The Iron Lance

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  If, by a miracle, the crusaders should emerge victorious, the cost of exterminating the Seljuq pestilence would have been well worth the price—although, Alexius concluded gloomily, the more he saw of the pilgrims passing through his realm, that miracle seemed ever more remote. So far, it appeared he was merely making the best of an increasingly poor bargain.

  The emperor regarded the tall, gaunt nobleman before him. Hard-eyed, his jaw set, doubtless he had never willingly surrendered anything to anyone in all his life and was not about to begin now. Thus, Stephen’s suggestion represented the best offer Alexius would receive from the proud and principled Count of Toulouse and Provence. With an air of weary resignation, he wisely accepted. “What is this oath of his countrymen?” Alexius asked, wanting nothing more than to see the backs of the pilgrims once and for all.

  “Allow me, Lord Emperor,” Raymond interrupted, and began to speak out a wordy vow which amounted to a promise to honor the emperor, respecting his life and rank, never maligning him, nor causing him to come to injury or harm, whether in word or deed, through any action, or inaction, on doughty Lord Raymond’s part.

  “Do you also pledge to honor the interests of the emperor in all matters pertaining to the recovery of lands, properties, treasures, and relics belonging to the empire?” demanded Alexius when the lord had finished.

  “This I also pledge,” answered Raymond solemnly.

  “And do you make this vow in fear of forfeiting your soul’s eternal happiness, should you fail to discharge it faithfully?”

  Bishop Adhemar opened his mouth to object, but Stephen wisely prevented him, grasping the disagreeable cleric by the arm and squeezing hard.

  “I do so right and well, Lord Emperor,” answered Raymond readily, and without guile.

  “Then we accept your vow in place of the oath which all other Christian noblemen have sworn,” the emperor said, unable to keep the reprimand to himself. “Go now and assemble your troops. The commander of the fleet will be informed to begin the transport of your armies. The charge will be assessed at a cost of twenty marks a day for each ship required; this you will repay to the imperial treasury. Further, we will assemble a company of Immortals under the command of Taticius, who will serve as our emissary to offer counsel and look after our interests in our absence. You are to treat our envoy as you would the emperor himself. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, Lord Emperor,” answered Raymond, much relieved to have settled the matter satisfactorily.

  “Then we wish you God’s speed, and swift victory over our common adversaries,” Alexius said. “My lords, we commend you to your course.”

  “Pax Vobiscum,” replied the western lords.

  Before they stepped away from the throne, the emperor said, “May we offer you a word of friendly warning?”

  “Of course, Lord Emperor,” replied Stephen happily. “Your instruction would be most welcome.”

  “The Seljuqs are formidable, and they are fearless,” Alexius said, becoming the wily commander once again. “They fight on horseback using the bow; they will harry you all day with feints and charges, seeking to wear down your numbers with their incessant arrows. Yet, they will not stand to battle. Do not mistake this for cowardice; it is nothing of the kind. Rather, it is their nature.

  “We advise you, therefore, that when you are attacked you must close on them at once. Make them fight. Most likely, they will retreat, rather than meet you face to face. Should they flee, you must not give chase; their horses are faster than yours and they will easily outdistance you. Under no circumstance must you allow your mounted soldiers to become separated from those on foot. The Arab races are skilled horsemen, and can regroup in the twinkling of an eye. They like nothing better than turning on their pursuers, and taking them unawares, or circling back to attack the unguarded infantry. The same can be said of ambush and treachery.”

  He watched the lords and saw that his words were having little effect on the two before him, so he concluded, saying, “We beg you to remember, it is not courage which will win against the Seljuq, it is cunning.”

  A sneer of disdain appeared on Raymond’s face. “We have heard your counsel, and thank you for it. But with all respect, Lord Emperor,” he replied, “the Saracen will soon learn to fear crusader steel. With God and truth on our side, we have no need of cunning.”

  “Then go with God, my friends.” The emperor dismissed them, and watched as they backed away from the throne. When the two had gone, Alexius turned to his kinsman, and said, “What do you think, cousin?”

  “I think the imperial treasury will soon flow with pilgrim gold,” Dalassenus replied. “But why send the troop ships away, only to return them at hire? I cannot think you did it to save the cost of transport.”

  “That?” wondered Alexius with mild surprise. “I merely wished to teach them something about power, and their dependence on the empire. Whether they like it or not, they need us if they are to successfully achieve their conquest of Jerusalem.”

  “I see,” answered the commander. “I was thinking you had a different reason: that the gold was better given to you now, than plundered by the Seljuq later.”

  “You hold their chances as poor as that, do you?”

  “I am being optimistic, basileus,” the commander assured him. “How they have made it this far is a mystery to me. But, from what I have seen of the Seljuqs, I know these pilgrims will never set foot in Jerusalem. As you have said, if courage alone had sufficed, we would have conquered them long ago.”

  Alexius, brooding now, folded his hands beneath his chin and stared before him, as if into a dark and frightening future.

  “These men—these commanders know nothing of what awaits them. They do not know the land; they have no idea of distances or terrain. They lack all understanding of the Arab—none of them have even seen a Seljuq, let alone fought an amir’s army. To say that they will never see Jerusalem is, I think, no more than a realistic assessment. Taking all they lack in knowledge and provision, I believe most will never even see Antioch.”

  “Yes,” agreed Alexius gloomily, “and that is a very great shame. I greatly pity the soldiers of the line. As always, they will pay for the ignorance and folly of their leaders, and the cost will be fearfully great indeed.” He paused for a moment, as if trying to imagine the enormity of the sacrifice. “And yet,” he said, after a moment. He lifted his head and looked at Dalassenus, “and yet, despite all they lack, they possess one incalculable benefit.”

  “What is that, basileus?”

  “Belief,” answered the emperor. “They believe they have been chosen by God to recover the Holy Land and regain Jerusalem.”

  “A belief inspired by ignorance,” the drungarius remarked. “Such beliefs are nothing more than foolishness.”

  “You are forgetting, Dalassenus,” the emperor chided, “God ever confounds the wisdom of men. And these ignorant, arrogant men are filled with the belief that they can achieve what they have set out to do. I ask you, cousin, what wisdom can stand against such exalted foolishness?”

  Dalassenus nodded, accepting the emperor’s observation. “Unfortunately,” he added, “it is neither wisdom nor folly they must meet on the field of battle—it is the might of Sultan Qilij Arslan, and that of the Seljuq amirs. God help them, I say.”

  “Amen,” agreed Alexius. “He is the only one who can.”

  TWENTY - ONE

  Jon Wing remarked often on the weather. Every two or three weeks, he proclaimed it a wonder. It was, he maintained, the best sailing he had seen in seven years—twice seven years, even. The days were bright and long, and the winds fair. “This is a lucky omen,” he insisted. “We will certainly make our fortune in Jerusalem.”

  The vast treasure awaiting them in the Holy Land was something else Jon often remarked upon. At first, Murdo took this as a sign that they must be nearing their destination. Each day he waited for one of the crewmen to sing out with the news that Jerusalem was in sight; each day ended with Mur
do closing his eyes on yet another strange and nameless lump of foreign coastline. Yet, despite the continual frustration of his expectation, Murdo awoke the next day all the more certain that this would be the day the Holy Land hove into view. After all, how much further could it be?

  But, as the days ran to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, and still Jerusalem failed to appear on the horizon, Murdo at last began to take seriously the suggestion that the voyage might indeed take longer than he expected. In the meantime, they continually scanned the wide and empty sea for any sign of King Magnus’ fleet.

  The king’s ships proved as elusive as the Holy City, however; although they sometimes saw a strange sail or two there was never so much as a glimpse of King Magnus’ fleet. “It is fifteen ships,” Jon declared. “Fifteen cannot sail as swiftly as one! We will find them yet.”

  All the while, the seasons, and the seas, grew slowly warmer. The grey-green waters of the north gave way to the green-blue waters of the south, and spring gave way to summer, and then autumn, as Skidbladnir slipped down and down along the coast. They passed Normandy and Frankland, and then places Murdo had never heard of: Navarre, León and Castile, Portugal, and still on and on, south and ever south.

  As the journey wore on, the daily routine became established habit and small diversions loomed large with the longship’s crew and passengers. From the stories they told, and the amusements they contrived, it became clear to Murdo that Jon Wing and his men were used to lengthy sea voyages in strange, if not hostile, waters. Murdo listened to their talk and learned what manner of men his fellow pilgrims were.

  Although the crewmen were Norsemen one and all, Murdo discovered that none of them had seen their homeland in many years. Five had lived in Eìre: Hallvard, Hogni, Tiggi, Vestein, and Svidur; and five had lived in Scotland: Fafnir, Sturli, Raefil, Nial, and Oski; three had lived in Normandy: Olaf, Ymir, and Digri; and two had lived in both England and Frankland: Amund, and Arnor. All sixteen, including Jon Wing, had sailed with King Magnus on various expeditions, and spoke well of him. Murdo was impressed by the respect the king commanded, even in his absence.

  He also began to unravel the complicated system of loyalties which bound the crew to one another, and to the ship—which they considered second to none in the king’s fleet. Skidbladnir, he discovered, belonged not to Magnus, but to Jon Wing, who had agreed to provide his ship and crew to support the king on his pilgrimage, in return for the plunder they would receive. The crew and their master were not ordinary vassals of the king, but mercenaries who had taken oaths of fealty for the duration of the voyage.

  When the crew discovered that it was Murdo’s first voyage beyond sight of his island home, they undertook to teach him all they knew of the seaman’s craft. They taught Murdo how to steer a longship—how to rig the sail, and which guide stars were most useful. And when Murdo proved a ready pupil, they delighted in teaching him other things as well: how to catch fish ten different ways, how to read the water for signs of trouble, how to forecast the weather by the smell of the air, and how to take care of his fair skin.

  Unfortunately, this last lesson came only after Murdo had fallen asleep in the hot southern sun. He awoke feeling sick to his stomach, and as evening came on, began to experience a most remarkable agony. He felt as if hot pitch had been tipped over his back and shoulders and then set to the torch; he could not stand to have his clothes touch him, and the slightest movement brought rushes of pain cascading over him.

  After the sailors had a good laugh over his calamity, they took pity on him and showed him how to take the fiery sting out of the sunburn with an unguent made from seaweed, and thereafter—until his skin developed its own protection—how to avoid getting another nasty burn.

  Rarely out of sight of land, they put in to shore for fresh water as often as necessary, but seldom camped overnight; they much preferred lying at anchor in a calm bay or hidden cove. The few times they did sleep on solid ground, Jon made certain it was far from any human habitation; he said he did not trust folk from foreign lands. Once, however, after coming ashore for water they found themselves near a small farming settlement; after dark some of the crew went off for firewood, returning some while later with three sheep and a clutch of duck eggs.

  The sailors claimed the sheep were strays they had discovered wandering lonely in the woods, but Murdo noticed that one of the men had a vicious gash on his leg not unlike a dog bite, and another displayed an unexplained lump on his forehead. Jon Wing seemed uninterested in further explanations, and everyone, even the mildly disapproving monks, enjoyed the mutton for the next few days.

  As the endless succession of days stretched on, Murdo accustomed himself to the ceaselessly bouncing boat, and grew to enjoy sleeping under the night sky with its endless, wheeling canopy of stars. Often, when the wind was fine and the night good, Jon let the ship run through the night, steering by starlight and moonglow. The Norsemen took it in turns to stand the tiller, and Jon allowed Murdo to try his hand. Though the ship was larger than any he had sailed, Murdo found the skills much the same and soon became as accomplished as any of them, priding himself in his ability to keep the sail filled and the prow true.

  To augment the nightly meal of porridge, hardtack, and salt pork, Murdo and the monks fished. At dusk, when the sun had sunk in a blood-red mist in the west, and the mackerel were flayed, spitted, and sizzling over the charcoal brazier, and night stained the far-off coastal hills in shades of purple and blue—that was the part of the day Murdo liked best. For then he would settle himself against one of the grain bags, drink his ration of ale with the monks and listen to their chatter as they cooked supper. Much of their talk was vaunted nonsense, so far as Murdo could tell: what was the proper hierarchy of the five sense; whether cherubs ever grew into angles; if the moon was full of devils…and such like.

  Often, after their meal, Emlyn was prevailed upon to tell a story. He possessed a fine, expressive voice and a seemingly inexhaustible trove of tales from which he drew extraordinary stories—some of them lasting two or three nights altogether. They were, he said, just old stories of his people—some of which he had undertaken to put down in writing in the Abbey’s scriptorium—and old they undoubtedly were. Yet, they produced a curious effect in Murdo, who felt drawn to them, and fascinated by them in a way he would have been embarrassed to admit to anyone aloud.

  The Briton told them well, adapting his supple voice easily to the various tones of the tales—now hushed with fear or sorrow, now shaking with anger, or ringing with triumph. Emlyn also sang, and that was even more peculiar, for he sang the most beautiful songs in an impossibly obscure tongue; and though Murdo could not understand a single word, he found himself moved to his very soul by the power of expression alone.

  If, when the song was finished, Murdo asked what it was about, Emlyn would say something like, “Ah, that is Rhiannon’s Birds…” or, “That was Branwen’s lament for the loss of her poor child…” or, again, “That was Llew Silver Hand’s triumph over the Cythrawl…” and Murdo would agree that yes, he had heard the birds, and plumbed the depth of Branwen’s grief, and had indeed taken flight on the wings of Llew’s exultation.

  As the months passed, the intermittent songs and tales began to produce in Murdo a curious and potent longing—a yearning after something he did not know. It was as if he had been allowed the taste of an unimaginably pleasurable elixir, only to have it snatched away again while the cup was at his lips.

  Occasionally, he caught the familiar echo of something his mother might have said, and then it was as if he had heard a call from the Otherworld—a voice reaching out to him from across the abyss of years, a distant shout, faint as a whisper and intimate as a kiss—and the shock of recognition made the hair stand up on the nape of his neck, and his heart beat faster.

  One night, he listened to Emlyn sing a tale called Rhonabwy’s Dream, and for days afterwards he felt empty, yet oddly stirred. He felt restless within himself, and fidgeted so much that Jon Wing,
noticing his agitation, told him he was merely growing impatient with the close confines of the ship. “It will pass,” Jon assured him. “It is best not to think about it.” But Murdo knew his disquiet had less to do with confinement than with the queer world Emlyn’s stories described.

  If anyone else was likewise affected, Murdo never learned. He kept his yearning to himself, hiding it deep within, clutching it tightly as a rare gem lest anyone try to steal it. He went about his chores as one bearing an illness that produced both pain and rapture in equal measure, gladly suffering the torment for the sweetness of the affliction.

  On and on they sailed, further and further from the lands he knew, and with each sea league, the place described by Emlyn’s songs became more real to Murdo, slowly usurping the features of his native homeland in his memory. Whether by day or night, Murdo looked out at the all-encircling sea and dreamed of that enchanted realm, the Region of the Summer Stars, of which the round-faced Briton sang. Slowly, Murdo began to feel that he belonged there.

  One night, despite the clamor of the Norsemen for a song, Emlyn professed himself to be out of voice. “Singen! Singen!” they insisted. “We are wanting to hear the Battle of the Trees!”

  “Ah, now that is a fine tale—a splendid tale indeed. Tomorrow maybe I will sing it,” he told them, and said he must rest himself for a tale so exuberant and profound.

  They let it go at that and, as the sailors returned to their ale cups, Murdo crept close to Emlyn, who was sitting with his feet propped on the rail, staring out into the west as the last glimmer of a violet sunset faded into twilight. He settled himself beside the monk, but said nothing. After a time, Emlyn sighed.

  “Is it the hiraeth?” Murdo asked. “The home-yearning?”

  “Oh, you know it is,” he replied. “And it has taken the heart out of me this time.”

  Murdo nodded sympathetically. He had begun to feel something of the same thing himself. They sat in silence, listening to the smooth-rippling waves against the hull, and staring into the gathering gloom as night deepened around them. After a time, Murdo said, “The clear light—what is it?”