The Iron Lance

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I thought you wanted to go to Jerusalem,” the seaman said, bouncing the purse on his palm. “Ten marks pays your passage.”

  Murdo, outraged at being robbed, and aghast at the audacity of the thief, sputtered in protest.

  “Stay or go—the choice is yours, but it must be made quickly,” the Norseman told him. “Skidbladnir is ready, and the tide is on to turning.”

  Murdo regarded the ship: a goodly-sized vessel of the kind the Norsemen excelled at building—sleek and low, easily maneuvered and fast; it could hold thirty fighting men. From where he stood, he could see that many of the rowing benches had been removed to accommodate the small mountain of cargo, and the tented platform behind the mast.

  “I will go with you,” Murdo answered, making up his mind. “But I will give you five marks only.”

  “Impossible,” replied the seaman. “Seven, or you stay behind.”

  “Six,” countered Murdo confidently.

  The Norseman hesitated, hefting the bag in his hand.

  “The tide is running, and you are leaving,” Murdo pointed out. “It is the last silver you will see until Jerusalem.”

  “You are not so stupid, I think,” the Norseman allowed, extending his hand. “Six marks it is.”

  Murdo took the offered hand. “Three marks now, and three when we reach Jerusalem.”

  “Done!” said the Norseman. He counted out three marks and tossed the bag to Murdo.

  “I must fetch my belongings,” Murdo said. Tucking the purse quickly out of sight, he started off along the bank.

  “Here now!” The seaman called him back. “If you are sailing on my ship, we can come to an understanding first.”

  “Very well,” Murdo agreed.

  “Hear me: I am King Magnus’ man, and I am joining his fleet as soon as we quit this harbor. I will gladly cleave you crown to chin if you cause me trouble,” the seaman vowed, fondling the hilt of the very large knife in his belt. “But just you stay out of trouble, and you will find me a most agreeable companion.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “This is my pledge to you. What is your pledge to me?”

  “You will never have cause to raise your voice to me, much less your blade,” Murdo told him solemnly. “I will cause you no trouble, and do as I am told. This I pledge you.”

  “You’ll do, boy!” The big man grinned suddenly, and Murdo saw that one of his lower front teeth was missing, and a fine, almost invisible scar creased his lip and chin, making his smile a wry, lop-sided, yet curiously compelling thing. Murdo smiled, too, in response, and felt his heart lift for the first time in many days.

  “I am Jon Wing,” he said, clapping a huge hand to Murdo’s back, “and I mean to watch you like Odin’s eagle.”

  “Though you watch me night and day, you will find nothing you do not expect to see,” Murdo told him. “I mean to make myself useful.”

  “Be about it then,” Jon Wing said, and turned to the men on the bank and began calling commands. Turning back to Murdo he said, “Well? Get on, boy! The tide is flowing, and we are away with it.”

  Murdo raced along the top of the earthen bank to rejoin Peder, who was sitting on a stump, braiding the ends of a length of rope. He hailed the old seaman, and hastened to explain. “The king has already sailed,” he said, “but one of his men is still in harbor. The ship is called Skidbladnir, and the master has agreed to take me.”

  Peder nodded. “A good name for a ship. When do you sail?”

  “On the tide,” Murdo answered.

  “Then farewell it is,” Peder replied, rising from the stump. Descending the bank and climbing into the boat, he stooped and hefted up the bundle Murdo had left behind. “Here now,” he said, passing the bundle to Murdo over the side. “As the tide is running, I will be going myself. Give us a push, Master Murdo, and I am away.”

  Murdo untied the rope from the stump, coiled it quickly, and tossed it into the boat. Then, he put his shoulder to the prow and shoved the boat away as Peder settled himself at the oars. Murdo called farewell, and watched the old seaman work the oars, turning the boat with deft, efficient strokes.

  “Tell my mother the journey is well begun,” Murdo called. “Take care of her, Peder. See she does not worry overmuch.”

  “Oh, aye,” vowed the old helmsman. “Never fear. Just you keep a sharp weather eye, lad.”

  “That I will,” answered Murdo, not wanting to take his eyes off Peder or the boat until both were out of sight. A long, rising whistle from the direction of Jon Wing’s ship called him away, however, and Murdo took up his bundle and ran to secure his place aboard the waiting ship. Four rowers, long oars in hand, pushed the craft away from the bank as Murdo clambered over the rail.

  He found a place among the rowers, took up an oar from the holder, and settled himself on his bench. He fell into the easy rhythm of rowing and watched the settlement of Inbhir Ness slip slowly away as the ship moved out onto the estuary.

  Murdo saw Peder again a little while later as the ship entered the wider water of the firth. Murdo called across the water and exchanged a last farewell with the old pilot as the larger ship overtook the smaller. A short while later, Skidbladnir turned, heading east along the coast, and the Orkney boat continued its northerly course. A small square of buff-colored sail was the last Murdo saw of the boat and its lone occupant. He then turned his face to the dragonheaded prow and looked out on seas and lands unknown to him—merely the first of many he would gaze upon in the days to come.

  SEVENTEEN

  Bohemond, astride his dun-colored stallion, lifted a hand to the vast camp and the enormous walls towering over it. “See here, Tancred! This is how I remember the city.” Rising beyond the walls, three of Constantinople’s fabled seven hills could be seen, white palaces gleaming in the midday sun. “It is just like the last time I saw it.”

  Lord Tancred, reining in his favorite bay mare, gazed upon the jubilant rush of men towards the imposing walls of Constantinople. “Your father’s siege was not successful, I believe,” he replied dryly, lifting his voice above the shouts and cheers of the soldiers.

  “Alas, no. He ran afoul of the infernal Venetians who believe they own the sea. He beat them back at the cost of half his fleet, and came on to Byzantium in the spring.” The prince paused, thinking back over the years.

  “It was fever took him in the end, was it not?”

  Bohemond nodded without taking his eyes from the glimmering hills. “Fever broke out in the camp. I myself was taken ill and sent home to recover. In the end, the count was forced to abandon the siege. He died soon after.”

  “A pity,” remarked Tancred. “Especially as he had so much to gain.”

  “Yes,” agreed Bohemond, “and now I have returned to claim what he could not. Come, let us learn the measure of this Emperor Alexius.”

  Godfrey and Baldwin rode out to greet the newcomers, and conducted them to their tents where a small feast had been prepared along with two or three tuns of wine to help the newly-arrived wash the dust of the arid Byzantine hills from their throats. The princes and lords, and their upper-ranking noblemen, ate and drank and regaled one another with tales of their travels. The two brother lords entertained their noble guests with the best of the limited hospitality at their command, falling over themselves to relate all they had seen of the city in the past two days.

  “You have no idea of the wealth amassed in this place,” Baldwin assured them. “It is far more than you can imagine.”

  “Truly,” Godfrey added, “and if Constantinople’s riches stir you, just think what treasures await us in Jerusalem.”

  “You have met this Alexius, I presume?” Bohemond inquired. Oh, yes, the brothers replied enthusiastically, they had met with the emperor: twice, once in his palace, and once in this very camp. They knew the emperor well, and held him in highest esteem. “Tell me about him,” invited the Prince of Taranto.

  “He is a shrewd and cunning dog,” Baldwin replied. “His fortunes are beyond counting, yet h
e goes about a very beggar by comparison. He is a small, pig-eyed man with a skin like an Ethiope.”

  “Be that as it may, he has nevertheless agreed to provision us,” Godfrey pointed out benevolently. “And that—what with upwards of a hundred thousand men and forty thousand horses—is no small matter. He asks nothing in return, save that you sign an oath of loyalty recognizing him as emperor, and agreeing to return any conquered lands and such to the empire.”

  “Sign an oath of loyalty!” hooted Bohemond. “On my word, I will do no such thing.”

  The duke shrugged. “That is up to you, of course, Bohemond, dear friend. But the benefits of doing so are not inconsiderable.”

  “Did you sign it—this oath of loyalty?”

  “We did,” Godfrey declared, “and gladly.”

  Baldwin frowned, but said nothing. There was no need to mention the unfortunate riot in the marketplace, and the resultant loss of fifty-six men.

  “The Greeks are infamous for their treachery,” Bohemond observed. “There is certain to be some deception in it. I will go to the devil before I pledge fealty to that black dog of an emperor.”

  Godfrey glared at Bohemond, who stared back in fierce defiance, as if it was he and not Alexius insisting on the pledge.

  “This hot, and it is but April,” complained Tancred, lifting his cup and draining it. Holding the empty vessel at arm’s length, he instructed his steward to refill the cup and to keep the jug full and ready. “At least,” he mused, returning the cup to his mouth, “the emperor’s wine is better than his reputation.”

  Baldwin and some of the noblemen laughed, easing the strain of the moment.

  “The duplicity of the Greeks is well known, of course,” sniffed Godfrey peevishly. “But as we are only to remain in Byzantium a day or two longer at most, I saw no harm in signing the oath. He is the emperor, after all.”

  “We have only just arrived,” Bohemond said imperiously. “I have no intention of rushing off so soon. The men are exhausted, and the horses must be rested. We have been on the march continuously since Avlona. It will take more than a day or two before we can consider moving on.”

  “The emperor is even now devising plans to help us move our armies across the Bosphorus where a camp has been prepared at Pelecanum,” Godfrey informed the prince, happy to see him squirm. “Our armies have been waiting weeks now, and our men are more than ready to press on to the Holy Land.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Baldwin, “you might persuade the emperor to allow you to wait until Count Raymond and Duke Robert arrive.”

  “I wonder they are not here already,” Tancred mused. “What the devil can have happened to them?”

  “Ah,” Godfrey replied, “I have it that they tarried a while in Rome—at the pope’s request. Apparently, Urban, despite his zeal for the success of the pilgrimage, is not well enough to undertake the journey himself. Thus, he has appointed a legate to lead the crusade in his stead.”

  Bohemond stiffened. “Do we know this legate?” wondered the prince in a slightly strained voice.

  “We do not,” admitted Godfrey. “But he is said to be a churchman—a bishop, I believe—of scrupulous honor and highest repute.”

  “Well,” allowed the prince, growing easy once again, “so long as he keeps his reputable nose out of affairs that do not concern him, I have no objection.” Raising his cup, he cried, “God prosper us, my lords! Hey!”

  “God prosper us!” replied the assembled noblemen. They all drank then, and the feast proceeded in good spirit—so good in fact, that the arrival of a messenger with a summons for Bohemond to attend the emperor went unremarked and unresented. The prince allowed himself to be conducted to Blachernae Palace alone and unaccompanied by any but Tancred and eight of his closest noblemen.

  Alexius received the son of his former enemy in the Salamos Hall of Blachernae Palace from which he had removed all its portable furnishings and treasures. Any that could not be moved, he had hidden beneath tasteful, but not unduly ornate Damasc-cloth coverings. He desired the room to present a suitably imposing, yet somewhat austere display, so as not to inflame his visitor’s notorious greed.

  For the reception, the emperor arrayed himself in his best ceremonial robes, but added to the imperial purple his breastplate, sword, dagger, and greaves: not the high-polished gilt armor he used for formal occasions, but the battered pieces he wore on the field. Alexius remembered, and dreaded, Bohemond’s superior size and height, and wished to even the scales as much as possible by showing himself a man of daring and action. Likewise, he commanded the full complement of palace excubitori to attend him in battle gear used in previous campaigns. In this way, he hoped to gently remind his rogue of a guest that the emperor was a commander of armies, and well-used to the harsh fortunes of war.

  So, when the two latest arrivals and their vassal lords were brought into his presence, they found the emperor standing before his throne and looking as if he expected to mount his horse at any moment and charge into battle. His manner, like his surroundings, bespoke an able ruler in full command of his faculties, passions, and authority. Tancred decided, before he had moved a dozen paces into the room, that he would happily sign the oath of fealty to this emperor.

  Bohemond, however, appeared impervious to Alexius’ sly design. Ever the arrogant prince, he walked with his customary swagger across the marble floor to stand directly before the throne and look God’s Ruler on Earth in the eye.

  “So, Bohemond, here you are again,” said the emperor, unable to bring himself to utter words of false welcome. “You always wished to gain entrance to our palace; at long last it would appear you have achieved your ambition—unlike the last time you were here.”

  Bohemond’s smile was broad and genuine. “Hail, Alexius! God be good to you, I hope.” He looked around the room, filling his eyes with the grand and stately architecture; even in its subdued condition, the room was still far more magnificent than any royal apartment he had ever known. “To think,” he said amiably, “I have achieved in friendship what could not be gained by force of arms.”

  “You call yourself our friend,” remarked Alexius. “Do we discern a change of heart?”

  “I stand before you, Lord Emperor, your humble servant,” replied Bohemond, spreading his empty hands before him. Alexius remarked how large were those hands, and how powerful those arms. “As you see me, so I am.”

  “We do see you, Prince Bohemond,” the emperor intoned, “but the sight does not entirely expunge the memory of our last exchange.” Even as he spoke the words, Alexius judged the changes in the man before him; twelve years had done much for old Robert’s son. A tall, rangy youth, he had put muscle to his lanky bones; broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, he stood on long sturdy legs, with not the least hint of meekness in his clear blue eyes. Both chin and cheek were smooth from the razor, and his hair, unlike that of so many Franks, was cut even to his shoulders. He moved easily, and with confidence, alert to all around him. If not for the fellow’s insufferable arrogance, pride, and over-reaching ambition, Alexius might have found it in himself to befriend the top-lofty prince.

  “But that was a long time ago, Lord Emperor,” Bohemond was saying, still smiling. “Then, I was merely a vassal in the command of my father. Today, however, I come freely of my own volition, responding purely out of Christian duty to see our common enemy vanquished, and the lands hallowed by our Lord and Saviour returned to the rightful occupation and veneration of God’s faithful people.”

  “Be assured all Heaven rejoices to hear it,” Alexius replied, moving swiftly to the moment of anticipated difficulty. “We are always glad to welcome men of such high-minded resolve into our confidence—in observance of which we have prepared a small token of our regard.” He lifted a hand to the magister officiorum, who stepped forward with a lacquered tray bearing two fine golden bowls set with rubies and sapphires.

  Alexius allowed his guests to fill their eyes with the prizes, and then, with a nod to Theodosius, Logoth
ete of the Symponus, who advanced bearing the parchment square containing the oath of loyalty which Hugh, Godfrey, and Baldwin had already signed, the emperor said, “So that we may all be of one accord, and enjoy the benefits of our newfound friendship, it only remains for you to join your fellow pilgrims in the recognition of our imperial sovereignty.”

  Tancred, wishing to express his independence and secure the emperor’s favor forthwith, spoke first. “I will delay only so long as it takes to pare reed and dip pen,” he said, inclining his head. Whereupon the magister unfolded the document and, placing it on a board bearing a pot of ink and a prepared quill, offered it to the young nobleman, who affixed his signature beneath those of Godfrey and Baldwin while the magister held the board.

  “Your readiness shames me, Tancred,” Bohemond observed. “But I will write my name large so that our friend and emperor will know at a glance who it is that he has clasped to his bosom in friendship.” Taking up the quill pen he dipped the tip in the pot and with an elaborate flourish wrote his name in letters twice the size of all the others. He replaced the quill and, still smiling, inclined his head in submission.

  The emperor, unable to believe the ease with which he had secured Bohemond’s vow, said, “Come, Nicetas, present the gifts to our esteemed guests.”

  Tancred eagerly received the offered bowl; it was definitely worth the cost of travelling to Constantinople. Bohemond did not lift a hand to the tray, however, but remained with his hands clasped before him, smiling as he had since entering the throne room. “Do not think I shun your gift, Lord and Emperor,” the prince said. “If I refrain, it is not from scorn, but rather out of forbearance.”

  Alexius stared at the haughty prince and tried to imagine Bohemond exercising this particular virtue. Certainly, he possessed all of his father’s insatiable passions, and old Robert Guiscard had never abstained from anything the entire length of his life.

  “You have some other token in mind, perhaps,” the emperor decided at last.