The iron lance cc-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  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 centre 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 woollen 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 half-way 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.

  He looked at the long, slender length of cloth-bound iron in his hand, and decided to take a look at the prize for which he had risked his life. He pushed himself up and sat crosslegged, holding the lance across his knees, he untied the golden cord and unwound some of the silken covering.

  For all that he could see, sitting in the dark, the holy relic was a simple shank of ancient iron, rust-spotted, and slightly crooked along its length. Despite its age, the crude weapon seemed sturdy still. True, it had lost its wooden shaft, and binding-all that remained was the iron haft and the short, tapering, three-sided blade-still, it did not appear beyond repair. It was simply an old iron lance, and a wholly unremarkable example of its kind at that.

  He carefully pulled the winding cloth back into place, and retied the binding cord. This finished, he leaned back against the wall once more. He was tired and hungry, and wished only to be far, far away from this wretched desert land. God, he thought, I want to go home.

  He closed his eyes, thinking only to rest a moment, but awakened with a start to find the night far gone. He looked around quickly, and made to run. But all was quiet. The moon had disappeared, and from the look of the sky to the east, he reckoned it was near dawn.

  Rising, he began walking stiffly along the wall, using the lance as a staff. His over-tired muscles were sore, his back ached, and he was hungry and thirsty. He wondered how Emlyn had fared, and whether the monk was waiting for him at the harbour. Murdo walked around the tower, and started along the western wall making for the main gate. The plain where the battle had taken place the previous day was still in darkness, but he thought he could see figures moving on the battlefield-scavengers early to their work, he thought.

  The gloom faded as he walked on towards the massive gate tower. Upon reaching the entrance, he darted quickly around the base of the tower-only to find the huge doors closed. Scorched and blackened from the fire of the day before, they had not yet been opened by the gatemen.

  He turned and looked out at the battlefield again and saw that he had been mistaken: the figures he had taken for scavengers in the dim early light were actually those of knights and their horses moving slowly among the dead. They seemed to be searching for something… They, too, seek the lance, he thought.

  Stepping quickly back against the great gatepost, he pressed himself against the stone, hoping someone had not noticed him already. Once beyond the walls, he would not be caught. If he could just avoid being seen until the doors opened-was that too much to hope?

  Making himself as small as possible, he squatted down in the corner formed by the door and post to wait. He lay the lance down beside him, and kept his eye on the soldiers moving out on the plain. While he was watching, he heard the jingle of horses' tack; the sound seemed to be coming from the wall to his right. Keeping low, he leaned out from the doorway and looked down along the city wall. Three riders were approaching at a fast trot; they were makin
g for the gate.

  It was too late to hide, and he would never outrun them. He would have to brazen it out. He kicked dust over the lance and hoped to God they would not see it.

  In a moment, the riders came around the side of the gate tower to find a young man leaning against the gatepost, head down, half-asleep.

  'You there!' said one of the riders.

  Murdo raised his head and regarded the three men sleepily. All were knights and, judging from the quality of clothing and horses, at least one was a nobleman. 'Greetings, my lords,' Murdo replied. 'Pax Vobiscum.'

  'What are you doing out here?' demanded the second knight, who seemed to be superior to the other two.

  'I was late coming home,' Murdo explained, 'and the gates were closed.'

  'You spent the night outside the city alone?' inquired the knight suspiciously.

  'Aye, for a fact I did,' answered Murdo directly; he gazed honestly into their faces. 'I am waiting for the gates to open now.'

  The rider's eyes narrowed. 'Why were you so late coming home?'

  Murdo hesitated. 'I was watching the battle,' he said, deciding to tell as much of the truth as he dared.

  'What battle?' demanded the foremost rider. He glared at Murdo, and all three were frowning.

  'Out there,' Murdo replied, pointing away to the south. 'Bohemond's troops engaged the Turks who slaughtered Godfrey's war band.'

  'Bohemond here?' wondered the other knight. 'How do you know this?'

  'I saw him,' Murdo answered vaguely. 'I took it you were men of his war band. I see I must be mistaken.'

  'We are from Count Baldwin's camp,' replied the nobleman.

  'What is Bohemond doing here?' demanded one of the others.