “is all I ever wanted.”

We are the Seven, and we are the last.

Our long, lonely vigil is drawing to an end. A thousand years have come and gone since our illustrious order began—a thousand years of watching and waiting. In that time nations have risen, flourished, and crumbled, kings and potentates and dictators have strutted and preened and vanished, and the very stars have come within reach. But many things—
most
things—never change: children are born; they grow and marry, and raise families of their own in a world where the sun yet rises day by day, and the seasons make their sacred round. Tribes forever make war on their neighbors, goods change hands in gainful trade and wealth circulates the globe in an endless, ever-widening river. Always, always the tides of power sweep the world end to end.

So it has ever been, but soon it shall be no more. For the consummation of the age is at hand, and the True Path will be revealed at last. That time is hard upon us, friends. Whether in New York or Paris, London, Madrid, or Moscow, I look out of my hotel window to the busy streets below and I see the world dissolving, crumbling away before my eyes. The old world is fast returning to the chaos from which it was formed. Yet, the Holy Light, though dim, is not extinguished; the flame shall be renewed. The birth pains of the New World have begun.

Listen to the sirens in the night; listen to the bombs and the guns, and the screams of the victims, the angry shouts of the
mobs in the streets. Listen! In all these things is heard the galloping hoofbeats of the swift-flying steed: the Winged Messenger is coming. The Day of Reckoning is upon us. That which exists will not long endure.

So be it!