“Who better?” I said, pursuing him gently. “My father, perhaps?”
Emlyn frowned again. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “it is better to let the dead bury the dead. I think you will get no thanks from Murdo for sticking your nose into the hive.”
“True enough,” I concluded gloomily. “I already asked him.”
“What did he say?” asked the cleric.
“He said it was all just stories,” I replied. “Traveler’s tales and lies.”
The abbot frowned again, but said nothing. This made me even more determined, for I could plainly see that there was more to the tale than they were telling. I got no more out of Abbot Emlyn that day, however.
Indeed, I might never have got to the heart of the mystery if Torf had died before speaking of the Black Rood.
That very night, his strength failed him. He grew fevered and fell into the sleep of death. Murdo summoned some of the monks from Saint Andrew’s Abbey to come and do what they could for the old man, and Emlyn came, too, along with a monk named Padraig.
As it happens, Padraig is Emlyn’s nephew—the son of his only sister—a thoughtful, well-meaning monk, despite the fact that he grew up in Eíre. Our good abb has children of his own, of course: two daughters—one of whom lives with her husband’s kinfolk south of Caithness, near Inbhir Ness. The other, Niniane, is a priest herself, as gentle and wise as her father, and who, through no fault of her own, has the very great misfortune to be married to my brother, Eirik.
Now then, it is well known that the Célé Dé are wonderfully wise in all things touching the healing arts. They are adept at preparing medicines of surpassing potency and virtue. Brother Padraig set to work at the hearth and in a short while had brewed an elixir which he spooned into the dying man’s mouth. This he repeated at intervals through the night, and by morning—wonder of wonders—Torf-Einar was awake once more.
He was still very weak, and it was clear he would not recover. But he was resting much easier now, and the fire had left his eyes. He seemed more at peace as I greeted him. I asked him if there was anything he would like that I could get for him.
“Nay,” he said, his voice hollow and rough, “unless you can get me a piece of the Black Rood for my confession. Nothing else will do me any good.”
“What is this Black Rood?” I asked. “If there is any of it nearby, I am certain my father can get it for you.”
This brought a smile to Torf’s cracked lips. He shook his head weakly. “I doubt you will find it,” he croaked. “There are but four pieces in all the world, and two of those are lost forever.”
This rare thing intrigued me. “But what is it, and what has it to do with your confession?”
“Never heard of the True Cross?” He regarded me hazily.
“Of course I have heard of that,” I told him. “Everyone has heard of that.”
“One and the same, boy, one and the same. The Black Rood is just another name for the True Cross.”
This made no sense to me. “If that is so, why is it called black?” I asked, suspicious of his explanation. “And why is it in so many pieces?”
Torf merely smiled, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “If I am to tell you that,” he replied, “I must have a drop to wet my throat.”
Turning to Brother Padraig, who had just entered the hall and was approaching the sick man’s pallet, I said, “He is asking for ale. May I give him some?”
“A little ale might do him some good,” replied the monk. “At least,” he shrugged, “it will do him no harm.”
While the cleric set about making up some more of his elixir, I went to the kitchen to fetch the ale, returning with a stoup and bowl. Placing the stoup on the floor, I dipped out a bowlful, and gave it to Torf, who guzzled it down greedily. He drank another before he was ready to commence his explanation.
“So,” he said, sinking back onto his pallet, “why is the rood called black, you ask? And I say because it is black—old and black, it is.”
“And why is it in so many pieces?”
“Because Baldwin had it divided up,” replied Torf with a dry chuckle.
I was about to ask him why this Baldwin should have done such a thing, but Abbot Emlyn entered the hall just then to see how the sick man had fared the night. I think he was expecting to see a corpse, and instead found Torf sitting up and talking with me. After a brief word with Padraig, he came and sat down beside the sickbed. “It seems that God has blessed us with your company a little longer, my friend,” Emlyn said.
“It will not be God,” Torf replied, “but the devil himself who drags me under.”
“Never say it,” chided Emlyn, shaking his head gently. “You are not so far from God’s blessing, my friend. Of that I am certain.”
Torf’s lips curled in a vicious sneer. “Pah! I am not afraid. I did as I pleased, and I am ready to pay the ferryman what is owed. Get you gone, priest, I won’t be shriven.”
“As you say,” allowed Emlyn, “but know that I will remain near and I will do whatever may be done to ease your passing.”
Torf frowned, and I thought he might send Emlyn away with a curse, so I spoke up quickly, saying, “My uncle was just about to tell me how the True Cross was cut into pieces.”
“Is this so?” wondered Emlyn.
“Indeed so,” answered Torf.
“Then what I have heard is true,” said the abbot, “the Holy Cross of Christ has been found.”
“Aye, they found it,” answered Torf, “and I was there.” I noticed the light come up in his eyes and he seemed to rise to his tale.
“Extraordinary!” murmured Emlyn softly.
“Godfrey it was who found the cross—in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Torf told us. “He had gone with his chaplain and some priests to pray. It was after the western lords had begun returning home, leaving only Godfrey, Baldwin, and Bohemond in the Holy Land to defend Jerusalem. Well, Bohemond had sailed for Constantinople with the emperor’s envoy, bearing the Holy Lance into Greek captivity. Baldwin was preparing to return to Edessa, and we were all eager to go with him, for he had said he would begin apportioning the land he had promised his noblemen.”
“Some of this I know,” mused Emlyn, nodding to himself.
“Aye, well, the night before we were to leave Jerusalem, word came to us that al-Afdal, the Vizier of Egypt, had landed ships at Ascalon, and that fifty thousand Saracens were marching for Jerusalem. Rather than allow them to put the city under siege, Godfrey decided to meet them on the road before they could raise help from the defeated Turks. Taken together, Godfrey’s troops and Baldwin’s amounted to fewer than seven thousand, and of those only five hundred were knights. The rest were footmen.
“Leaving Baldwin to prepare the troops for battle, Godfrey went to the church to pray a swift and certain victory for us despite the odds against us. While Godfrey was praying, one of the priests fell into a trance and had a vision. I cannot say how it happened, but the way I heard it was that a man in white appeared to him and showed him a curtain. This White Priest told the monk to pull aside the curtain and take up what he found there. When the priest awoke, however, the curtain was gone and he was staring at a whitewashed wall only.
“No doubt it would have ended there, except Godfrey came to hear of it, and said, ‘A wall is sometimes called a curtain.’ So, he orders the wall to be taken down, and behold! There is the True Cross.”
“God be praised,” gasped Emlyn, clasping his hands reverently.
“It seems,” continued Torf, ignoring the abbot’s outburst, “that when the Saracens first captured the city, those churches they did not destroy, they turned into mosqs. In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, they found the True Cross hanging above the altar, but even those heathen devils did not dare lay a hand on it, so they walled it up. They mixed a thick mortar and covered over the sacred relic, hiding it from view. Godfrey orders the mortar to be pulled down, and there it is: the True Cross is found. The king declares it to be a sign
of God’s good pleasure, and orders everyone to kneel before the holy relic and pray for victory in the coming battle.
“This is difficult to do for the church is very small, and there are so many soldiers. So, he orders the cross to be brought out to us, and we all kneel down before it. Skuli and I find ourselves near the front ranks and we see the cross as the priests walk by; two priests, led by Godfrey’s chaplain, hold it between them, and two more walk behind carrying censers of burning incense.
“I look up as it passes by, and I see what looks to be a long piece of rough timber, slightly bowed along its length. It is perhaps half a rod long, and thick as a man’s thigh. I know it is the True Cross because it is blackened with age, and its surface has been smoothed by the countless hands that have reverenced it through the years.
“The prayers are said, and the monks are returning to the church; as they carry the cross away, someone behind cries out, ‘Let the cross go before us!’ That is all it takes—at once everyone is up and shouting: ‘Let the cross go before us!’
“Godfrey hears this and calls for order to be restored. He says, ‘It has pleased God to deliver this most sacred relic into our hands as a sign of his good pleasure in the restoring of his Holy City. As we have kept faith with God, so God has kept faith with us. The enemies of Christ are even now marching against us,’ cries Godfrey, his voice shaking with righteous rage. ‘I say this cross—this Black Rood—shall go before us into battle. From this day forth, it shall be the emblem of Jerusalem’s defenders, so that those who raise sword against us shall know that Christ himself leads his holy army to victory against the enemies of our faith.’
“The monks begin chanting: ‘Rejoice, O nations, with God’s people! For He will avenge the blood of his servants; He will take vengeance on his enemies, and make atonement for his land.’ And that is how it began…” So saying, Torf slumped back, exhausted by the effort.
I stared at him in amazement that he should recall so much of what happened that day long ago. Brother Padraig, who had crept near to hear the tale, motioned to me to fill the bowl again. I poured the ale, and held the bowl to the sick man’s lips. Torf drank and revived somewhat.
“Rest now,” suggested Emlyn. “We will talk again when you are feeling better.”
A bitter smile twisted Torf-Einar’s lips. “I will never feel better than I do now,” he whispered. “Anyway, there is little more to say. We rode out from Jerusalem the next day, and met the Arabs on the road from Ascalon two days later. They were not expecting us to attack, and had not yet formed a proper invasion force. Two knights carried the cross between them, and Godfrey led the charge. We fell upon al-Afdal’s confused army and scattered them to the winds. We routed the infidel, and sent them flying back to their ships.”
Torf drank some more, and pushed the bowl away. “That was the first time the Black Rood went before us into battle, but it was not the last.” He shook his head, almost sadly. “Not the last, by God.”
“How did the Holy Cross come to be cut into pieces?” I asked.
He turned his head to look at me, and I saw that the light of life was growing dim in his eyes. “Godfrey did it. When the troops saw that victory was assured whenever the cross was carried into battle, they refused to fight unless it went before them.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “But the Turks and Saracens were relentless and the cross could not be everywhere at once.”
“So, he cut it up,” I surmised.
Torf gave the ghost of a nod. “What else could he do? I swear that man never looked farther ahead than the length of his own two feet. With everyone clamoring for a piece of the relic, Godfrey commanded that it should be cut in half.”
“The priests let him do this?” wondered Emlyn in dismay.
“Aye, the priests helped him do it,” said Torf, his voice growing thin and watery. “The Patriarch of Jerusalem objected, but Godfrey convinced him in the end.”
“You said they cut it into four parts,” I pointed out, remembering what he had told me before.
This brought a flicker of irritation from Torf, who opened an eye and said, “They sent one half to the church at Antioch to replace the Iron Lance which had been taken by the emperor. This was to be used by the armies in the north. The second half was kept in Jerusalem to be used in southern battles.”
“Over the years those two pieces became four,” surmised the abbot. “It is not difficult to see how this could happen.”
“You said that only two remain,” I pointed out. “What happened to the others?”
Torf sighed heavily. The long talk was taxing his failing strength. “One piece was given to the emperor, and the other two have fallen into the hands of the heathen infidel.” He sighed again, his voice growing softer. “I cannot say more.”
After awhile he drifted away. I thought he had died, but Brother Padraig pressed an ear to his chest and said, “He sleeps.” Regarding the dying man, he added, “I do not think he will wake again soon.”
I rose reluctantly. In the few days I had known Torf-Einar, I had grown to like the crusty old crusader. To be honest, Cait, he had breathed an air of excitement into me. Although I had heard tales of the Great Pilgrimage all my life, it always seemed to me something that happened too long ago and far away to interest me. Torf’s unexpected appearance awakened the realization that the crusade continued. In far-off lands men were fighting still; in the Holy Land great deeds were still to be done.
Torf’s arrival also awakened questions in my mind. Why did my father regard his brother’s appearance with such cool dispassion? I had never known Murdo to be a callous, unfeeling man. Yet, he showed his dying brother scant consideration, or compassion—and not so much as a crumb of curiosity about his life in the East. What had passed between the two of them all those years ago?
Was it fear I heard in his voice when I asked about the Iron Lance? Or, was it something else?
After a brief word with Padraig, Abbot Emlyn rose to leave the hall, and I followed him out into the yard, determined to get some answers to my questions.
THREE
“I THINK YOUR UNCLE will soon be standing before the Throne of Heaven,” Emlyn said when I caught up with him in the yard. “I do not expect him to last the night. I should tell your father. He will want to know.”
“It seems to me,” I ventured, “that my father knows all he wants to of Torf-Einar.”
The little round abbot regarded me with his quick eyes. “You think he does not care for his brother,” he replied. “But you are wrong in that, young Duncan. Murdo cares very much.”
“He hides it well, then,” I concluded sourly.
Emlyn stopped in his tracks and faced me. “There is more to this than you know. Murdo has his reasons for feeling and behaving the way he does. Nor will I tell him how he should feel, or how he should act in this matter.”
The force with which this was said surprised me; it took Emlyn aback, too, I think, for he quickly added in a softer tone: “The wounds were deep at the time. I think Torf’s return has reopened them, and they are painful indeed.”
Accepting his appraisal, I suggested, “Then maybe it is time those old wounds were healed once and for all. Maybe that is why Torf has come home.”
Abbot Emlyn began walking again. “You could be right. Perhaps it is time we…” His voice drifted off as he turned the matter over in his mind.
I hurried after him. “What?” I demanded. “Time for what?”
He waved me off, saying, “Leave it with me. I will speak to your father.”
“And then?” I called after him.
“And then we shall see what we shall see.”
The abbot hurried away, and I found myself alone for the moment and with nothing to do—a rare enough circumstance for me. I decided to go and see if Rhona was busy, thinking maybe she would like to ride with me down to the sandy cove below the cliffs south of the bay. Rhona and I had been married for seven years, and in that time had produced three children—two boys,
and a girl.
Sadly, both boys died in the summer of their first year. Only you, Cait, the smallest and scrawniest infant I ever saw, survived to see your second year. It seems so long ago now, but that day the sun was high and the weather dry, and I still had it in mind to have a son one day. It seemed to me a splendid time to make a bairn, or at least to try.
I found Rhona sitting on a stool outside the storehouse, peeling the outer skins from a bunch of onions. “To make the dye for Caitríona’s new gown,” she announced. Then, seeing my expression, Rhona laughed, and said, “Did you think I would make you eat them for your supper?”
“If you cooked them, I would eat them,” I replied.
“Oh, you would…” she began. Taking the bowl from her lap, I raised her to her feet. “And what is this you’re about?”
“It is a fine day, my love. Come out with me.”
“I thought you had work to do at the church.”
“The stone has not arrived yet, and Father can look after the builders. I thought we might ride down to the cove.”
She stepped closer, holding her head to one side. “And you think I have nothing better to do than go flitting off with you all day?” I saw the hidden smile playing at her lips. “It is well other people have plenty to do since the young lord of this manor is an idle scapegrace.”
“Well,” I sniffed, “if you do not wish to go, I suppose I could ask one of the serving-maids. Perhaps the one with the soft brown eyes would not spurn an invitation from Lord Murdo’s handsome son.”
“Lord Murdo’s handsome son,” she said, her mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. “I happen to know Bishop Eirik is away to Inbhir Ness on business for the abbey.”
“Lady,” I said, drawing her close to steal a kiss, “it was myself I was talking about, not my bookish brother.” I made to kiss her then, but she turned her face and I caught her cheek instead.
“Not here in the yard where everyone can see!” she gasped, putting her hands on my chest and pushing me gently away.
“Then come away with me.” I slipped my hands around her slim waist and untied the apron covering her pale green gown. “The day is beautiful, and so are you. Let us take our pleasure while we may.”
The Black Rood Page 3
