The Iron Lance

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “How do you like Jerusalem?” asked Torf after a time. “They say the fighting was good. Were you here when the city fell?”

  “We were here,” answered Murdo. Not caring to refresh the memory of that day, he asked instead, “Is it far to Edessa?”

  “Aye, far enough,” replied Torf-Einar. “It took us ten days to get here. If they had prolonged the siege, we might have joined the battle. We got word four days ago that the city was taken.”

  “There is a lot of plunder, they say,” remarked Skuli as he rejoined them. He filled the cup with wine and passed it to the priest.

  “Sláinte!” said Emlyn, raising the cup. He drank deeply and passed the cup to Murdo, who took a mouthful and passed it on to Torf; he drained it and gave it back to Skuli for refilling.

  “Murdo,” said Skuli, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are the last person I ever thought to see here. But how is our lady mother to do with the farm? Is she to take care of it all herself now?”

  Murdo, loath to darken the mood with bad tidings, nevertheless decided it could not be put off any longer. “That is why I have come,” he said. “Hrafnbú is lost.”

  “Lost?” wondered Skuli over the rim of his cup. “Hrafnbú gone? Murdo, how could you let—”

  Torf held up his hand for silence.

  “That is not the half of it,” Murdo continued. “Father is dead—two days ago. I was with him when he died.”

  This last was received in stunned silence, which Murdo allowed to endure. After a long moment, Torf said, “Tell us what happened.”

  “He was wounded. Emlyn here, and the other monks—they found him in one of the tents,” Murdo said, and went on to explain how they had found Lord Ranulf, his death, and burial in the valley outside the walls of the Holy City. Torf and Skuli listened quietly, alternately frowning and shaking their heads. Murdo then told them how he had come to Jerusalem so that their father might return to Orkney and set about reclaiming their estate.

  “You are Lord of Hrafnbú now,” Murdo concluded with a nod to Torf-Einar. “It is for you to come back to Orkneyjar and settle our affairs once and for all.”

  Torf stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I am sorry to hear of your bad luck,” he said at last. “But I am not going back.”

  “We can get a boat at Jaffa,” Murdo said, “I know many of the nobles are going home now, and we can get passage with one of them. We can leave at once, and—”

  “Murdo!” Torf said, raising his voice. “I said I am not going back to Orkney. Skuli and I have sworn fealty to Count Baldwin. We are staying here to fight for him.”

  “But the crusade is finished,” said Murdo, struggling to understand. “We can go home now.”

  “The count has taken Edessa,” Torf told him. “He has made it the first city of a great kingdom, and he has promised that any who stay to help him will be rewarded with gold and lands of their own. There is much wealth here, and we mean to get our share.”

  “It is true, Murdo. We will soon have enough plunder to become counts, too,” Skuli added. “We will have a realm of our own, with palaces and horses and treasure beyond counting. Baldwin has done it—and Bohemond—and we will do it, too.”

  “We have lands in Orkney,” Murdo protested weakly. “There is wealth enough there once we reclaim it. I know who it is that holds the land—he is one of Magnus’ men and he is in Jerusalem. We could—”

  “What we had in Orkney is nothing,” Torf said bluntly. “Compared to the wealth of the East, we were beggars. Hrafnbú is gone maybe, but it is not worth fighting over. And it is never worth travelling all the way back to Orkneyjar just to take it away from some fool of a Norseman who wants it. Let him have it, I say. There is more here. And it is ours for the taking.”

  “You should stay with us, Murdo,” suggested Skuli. “We will all be kings together.”

  Murdo stared at the men before him. Were these really his brothers? How could they talk so? The death of their father had not even raised a sigh of regret, and the loss of their lands produced nothing but scorn.

  “Kings!” Murdo mocked. “No king would refuse to fight for his lands and people. You want treasure? I have treasure, and wealth enough for all of us. Lord Ranulf saved all his share of the plunder won from the enemy, and I have it. We can go home and use it to win back our lands.”

  “You do that, Murdo,” Torf said. “You take whatever Ranulf saved, and go back home.”

  “We know about out father’s treasure,” Skuli said. “A few bits of gold and silver—we’ve seen it. I tell you the truth, Murdo, there are men here—not lords, but soldiers like us—who have amassed more treasure in a single battle than any jarl of Orkney ever saw. We have gold and silver, too, and we mean to get more.”

  “Take Hrafnbú if that is what you want,” Torf told him. “While you are scratching a living on your rock of an island, I will be Count of Tyre and Sidon. Think about that when you are wading in pig shit on your grand bú!”

  Murdo shook his head in dismay. He had travelled from one end of the Earth to the other for the sake of his home and family—only to be told he was a fool for caring.

  Anger, frustration, and humiliation warred within him. Anger won the fight, and he rose slowly to his feet, fists balled, arms trembling to contain his rage. “I have heard enough,” he said through teeth clenched so hard his jaws hurt.

  He glared at his brothers—Skuli sitting smug-faced and superior, Torf sneering with derision—the moonlight making their features pale, like the corpses he had seen in the streets of Jerusalem. It came to him that he was looking at dead men, and that this was the last time he would see them.

  “I have done what was required of me,” Murdo said. “I am going home, and I am taking the treasure with me.”

  “Take it,” Torf said hotly. “Take the lordship, too. Lord of Hrafnbú—I give it to you, and it’s not worth a fart. Hear me: we have offered you a chance to make something of yourself. If you cannot see that, then you deserve whatever you get.”

  “Stay with us, Murdo,” offered Skuli. “Baldwin will give you a place in his war host. We will soon be getting lands of our own, and we will make you a duke.”

  “I want nothing from you,” Murdo answered, his voice thick with disappointment and regret. “Fare well…” he hesitated over the word, then said, “Brothers…we will not see one another again.” Turning to Emlyn, he said, “We have done what we came here to do, let us be on our way.”

  He turned his back and started down the hill.

  “Murdo,” pleaded Skuli behind him, “stay the night at least. We will talk, and you will see the thing differently in the morning.”

  When Murdo made no answer, Skuli rose and started after him. “Wait! Listen to me! Murdo, wait!”

  “Let him go, Skuli,” said Torf. “He always was a sneaking little coward.” To Murdo he shouted, “Go on, coward! Run away home like you always do.”

  The words were hateful; once they would have stung, but he felt nothing from them now. Murdo held nothing but pity for the man who had spoken them.

  Emlyn fell into step beside him, but said nothing. They walked for a long time, descending to the valley where they found the road once more. The walls of Jerusalem loomed over them, black and imposing, and though the moon was fading as it drifted lower towards the hills, the sky was still bright with stars. “That did not go well,” the monk observed after they had resumed their march along the southern wall.

  “No,” said Murdo. “It did not go well.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I will do what I said I would do.”

  “Return home and claim your farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said the man who holds your lands is in Jerusalem now,” Emlyn mused, “is that so?”

  “He is,” Murdo muttered. Having just lost his brothers to greed and covetous ambition, he did not feel like discussing the finer points of his grievance.

  “Who is it?” inquired the monk.

/>   “What difference does it make?” Murdo snapped.

  “God knows,” answered Emlyn amiably. “I merely thought that if I knew more about this affair, I might be able to help you.”

  “No one can help me,” Murdo declared. “I am alone in this, and that is the way of things.”

  Emlyn desisted then, and they resumed their walk in silence—which Murdo much preferred. By the time they reached the Jaffa Gate, he had decided that so there should be no bad blood between himself and King Magnus, he would redeem his oath of fealty—beg it, if possible, buy it, if necessary. Then he would return to the monastery, retrieve his fortune, and hasten to Jaffa where he would arrange passage on the first ship leaving the Holy Land to return to the west.

  What he would do when he reached Orkney—that was less certain. But, inasmuch as he had a long, long time aboard ship to ponder the question, he was certain the answer would occur to him long before he saw the blue-misted hills of the Dark Isles.

  FORTY

  The lords of the West met in council the next day in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There, in the chapel built over the rock-cut tomb where the carpenter Jesu was laid to rest following his execution by the Romans, the leaders of the crusade met to decide who should hold and protect the city for all Christendom.

  Several long boards had been set up end-to-end below the chapel’s altar, forming a single long table to accommodate the crusaders and their companions. The chapel was not large; there was room only for sixty men at table, and the remaining two hundred or so were made to stand behind their respective lords. Other curious onlookers filled the vestibule, and still more stood out in the yard, straining to hear what passed within.

  Raymond of Toulouse, accompanied by his chaplain, the Abbot of Aguilers, Count Robert of Flanders, and various other noblemen in his company, took the chief places at the table. Next, Duke Godfrey, and his brother Baldwin, Count of Edessa, arrived and assumed their places on Raymond’s right, leaving Bohemond and his company of nobleman and advisers no choice but to claim the left side of the board. Robert, Duke of Normandy, last to arrive, joined the company at the foot of the table alongside the Bishop of Bayeux, his chaplains and counselors; for once, he did not mind facing Raymond—since his men were already making preparations to leave the city, by this time next week he would be well on his way home no matter what happened in council.

  “God bless you, and be gracious to you,” Raymond began. He folded his long hands before him, and gazed solemnly down the length of the board at the many faces turned toward his. “This day, all thanks to Our Lord, we meet in the Holy Shrine of Our Saviour’s Tomb to decide among us who shall ascend the throne of Jerusalem. For this purpose, and towards this end, I have asked the abbot to lead us in prayers of thanksgiving for our victory, and supplication for our guidance in the weighty matters before us.” Lifting a hand to his chaplain, who rose from his place beside him, he said, “Abbot, we wait upon you.”

  The count then pushed back his chair and knelt on the stone floor. Godfrey was quick to follow his lead—out of genuine piety, for it was how he always prayed—and the others, not to be thought impious, drew back their own chairs and benches, and put their knees to the floor as the cleric faced the altar, stretched forth his hands, and began to pray.

  Mercifully, the abbot confined himself to a half dozen well-chosen prayers and psalms, and then pronounced his benediction, allowing his congregation to resume their places at the table with unaccustomed haste. Raymond then opened the proceedings with a blunt, but truthful appraisal of their position. “My lords,” he said, “the death of Bishop Adhemar has left us with a question: who is to rule over the Holy City? Adhemar was not only our friend, he was the pope’s legate, and therefore the likely successor to the throne of Jerusalem. We may be bereft of our friend, and his judicious guidance, but our cause is well-served by the men who have gathered around this board today.”

  He let his gaze sweep the length of the table before continuing. “The throne of Jerusalem is reclaimed, and now it is for us to choose who will ascend that throne. The rule of the Holy Land is not to be lightly assumed,” Raymond warned, his voice growing stern, “for the man who would wield authority in Christ’s city must himself be blameless, upright, and able to defend the holy places from the enemies of our faith.”

  The Lord of Toulouse nodded to himself. He had put the thing fairly, and now it was for the others to say what they would. He sat down, letting his eyes rest on Robert of Flanders, who manfully stirred himself to his duty. “My lords and dear companions,” he said, rising to his feet from his place near the head of the table, “if you would allow me to speak, I will presume on your attention for the briefest of moments.”

  “Speak! Speak!” the lords answered. “Speak, man. Say it out.”

  “Thank you.” The count bowed, as if acquiescing to the will of the assembly. “As is well known among you, I have no personal interest in the rule of this city. Even now, I am carrying forth my plans for a swift return to my lands and home…”

  “Yes, yes,” muttered the noblemen. “Get on with it, man.”

  “Therefore,” continued the count, taking no heed of their impatience, “my only interest is to see this city—this city whose freedom has exacted such a heavy price from us all, a price which we have all borne with…”

  “Move on, move on,” murmured the voices.

  “…price which we have all borne with selfless—nay, sacrificial—forbearance and endurance, counting the cost daily, not only in the material wealth granted us, but in the lives of our kinsmen, friends, and men at arms who follow…”

  “For God’s sake, get on with it!” shouted a nobleman from Bohemond’s entourage.

  Robert glared coldly at the man, and continued, “My only interest is to see this city well provided with leadership, protection, and government, both temporally and spiritually, for the safety, not only of its citizens, but for the many pilgrims who will follow in our footsteps…”

  “Hoo! Hoo!” bawled Bohemond’s supporters, some of them banging on the board with the flat of their hands.

  “Lords and noblemen!” barked Count Raymond, leaning forward sharply. “This is not seemly. We are here to choose the next king of Jerusalem.”

  “We are here to divide the plunder!” called a voice from among Baldwin’s entourage.

  “All in good time, my friend,” Raymond replied imperiously. “Those who only care for the wealth of the world shall have their reward, but we will deal with higher things first.” Turning his approving gaze upon Robert, he said, “Pray continue, my friend. We are listening.”

  Robert, growing flustered by the repeated interruptions, decided to cut short his discourse, and strove resolutely towards the end. “Therefore, I find it fitting that we should come together in the place where Our Lord rose from his grave, to assist in the resurrection of the Holy City, that from this day forth…”

  “The king! The king!” shouted another of Bohemond’s men. “Who will be king?”

  “Silence, everyone!” cried someone in Godfrey’s camp. “Or we will be at this all day!”

  Robert, fumbling for words now, cut his losses and made a hasty retreat. “To this end, I submit that we could not choose a better man to assume the throne of Jerusalem than Raymond, Count of Toulouse and Provence.” He sat down so quickly that it took a moment for the rest of the assembly to realize he had indeed finished.

  The Duke of Normandy seized the opportunity. “Friends and comrades, as a warrior and a nobleman, whether on the field of battle, or in the court of rule, I yield nothing to anyone who holds not my respect; and that respect must be earned, by God. I say Duke Godfrey has earned my highest respect, and that of all crusaders. Therefore, he should be king.”

  “Hear! Hear!” shouted the duke’s supporters and advisers. “It is God’s will!”

  Bishop Arnulf, who was chaplain to the duke, added his voice to the acclaim. “The man who was first on the wall, and first to set foot in th
e city, and first to draw blood in defense of the faith—should not that man be made ruler of the city? What say you, Godfrey?”

  The Duke of Bouillon, looking suitably solemn, rose and turned pious eyes towards the altar. After a moment, he made the sign of the cross over himself, then turned to the assembly. “I am humbled that you should deem me worthy of the honor you propose. Yet, whether I am granted the rule of the city, or whether it shall pass to another, I believe that it should here be established that the throne of Jerusalem shall remain empty until Christ himself shall come to resume his reign. Brothers, we would do well to await that glad day with keen anticipation. Until our Lord Christ returns, I should be honored to hold this city for him, but never let it be as king. For no mortal monarch should wear a crown of gold, where Our Lord and Saviour wore a crown of thorns!”

  Raymond, alarmed at the speed with which the kingship was receding from his grasp, waded back into the fray. “Well said, my friend!” he called loudly. “You speak my own thoughts admirably well. Allow me to propose, therefore, that the ruler of the Holy City should own a title befitting his humility and devotion.”

  This sentiment met with the acclaim of the assembled lords, who shouted their support so loudly that Raymond allowed himself a small, inward smile at how well he had steered the tide of opinion back to his favor.

  But he had not reckoned on Bohemond. “My lords, and esteemed and worthy comrades, we have braved many dangers on our pilgrimage, the successful completion of which is now contemplated. It only remains for us to choose an honorable ruler, and make division of the treasures which God has placed in our hands for the benefit of our troops and the on-going protection of his Holy City.”

  His listeners were rapt. Here was a new wrinkle in the argument; what did the wily prince have in mind?