The Iron Lance

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Then I am going with you,” the cleric declared.

  “You are one of the king’s advisers; you cannot leave him like this.”

  “So,” observed Emlyn, “my vow prevents me, but yours does not? Explain this to me.”

  Murdo sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come back and beg a proper leave-taking of your king. Allow him to offer you his blessing.”

  “And if he does not?”

  “That is his choice. He is the king, and you are his vassal,” Emlyn replied; taking Murdo by the arm, he turned the headstrong young man. “Come, do not think the worst. Magnus is a reasonable man, and a most generous lord if you permit him to be benevolent.”

  Murdo returned to the palace precinct, and to restless waiting. At midday, the lords emerged from their vigil to proclaim their hopeful assurance of a swift and just settlement of their demands. They spoke of their renewed zeal for one another’s support and loyalty, and their eagerness to demonstrate their prodigious gratitude for the services of their warriors. Bohemond then departed with his noblemen to his quarters, leaving Magnus to hold court with his men.

  There followed still more waiting while the king, besieged by anxious Norsemen, answered their questions and allayed their fears. At last, Murdo’s turn came; with Emlyn at his side, he stepped before the king and said, “Lord and king, I beg the boon of your indulgence.”

  “Speak freely, my friend,” Magnus invited. “But, pray, speak quickly. I am to rejoin Bohemond, and we must soon return to the council.”

  Succinctly as possible, Murdo explained his wish to return home by the swiftest means. He asked the king to release him from his vow of fealty, yet pledged his continued loyalty and friendship, to which the Norse king replied, “I, too, share your desire to return home. I ask that you lend me your patience yet a little longer. We will all be leaving Jerusalem soon enough, and when we do, we will depart as wealthy men.”

  At hearing his request denied, Murdo’s heart fell. The prospect of remaining in Jerusalem, even a day longer, filled him with dread. Plucking up his courage, he said, “Forgive my boldness, Lord Magnus, but I will gladly barter my share of the treasure for your permission to leave for Jaffa at once.”

  Magnus paused to consider this a moment. “Your offer tempts me,” he conceded. “Yet, I would be a false and unworthy lord if I agreed. The road between here and Jaffa is not safe, and I could not spare so much as one man to go with you. Therefore, I think you must stay, and content yourself with a goodly share of the plunder which Count Bohemond and I hasten now to secure.”

  The king turned and started away again. Murdo, risking all he might gain, made one last attempt to change the king’s mind. “If I found someone to travel with me, my lord, would you agree then?”

  Magnus made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “If you can find anyone willing to forfeit his portion of the plunder, then you may depart with my blessing.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Even so, if I know my men at all, you will still be trying to convince them the day we sail from Jaffa.”

  “I will go with him,” offered Emlyn, stepping forward.

  Magnus frowned.

  “If you would permit me, lord,” the monk hastened to add, “I might accompany him as far as Jaffa, and await your arrival there. It would be no hardship to me, since, as a priest, I would not gain a share of the treasure anyway.”

  “Very well,” agreed Magnus impatiently, “let it be as you say. I will bow to my wise counselor’s judgment. Go, both of you, with my blessing. May God grant you safe passage. Now, if you will permit me, I must join Lord Taranto.”

  As the king and his nobles went on their way, Emlyn said, “Come, we will tell Ronan and Fionn, and bid them farewell. Then, we shall be on our way.”

  They found Ronan as he prepared to attend Lord Magnus, and Murdo bade him farewell. “Why farewell?” he asked. “It cannot be that you are leaving.”

  “I am,” said Murdo adamantly. He explained the bargain he had made with King Magnus, and Emlyn’s offer to accompany him as far as Jaffa. “The good brother will see me safely on a stout ship, but I would go with a better heart if you would give me a blessing.”

  “You need never ask, Murdo, my heart,” Ronan told him. “The High King of Heaven holds you in the hollow of his hand, and his angels stand ready to defend you.” He regarded Murdo fondly. “If I thought anything I said could change your mind, I would counsel you to stay. It would be a waste of breath, I fear.” Stretching his right hand over the young man’s head, he said, “The Good Lord bless you and keep you, and be gracious to you, and may the light of his countenance shine upon you and give you peace wheresoever you may go.”

  He embraced Murdo then, bade him farewell, and said, “Have you told Jon Wing your plans?”

  “You say fare well for me,” Murdo answered. “He has gone off with the others.”

  “Find him, Murdo,” Ronan urged. “He will want to see you well away.”

  “Tell him I am grateful for his care, and that if he should find me when next he comes to Orkneyjar I will fill the welcome bowl with good brown ale.”

  The heat rising from the bare ground met the walkers’ faces like the blast from an oven as they moved out from the shadowed tunnel of the gate. The sun was a harsh yellow glow in a sky bleached pale by the heat and dust. Black columns of carrion birds still wheeled in the dead air above the city; their screeks and squawks could be heard falling from on high with an abrasive incessance.

  Upon passing through the gate, Murdo turned quickly onto the Hebron road rising towards Mount Zion and the Church of Saint Mary. “How will you get your father’s belongings to the ship?”

  “You will see,” replied Murdo, and would say no more.

  In a short while they came in sight of the little farming settlement where Ronan had borrowed the camel and Emlyn received his answer. Murdo turned off the road and onto the track leading to the farm. “So, you think to borrow the fellow’s camel again. Do you think he will give it to you?”

  “He will when I show him the gold.”

  They walked on, and arrived at the cluster of small, white-washed, baked mud buildings. As they entered the yard, a skinny brown dog came from around the side of the house and started barking. The farmer appeared in the doorway a moment later and started to shout. Then he saw who it was, and ran out into the yard, seized Murdo’s hand and kissed it—all the while babbling in the queer speech of the Holy Land’s peasants.

  “What is he saying?” demanded Murdo.

  Emlyn looked at the farmer and shook his head. “He is speaking Aramaic, I believe. Ronan knows Aramaic, not me.”

  Murdo rolled his eyes. Retrieving his hand from the farmer, he dipped the fingers of his right hand into his belt and withdrew a gold bezant. He then pointed to the camel which was kneeling beside the post in the yard. The farmer babbled something and pointed to the beast, nodding enthusiastically. He turned and shouted towards the house, whereupon his brown wife emerged and, with a shy sideways glance at Murdo, bustled off towards the camel. She took up a stick, and struck the animal on the fore shoulder, clucking her tongue and hissing at it. The animal rose leisurely and, while the woman untied the tether, the farmer gibbered at Murdo, who merely nodded and smiled.

  The task finished, the woman then joined her husband, and she, too, kissed Murdo’s hand, whereupon Murdo produced a second gold bezant and gave it to her. She snatched the coin away and hid it in a knot in her mantle almost before her husband knew she had it. The farmer’s eyes grew wide at his great good fortune, and he began babbling more ecstatically than ever.

  With difficulty, Murdo extracted himself from the zealous veneration of the farmer and his wife, and set off again, leading his purchase. He bade the peasants farewell as they passed from the yard, though he knew they would not understand him.

  “I wonder if they know they will never see their camel again?” mused Emlyn as they started down the hill towards the road once more.

&nbs
p; “That is what the second coin was for,” Murdo replied.

  “Yes, I thought as much,” Emlyn agreed approvingly.

  “Look there,” said Murdo, pointing to the road below where a company of knights were just then passing. “I wonder if it means the council is finished at last.”

  “Who is it? Can you tell?” asked Emlyn, squinting his eyes. “Is it Baldwin?”

  “No, not Baldwin,” answered Murdo. “I do not know who it is.”

  The mounted soldiers passed out of sight long before the two on foot reached the road, and no more were seen as they climbed the steep slope of the Holy Mountain. They passed the church, and moved through the crowds huddled around the walls to find the gates flung wide and the yard within filled with horses and armed men. Murdo did not hesitate, but went in straight away before anyone could stop him.

  They had taken but two steps past the threshold however, when they were met by a very distracted gatekeeper. “I am sorry,” he said. “No one must enter. We are closing our doors for the night by order of the emperor.”

  “Please,” said Emlyn, “we will not disturb anyone. We wish only to retrieve the remains of this man’s family from the catacombs, and we will be on our way.”

  The gateman frowned. “It is the emperor’s command!” he insisted, trying to push them back out.

  “You did not open the gates to us,” Murdo told him. “The gate was open and we came in. If anyone asks, you can tell them we were already inside.”

  “I dare not!” shrieked the man. “The emperor—”

  “Is the emperor here?” wondered Emlyn, looking at the commotion in the yard.

  “It is the Grand Drungarius, the emperor’s personal envoy,” the worried gateman replied. “He has just returned from the council at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Now you must leave at once. Please, it will be on my head if anyone finds out.” He clutched at Murdo’s sleeve as if to pull him out.

  Murdo whirled on the porter; his hand snaked out and caught the fellow by the wrist and gripped it hard. “I am going to fetch my father’s remains from the catacombs,” he said, putting his face close to the gateman’s. “When I have done that, I will be on my way. You can help us, or you can stand aside.”

  The porter blanched and looked to his fellow cleric for help. “You see how it is,” said Emlyn. “It will only take a moment, and no one will even know we are here.”

  The gateman relented then. “God have mercy,” he muttered, and flapped his hand at them. “Go on…go on—and hurry!”

  Keeping to the perimeter of the yard, they made their way through the confusion of soldiers. Off to one side, surrounded by a group of tall soldiers in gleaming armor, Murdo saw the abbot and the dark-featured man he had seen the night they came to the monastery. As he hurried by, the man looked up and stared directly at him, and Murdo knew he had been recognized. The man turned his attention once more to what the abbot was saying, and Murdo and Emlyn continued on to the small building behind the refectory and kitchens. Murdo ducked inside and fetched a torch from the box beside the door, lit it from the embers of one of the ovens, and then they both descended to the darkness of the catacombs below.

  The air cooled wonderfully as they went down into the earth. Murdo stepped from the staired passageway and was met by the scent of dry mold and ancient dust. In the flickering light of the torch, he saw their footprints from their previous visit on the floor, and followed them through the first two galleries and the next and into the one beyond—the unfinished gallery where they had laid the treasure.

  Murdo saw his father’s shield below one of the niches where they had hidden the treasure; he squatted down and, when he did not see anything, he thrust the torch inside. The shroud-wrapped, corpse-like bundles were still there, along with the sword and belt, and hauberk. He quickly checked the other niche as well, and saw that all was as they had left it. He realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief. “All is well,” he told Emlyn. “They are still there.”

  “What did I tell you?” said the monk. “There is no place safer than the catacombs.”

  “I will remember that,” Murdo replied, pulling the first of the bundles from the niche.

  They worked quickly and quietly, dragging the bundles up from the catacombs and binding them with cords to the camel’s saddle frame. Lastly, Murdo retrieved his father’s sword, shield, and hauberk, and tied them on as well. Satisfied that his treasure was secure, Murdo led the camel back out into the yard again.

  The commotion had abated somewhat, and they hastened along, unnoticed by any save the gatekeeper, who was greatly relieved to see them. He opened the gate as they approached. “Hurry! Hurry!” he said, beckoning them through.

  Murdo paused a few paces outside the gate. “Do not stop!” said the gateman, rushing towards them. “Move on. No one knows you were here. Move on before they find out.”

  Turning to Emlyn, Murdo whispered, “Talk to him. Keep him occupied for a moment.” He pushed the priest forward. “Make certain he looks the other way.”

  Emlyn scurried forth. “Thank you, brother,” he said, taking hold of the gateman’s arm and turning him around. “Truly, you have rendered us a divine service, and we are grateful for your kindness.” He walked the gateman back towards the gate. “Never fear, you will not see us again.”

  “It is not myself who had made this command, you understand,” said the worried cleric. “It is the emperor’s envoy. We must do what he says, and—”

  “I am certain of it,” said Emlyn, breaking in. “Rest assured, we bear no ill feelings.”

  “On the contrary,” said Murdo, stepping up beside him, “I want the monastery to have this as a remembrance of our gratitude and thanks for your help.” With that, he placed a fine golden bowl into the astonished gateman’s hands.

  “What is this?” whined the porter. He gaped fearfully at the bowl as if a world of fresh trouble opened before him.

  “A gift,” Murdo assured him. “I want you to take it to your abbot and tell him that this is my thanks for the brief use of the catacombs. Will you do that?”

  “It will be in his hands before vespers,” replied the gateman, relieved to have the matter resolved.

  “Then we will trouble you no more. Come, brother,” he said to Emlyn, “we are away.”

  They left the gateman standing before his gate, clutching the golden bowl and gawking after them. They passed the church and started back down the hillside. Murdo looked out across the valley to the Holy City, now misty in the haze of a hot day’s rosy twilight, and, for the first time since leaving home, felt as if he had finally, at long last, arrived.

  They descended into the valley, passing beneath the city walls once more. Upon reaching the Jaffa road, Murdo looked for the last time at David’s Tower, and then turned his face to the west and put Jerusalem at his back. “We will find a place to sleep beside the road,” Murdo said. “Are you hungry?”

  “A little bread and wine would sit nicely with me,” Emlyn said. “But I am content.”

  “Maybe we can buy some bread and wine from a farmer,” Murdo suggested. “Or find some water at least.”

  “If not, we will fast like true pilgrims—until we reach Jaffa,” Emlyn offered amiably.

  After a while the road bent a little to the north, and they could see the fires of the crusader camps on the hillsides and in the valley along the northern walls of the city. The sky was almost dark now, and the first stars were glowing overhead. The path began to rise to its climb into the heights, before beginning its long descent to the sea. Once up from the valley floor, the air was cooler, and the light breeze felt good on their skin. Yes, and it felt good to be on the road, thought Murdo, to be going home.

  FORTY - TWO

  “Most imprudent of you, Godfrey,” observed Baldwin, holding out his cup to be refilled. “How could you promise to forfeit the treasure to the emperor without knowing what it was you were being asked to surrender?”

  �
��Would you rather have him take Jerusalem?” Godfrey, in a surly humor, glared at his brother and at the noblemen holding vigil with him. The day, begun with a towering victory, had ended in ripe disaster. In his first act as ruler of the Holy City he had succeeded in losing its most holy and sacred relic.

  The lords of the West were angry at him, and baying for blood. Some of them were for refusing to honor the promise and declaring war with Byzantium instead. The fact that the empire’s troops now outnumbered their own vastly diminished armies had not yet occurred to anyone.

  Jerusalem had been won. The heady days following the city’s fall were giving way to a season of sober reflection—for Godfrey, Defender of the Holy Sepulcher, if for no one else. In the short space between this day’s glorious beginning, and its cruel, regretful end, Godfrey had pondered deeply over his unenviable position; his unhappy meditations had borne bitter fruit. The lords of the West had liberated the Holy City, but the cost had been ruinous. And now, with nearly all the crusaders returning home, he would be ruler of a city surrounded by hordes of crafty and relentless enemies—Turks and Saracens, to be sure, but also Greek and Armenian Christians whose people had been slaughtered in the blood frenzy—all of whom knew the land and tolerated the unbearable heat far better than his own war-weary troops.

  The sad truth, and Godfrey knew it well, was that the crusaders would very soon be in desperate want of imperial aid. Continual and close friendship with Alexius was the only way to guarantee that help remained forthcoming. Unless he thought of something now—this night!—tomorrow he must deliver Jerusalem’s most valuable object to the emperor’s envoy as a peace offering and sign of his reign’s good will, and his recognition of Alexius’ supremacy. The prospect made him squirm. Why, he would become the laughing-stock of the entire Christian world: the Lord of Jerusalem a mere vassal of the Greeks.

  “Oh, cheer up, brother,” Baldwin said over the rim of his cup. “The night is young. We will yet think of something.”