The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The room itself was, even to my childish eye, small and low. There was a table in the center of the room with one chair, and a candletree with half-burnt candles. There were four large oaken chests—one on each wall—and each chest was bound in broad iron bands which were likewise locked. I had no keys for any of the locks, but the discovery of those chests proved almost as exciting as an entire silver hoard. I put my eye to the center lock of the largest chest and beheld the dusky glimmer of gold within.

  Footsteps outside the door prevented me from carrying out similar examinations of the three remaining chests. But that solitary glimpse was enough to fuel my fevered imaginings for many days afterward.

  Ah, but the truth, Cait, is more marvelous by far. One day, you will see for yourself.

  That night, however, the treasure was far from my thoughts. I entered the low, candlelit room with the jars of ale, and before anyone remarked on my presence began filling the bowls—as if this were my usual chore. I filled Emlyn’s first, then moved on to Eirik’s and lastly to Murdo’s cup. He thanked me, and then recollected himself and asked what had become of Haldi?

  I replied that the lady had sent him to help the cook, and asked me to serve in his stead. “Since you are here,” Eirik said, “you might as well stay and hear this.”

  The suggestion sat ill with my lord, I could tell. He was on the point of refusing when Abbot Emlyn spoke up. “Yes, let Duncan stay.”

  “Do you think it wise?” asked Murdo doubtfully.

  “He must know the truth,” the abbot declared, “if he is to serve it. Yes, let him stay.”

  His words sent a thrill of excitement through me. Was there more to this than I guessed?

  Murdo held his frown for a moment longer, and we all waited for him to make up his mind. “Very well,” he relented at last. “So be it.” He directed me to close the door and sit down.

  I did as he asked and settled atop the great oak chest I had tried to peek into years before. “We have been speaking of your brother’s vision,” my father told me. “What I am about to say is known only to three other people in all the world. Emlyn, my old friend, is one of them. Your mother is the other.”

  He paused then, as if uncertain how to continue. “Speak it out,” Emlyn exhorted gently. “It is for the best, I do believe.”

  Murdo nodded. Turning to Eirik, he said, “A long time ago, when I was a young man—little more than a boy—I, too, saw the White Priest…”

  This surprised me.

  “Twice,” he added. “Once in Antioch, and once in Jerusalem. He appeared to me and asked me to build him a kingdom.” Murdo paused, remembering, and added with a wave of his hand to signify not only the house and caer, but the lands and fields of the settlement beyond. “This I have tried my best to do.”

  “The promise,” said Eirik. “He said the Lord of the Promise was pleased. He has found favor with your efforts, my lord.”

  Murdo nodded thoughtfully. “Many things happened in the Holy Land, and most of them are best forgotten. Though I have remained true to the vow I made, I had lately begun to think I would not live to see it fulfilled. Indeed, I had not thought to hear from him again.”

  “Until today,” said Eirik.

  “Until today,” confirmed Murdo.

  “Forgive me, lord,” I said. “But who is this White Priest? Is he a phantom?”

  “Perhaps,” replied my father. “He might be an angel. I cannot say. He told me his name was Andrew, and he appeared in the form of a monk—at least, he looked like one to me.” He paused, remembering, then added, “Indeed, although I did not know it, I believe he guided me through all that followed—every step of the way from that day to this.”

  Murdo went on to explain how he had been deep in the catacombs of the monastery of the Church of Saint Mary outside the walls of Jerusalem when he had his second encounter with the White Priest. “I was alone for just a moment, waiting for the others to return, and he appeared to me,” Murdo explained, his voice taking on a softer edge as his mind took him back through the years to that portentous meeting.

  “We talked, and he asked me to serve him. I asked what he wanted me to do, and he said he wanted me to build him a kingdom where his sheep could safely graze. He said: ‘Make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.’ You see,” said Murdo with a slightly embarrassed smile, “I have remembered every word of it all these years.”

  “Was that the first time you heard of the True Path?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” replied Murdo, surprised at the question. “It was Emlyn here who told me. Ronan and Fionn—you remember them; you and Eirik met them once or twice when you were boys—also instructed me. Although, at the time I took little of what they said to heart. I hated priests—and with good reason—as many will tell you.”

  “Then this is even more remarkable than I knew,” said Eirik.

  “How so?” asked Emlyn. “The Célé Dé have always been the Guardians of the True Path and Keepers of the Holy Light.”

  “And so I truly believe,” replied my brother adamantly. “But today a man appeared to me in a vision, and told me that he was coming here to live. Why does everyone seem to know about the White Priest but me?”

  “I have never spoken of it before now,” said Murdo. “Nor has Emlyn. Who else could possibly know?”

  Eirik put out his hand toward me. “Duncan knows,” he said, and told them about our conversation earlier that day.

  “Is this true, Duncan?” Murdo asked, and I confessed that it was. “How did you come by this knowledge?”

  “Torf-Einar told me before he died,” I answered, and related what he had said about the sacred relics and their mysterious guardian. “Torf said the White Priest appeared to the pilgrims in Antioch and told them to dig in the church to find the lance of the crucifixion.” Spreading my hands in a profession of innocence, I added, “I had no way of knowing it was part of any secret.”

  Abbot Emlyn had grown very quiet and thoughtful. He regarded Murdo with a look of kindly reproach. My father, becoming increasingly agitated, finally burst out, “Very well!” Thrusting a hand at the abbot, he said, “If it will put an end to your pestering, I will tell them everything.”

  So saying, he moved to one of the chests, and I thought he meant to unlock it. Instead, he slid one of the iron bands to one side, and withdrew a long rod, with a flattened hook at one end. My curiosity increased as he walked to the center of the chamber and selected a flagstone on the floor. Slipping the hooked end of the rod into the crack between the stones, he quickly prized it up and lifted it away.

  Kneeling down, he reached into a stone-lined cavity and pulled out a long, thin bundle bound in leather which he brought to the table, and began unwrapping. Eirik and I gathered close to see what it could be, and Emlyn stepped to the table, standing with his hands clasped, a look of rapture on his round face.

  Beneath the leather was a layer of fine linen, and beneath that, another. My heart beat fast as the last wrap was pulled away to reveal…a length of old, pitted iron, crooked with age and ruddy-tinted with rust. From the way both Murdo and Emlyn reverenced the object, I could see that it was a very valuable—nay, sacred—thing; but for the life of me I could not imagine what made it so. I beheld the slender rod and my heart sank. This? This is the great secret they had protected these many years?

  Eirik, on the other hand, appeared dumbstruck. He gave out a gasp and went down on his knees, raising his hands and closing his eyes. He then lowered his face to the floor and lay there in an attitude of prayer. For his part, Murdo merely gazed on the object in silent wonder.

  “What is it?” I asked at last.

  My father glanced at Emlyn. The abbot stretched out his hand and held it flat above the thing, and said, “Behold! The Iron Lance.”

  I looked at it again. Less than a span in length,
and bowed in the middle, it had an ugly stub of a blade at one end and a small hole at the other. Could this bit of scrap which I had taken for a fragment of broken hearthware—a piece of a spit for roasting meat, say—could it be the selfsame spear which had pierced the Blessed Savior’s side?

  “If that is so,” I replied, “I wonder that the emperor himself is not camped outside our walls at this very moment. Or, that the pope in Rome has not made pilgrimage to pay homage.”

  “Watch your tongue, boy,” warned Murdo. “You stand very close to blasphemy, and I will not hear it.”

  Emlyn put out a conciliatory hand, and said, “You promised to tell them everything.” Turning to me, he said, “A simple explanation will soon set your mind at ease, Duncan. The reason we are left in peace with this inestimable treasure is that neither the pope nor the emperor—nor anyone else in Christendom—knows we possess the Holy Lance. For all the world knows, the sacred relic resides in the treasury at Constantinople.”

  “That is what Torf-Einar believed,” I confirmed. “He told me that he was there the day Prince Bohemond gave the lance to the emperor’s envoy. He said he saw it with his own eyes.”

  “Many people were there that day,” the abbot assured me. “I was one of them. Oh, yes. I was standing on the quay in Jaffa harbor when Bohemond arrived. And I, too, saw him give the Sacred Lance to the emperor’s envoy, Dalassenus.”

  Murdo allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “People do not always see what they think they see,” he said and, taking up the jar, he poured out some ale then emptied the bowl. He then explained how this had come to be. That night he revealed his long-kept secret to us—as he will tell you, little Cait, when you are older.

  “Why have you never spoken of this till now?” I asked when he finished.

  “If you had seen half of what I saw in Jerusalem,” Murdo replied, “you would not ask.”

  “Terrible it was!” cried Abbot Emlyn. “Like wolves loosed among lambs, they gorged themselves on the blood of the helpless. Their greed knew no restraint—and what they could not carry off, they destroyed.” The good abbot, almost shaking with disgust, bent his head and concluded sorrowfully, “They broke their vows and disgraced themselves before God and man. They had the chance to show the world the benevolence of true Christians. Instead of presenting themselves the best of men, they behaved as the very worst.”

  After a moment, he said, “This makes the task of the Célé Dé all the more precious and important.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Eirik, “that is why the White Priest is coming to make this his home.”

  “No doubt,” reflected Murdo. “No doubt you are right about that.”

  He placed his hand reverently on the Holy Lance, then picked it up and handed it to me. My fingers closed on the length of old iron; it was cold to the touch, as you might expect, and slightly heavier than it appeared. Beyond that, there was nothing at all remarkable about it. I passed the ancient weapon to Eirik, who bowed his head as he received it, and said a prayer. When he finished, we bound the sacred relic in its linen and leather wrappings, and replaced it in its hiding place beneath the floor.

  That night, I could not sleep for thinking about the strangeness of the tale I had heard. All my life I had lived in that house, and never once suspected it concealed one of the holiest objects the world has ever known. What is more, I had touched it and held it in my hands. I thought about the Western noblemen, their greed and wickedness, and the insufferable arrogance of the pope, blithely sending so many thousands to their graves. As I lay sleepless, thinking these thoughts, there kindled in me a righteous rage that such faithless men should hold sway over the poor and humble in their care.

  Then, as restless night gave way to placid dawn, I conceived the plan which, for better or worse, has led me to my fate.

  SEVEN

  I TOLD NO ONE of my plan. I wanted to live with the decision for a time to let it grow, and ripen if it would. On the whole, it is best not to rush headlong into schemes hatched in the dead of night. Daylight so often reveals the cracks that charmed night conceals, and I had no wish to be foolhardy.

  Thus, I went about my work in the usual way, and no one was the wiser. Eirik resumed his circuit; Niniane joined the retinue this time, and Abbot Emlyn undertook a journey to Orkneyjar. Murdo threw himself into the building work, making himself and everyone around him busy dawn to dusk. We went about our chores amiably, but never speaking of the things he had revealed that night, or the marvelous treasure hidden in the center of the house.

  The days began to dull, and the nights to lengthen. Work on the new church slowed as, more often than not, the laborers had to finish the day’s work by torchlight. Some of the masons would stay on with us through the winter to keep the worst ravages of gale and ice from undoing their efforts; others, however, were growing anxious to return to their homes in the south. They watched the skies and when Orkney’s geese started flying, they flew, too.

  Murdo had agreed to transport any who wished to leave to Inbhir Ness where they could get ships to take them home to Eoforwik. I went along, mostly to help with the boat on the return; while one man may sail a boat, it is easier with two, and my lord is very particular about his boat.

  With Sarn Short-Finger at the tiller, we made good speed down the coast. It had been some time since I was last in Inbhir Ness, and I looked forward to getting any news I could—especially of the Holy Land. Since the weather was fair, and appeared likely to remain that way for a few days, I convinced Sarn to stay a day in the town. He agreed it would be no bad thing and, once we had seen the stone masons settled aboard a ship leaving that night, we walked along the harbor and talked to the sailors.

  I found no one who had any word of the Holy Land, but the harbor master said we might pay a call at one of the drinking halls fronting the quayside. This we did, but with no better result. No one knew anything. After our second hall and third bowl of ale, Sarn asked, “Why do you want to know about the Holy Land?”

  “Have you never been curious, Sarn?”

  “I was once,” he replied thoughtfully. “I wanted to know where the badger cub went.” He held out his hand and I saw that his middle finger was shorter than the others. “I found out, and I was never curious after that.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “That is why the sea is better: no badgers.”

  We finished our bowls, and walked around the town to clear our heads. I saw an old woman who was making shoes from lambskin and leather; she had a small pair made for a child and adorned with little birds of red and blue thread cleverly sewn. These I bought for my daughter. They kept you warm all winter, Cait, and I think you would be wearing them now if your feet had not grown too big.

  There was a baker in the town also, who made little hollow loaves of bread filled with spiced meat and turnips; I bought two of these, and some black bread and sausage, for our supper. We fetched a jar of ale from the hall at the quay before retiring to the boat for the night.

  Sarn and I ate our meal and listened to the talk of the sailors around us. Some of them got drunk and started to sing. After awhile, they left off singing and started fighting instead, and three of them ended up in the water. They were fished out by their shipmates and wandered off to find more to drink. Things grew more quiet after that, so Sarn and I rolled ourselves in our cloaks and went to sleep.

  We left early the next morning, and were at sea as the sun was rising. On our return to Banvar, we beached the boat, and staked it down for the winter. Murdo was glad the masons had found swift passage home as it would make them all the more eager to return next year.

  This comment, innocent as it undoubtedly was, cast me into a despondent humor. At first I thought I was merely disappointed that my efforts in Inbhir Ness had failed. Although it was not as if I had counted on learning anything of particular significance, still I had hoped. As the days darkened around me, so darkened my mood. I grew irritable, and grumbled when people spoke to me. I lashed out angrily at trifles, and
made myself miserable holding grudges for imagined slights.

  One night I dreamed of Rhona, and the dream reawakened the grief I imagined was finished. I began feeling her absence more acutely than ever. I spent whole days staring at the fire while the wind whined in the eaves. Other times I walked out along the shore in the snow and sleet until my feet froze and my face turned blue. I would start in my sleep, and awake with the feeling that I was being strangled. The queerness of it frightened me so that I refused to close my eyes when I lay down.

  It was then I realized the source of my distress: my plan had come to maturity, but I was unwilling to face it. Having occupied myself with it from the Feast of Saint Brighid to Saint Thomas’ Mass, it was time to begin doing something about it. Fearing the opposition my decision was certain to ignite, I hesitated, and this was the source of my misery.

  My father would not welcome my decision, this I knew. Nevertheless, I resolved to announce my plan at the Yuletide festivities—imagining that any objection to my scheme would be muted by the general celebration. Having resolved myself, the clouds of gloom lifted for me and I undertook to help with the feast-day preparations, which pleased and gratified my mother greatly.

  Yuletide found me in good spirits; some of the vassals remarked that I had finally ceased pining for the loss of my dear wife. Accordingly, I received the kindly attentions of certain daughters whose parents, no doubt, hoped for a noble match. While I enjoyed their blandishments, I did my best not to encourage their hopes. My mind and heart were set on other things, and I would not be dissuaded from my purpose. Still, I did not lack for female companionship, and passed a most pleasant Yule.

  I might wish now, my darling Cait, that I had taken one of them to my heart for your sake. To have provided you with a mother ere I departed would have been a blessing. Alas, the notion occurred to me far too late.