The iron lance cc-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  Murdo gave himself to his sorrow. As before, he was helpless against the deluge. The waves of remorse tossed him to and fro, battering him without mercy.

  Emlyn held him, stroking his head, and after a while began to chant in a low murmuring voice: 'The Good God is my shepherd, I nothing want. In green pastures he makes me lie, and leads me beside the waters of peace; he renews my soul within me, and for the sake of his good name guides me along the right path. Even though I walk through the death-dark valley, I fear no evil thing, for you, O Lord, are with me, and your crook and staff are my very present comfort…'

  When he finished the psalm, the monk began another, and then another-until at last the grief began to ebb. Murdo pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and smeared the last of the tears across his blistered cheeks. Emlyn released him and took up the gourd; seeing it was empty, he went to refill it, and returned to find Murdo with the bowl raised to his mouth, spooning broth into his mouth. He accepted the gourd gratefully, and drank deeply.

  They sat together in the growing twilight, silent in one another's company, watching the campfires spark to life across the valley. Then, with the monk's help, Murdo rolled onto his side, put his head down, and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was Emlyn's promise to stay with him and watch over him.

  Murdo woke twice during the night to the sound of his own screams. The atrocities and brutality stalked him in his dreams, and he imagined himself trapped in the burning mosq, or fighting for his last breath with a spear through his gut. Each time, Emlyn was there to comfort him and soothe him back to sleep with a psalm.

  The next morning Emlyn was nowhere to be seen, so Murdo lay back and dozed. In a little while he heard the soft footfall of someone hastening towards the tree. He lifted his head. 'Emlyn?'

  'Murdo, I was coming to wake you,' he said, his voice shaking slightly. 'You must come quickly.'

  'Why? What has happened?'

  'Fionn has just come. It may be that he has found your father.' Emlyn took up his mantle, shook it out and began helping Murdo into the oversized garment. 'We must hurry.'

  'Where is he?' Murdo asked, painfully drawing his arms into the sleeves. The coarse cloth was savage next to his sore skin. 'Is it far?'

  'Not far. Fionn has gone in search of a donkey for you.'

  'I can walk.' Murdo made to get up at once. His skin was still raw and sore from the sunburn, but it was his feet which hurt him more-cut and battered as they were, they had swollen and he could not put his weight on them. 'Agh!' he cried, sitting down quickly. 'No, it hurts too much.'

  'Let me help you.' Taking the edge of his cloak, Emlyn tore strips from it and began wrapping the bands around Murdo's feet.

  'Cannot my father come here?' asked Murdo. He saw from the priest's expression that he could not. 'Is he wounded then?'

  'I fear he is,' Emlyn confirmed.

  'How badly?'

  'I cannot say.'

  'How badly, Emlyn?'

  'Truly, Fionn did not tell me. He said we must come quickly. Ronan is with him.'

  While he was binding Murdo's feet, Fionn returned with the donkey, and hastened to help them. 'We must hurry, Master Murdo,' Fionn told him. 'Your father-if it is your father-is very ill. Are you ready? Put your arm around my neck.'

  Together, the priests took him gently under the arms, lifted, and stood up. But even with his weight resting on the monks' shoulders it was still too painful. Murdo groaned and bit his lip to keep from crying out. Black spots spun before his eyes, and sweat broke out on his forehead. The monks steadied him, and then carried him the two steps to the waiting donkey and boosted him onto the animal's back.

  Fionn led them higher up the hillside, passing through the hospital camp. Murdo was appalled and sickened afresh by what he saw: men were everywhere scattered on the ground, the blood of their wounds staining the earth dark beneath them. The fighting had been short, but fierce; many soldiers lost hands and arms to Seljuq blades, and others bore deep gashes and terrible slashes; most, however, had been pierced by arrows. The Turks routinely tipped their arrows with poison, so their victims lingered in agony for a goodly while before they died.

  Of all the wounded Murdo saw, only a fortunate few had so much as a grass mat or cloth on which to lay, and fewer still had tents. Consequently, many tried to escape the blistering heat of the sun by making shelters out of their shields, or flinging their cloaks on low-hanging branches to create sun-breaks for themselves.

  Some of the wounded men watched him with sick, pain-filled eyes as he passed, but for the most part each pilgrim was too preoccupied with his own dying to notice anyone else. No one spoke and, save for the constant murmur of moans or the occasional death rattle, the hospital camp was unnaturally quiet.

  Fionn led them to a small tent near the top of the hill. At their arrival, Brother Ronan stepped from the tent, his face solemn. 'Good,' he said. 'I have told him you were coming. He is anxious to speak to you, Murdo. Are you ready?'

  Murdo nodded, and the monks helped him dismount from the donkey; Emlyn took his arm and supported him as he hobbled inside. The sick-sweet stink of a festering wound permeated the close air of the tent. Murdo gagged and choked back bile as the good brothers lowered him down next to a raised pallet covered by a crudely-made matt of grass. On this bed lay a man Murdo did not know.

  'We will stay near,' said Ronan as the monks left the tent. 'You have but to call out if you need us.'

  Murdo made to protest that they had brought him to the wrong man, when the body next to him said, 'Is it you, Murdo?'

  He looked again, and with a shock recognized in the pale, haggard face of the wretch beside him, the much-altered visage of his father. 'My lord?'

  'I have been praying one of my sons would come,' Ranulf said, his voice both raw and hushed-little more than a croaking whisper. 'I did not know it would be you, Murdo. How is it you are here?'

  'I have been searching for you,' Murdo told him. His eyes fell to the stump of his father's right arm. Bound in bloody rags, the arm was missing below the elbow; the stench emanating from the wound gave Murdo to know that it was rotten. Bleak despair swarmed over him and he felt a sensation like falling. 'Is it bad?'

  'Bad enough…' he closed his eyes, then opened them again, suddenly agitated. 'You must hear it!' Ranulf said, rising from his pallet. He seized Murdo by the shoulder. Murdo winced from the pain to his sunburned skin. 'You must hear it, and tell others how it was. Take word back to the islands-tell them what happened.'

  'I am listening,' Murdo said, trying to soothe. 'Rest now. I am here.'

  He made to remove his father's hand, but Ranulf clung on, squeezing hard. 'Promise me, boy. Promise you will tell them.'

  'I will tell them,' Murdo replied. He turned his head to call to the priests, but his father released him and slumped back, breathing hard, exhausted.

  'Good,' he said, his breath coming in clotted gasps. 'Good.' With the tip of his finger, he indicated a waterskin on the ground beside the pallet.

  Murdo took it up and gave him to suck at the opening, watching him as he drank. The face of his father was deeply lined, the eyes sunken, the flesh pale and yellow like old linen. The high, noble brow was waxy and damp, the dark eyes fevered. The once-strong jaw was grey with whiskers, and the lips were dry and cracked, the features pinched with pain.

  But the lines eased as the lord drank and the pain released its grip; the fever-bright eyes dulled. Murdo guessed there was some kind of drug in the water. Turning his face from the waterskin, he regarded Murdo for a moment, and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. Ranulf seemed to improve somewhat. 'I never thought to see you again, Murdo. But here you are.'

  'Yes, lord.'

  'I am glad,' he said. A spasm of pain coursed through him and he stiffened against it. After a moment the pain passed, and he said, 'Listen to me, now. You must tell them… everything.' His voice grew sharp with insistence. 'Everything-hear?'

  'I am listening,' Murdo answered, swallo
wing the lump in his throat. 'And I will tell them, never fear.'

  His father lay his head back and appeared to compose himself, marshalling his strength. Murdo waited, leaning forward to catch each word as it came to his father's lips, fearing these would be the last. After a moment, Lord Ranulf began to speak.

  THIRTY-TWO

  'It was bad for us at Antioch,' Ranulf said, 'but Dorylaeum was worse. By God, it was worse.'

  Murdo had not heard of the place, but committed the name to memory, repeating it softly to himself. 'Dorylaeum.'

  'Duke Robert's army was the last to arrive in Constantinople,' Ranulf continued, 'and the last to cross the Bosphorus. We were put aboard the ships so fast we got but a bare glance at the Golden City, and then we were on the march again.

  'Nicaea was already under siege by the time we got there, and indeed, fell the next day, no thanks to us. Seeing how Amir Kerbogha was away and most of the city's defenders with him, the infidel governor surrendered without a fight. We secured the city and returned it to the emperor's rule, as we were foresworn to do, for all we were that eager to move on to Jerusalem.

  'They told us we would be in Jerusalem before summer. Six weeks, they said. Blessed Jesu, it took a year!'

  The outburst brought on such a fit of coughing that Murdo pleaded with his father to break off his recitation. 'Here, rest a little,' he said. 'You can tell me more later.'

  Ranulf refused, saying, 'It passes… it passes.' He swallowed some more of his elixir and continued. 'So that is that. We leave Nicaea to the emperor and we march on. What do we find? The Turks have destroyed everything: settlements deserted, towns and farms abandoned. Whole forests have been burned, and any source of water has been spoiled -no well, but what it has been fouled; no stream, but what it has been filled with rocks. Truly, it is a God-forsaken place.

  'It is not so long-a few days only-and our water is already gone, for we have not been able to get fresh water anywhere. So, it is decided to make two divisions, and each will fend for itself. We draw lots, and it falls that one division will be under Raymond's authority-that is Godfrey, Baldwin, Hugh, and the rest of the Franks-and this one will fare seven miles north of the road.

  'The other division is to be led by Prince Bohemond-that is, all the rest of us-and we fare south of the road. We make good marches, meeting no resistance. God help us, but it is dry! We thirst, and people begin to talk of turning back. The commanders push on, and the ranging parties cannot find provender or water-the little they find disappears too quickly, and we are no better for it.

  'We come to the mountains-they are small mountains only, not too rough, or too high-and it is a little better for us. The air is not so hot, and we can find a few rock springs still dripping from the rains. There are Turks in the mountains, too, but they cannot get at us with their arrows, so mostly they leave us alone.

  'And then all at once the mountains give way to a plain that stretches as far as the eye can see. This plain is full of hills and, God be praised, a river!

  'There are no Turks around, so we make for the river as fast as we can, and come upon the ruins of Dorylaeum-it is all broken walls and heaps of rubble so there is nothing to fear. As soon as Bohemond gives the order to halt and make camp, we all flock like geese to the riverside to drink our fill, and oh! the water is sweet and good. We wallow like pigs in it, and spend the rest of the day filling casks and butts and skins with fresh water. We tether the horses on the meadow and spend a peaceful night.'

  Lord Ranulf paused, and swallowed hard. The pain came back into his eyes as he continued, 'Next morning, we break camp. We have not seen Count Raymond's division, but he cannot be far away. No doubt they have seen the river, too, and stopped to refresh themselves as we have done. One of the lords says, "We should wait for them." Another says, "We should send scouts to find them." Bohemond will not hear it; he is all for pushing on before it gets too hot. We move on.

  'We are marching past the ruined city now… the sun is in our eyes… it is just coming up over the hills and, by God, it is already hot!

  'Lord Brusi is riding beside me. We are talking of this and that. Torf and Skuli are behind us, and Paul and Brusi's boys are but spitting distance. Brusi raises his head and says, "Here now! What is this?"

  'We look up and see four scouts flying back along the column. "The enemy approaches!" they shout. "Less than two leagues away."

  'We ride to where Bohemond and Tancred have dismounted. The lords of Flanders and Normandy and all the other noblemen hasten to join us. Less than two leagues! We will not even have time to arm ourselves properly. Brave Bohemond is not stirred. "How many?" Taranto asks; he is always ready for a fight.

  'The scouts are uneasy. They do not want to say. "It looks to be the sultan's war host," says the scout, avoiding the prince's stare.

  '"Answer me!" demands Bohemond, his big voice shaking them out of their fright. "How many?"

  "Sixty… perhaps seventy thousand, my lord," the scout replies. "Maybe more."

  'Seventy thousand! We can hardly believe our ears. We have maybe eighteen thousand knights, and thirty thousand footmen-the rest are women and children, priests, and the like who do not fight. Sultan Arslan's troops are all horsed-the Saracens keep no footmen, mind.

  'But the prince is not dismayed. "Ride to the other column," he commands the scouts. "Tell Count Raymond we will meet the attack here. He is to join battle at once. Get you gone, by God!"

  'The scouts wheel their horses and gallop away while Bohemond instructs his standard bearer to sound the call to arms. Meanwhile, the nobles hold council to order the battleranks.

  'The field is not good. We are exposed on all sides, with but a marshy place a little down from where we stand. "The reeds and shrubs will provide the best cover," says Taranto. "We will put the camp there. The knights will form the line in front of the camp." The prince points to a low rise just ahead of where the camp will be. The rise stands at the mouth of a valley formed by a low-sloping ridge which curves around the marshland like a bowl. Heaven help us, it is a sorry place to mount a defence, but there is no time to search out a better one.

  "The Saracens overmatch us for numbers," the prince tells us, "but not for strength. One knight in battledress is worth ten Saracens. We have but to wait until they close on us, and then we will take them with our spears and drive them back up the hill."

  'So it is agreed. The horns give out their blast and we are racing away in all directions to form the line. Knights are everywhere struggling into hauberk and war cap, and strapping on greaves and sword-belts. Slinging our shields over our shoulders, we remount our horses and hurry to our places behind our battlechiefs.

  'The battle line is only half-formed when the sultan's army appears over the ridge: a hundred thousand strong. Either the scouts have made a poor count, or the Saracen host is growing as more join it from the nearby towns. We pull together as quick as may be-Lord Brusi with his sons, and I with mine, and most of the Scots fall in with Bohemond's troops-but there are big gaps in the line. We tighten our grip on our spears and await the charge. But it does not come.

  'Would to God that it did! But, no, Sultan Arslan's warriors do not charge like true fighting men. Instead, they skirt the battlefield in swift, ever-moving swarms. They buzz around us like wasps. They draw near to loose their stinging arrows and feint away again, only to reappear and harass the line somewhere else.

  'Still, we hold our ground. We keep our shields between us and the arrows-the few that get by the shields-are easily deflected by our good ring-mail hauberks. We stand our ground, unafraid. Let them swarm and buzz! Where is the hurt?

  'Ah, but there are so many of them, and every now and then one of us slumps in the saddle and falls. More often a horse will be struck from under its rider, and that unlucky knight becomes a footman. Yet, though we bide our time, the enemy will not charge.

  'Clearly, we cannot endure this abuse forever. It makes no sense to stand by while they slay us man by man. So, after a good
ly time, the commanders demand another council. "They will not stand!" bellows Stephen in his rage. "How, in God's Holy name, can you fight an enemy who will not stand?"

  'Once his mind is set, Bohemond is not easily shifted. "We have but to wait until they grow tired of this spineless ruse and make their attack. Then we shall cut them down like saplings."

  "How long must we wait?" shrieks Count Robert. "We stand our ground and they cut us down with those infernal arrows. I say we charge!" The Duke of Normandy agrees: "Make an attack – break through and scatter the dogs, I say. Cut them as they run!"

  "Bohemond commands here," Tancred reminds them. He says little, this Tancred, but he is shrewd and tough as his cousin. "If Lord Taranto says we wait, my lords, then we will wait until Judgement Day."

  'The bold prince flings his hand at the swarming mass of infidel. "Look! See how many the sultan commands. They would swallow us whole. We must hold the line until Raymond's forces join us. Then we will make our attack-not before." Bohemond glares around him; he does not like our position any better than the rest, but what else can we do?

  'So the lords return to their troops on the line. Brusi and I tell our Scots and Orkneyingar what the prince has decided, and we all hunker down to wait for the rest of their army to join us so the real fighting can begin. But the day is getting on before us; already the sun is passing midday and there is no sign of Raymond's armies. Where are they? But a few leagues separate us-what can be taking them so long?

  'Meanwhile, the Seljuq archers are growing increasingly daring and, though it is difficult to tell, it seems more infidel take the field with every assault. We begin to fear the enemy is refreshing itself from an even greater number of warriors than we have yet seen. Bohemond rides up and down the line, calling out exhortations, keeping our courage high.