I began to see what he was telling me. “Murdo is afraid I will go to the Holy Land, and he will lose me, too.”
“All things considered, it is not an unreasonable fear.” He looked at me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead so I would not have to meet his gaze.
“I see. So you are united with him in this.”
“It is not like that, Duncan.”
“What if I were to tell you that God was calling me to undertake the pilgrimage myself? How would you counsel me then?”
He did not reply at once, and so I thought I had him at my mercy. I boldly pressed my advantage. “Well, abbot?” I demanded. “Obey my father, or obey God—which is it to be?”
When he did not answer, I glanced across at him and saw that he was squinting into the distance as his eyes searched the far-off sea haze on the horizon. “There is a ship,” he told me. “Someone is coming.”
“Where?” I quickly scanned the horizon.
“There,” he said, pointing to a patch of bright water out beyond the headland. “Who could it be, I wonder?”
We watched as the tiny speck grew slowly larger. It was a sizeable ship with red sails, speeding swiftly toward us on the landward breeze. All at once the answer came to me. “Eirik!”
A moment later we were both hurrying back along the path toward the dún to alert the others that my brother had finally returned.
FIVE
THAT NIGHT WE welcomed Eirik home with a modest feast, and sat him in the place of honor at table. He was happy to be back in God’s country, he said, and far away from the southern Scots and their interminable squabbles.
“You would think common dignity the rarest, most valuable substance in all the world, the way they ward and worry over it,” he said. “And if any of them ever get any of the stuff, why he is the most miserable man you ever saw, for he must be on constant guard lest anyone besmirch it with a careless word.”
“Too true,” concurred Emlyn ruefully. “I once heard of a man from Dunedin who killed a beggar for stepping on his shadow.”
“Are they all so contentious in the south?” said Ragna. “If that is so, I never want to go there.”
“What say you, Murdo?” asked one of the masons. “You and Abbot Emlyn have been farther south than anyone hereabouts. Are the fellows so bloodthirsty as that?”
Murdo glared at the man for raising the question. “Worse,” he muttered ominously; and, though the men asked for a story, he bluntly refused to say more.
Eirik marked his father’s bad manners, but wisely passed on to other matters. He asked the mason about the new church, which was beginning to resemble something more than just a heap of rubble on bare ground. This proved a durable subject, and we finished the meal with a retelling of the work almost stone by stone.
After supper, Eirik came to me and expressed his sorrow at hearing of Rhona’s sad death. I accepted his condolences, and he asked, “What has happened to Father while I was away? A bear with a sore head growls less. Is he feeling well?”
“He is well enough,” I allowed. “A ghost has returned to haunt him.”
Eirik raised his eyebrows at this, and begged me to say more. I told him about Torf-Einar’s untimely return and his lingering death. “I begin to see now,” replied Eirik. “The old wounds are reopened.”
“That is exactly what Emlyn says,” I replied. “Myself, I think the two of them have a secret.”
This intrigued Eirik, and it flattered me to have my elder brother hanging on my every word, so I continued recklessly. “Indeed,” I said, “I think something happened while they were on the Great Pilgrimage together—something they have forbidden one another ever to mention aloud.”
Although I was speaking out of utter ignorance, I had struck closer to the truth than anyone could have known.
“Emlyn keep a secret?” wondered Eirik. “It must be something terrible indeed.”
“Oh, aye,” I said carelessly. “Whatever dark deed it conceals has reared its head once more, and it has made our father’s life a misery ever since.”
“And it was something to do with Torf, you say?” asked Eirik.
“Perhaps,” I replied, “but that is not what I said. Rather, it was something Torf said.”
“What did he say?”
“Why, he spoke of many things. Mostly, it was to do with his life in the Holy Land—his battles, and treasures, and the like. Father would not listen to him. He called it traveler’s tales and dangerous nonsense.”
“Did he, now!”
Eirik pondered this for a moment, then asked, “Tell me, brother, was Murdo vexed from the first? Or, might there have been a particular moment when his disposition changed?”
“From the very first,” I told him. “From the moment he clapped eyes to Torf-Einar he was—” I halted as it occurred to me what my brother was really asking. “No, now that I think about it,” I said, considering the matter more completely, “it was when Torf began talking about the relics.”
This intrigued Eirik. “Which relics?” he asked, leaning forward, his expression keen.
“The Holy Lance, and the Black Rood. It was when I asked our lord about those two relics that he grew angry. He would never listen to anything Torf had to say about them; he said it was all lies, and he refused to hear a word of it. When I asked Emlyn about it, he declined to tell me anything. He told me it was not for him to say.”
“A very mystery,” said Eirik. Already, I could see the plot forming in his mind.
“And likely to remain a mystery. There is no power on earth to make Lord Murdo change his mind.”
“True,” allowed Eirik, pursing his lips and nodding. “We shall see. We shall see.”
My elder brother is tireless when it comes to achieving the unobtainable. Tell him a thing is impossible, or impractical—better still, impossible and impractical—and that is the thing he wants. Nothing else will do. His ceaseless energy knows no impediment, no restraint, no limit. As a boy growing up, I watched him lavish the utmost of his strength and effort on all manner of hopeless enterprises.
Do not think I judge him over-harshly, Cait; he would be the first to admit it. You only have to ask him, and he will tell you. He glories in it! All the more so because every now and then he succeeds—as much to his own amazement as anyone’s. One of his impossible achievements was gaining a bishopric at an age when most priests are only beginning to entertain the possibility of becoming an abbot. Another was Niniane. If you want to hear the tale of that courtship, Cait, ask your gracious aunt. It is a tale well worth hearing.
Over the next few days, Eirik went to work on the problem. I could see him thinking about it as he attended his priestly duties. He schemed well into the autumn with it; had I not known my brother, I might have imagined he had forgotten about it. Not at all. He was only waiting for the best possible moment to pounce. You see, he was up against a man whose capacity for daring the impossible exceeds even his own: Lord Murdo Ranulfson himself. No doubt Eirik believed that if his chance was squandered, it would surely never come again. True enough, but the Swift Sure Hand was already moving to bring about its own inscrutable purposes, as you shall see.
Just after harvest, Eirik left the abbey and went to make a circuit of the realm. He took four brothers with him, loaded a few supplies and trade goods on a horse, and set off. He was gone but three days, when he returned abruptly saying he had had a vision. Everyone gathered around to hear what had taken place.
“We were camped beside a stream,” he told us, “and I was tending the fire while the brothers prepared our porridge. I was bending to the flames when I heard someone calling to us from the nearby wood. I looked around and asked the brothers who it could be, for all we were far from any settlement. But they heard nothing.
“I waited a little, and the voice called out again, and yet once more. Did these good brothers hear a sound? No, they never did. Here,” the bishop said, “ask them—they’ll tell you.”
“What did you hear?”
demanded one of the vassals.
“We did not hear anything at all,” replied the monks.
“And while I was considering what this might mean, a man came out of the wood. He was dressed all in white, and he called me by name. When I hailed our visitor, and pointed him out to the brothers here, they could not see him.”
“We never did see him,” confessed the clerics. “We neither saw nor heard anything at all.”
The vassals, agog at this wonder, turned in wide-eyed amazement to one another, and I began to smell a rat.
Strange to say, however, I noticed that Murdo had grown very quiet, and now wore a most thoughtful expression on his face.
“This stranger asked me to walk with him, and truth to tell, I did not want to go,” Eirik said. “But, he said, ‘Fear nothing, brother. No harm will come to you.’ So I said, ‘Who are you, lord?’ For I thought it might be an angel speaking to me.”
“Oh, aye,” murmured the vassals, knowingly—as if they were well used to conversing with angels.
Eirik raised his hands for quiet, and continued. “The stranger looked at me, and said, ‘I am a friend, and well known to your family.’ And I did not know what to say to this. ‘How can this be?’ I ask. ‘I have never seen you before.’ This brings a smile to my strange visitor’s lips. ‘Brother Eirik,’ he says to me, for he knows my name, as I say. ‘Come, I must be about my business.’
“He turned and walked a little away from the camp, and bade me to follow. I did, and he said, ‘The day is coming when the church your father builds will be my home. Tell Murdo to look for me.’
“I agree to deliver the message, and ask, ‘What name shall I give him?’ And this is the strangest part of all, for the stranger merely raised his hand in farewell, and replied, ‘Tell him the Lord of the Promise is well pleased with his servant.’
“And then,” Eirik concluded, “he disappeared into the wood the way he had come.”
The vassals gabbled in astonishment and, when it was certain the bishop had no more to tell them, they went away shaking their heads in awe of this miraculous occurrence.
“I have delivered the message, Father,” Eirik said. “What does it mean?”
“It was your vision,” Murdo replied sharply. “You tell me.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked quickly away.
The bishop sent his monks along to the abbey, and I walked with Eirik to the hall. “That was well done,” I told him when we were alone. “How did you find out about the White Priest?”
He stopped in midstep and turned to me. “How did you know he was a priest?” he demanded.
“You must have said it just now.”
“I said nothing about that,” he insisted adamantly, and I felt a sudden tingle raise the hairs on my arms.
“Was he a priest?” I asked.
“You know very well that he was,” Eirik said. “But I kept that part of my tale back on purpose. You have had it from someone else.”
“And so have you,” I accused. “I know what you’re trying to do. The vassals may be gulled by your talk of visions in the night, but I am not. I doubt Murdo will be taken in by it, either.”
Eirik regarded me with a look of exasperated pity. “Duncan, Duncan, what are you saying? Do you think I made up a tale? Is that what you think?”
“Of course you did,” I told him. “It is nothing to me one way or the other, but—” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What? Are you telling me now it was true?”
“In the name of all that is holy, it is the very truth,” he declared. “It happened just as I told it. Why would I concoct such a tale?”
“To discover the secret—”
The light of understanding broke over my brother just then. “Murdo and Emlyn’s secret—is that what you mean? You believe I made up a story to try to draw them into confession?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “That is what I thought. And I hope it works, too.”
“Brother,” replied Eirik with a smile, “you are far more devious than I imagined. I do believe you have the guile of the young Lord Murdo himself about you, and no mistake. But surely as God is my witness,” he vowed earnestly, “it happened just as I said.”
“Very well,” I allowed, accepting him at his word. “But will it work, do you think?”
“It might,” replied Eirik, thoughtfully tapping his lower lip with a fingertip. “We will have to be shrewd about it. Say nothing to either of them. Leave it with me. I think I know a way.”
We parted company then, and he hurried off to the abbey.
“When?” I called after him.
“Soon,” he answered. “Leave it with me.”
That night at supper, Eirik came to the table, dour-faced and grim of aspect. He said little and stared at his food as if he suspected poison. When anyone spoke to him, all they received was a cheerless nod, or a halfhearted grunt. His doleful humor so permeated the meal that conversation ceased halfway through and people began to speak in furtive whispers so as not to disturb the melancholy cleric.
Murdo, as host of the meal, at first tried to ignore his son’s gloomy demeanor. When at last that became impossible, he finally gave in and asked, “Is it ill you are? You seem to have the weight of the world around your neck.”
Eirik raised his eyes slowly, as if contemplating at the cause of all human misery. “Take no thought for me, Father,” he intoned solemnly. “The weight I bear is mine alone.”
“Is there nothing we can do for you, my son?” asked Lady Ragna.
“I fear not,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The vision was given to me, and it sickens inside me ere I discern its meaning. This I will do, though I fear the effort will drive me to madness.”
He rose from the bench and made to depart. “I am sorry. I should not have come to table tonight. I have spoiled a good meal, and beg your forgiveness, my lord.” He made a bow toward mother. “My lady. I wish you a good night.”
A glance passed between the lady and lord. Ragna urged her husband with her eyes. “Wait,” said Murdo, calling Eirik back. “There may be a remedy for your ills. Come back and sit down. Eat something. I will summon the abbot and we will talk when you are feeling better.”
“My lord,” said Eirik resuming his place once more, “dare I hope that you know something to help put my mind at rest?”
“Perhaps,” allowed Murdo. “Perhaps. But this is not the place to discuss it. Eat something, son, recover your appetite if you can, and the abbot will be here shortly.”
Murdo dispatched one of the serving-boys to fetch the abbot, and the meal continued in a more convivial spirit than before. Eirik, I noticed, recovered his appetite wonderfully well. By the time Abbot Emlyn arrived, my brother was well into his third barley loaf and second bowl of stew.
The ample abbot settled at the board, declining an offering of meat, but accepting a bowl of brown ale. The other guests, eager to learn the outcome of the curious affair, fell silent and all eyes turned toward the head of the table.
“Good abb,” began Murdo, somewhat uncomfortably, “it seems our bishop has been suffering for the sake of his extraordinary vision.”
“Indeed?” replied Emlyn, turning sympathetic eyes on the young churchman. “I would that you had come to me, my friend. What is the matter?”
Eirik explained briefly, whereupon Emlyn turned to Murdo. “If this is not a sign from our Lord and Savior, I do not know what it can be.”
“It was my thought, too,” replied Murdo. He stood and called to the serving-boy. “Bring a jar of ale to my treasure room.” Turning to his other guests, “I beg you forgive our absence, friends. This matter is best discussed in private. Please, linger as long as you like. My lady wife will see the jars remain filled.”
With that the three of them rose from the board and started from the hall. Those left at table were suddenly stricken with the knowledge that they were to be left out of the discussion and never discover the mystery’s resolution. I include myself in that number, for I was
not invited to share their private deliberations. I watched them walk away, and felt a mighty disappointment pinch me hard.
The meal ended and the guests drifted away. I sat for a time with my mother, glumly watching the fire on the hearth, and feeling as forlorn as a hound banished from my master’s side. Haldi, the serving-boy, appeared after awhile with the jars of ale. Ragna called to him as he moved toward the door at the far end of the hall.
“Bring the tray to me, Haldi,” she said. He came and lay the tray on the table. She dismissed him, saying, “They will be some time at their talk, I think. Help cook in the kitchen and then you can go to bed. I will see to the lord’s ale.”
Haldi thanked her and ran off, glad at the prospect of finishing his chores early. Rising then, my mother yawned and said, “I have grown tired myself, and believe I will go to bed. Perhaps you would not mind undertaking this duty, Duncan.”
“By all means, my lady,” I replied. “I am only too happy to oblige.”
She kissed me on the cheek and I bade her good night. Then, so as not to waste another moment, I snatched up the tray and hastened off to the treasure room where the mystery of Eirik’s vision was being revealed.
SIX
THE TREASURE ROOM is a small chamber in the center of the house, with no windows and but a single low door. Its walls are good solid stone and very thick. It was, I believe, the first part of the house to be constructed, and all the rest—the sleeping rooms, stores, workrooms, kitchen and hall—was built around it. Many an Eastern potentate has such a room, I have learned, but few noblemen in the north. The reason is that such wealth as men possess in the wild northlands resides in the land itself—the fields, cattle, grazing land, and the like.
Murdo owns wealth like this in abundance, to be sure. But he also possesses a treasure that would make many a king grow heartsick with envy if the full extent of it were ever known. Murdo has ever been circumspect about his treasure; he never speaks of it, and seldom even visits the room wherein it is housed. Once, as a boy of six or seven summers, I sneaked the great iron key from its hiding place and waited until everyone was about some other chore, and then let myself in to see what I might find.
The Black Rood Page 6
