The Iron Lance

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Murdo darted off on the run. Jon Wing followed at a slight distance, the spear ready in his hand. Upon reaching the squat building behind the house, Murdo started for the door. Jon’s shout brought him up short. “Wait!”

  Murdo hesitated, his hand reaching for the door.

  “Come out!” called Jon Wing sharply. “No harm will come to you if you show yourself now.”

  Silence. Nothing moved. Murdo started forward again, but Jon shook his head. Instead, he called, “We are not robbers, or raiders. We only wish to speak to you. Come out and answer our questions, and then we will be on our way.” He paused. “But if I must come in after you, it will be with a spear in my hand.”

  In a moment, the door cracked open, and a small, wrinkled face appeared in the narrow gap. “Please, we want no trouble,” said a shaky voice. “We are afraid. Go away. I have a dog with me, so do not try to rob us.”

  “Come out where we can see you,” commanded Jon Wing in his seaman’s voice. “If you do as we say, and do it quickly, there will be no trouble. We have not come to rob anyone.”

  The door swung a little wider and a small, white-haired old woman stepped out quickly; she was slightly hunched, and wizened, and Murdo was certain he had never set eyes on her before. A big gray dog pushed out beside her and stood looking warily at the newcomers.

  “Jötun!” said Murdo. “Come, Jötun.”

  The dog cocked his head to one side, but remained steadfastly beside the old woman. Murdo realized the dog no longer recognized him. Everything was changed, he thought, including himself.

  “That is better,” said Jon Wing to the woman, resting his spear. “Now then, old mother, who else is with you?”

  “No one,” she said, “just my Jarn—and the dog here.”

  “Where is Jarn?” asked the sea lord. “We did not see him. Where is he?”

  Pointing vaguely towards the fields, she replied, “With the cows, I suppose. He was tending the cows.”

  “We saw no cows,” said Jon mildly.

  “Where is everyone?” demanded Murdo, starting forward, his fists clenched. “The people who live here—where have they gone? Where is Ragna?” The old woman’s eyes grew wide, she whirled on her heels, and scuttled back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

  “Perhaps it would be best if just one of us asked the questions,” Jon proposed.

  “You were asking about cows!” Murdo blurted angrily. “What do we care about cows? Ask her what happened here—where is everyone?”

  “Calm yourself,” soothed Jon. “We will not leave until we have heard all there is to tell.” A voice called out from the yard just then. “There now, Brother Emlyn has arrived. You go and bring him here while I coax the old one into giving us something to eat.” Murdo stared at the door. “Go fetch the priest, Murdo.”

  Murdo moved off reluctantly, and Jon turned his attention to persuading the old woman to come out once more. By the time Murdo returned, the Norseman was sitting on a stump beside the kitchen door with half a loaf of buttered black bread in his hand. “She makes good bread,” he said, chewing contentedly. He passed the loaf to Murdo, who tore off a chunk and passed the remaining portion to Emlyn.

  “Is there any ale?” wondered the monk.

  The old woman appeared just then with a dripping jar in her hand. “Bless you, good woman!” exclaimed Emlyn, rushing to relieve her of the burden. He raised the jar to his lips and drank deeply, then passed the jar to Murdo, proclaiming the brew divine, and its maker a very angel. This pleased the old woman, who chuckled to herself. “It is the best beer I have tasted in many months,” he told her. “Your good husband is certainly a very fortunate man to have you to cook. But is it only yourselves you have to feed?”

  “I was just about telling this one here that my Jarn and me are all that’s left. Everyone is gone—the lord and lady, the vassals, too—all of them gone.”

  “Where did they go?” asked Murdo impatiently.

  The old woman eyed him suspiciously. “Do I know?” she snapped. “No, I do not! I was never told. We were brought here to keep the cows for the bishop—”

  “The bishop!”

  “Aye, Bishop Adalbert,” answered the woman. “Is there another hereabouts?”

  “But why—” began Murdo. The old woman drew back.

  Jon Wing reached out with the jar and shoved it into Murdo’s hands. “Fill the jug, Murdo, and stop pestering the good wife.” Murdo took the jar and disappeared into the kitchen. “My young friend is anxious about his mother,” Jon explained. “We have been on crusade with King Magnus, you see.”

  “And his mother was the lady here,” deduced the woman incorrectly. “Then his father must be the lord. But I never heard what happened to any of them. We were just told that the property here was under the care of the church, and the bishop was loath to let the fields fall idle. Nor is it meet to let a good house suffer neglect.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Emlyn, “and I am certain the house is well in hand with you and Jarn here. But the fields are too much for the two of you, I think. You must have help with those.”

  “Oh, aye,” answered the woman quickly. “The vassals take care of the crops still.”

  “Where are the vassals?” inquired Murdo, stepping from the doorway with the jar. “They would know what happened here, but we saw no one in the fields.”

  “They are working on the other island today, are they not?” answered the woman smugly. “The bishop has many such estates he must care for now. So many of the men went away on the crusade, you see, and left him with all the work—fields to plough, cattle to raise, crops to be harvested, and what all.”

  “A shame that,” observed the monk, taking up the jar once more. He drank a long, noisy draught. “Ahh, yes, a very joy and a blessing to restore the inner man!”

  “You have travelled far then,” the old woman said.

  “All the way from the Holy Land,” answered the monk.

  “As far as that…” the old mother shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Well, you can stay here the night, I expect. The bishop would not refuse you hospitality, nor will I.”

  “We thank you, good woman,” agreed Jon, much to Murdo’s annoyance. “It would be fine indeed to spend a night on solid ground. We accept your kind offer.”

  “Gladly,” put in Emlyn. “But do not burden yourself on our account. Simple fare, for simple travelers. Bacon and black bread—we expect nothing more.”

  “Pish!” cried the old woman, her wrinkled features taking on a glow of excitement. “We can do better than that! This is a bishop’s house, you know.”

  FORTY - NINE

  Murdo glowered into the puddle of gravy in his bowl. Despite the warm praises heaped on the meal and its maker by Emlyn and the hungry sailors, he had not tasted a single bite. Never in all the time he had been away had he considered that he would not be met on his return by those he had left behind.

  Hardly a day had gone by in the last two years when he had not imagined sitting before this very hearth. And now at long last, here he was—but in every important way he was no closer to his destination. He was angry with himself for allowing his hopes to soar so high; and he was angry with his companions for refusing to sail straight away to Kirkjuvágr to pull the bishop out of bed and demand an explanation at swordpoint. Most of all, he was angry with the grasping, scheming bishop—for using his holy office to prey on the weak, and for failing his sacred trust to protect and defend the people in his care. Which of the two was the worse, Murdo could not say, but he meant to hold the churchman to account for his crimes.

  Unfortunately, the old woman could shed no further light on the matter. Nor could Jarn add anything beyond what his wife had already said. A quiet man, he had finally returned with his cows for the evening milking, and though he was agreeable enough, he knew less about the affairs at Cnoc Carrach than his wife. Under Emlyn’s gentle probing, it emerged that they had been vassals of Jarl Paul, and had lost their small holding
when Magnus placed his son over the islands. Thrown upon the charity of the church, Jarn and his wife, Hannah, had been brought by the bishop’s men to look after the cows and keep the house; that was all he knew.

  While the others sat at their ale, talking of their travels and gathering what news they could from the old folks, Murdo, restless and fretful, went outside to walk and think. He stalked the cliffs above the sea in the long, late twilight, gazing out across the strait to Orkney’s mainland, where he imagined the greedy bishop sitting at his supper, smug in his comfort, ignorant of the fearful vengeance soon to break upon his devious head.

  Midnight found Murdo sitting on the rocks above the bay, watching the starlight glinting in the calm water of the cove. He could hear the voices of Skidbladnir’s small crew as they reclined on the strand around their driftwood campfire. He could smell the smoke as it drifted up the cliff face, but felt not the slightest inclination to join them. The solitary discomfort of his chill perch suited him better.

  He slept little, his heart aching for the dawn when they would up sails and make for Kirkjuvágr. By the time the sun broke above the sea’s flat horizon, Murdo was already aboard ship, cursing the laziness of Emlyn and Jon Wing who had stayed the night at the house while he had slept on stones.

  The two errant sailors appeared on the clifftop as the dawn light filled the cove. They stumbled stiff-legged down the steep path and greeted the crew with the easy banter of the content and well-rested. Murdo protested their belated arrival, but Jon Wing said, “If it is a fight you are wanting, save it for the bishop. He will be standing before you soon enough. Why not let him feel the sharp edge of your tongue?”

  With that, the sea lord strolled off along the rail to talk to Gorm. A moment later, the call came to push away, and the crew took up oars to push the ship off from the wharf. “Never fear, Murdo,” said Emlyn, leaning over the rail with his oar, “we will find out what has happened and see it put right. We have the support of King Magnus, remember. I doubt this bishop of yours can easily afford to anger the king.”

  “This bishop is a pig-stealing rogue,” Murdo replied, shoving hard against the oar. “He cares for no one and nothing but the size of his purse.”

  “That I heartily doubt,” remarked Emlyn. “Instead of believing the worst, we should rather pray for the best.”

  “If anything has happened to either Ragna or my mother,” Murdo vowed, “the bishop will believe the worst is only beginning.”

  The low-hulled ship left the quiet cove and sped across the strait towards the big island. Upon reaching the center of the channel, Gorm turned south to follow the undulating coast to the wide bay of Saint Ola below Kirkjuvágr. There were a dozen or more boats of various sizes in the harbor, but Gorm piloted the ship on a smooth straight line directly to the wharf. Murdo was out of the ship and halfway up the street to the cathedral before the mooring rope was tied.

  “Murdo! Wait!” called Emlyn, waddling up the beaten earth track. “Wait, son, let us help you!”

  Murdo had no intention of waiting for anything or anyone. He raced up the slope without looking back, reached the cathedral and darted through the small door and into the dim, cavernous nave to a side door leading out into the cloistered gallery and the chapter house beyond. The door to the chapter house was closed and barred, so Murdo began pounding on it and shouting at those inside to open up.

  “I want to see the bishop,” Murdo said to the first face to peer through a crack in the door.

  “His reverence is at table breaking fast,” answered the monk. “He sees no one until after prime. Come back then.”

  “I do not care if he is at his window breaking wind,” growled Murdo. “I want to see him now!”

  “He sees no one—” was all the monk got out before Murdo kicked the door into his face. The unlucky cleric gave a yelp and fell back.

  “I believe he will be seeing me,” said the young man, stepping quickly through the gap. The monk was rolling on his back, clutching his head and moaning.

  Murdo raised the stricken priest roughly to his feet, and pushed him into the room. It was early yet, and most of the brothers were at their morning meal; there was no one else about.

  “Now that we understand one another better,” Murdo said, “tell Adalbert that Murdo Ranulfson has returned from the Holy Land. Tell the old thief that his day of reckoning has come.”

  The monk stood in wounded silence, glaring uncertainly at his attacker.

  “Better still,” said Murdo, moving to take the cleric by the arm, “I will tell him myself. Show me to his majesty the bishop’s chamber.”

  Murdo marched the reluctant monk across the darkened room to another door. “Through here?” he asked.

  The monk nodded, but refused to speak. Murdo put his hand to the latch and pushed the door open. The room they entered contained a wide table surrounded by six large, throne-like chairs; the table was covered with a cloth of gold, and cushions of the same gleaming fabric rested on the chairs. Silver candle trees glimmered in the darkened corners of the room, and here and there, glints of gem work and precious metals lit the darkness. Bishop Adalbert, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Murdo tightened his grip on the cleric. “Where is he?”

  The monk winced and pointed to a wooden stairway at the far corner of the room. “Show me,” commanded Murdo, pushing the priest before him. They mounted the wooden treads and ascended into a small room with two narrow windows with panes of stained glass in red and yellow, making the room glow with a rosy color in the early morning light. A table covered with parchments, quills, and ink pot occupied the center, and on the wall opposite the windows stood a large, curtained bed.

  Murdo crossed the room in two strides and yanked the curtains aside. Adalbert’s eyes flew open and he gave a little startled cry as Murdo seized him by the arm and dragged him out of bed; he landed on hands and knees with a grunt. “Stand up!” ordered Murdo, grasping the bishop’s arm and jerking him upright.

  “Unhand me!” answered the bishop. Recovering some part of his ecclesiastical decorum, he rose slowly in his siarc, legs and feet bare. “Who are you?” he demanded. “How dare you accost a prince of the church on holy ground!”

  “I think you know me, bishop.” Murdo stepped nearer, staring into the churchman’s face.

  “I have never seen you in my life,” declared Adalbert stiffly.

  Murdo’s hand snaked out and caught the churchman on the side of the face with a resounding slap. “I have no time for your lies,” Murdo told him.

  “What do you want from me?” demanded the bishop, pressing a hand to his cheek.

  “Lady Ragnhild and her daughter Ragna—where are they?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Again Murdo’s hand flicked out, stinging the rattled clergyman on the cheek. “Think carefully before you answer next time,” he warned.

  Thrusting a hand towards the silent monk cowering at the top of the stairs, Adalbert pleaded, “Brother, fetch help. Quickly! I want this brigand seized at once.”

  “Stay where you are,” snapped Murdo. The monk remained standing. To the bishop he said, “Lady Ragnhild and her daughter—where are they?”

  “Again, I can only say I have no idea what you are talking about,” replied the bishop petulantly. “You are deceived if you think that I—”

  Murdo’s hand caught him on the cheek once more, harder this time. The sharp slap brought a new light of fear to the churchman’s eyes. “Who are you?” he murmured. “Why are you doing this?”

  The fearful monk seized the opportunity to run for help. He fled in stumbling haste down the stairs. Murdo gripped the bishop’s arm and raised a warning finger. “For the last time of asking: what have you done with Lady Ragnhild and her daughter?”

  “I have the entire flock of the islands under my care. It is difficult to know what is hap—”

  Murdo drew back his hand, higher and further this time, giving his victim a chance
to see the blow coming.

  “No! Wait!” Adalbert shouted quickly. “Lady Ragnhild and her daughter! Of course, I remember them now.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Lady Ragnhild is dead,” the bishop informed him bluntly. “Fever, I believe. I know nothing about anyone else.”

  Murdo stared hard at the oily churchman, and decided he was telling the truth. “Her daughter and the others—the Lady Niamh who lived with her—what happened to them?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Am I now to assume responsibility for every wayward woman in these islands?” Adalbert sneered. “You must be insane.”

  The blow caught the bishop full on the mouth and rocked him back on his heels. Blood trickled from Adalbert’s split lip, spilling down his chin. At the sight of his blood, the cleric began whimpering.

  “The lady is my mother, you grunting pig.” Murdo drew back his arm once more. “Must I ask you again?”

  “No! No!” The startled churchman thrust his hands before him. “The convent—any women were taken to the convent. I can tell you where it is.”

  “I have a better idea,” replied Murdo. He started towards the stairway, pulling the bishop roughly with him. “You will show me where it is.”

  There came a commotion from the room below and footsteps sounded on the stair.

  “Salvation is at hand,” remarked Adalbert with a superior smile. “I am not going anywhere with you. Indeed, you will soon wish you had never perpetrated this outrage against the church.”

  Murdo turned to meet the first of the bishop’s defenders. It was Jon Wing’s head and shoulders that appeared in the opening, however. “They are coming, Murdo.” Indicating the bishop, he asked, “Has he told you anything?”

  “Some, not all.”

  “Then bring him. I will hold them off.”

  The Norseman disappeared at once, and Murdo tightened his hold on the unrepentant cleric. “Move!”

  “There is no need to—”

  “Move!” shouted Murdo, yanking his stumbling captive towards the stairwell.

  “I cannot go like this—I am undressed. I must have my mantle at least—and shoes.” He turned and tried to squirm back into the room. “I cannot be seen like this; it is undignified.”