“Thirsty, boy, eh?” he laughed. “Well done!”
Dufnas nudged him with an elbow and nodded his grudging approval. “We shall make a trencherman of you yet,” he declared.
There followed more barley cakes and spiced wine, and some time later a dish made from ground almonds, honey, eggs and milk all boiled together to produce a thick sweet confection which was eaten from bowls with spoons as if it were soup. Murdo had never tasted anything so sweet, and did not think he could finish his, until, following Dufnas’ example, he alternated each spoonful with a healthy swig of wine, and found the combination produced a delectable flavor.
When Murdo at last looked up from his third bowlful, he was astonished to find that the day was fading; shadows were stealing across the green. Many of the celebrants had left the board—some to stroll arm in arm around the cloisters, others to be received by the bishop before making their way home. He looked for Ragna and her family, but could not see them anywhere.
He was still searching when he heard someone call his name; he turned and saw Skuli motioning to him to come, and then saw his father and mother among those awaiting a word with Bishop Adalbert. Murdo reluctantly rose to join them.
“Leaving us so soon?” inquired Gundrun, placing his hand affectionately on Murdo’s shoulder.
“Alas,” replied Murdo, “I must go, or get left behind.” He bade his dining companions farewell and thanked them for telling him about the Holy Land. Upon receiving their compliments, he turned and walked, on slightly wobbly legs, to where his father was just then stepping before the bishop.
Murdo arrived in time to hear the cleric say, “—so I have been informed. However, I had hoped, Lord Ranulf, that you might be persuaded to see the matter in a different light. It is a long journey and far from safe at the best of times. I am certain you would travel in better peace were your lands and possessions secure in our care.”
Ranulf smiled with genuine warmth. “Your concern shows much to your favor, bishop. Yet, the matter is settled. My lady wife is well able to look after the ordering of the farm. Indeed, she has been so accustomed these last twenty years.”
“Even the most accomplished overseers require help,” the bishop pointed out, nodding slightly toward the lady in question. Niamh smiled, but Murdo recognized the cat-like smile as that which usually preceded a stinging reply.
Before she drew breath, Lord Ranulf interposed swiftly, saying, “Of course, bishop, that is why my son Murdo is staying behind. He is a steady young man, and knows his work. Also, our tenants will continue to provide their share of labor.” The lord glanced approvingly at his lady. “I have given the matter a great deal of thought, as you can see,” he concluded. “And, I am certain you will agree that since Jarl Erlend is to remain in Orkneyjar, my short absence will occasion but little remark. Also, I would not like to cause anyone the slightest hardship. I know you will have care enough to look after all the lands which will be delivered to your keeping. I could not rest easy in the thought that my affairs had become a burden on anyone.”
So saying, the lord bade the bishop good day; Lady Niamh added her farewell and thanks for a magnificent feast worthy of the namesake saint. Bishop Adalbert delivered a benediction of parting, and, even as they turned to leave, added that should anything occur to change his mind, the lord would find him ready and willing to shoulder the responsibility of looking after his lands.
Torf and Skuli made their farewells, Murdo muttered his regards, and then they were escorted once more through the cathedral and outside the church wall. They made their way to the bay below the low church hill and boarded the boat for the homeward voyage. The wind was light, but steady out of the northeast and the seas calm; the sailing would be pleasant, and they would be home in no time at all.
Ranulf woke Peder, his boatman, who was asleep on the tiller bench, and ordered Torf and Skuli to ready the sail, while he and Murdo untied the boat and, taking up two long oars, pushed away from the quay. Then all four men rowed until, once clear of the other boats, they could turn around, whereupon Ranulf gave the command to raise the sail. The heavy fabric shook itself and puffed out nicely, and the small ship glided from the wide, shallow bay and proceeded on an easterly course to clear the headland, before turning south and coasting home.
Once past the headland, there was nothing for Murdo to do, so he propped himself up on the rail and watched the low hills and cliffs, the dark rocks glowing red and purple in the westering sun. Murdo settled to bask in the warm, long-lingering sunset. Perched on the rail, he could not help thinking that, all in all, it was a splendid end to a fine day.
He looked at his father, who had taken the tiller from Peder, and watched as Ranulf expertly guided the boat, eyes scanning the familiar coastal waters, his face ruddy in the red-gold light, his fine blue cloak slung back over his shoulders so that his strong arms might move more freely.
At that moment, it occurred to Murdo that he wanted nothing else in all the world but to be that very man, to one day assume the lordship of Dýrness and the protection of his family’s lands. He looked across at his mother, serene and beautiful as she sat on her cushioned bench beside the tiller. One day, thought Murdo, he would also have a beautiful wife. He savored the word inwardly—wife—and was not surprised when it conjured Ragna’s face. She was, after all, the only person worthy of the thought.
He held her image in his mind and watched the pale silver crescent of the moon rising, as if out of the very sea, to begin its silent journey toward morning. The sky was filled with stars by the time they reached Hrafnbú Bay, and Murdo was asleep in the bottom of the boat. He woke when the hull ran aground on the pebbled shore of their gjá, the ravine-like bay carved deep into the high rock cliffs upon which their farmland lay. He roused himself, slipped over the side, and helped Peder and his brothers make the boat secure.
They then waded to shore, where they were met by Jötun and Balder. The two wolfhounds bounded along the strand, barking eagerly and splashing everyone. Ranulf greeted them, cuffed them both affectionately around the ears, and sent them racing back toward the house to announce their master’s return.
The very next day, the manor began preparations for the pilgrims’ departure. As the days went by, Murdo watched with increasing jealousy as his brothers and cousin assumed the manner of worldly-wise men who could not be bothered with the commonplace chores of the farm. They ordered the servingmen like they were kings delivering edicts of life-or-death import to uncomprehending slaves; they swaggered about like battlechiefs of vast renown, and remained aloof from all former labors. It was as if the impending pilgrimage had absolved them not only of sin, but of work, duty, and common decency, too. Murdo ground his teeth until his jaws ached, but kept his resentment to himself.
Then, before the next full moon shone over Orkney’s smooth hills, the pilgrims were gone.
SIX
“Basileus Alexius wishes me to express his gratitude for your efforts on behalf of the empire,” Dalassenus said, placing the gift chalice on the table beside the throne. “He sends me with this letter”—withdrawing the parchment square from the leather pouch at his belt, the young commander offered it to the cleric—“along with his regrets that he could not come to Rome to discuss his concerns in person. However, matters have arisen since I was last with you which prevent the emperor from leaving the capital at this time.”
“Be assured I am only too aware of the burdens and difficulties besetting those in authority,” the pope replied, accepting the folded parchment and placing it in his lap. He sat back, placidly regarding the man before him; thick muscled and compact, his dark curly hair and large dark eyes gave him the strong, virile semblance of a young bull.
“Please tell our dear brother that I have caused prayers to be said in order that he may prevail in every way against the devil’s wiles. Tell him, too, that I hope for the day when he and I can sit down together and discuss our common affairs. Still, I am pleased to welcome his emissary. After our l
ast meeting, I have often had cause to praise your sagacity and tact, drungarius. The emperor is fortunate indeed to have such an envoy.” He watched as the immaculate Dalassenus bowed with perfect courtesy—neither too shallow, which would be a slight, nor too deep, which would be servile. “Agreeable though your presence undoubtedly is, I am intrigued to know why I am favored to receive your attentions so soon upon the heels of your last visit.”
“Your Holiness flatters me,” Dalassenus answered smoothly. “Perhaps you will permit me to say that the basileus has sent his kinsman and servant so that you may know the high regard he has placed on your counsel, and the eagerness with which he awaits your reply.”
Urban regarded the emperor’s letter, bound with ribands of gold and sealed in purple. Could it be that now, at long last, his adversary was accepting the peace he had labored so diligently to achieve? Healing the generations-old fracture had been one of the chief aims of his papal tenure and, if he understood Dalassenus correctly, that selfsame reconciliation was now delivered into his grasp.
Dalassenus continued, “Also, the basileus would have it known that, after a lengthy investigation into the matter, it has at last come to light that the name of the Patriarch of Rome had been omitted from the diptych not by any canonical decision but, as it were, from carelessness. Rest assured this highly unfortunate oversight has been corrected.”
The pope moved to secure the peace at once. “I rejoice to hear it,” Urban replied, smiling benignly at his guest. “Tonight we will dine together you and I, and discuss the preparations for a celebration to mark the resumption of friendly relations between Rome and Byzantium.”
“Nothing would please me more, Bishop Urban. Unfortunately, my stay must be brief; Basileus Alexius expects my imminent return.”
“Then tell me your errand, my friend,” the pope said, “and I will do my best to accommodate you however I may.”
“It is simply this,” Dalassenus replied and, using every grain of discretion at his command, inquired whether the pope had seen fit to reply to the emperor’s request for troops to help restore the themes for the coming campaign to recover the imperial territories lost to the Arabs.
“As to the matter of the emperor’s enquiry,” Urban answered happily, “you may tell our brother and friend, that I did indeed take his entreaty to heart. What is more, I wasted not a moment, but acted on it without delay. You see, I myself have but recently returned from the field of battle, so to speak.”
The pope went on to describe what he called his inspiration in convening a council of bishops to discuss the need for aiding the empire, and to decide what form this aid might take. “I am pleased to relate that the council has seen the wisdom of protecting the cradle of our salvation from heathen predation. Moreover, I have sent letters to all the bishops under my authority to preach Crusade.”
“Crusade?” Dalassenus had never heard the word before, but knew his worst fears confirmed.
“It is to be a pilgrimage like no other,” the pope explained. “I have called upon the lords of the West to raise up an army of holy warriors to defend the Holy Land.”
“Then it is true,” the young commander confirmed. “You are sending an army into Byzantium.”
Allowing himself a smile of quiet satisfaction, the Bishop of Rome answered, “The idea was not original, I assure you. Confidentially, far too many of our noblemen are preoccupied with petty wars among themselves. Think you it pleases God to see his children wasting life and substance fighting each other when godless heathen occupy the Holy City, and stain the very stones where Jesu walked with the blood of the righteous? It is nothing less than an abomination.”
“Of course, Lord Bishop,” agreed Dalassenus quickly, “but—”
“This I have preached, and the call has been answered. God be praised! Even now the lords of the West, mighty men of faith one and all, are raising armies to march against the infidel. I only wish that I could lead them myself,” he sighed, then pressed on with enthusiasm: “Still, may it please God, I have delegated the task to one of my bishops—Adhemar of Le Puy enjoys my full authority so far as the disposition of the pilgrimage is concerned.”
“Bishop Adhemar,” the drungarius repeated dully.
“Do you know him?”
“Alas, no.”
“A wonderful man—solid of faith and rich in good works, a saint unflagging in zeal and courage.”
“Be that as it may,” Dalassenus said, “it appears your intentions have been anticipated somewhat.” He then told the pope about Peter the Hermit and his pilgrim horde, and their unruly excursion through imperial lands.
Bishop Urban shook his head sadly. “It is unfortunate, I agree, but I do not see how it can be prevented. God calls who he will. Are we to judge who may take the cross, and who must refrain? It is the instrument of salvation for many, and no earthly power has the right to deny it.”
“When will these—” Dalassenus hesitated. To avoid needless antagonism, he said, “These crusaders—they will pass through Constantinople, no doubt? In that event, it would be useful to know how many we might expect to receive.”
The pope’s eyes went wide at the question. “I have no idea! It is God’s will, my friend. He alone knows the number. Yet, I can tell you the call was most enthusiastically received.”
“When might we expect them?”
“I have decreed that those wishing to follow Bishop Adhemar on pilgrimage must be ready to depart no later than August of this year. God willing, you may expect their arrival by the Christ Mass, if not before.”
“The emperor will be delighted to hear it,” the young commander replied, trying not to let dismay color his tone.
“Good,” the pope answered. “So be it.”
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must make arrangements for my departure.”
“Such devotion to duty is laudable, Drungarius Dalassenus. But must you leave Rome so soon? I had hoped you would dine with us here in the palace. These are exciting times, and there is much to discuss.”
“I am sorry. As much as I might wish otherwise, I am compelled to rejoin the basileus as soon as possible.”
“As you will.” Urban, Patriarch of Rome, extended his hand for the kiss, and the young commander brushed the papal ring with his lips. “Farewell, my son. Greet the emperor in my name, and tell him he is remembered daily in prayer, as are all our brothers in the east.”
“Thank you, I will indeed tell him,” Dalassenus answered. “Fare well, Bishop Urban.”
The young commander turned on his heel and departed the audience room. Urban sat for a long time, contemplating the incredible event which had just taken place. Then, when he had set the thing properly in his mind, he called his abbot to him and, giving him the emperor’s letter, commanded him to read it aloud. The priest broke the seal, unfolded the heavy parchment square and, in a high, thin, reedy voice, began to read.
“Slowly, Brother Marcus,” the pope chided, “slowly—and in Latin, please. My Greek has never been more than adequate. Begin again, my friend, if you please.”
As the abbot began once more, Pope Urban leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Yes, he thought, the long hoped-for reconciliation had come; what is more, thanks to the tremendous response to his call to Crusade, it was now proceeding more swiftly than he would have dared dream possible.
SEVEN
Harvest time sped by Murdo in a dull blur of sweat and fatigue. Day after day, he dragged his aching body out of bed at first light, pulled on his clothes, and was in the fields by dawn, where he labored until long into the radiant northern twilight, pausing only to break fast at midday, and then again for supper. He took his meals in the field with the vassals and, like his father, worked elbow to elbow with them, never allowing himself even so much as a swallow of water unless he could offer them the same.
By the time the last sheaf of grain had been gathered and the last lonely kernel gleaned, Murdo knew deep in every bone
and sinew that he had never worked so hard, nor accomplished so much. The fact that the final three rows were harvested under black, threatening skies with the rumble of thunder in the distance only increased his sense of triumph. When the last wagon trundled into the yard and the oxen were led to the barn, he stood and gazed proudly at the great stacks of yellow grain, marveling at the achievement. When his mother came and put her arm around his shoulder in a gentle hug, Murdo could not have been more delighted if heaps of gold had been mined and stored away.
“You have done well, Murdo,” his mother told him. “I cannot remember a richer harvest. Your father could not have done better, and he would tell you the same if he were here.”
“The weather remained dry, and that helped,” he replied sagely. Casting an eye toward the dark clouds overhead, he added, “I feared the storm would take the last, but it can rain from now until Yuletide and I will not breathe a word of complaint.”
“A harvest like this deserves a feast,” Niamh suggested. “Tomorrow we will celebrate. Tell the tenants and vassals, and then choose a pig—oh, and one of the yearling calves, too. We will make it a fine harvest celebration.”
As his mother hurried off to begin ordering the preparations, Murdo stood for a time admiring his handiwork. Then, adopting the manner of the absent lord himself, he strode into the barn where the workers were placing the last sheaves onto the stack, and began praising the men for their diligence and hard work. “Tomorrow will be a feast-day at Hrafnbú farm,” he told them, and bade them bring wives, children and their old ones to help observe the festivities properly. Leaving the others to finish in the barn, Murdo and Fossi went to the cattle pens to choose the calf and pig for the feast.
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