THE IRON LANCE
THE CELTIC CRUSADES: BOOK I
STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
In memory of my Father
Robert E. Lawhead
Contents
Map of Orkneyjar
Map of The Holy Land
BOOK 1
ONE
Murdo raced down the long slope, his bare feet striking…
TWO
“Your horse has been saddled, basileus,” announced Nicetas. From his…
THREE
Murdo wilted under the abbot’s interminable prayers and wished he…
FOUR
“A disaster of undeniable magnitude,” groaned Alexius.
FIVE
“I have spoken to Guthorm Wry-Neck,” Lord Brusi was saying…
SIX
“Basileus Alexius wishes me to express his gratitude for your…
SEVEN
Harvest time sped by Murdo in a dull blur of…
EIGHT
The boat made landfall in the narrow cove below Cnoc…
NINE
Murdo stood on the clifftop, gazing down at Hrafnbú in…
TEN
The old grave mound had been raised by the first…
ELEVEN
Hugh, Count of Vermandois, arrived in Constantinople well ahead of…
TWELVE
Murdo recognized every twist in the muddy track rising from…
THIRTEEN
Night lay heavy on the house and on Murdo’s soul…
BOOK II
FOURTEEN
“By order of Alexius, Supreme Ruler of the Holy Roman…
FIFTEEN
The emperor kept his unruly visitors waiting for nine days,…
SIXTEEN
The settlement at Inbhir Ness was much larger than Murdo…
SEVENTEEN
Bohemond, astride his dun-colored stallion, lifted a hand to the…
EIGHTEEN
Murdo glowered at the white-haired monk before him. Why did…
NINETEEN
Raymond of Saint-Gilles, Count of Toulouse and Provence, arrived at…
TWENTY
For eight days, Count Raymond of Toulouse held fast to…
TWENTY-ONE
Jon Wing remarked often on the weather. Every two or…
TWENTY-TWO
“Five weeks?six, perhaps?no more,” declared Count Raymond of Toulouse…
BOOK III
TWENTY-THREE
Ragna smoothed her hands over the gentle swell of her…
TWENTY-FOUR
Skidbladnir passed between the Pillars of Hercules and entered the…
TWENTY-FIVE
The hills rising from the sea, misty purple in the…
TWENTY-SIX
In the short time King Magnus had been in residence,…
TWENTY-SEVEN
Murdo returned to the citadel to find the place in…
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jerusalem’s high walls were breached on the fifteenth of July,…
TWENTY-NINE
Murdo drew the dead man’s mantle over his head. It…
THIRTY
The fever raged for two days and nights, releasing its…
THIRTY-ONE
Murdo roamed aimlessly around the walls of Jerusalem, oblivious to…
THIRTY-TWO
“It was bad for us at Antioch,” Ranulf said, “but…
THIRTY-THREE
“The battle is lost,” said Ranulf after a time. The…
THIRTY-FOUR
Even in the ochre half-light of the tent, the treasure…
THIRTY-FIVE
When all the bodies of the Holy City’s former inhabitants…
THIRTY-SIX
While Raymond was meeting the emperor’s envoy at the palace…
THIRTY-SEVEN
Brother Thaddeus led his night visitors behind the chapel to…
BOOK IV
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bohemond, Prince of Taranto and Count of Antioch, arrived in…
THIRTY-NINE
The Count of Edessa had established his camp atop the…
FORTY
The lords of the West met in council the next…
FORTY-ONE
Since their triumphant return from the council, Bohemond and King…
FORTY-TWO
“Most imprudent of you, Godfrey,” observed Baldwin, holding out his…
FORTY-THREE
The eyes of the Turks glittered black and hard as…
FORTY-FOUR
From their high vantage they watched as the movement on…
FORTY-FIVE
Murdo reached the edge of the sand hills as the…
FORTY-SIX
Keeping the sun at his back, Murdo darted quickly along…
FORTY-SEVEN
Bohemond wasted not a moment summoning the imperial envoy to…
FORTY-EIGHT
Gray mist scudded low, billowing on the sharp-gusting wind, obscuring…
FORTY-NINE
Murdo glowered into the puddle of gravy in his bowl…
FIFTY
Murdo and Emlyn paused before the gate. The monk put…
FIFTY-ONE
King Magnus greeted his newest vassal lord with a ready…
EPILOGUE
We are the Seven, and we are the last.
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Stephen R. Lawhead
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map of Orkneyjar
Map of The Holy Land
BOOK 1
January 6, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland
My name is of no importance.
It is enough to know that three nights ago I obtained to the Seventh Degree Initiation. Perforce, and I am now a member of the Inner Temple, and therefore privy to the secrets that I am about to reveal.
Do not think for a moment that I intend to betray the trust that has been placed in me. I would gladly die before endangering the Brotherhood or its work. As it happens, much of what I shall set forth is already known; at least, any reasonably intelligent reader with an ounce of curiosity and a half-decent library can obtain it with patience and perseverance. The rest, however, is beyond all recovery, save by the methods, which have been employed on my behalf. Those methods, like the knowledge so derived, are arcane beyond belief.
Indeed, were I not now among the chosen few, I would not believe it myself, nor would I be writing this at all. As to that, I have put it off long enough. The time has come to order the confusion of my thoughts and the extraordinary, nay fantastic, experiences of the last days. Perhaps in the writing I will begin to reassure myself that I am not insane. The events which I shall tell did happen, believe me.
I begin.
The summons came as it usually does-a single rap on the door of my study, and a note bearing neither seal nor signature, nor any message save the solitary word: Tonight.
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day disengaging myself from my various commitments and, at the appropriate time, made my way to the appointed place of rendezvous. Forgive me if I do not divulge the location of our meeting place. Suffice to say that it is a simple church no great distance from the city, easily reached by hansom cab. As always, I paid the driver for his trouble, delivered instructions for his return, and proceeded the last two or so miles on foot. Like my fellows, I vary the route each time, as well as the driver, so as not to arouse undue interest or suspicion.
Although the church appears nondescript—all sombre gray stone and suitably traditional appointments—I assure you it is quite ancient, and anything but traditional. Upon entering, I paused to pray in one of the chapel
pews before retrieving my gray robe from the rack in the vestry, and making my way down the hidden steps behind the altar to the crypt where our more intimate convocations take place.
The lower room smells faintly of dust and dry decay. It is dark. We rely on candlelight alone, and that sparingly. I am not afraid; I have participated in many such gatherings of the Brotherhood for several years now, and am well acquainted with the various forms and functions of our group. Ordinarily, I am one of the first to arrive. Tonight, however, I can sense the others waiting for me as I stoop nearly double to enter the inner room. I make some small excuse for being late, but am reassured by Genotti (I should state here that all names encountered in this narrative have been altered to protect the anonymity of the members of the Brotherhood)-who tells me that I am not late, but that tonight’s meeting is a special affair.
“We began our colloquy last night,” Genotti tells me. “You were not required until this moment.”
“I see.”
Another voice speaks. “You have been a faithful member of the Council of Brothers for six years, I believe.” It is Evans, our number two, or Second Principal. “In that time, we have watched you ceaselessly for any hint or sign of impropriety, however small.”
“I hope I have not disappointed you.”
“On the contrary. You have impressed us greatly. Our admiration has only increased.”
A third voice speaks from the darkness. “Many have been called to the Brotherhood before you.” It is Kutch; his Austrian accent is all his own. “However, no one has proven worthy of higher honor until now.”
At his use of the word “honor”, my senses prick. That word was used only once before on such an occasion—the night I was asked to join the Brotherhood.
“I was not aware any higher honour existed,” I reply.
“Martyrdom was an honor,” Zaccaria informs me calmly, “to those who embraced it.”
“Am I to be a martyr?”
It is De Cardou who answers. “We are all martyrs, my friend. It is only the cause which distinguishes one from another.”
I do not know what to say to this, so the silence stretches long. I have the sense that they are watching me, that they can see me in the dark even though I cannot see them.
It is Pemberton who speaks at last. This surprises me, for I expected one of the others—Evans, perhaps, or De Cardou. But, no, I know now that the unassuming Pemberton is our superior, our First Principal. “If you would suffer martyrdom, as we have suffered it before you,” he says gently, “you have but to step forward.”
I do so, and without a moment’s hesitation. I have seen enough of the Brotherhood and its works to trust these men implicitly. I need no second invitation, and in any event I would not have received one. Thus, I accept, stepping forward the prescribed single step; and thus, the initiation begins.
At once I am seized by two members of the Inner Temple, one on either side; they stretch out my arms horizontally, while a third fastens a thick, padded band around my waist. I am led forward to a small table which has been set up in the centre of the crypt.
A solitary candle is lit, and in its glow I see that the table is covered with a spotless white cloth upon which a selection of objects has been assembled: a silver bowl of liquid, a white clay pipe of the kind used to smoke tobacco, a communion chalice, a golden plate containing something that looks like dried figs, a folded black cloth of a material which I assume to be silk, or satin, and lastly, a crude wooden cross set on a pedestal of gold.
I am brought to stand before the table, and my six initiators take their places with their cowls so I may not see their faces. It does not matter, I know their voices like I know my own. Even so, the effect is unsettling.
“Seeker, stretch forth your hands.” The command is delivered by Pemberton, and I do as I am told. He picks up the silver bowl and places it on my palms. “Take and drink.”
I raise the bowl to my lips and sip the liquid. It is sweet, tasting vaguely herbal, like a mixture of roses and anise; yet, there is strength in it, too. I feel the burn in my throat as I swallow. I lower the bowl and it is removed from me, only to be offered once more. “Seeker, take and drink.”
I drink again, and feel an uncanny warmth spreading through my gullet and stomach. I lower the bowl once more, and once more I am instructed to drink. The strange warmth is filling me from the inside out, spreading from the pit of my stomach to my limbs.
After the third drink of the heady potion, I am allowed to replace the bowl, whereupon the cross is raised and offered to me. “Seeker,” it is De Cardou, “venerate the cross.”
At this, the cross is elevated and placed before my face for me to kiss. This I do, and the cross is replaced. De Cardou takes up the clay pipe and turns away. When he turns back, the pipe is lit and smoking—although this happens so quickly I do not see how he could have struck a match, let alone lit the pipe. “Seeker, imbibe the Incense of Heaven.”
I take the end of the pipe into my mouth and draw upon it. The smoke is fragrant and fills my mouth. I blow it out, and draw again on the wonderful fragrance. After the third such puff, the pipe is, like the bowl, withdrawn and replaced on the table.
Genotti speaks next. “Seeker,” he says in his soft Italian tones, raising the golden plate, “take and eat.”
I choose one of the shrivelled brown objects from the offered plate. I put it into my mouth and chew. The flesh is soft and somewhat leathery—like that of dried fruit—but the taste is acrid, bitter. Tears start to my eyes, and I am overwhelmed by a desire to spit out this strange substance. The bitterness is so intense it seems to burn, and then to numb my mouth. My tongue loses all sensation, becoming an unfeeling lump of useless tissue which, unaccountably, seems to swell in my mouth. I fear I will choke. I cannot breathe.
Gasping, gagging, somehow I keep chewing the awful stuff, and am at last able to swallow it down. A new fear overtakes me: I will be made to eat from the plate again…but no, Genotti replaces the plate, and takes up the chalice. This is offered without a word, and I accept. I drink; it seems to be a cordial of some kind. I can detect no particular aroma or taste, but instantly feel my tongue and teeth and lips and the soft tissues of my throat begin to throb with a tingling sensation. I know not whether this comes from the dried fruit I have ingested, or from the cordial, but the tingling does not abate.
I am suddenly taken with a curious desire to laugh. I feel as if a bubble is rising inside me, growing larger as it ascends, and that I must give birth to this bubble with a gale of laughter, otherwise I will burst. It is all I can do to keep from laughing out loud.
“Seeker,” says Genotti once more, “imbibe the Incense of Heaven.”
The smoke calms me, and though my mouth still tingles I am no longer afflicted by the mad desire to laugh. Evens speaks next. “Seeker, answer me: how sees a child of God?” he asks, his Welsh lilt falling easily on the ear.
“With the eyes of faith,” I reply. The question is a standard query posed to initiates at every degree.
“Then open your eyes, Seeker, and you shall see,” Evens commands. He takes up the folded cloth of black silk and, stepping around the table, raises the cloth to my face. He quickly binds my eyes, and, blindfolded, I am led by my right hand to another part of the room and made to lie down on my back on the floor.
I compose myself for whatever will happen next, and I hear a low scraping sound, like chalk dragging slowly across a blackboard. This goes on for a time, and then I feel cold air on the left side of my face—as if a door has opened to the draught. At the same time, ropes are attached to either side of the padded band around my waist, and then I am securely tied. The others are standing around me now, towering over me.
Suddenly, my feet are grasped and I am spun like a terrapin on my back. When my feet are released once more, I feel that there is nothing beneath them—my feet dangle over open space. I am allowed no time to reflect on this, for at almost the same instant I am gently pulled forward, allowing m
y feet, ankles, and legs to slide down into emptiness. My arms are taken up, the ropes pulled taut, and I feel myself slipping into the hole which has been opened in the floor.
Slowly, I descend into the void, dangling at the end of my ropes like a puppet.
The chamber into which I am lowered is immense. I cannot say how I know this—perhaps the size is suggested by the chill of the air and the sound of my breathing echoing back from unseen walls. My eyes are bound; I see nothing. Down and down I go.
At last, my feet touch solid ground once more; I gather my legs under me and stand. I cannot tell how far I have descended. The voice falling down to me from directly overhead reaches me as an echo merely: “Seeker…” it is Pemberton, with the eyes of faith, I bid you seek…and may you truly find.”
At this, the ropes go slack as they are thrown in after me. This puppet’s strings have been cut, as it were, and it is for me to find my own way, to seek. But what…what am I seeking? What am I meant to find? None of my previous experiences with the Brotherhood have prepared me for this test. I will stand or fall by my own efforts.
As I am a seeker, I decide, I will do as I am told. Although the object of my search remains a mystery, I will have faith enough to believe that I shall recognize the prize when I find it.
The Iron Lance Page 1
