The monk hurried away, returning a short while later with a staff for himself, a spear for Murdo, and a waterskin to share between them. Leaving the palace, they entered the street outside the amir’s residence, and hurried down through the city to the Jaffa Gate. Owing to the lateness of their start, Emlyn thought it best to find their way to the Mount of Olives outside the walls, rather than try to navigate the tangle of unfamiliar streets in the dark. So, they departed by the western gate and, once outside the walls, struck off onto the road which encompassed the city. This track was continually joined and divided by other roads which led off to various settlements and cities—Hebron, Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Damascus, and others—and was ringed by clusters of little farms, each with its tiny patch of green behind low white walls, or dense hedges of thorn and cactus.
The heat of the day was slowly releasing its hold on the land, though the sky was still flame-colored in the west. The air was warm and still, and held an arid, woody scent which seemed to emanate from the small dusty shrubs all around. The road was nearly deserted; they met only the occasional farmer or laborer, and these, seeing Murdo’s spear, recognized the couple as Franks, giving them a wide and wary berth. They walked along, keeping the city wall on their left hand, their eyes on the olive-planted hills rising before them. The hills were dull purple in the evening light, and the gnarled trunks of the olives pale blue, their leaves black.
They walked along in silence for a time, and Murdo found himself thinking about all that had taken place in the last two days. He thought about their midnight flight to the monastery, and his vision of Saint Andrew in the catacombs. Build me a kingdom, brother, the apparition had said. I will do what I can, he had promised. His cheeks burned with shame as the weight of his unworthiness descended over him—like a mountain shifting and settling full upon his soul.
In a little while they came to the place where they had met the soldiers two nights before, and Murdo asked, “Is it true what you told those men the other night?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“About the pope’s decree of absolution?” Emlyn gave him a sideways glance. “Well,” he sighed, “it is how I feel. No doubt our Latin brothers would have a different view, but those soldiers last night did not know we were not of the same order as the rest. Men like that are rarely eager for spiritual counsel; the guilty are reluctant sheep at best, I find.”
“Is it that you do not agree with the pope’s decree?”
“You and I are friends, so I will speak freely,” Emlyn replied. He paused, gazing at the twilight sky; when he spoke again, his voice was thick with condemnation. “The pope is a fool if he believes sin and forgiveness are commodities to be bartered in the marketplace of men’s souls. The sins committed here will corrode the spirit just as surely as any others, and the lack of confession will haunt the heart through all eternity.”
These words produced a peculiar sensation in Murdo; he heard in them the ring of truth, and felt himself moved to confess his part in the wickedness perpetrated on that evil day. He saw again the smoke-dark sky and the leering faces of the soldiers, the blood sluicing red and hot from the wounds, the small mutilated bodies in the street. He could feel the suffocating oppression and revulsion of all he had witnessed that day, and knew it was not a burden he cared to shoulder the rest of his life.
“I am as guilty as anyone,” Murdo declared, his voice low.
“Yes?” Emlyn’s voice was gently probing.
“I have done wrong,” he said and, with halting words, described the carnage and destruction he had seen in the Holy City—the burned temples filled with blackened corpses, the streets filled with bodies and flowing with blood, the poor drowned child, the insane slaughter of defenseless people. He told how he had come upon three soldiers chasing a woman and her babies, and how, after killing the woman and her children, the crusaders had turned on him. “They would have killed me, too, but they were careless, and I was quicker. I killed the leader and the others ran away.” He then described how he had stripped off the mantle of the dead crusader and put it on himself. “I was afraid,” he concluded. “I wanted only to get away from there—from that. On my life, I did not mean to kill him. But he attacked, and he was so sloven, so thoughtless…the spear was in before I knew it. In truth, I might have avoided killing him, but I did not care. He died in the street, and I was afraid the others would come back. I took his cross so I would not be attacked again.”
“I see,” replied Emlyn after a moment’s thought. “You killed only to save yourself. You acted out of fear, perhaps, but no more. Had the soldiers given you another choice, you might have acted differently, yes?”
Murdo nodded.
“There is little sin in this, if any,” the priest told him. “You acted merely to preserve your own life. There is no condemnation in that.”
“I did not care!” Murdo countered miserably. “If I had acted sooner, the woman and her children might have lived. I stood there and watched and did nothing to help them. I was afraid!”
“Fear is ever the great failing of Adam’s race, to be sure,” the monk replied. “While it is true that fear sometimes leads us into sin, it is rarely a sin in itself.”
“I knew what I was doing,” Murdo countered. “That is why I took the killer’s cross for myself. That woman died trying to protect her children, but when the blades turned on me, I was a coward. I should have died defending her—instead, I stole another man’s cloak so I could escape.”
“I am beginning to understand,” replied Emlyn. “Perhaps, as you insist, you might have saved that poor woman and her babies. If nothing else, you feel you should have resisted deceit. You should have refused to allow wickedness and iniquity to outwit and overpower you. Yes?”
“It is true,” confirmed Murdo, feeling worse by the moment.
“You are a man of high integrity, my friend,” Emlyn observed. “You demand it of yourself no less than of all those around you.” At Murdo’s cautious look, he said, “This is true as well—I know, otherwise you would not feel these things so deeply. You believe that you should have remained faithful to the truth that was in you, rather than relinquish your honor to the great lie all around you. These things you did not do, and for these things you stand condemned—in your own heart, at least.”
Murdo, in full agreement with the priest’s impeccable judgment, felt his failure anew. Misery descended over him in thick, black waves. His throat tightened and he could not speak.
“Listen to me now, Murdo. I am a priest, and I am your friend,” Emlyn declared. “And I will do what any friend might do: I will raise you from the pit into which you have fallen. And I will do what only a priest can do: I will redeem you and set your feet on the True Path once more, and guide you towards the Holy Light.”
“Please,” he begged, hope rising in him again. Only a heartbeat ago he had glimpsed himself so lost and utterly bereft of virtue, it did not seem possible that he could be redeemed. “Tell me what I must do, and I will do it. Shrive me, Emlyn.”
“Very well,” agreed the monk. He halted and, taking Murdo’s arm, turned him around. “Kneel down and bow your head.”
The road was empty; there was no one around. Murdo did as he was told, bowing his head and folding his arms across his chest. Emlyn, placing a hand on his shoulder, began to pray, interceding on Murdo’s behalf and begging forgiveness for him. He then said, “Murdo, do you renounce evil?”
“I renounce evil,” answered Murdo with conviction.
“Do you cling to Christ?”
“I cling to Christ.”
“Do you repent of your sins?”
“I do repent of my sins.” In that instant, he ached to be rid of them and make a clean start.
“God save you, Murdo,” said Emlyn. Then, placing his hands on Murdo’s head, he spoke a rune of blessing over him, saying,
“May the Great King and Jesu, his Holy Son,
and the Spirit of All Healing,
Be shielding thee, be u
pholding thee, be abiding thee,
Be clearing thy path and going before thee,
On hill, in hollow, over plain,
Each step through the stormy world thou takest.”
The priest then clapped his hands and said, “Rise, Murdo Ranulfson, and rejoice! Your sins are forgiven, and remembered no more. You may resume life’s journey with a pure and unblemished soul.”
As Murdo climbed to his feet once more, he did feel the burden roll away from him. There was a lightness in himself he had forgotten; he felt calm and reassured and, for the first time in a very long time, at peace with himself.
He looked with astonished eyes at the round-shouldered monk before him. “How did you do that?” Murdo asked, astounded at the suddenness and intensity of the feeling.
Emlyn regarded him curiously. “I suspect you have never been properly shrift before. Oh, it is a splendid feeling, is it not?”
Murdo agreed with all his heart. Certainly, nothing any other priest had ever said or done had ever produced such a remarkable and profound effect on him. It occurred to Murdo that perhaps for the first time in his life he had, however fleetingly, brushed against true holiness, and the result was wondrous. His spirit fairly bubbled inside him like a fountain overflowing a too-narrow container. He felt as if he could life mountains with a single word, as if he could reach out and pluck the rising moon from the sky and hold it in the palm of his hand, as if he had but to stamp his foot to send whole legions of the Enemy fleeing back to their darksome dens.
They continued on then, but Murdo, no longer content to walk, wanted to run. He wanted to fly!
“Come along, Emlyn!” he cried, dashing a few steps ahead. “My brothers are waiting! Hurry! We are soon there! Hurry!”
“I am hurrying,” the cleric insisted, lumbering into a stiff-legged trot. “Patience is also a virtue, you know.”
They proceeded along the road through the valley beneath Jerusalem’s high walls. When the path began to rise towards the hills, Murdo was persuaded to take a slower pace. “If you did not believe in the pope’s decree for the crusade, why did you come to Jerusalem?” he asked, falling into step beside his friend once more. “If not for the crusade, why did you undertake the pilgrimage?”
“There are as many reasons for pilgrimage as there are paths and pilgrims,” answered Emlyn.
Murdo was not to be put off. “What was your reason?”
Emlyn pursed his lips. “We were…” he hesitated, “commanded to come to Jerusalem.”
“By King Magnus,” Murdo assumed aloud. “I remember.”
“No,” Emlyn answered. “We were commanded in a vision. King Magnus’ appeal came later.”
Murdo looked sideways at the monk to see if he had heard him correctly. “What sort of vision was it?”
“A very ordinary sort, I believe,” the cleric said. “We were commanded to come and wait upon God to tell us what to do.”
“Well?” demanded Murdo. “Has God told you?”
“He has,” answered Emlyn. “What we learned in Antioch confirmed our calling beyond all doubt.” When he appeared inclined to let the matter rest there, Murdo grew impatient with his reluctance.
“You said you were my friend,” Murdo reminded him. “I have entrusted you with the shriving of my soul. I will not betray your secret.”
“We were commanded to rescue the lance.”
The reply was so far from what Murdo expected, it caught him out of step. “The Holy Lance?” he said, as if there might be some other.
“To be sure,” answered the monk. “We have been told to rescue the sacred relic from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy.”
“Who told you to do this?” inquired Murdo, already sensing the reply before it came.
“Saint Andrew,” Emlyn said, and explained that Ronan was the only one who had seen the saint. “In a vision, as I say. Fionn and I trust Ronan’s judgment in these matters, Brother Ronan is a most holy and devout man.”
“I do not doubt it,” Murdo replied, his heart burning within him. Should he tell Emlyn about his own encounter with the mysterious saint?
Before he could work up the courage to say anything, the monk sang out, “There! On the hillside! I see Baldwin’s camp.”
THIRTY - NINE
The Count of Edessa had established his camp atop the Mount of Olives, erecting his own tent on the crown of the hill. The campfires spread out on every side, spilling down the western slope overlooking the walls of the Holy City which rose straight and tall across the Vale of Kidron. As the night was warm, the fires of the soldiers were small—merely lights to illumine their faces while they talked and supped and drank the dark wine of Palestine.
Baldwin had brought four hundred knights and footmen, as many as he could spare from the defense of Edessa. They had arrived just after midday and he had proceeded into the city to hold close council with brother Godfrey, leaving his nobles to arrange the camp as they saw fit. As usually happened, the various groups—the Franks, Scots, Flemish, Normans, and others—had clumped together with their own kin and countrymen, pitching their tents together around a fire or two. Thus, it was a fairly simple matter for Murdo and Emlyn to locate the Dark Islanders.
“Pax Vobiscum, friends,” said Murdo, stepping up to the first group of soldiers they met. “We are looking for the sons of Lord Ranulf of Orkneyjar. Can anyone here tell us where they might be found?”
This brought a few mumbled suggestions and much shrugging of shoulders, but no firm answer. Murdo thanked them and moved on. At the next clump of men, they received a better reception, and the information that the Orkney men were most likely with the Danes—although no one had seen them after arriving at Jerusalem. They might be camped anywhere, they said, why not try near the horse pickets?
The two proceeded to another campfire a little further on, and learned that the Danes were up at the top of the hill. “They are near to the count’s tents,” one of the knights told them. “I saw them there before dark.”
As the count’s tents were closer, they decided to try there next. They climbed the hillside in the dark and came upon the count’s encampment—a cluster of large tents before which stood the count’s standard and those of two other noblemen, the gold and silver trim glimmering in the fireglow. Below the encampment was a group of smaller tents. Murdo and Emlyn heard laughter from the camp, but the mirth died away quickly as they approached.
“Pax Vobiscum, friends—” began Murdo once more, breaking off as two large soldiers rose from their places.
“Move on, move on. We need no priest here tonight,” said one of the men.
“Torf?” The soldier, his face half in shadow, glanced towards him. “Torf-Einar,” said Murdo, coming into the firelight. “It is me—Murdo.”
The soldier stared as recognition slowly transformed his scowl. “Murdo?” he asked in amazement. “Is it you?”
“Torf, I—”
“God bless us, it is Murdo!” cried another voice as a third man rose from among those hulking at the fire.
“Skuli!” cried Murdo, stepping quickly over the fire to join his brothers.
Torf slapped him on the back in rough welcome, and shouted to the others looking on. “Here now! It is our brother come to join us!”
“Murdo what are you doing here?” asked Skuli, thumping his back happily. “How did you find us?”
“Look at you now,” said Torf, breaking in. “Almost as tall as me. I never guessed it was you. How did you get here?”
“Skuli…Torf,” replied Murdo, shaking his head. “I am so glad I found you. Are you well?”
“When did you arrive?” asked Skuli. “Have you been here long?”
“What news from home?” said Torf. “Father is in Jerusalem. Did you know that?”
“Have you seen him?” said Skuli. “We parted company at Ma’arra.”
“Where is Paul?” asked Murdo glancing around quickly. “Is he here with you?”
Torf’s smile
faded. “Paul did not make it to Edessa,” he explained. “The fever at Antioch took him, and he died there. That was when we decided to join Count Baldwin.”
“Who is the priest?” wondered Skuli, brightening the mood once more. He turned towards Emlyn who stood looking on across the campfire.
“This is my friend, Brother Emlyn,” Murdo answered. “We have been travelling together.”
“Murdo and a priest on pilgrimage together!” hooted Skuli. “I never would have believed it. Do not tell me you have taken vows, Murdo. You hate priests more than Torf even.”
“No,” laughed Murdo, “I never would. There are two others—they are counselors to King Magnus. They allowed me to join them.”
“King Magnus is here, too?” asked Torf. “How many men did he bring?”
“A fair many,” Murdo said. “Nearly four hundred in all.”
“Then he should join Baldwin,” Torf said. “The count is paying his soldiers well.”
Emlyn spoke up then, saying, “Perhaps we might find a place to talk among ourselves. You all have much to say to one another, and I would like a drink after our long walk.”
“Yes! Yes, to be sure,” agreed Torf. “This way—there is a tree just here. Skuli, fetch us a jar and cup.” To Murdo and the priest, he said, “It is wine only—there is no ale hereabouts, but we are growing used to it.”
“I have found a taste for wine,” the fat cleric remarked. “It is wet, after all, and goes down tolerably well.”
Torf laughed at this, and led them away from the campfire to a twisted old olive tree a few paces away. The view across the valley to the Holy City—pale as bone in the moonlight, and silent as a tomb—brought the solemnity of his purpose to Murdo’s mind once more.
They settled themselves beneath the branches. Emlyn rested his bulk against the trunk, and Torf reclined on the patch of dry grass around the gnarled and twisting roots; Murdo sat crosslegged opposite his brother, suddenly silent. All the things he had to say bubbled in a strong ferment inside him—but where to begin? What to tell first? There was so much, he could not think what to say, so merely stared at his brother, willing Torf to understand the need that had driven him over oceans to search them out, to lay his plea before them.
The Iron Lance Page 42
