The Iron Lance (11 page)

Murdo recognized every twist in the muddy track rising from the harbor to the cathedral. Retracing his steps for the sixth time in as many weeks, each lump and puddle had the tediously familiar look of a much-detested chore. A chill rain splattered down over him as he slogged along beside his mother, the low gray sky making for a day as dismal as his mood. In five attempts they had yet to obtain an audience with the bishop; even the abbot was so overwhelmed by the imperative duties of his office that he could not fight free long enough to discuss their petition.

Still, Lady Niamh was determined to enlist the church's aid in regaining their estate. It was said, and widely believed, that King Magnus and his son, Prince Sigurd, were God-fearing men, baptized into the faith, and generous supporters of the church. Indeed, on two of their five visits the bishop could not attend his usual office of supplication because he was closeted with the young prince, who was receiving Christian catechism from the senior churchman himself.

“We will not leave,” Niamh vowed, for the fourth time since starting out, “until we have spoken to Bishop Adalbert in the very flesh, and he has heard our petition.”

Murdo made no reply. It seemed to him an empty vow. Five times they had come, and five times failed. He saw no reason to think that this visit would be any different. The bishop, he
decided, was avoiding them. This neither surprised nor dismayed him. He had long since relegated the church and its leaders to the perdition preserved for grasping clerics and their smarmy ilk who preyed on the credulous and gullible. His mother, he knew, was neither gullible nor credulous, and this was precisely why the churchmen refused to see her. What Murdo could not understand was why she insisted the bishop should be involved in this dispute.

The track rose sharply as it joined the path leading to the sanctuary entrance. The great doors were closed, but the smaller entry cut out of the right-hand panel was open. They entered the dim, shadowed vestibule and paused, allowing their eyes to grow accustomed to the murky interior. The tall pillars stretched up into the darkness above, their broad bases lit by pools of quivering candlelight. A few monks chanted away near the altar, their voices echoing from the cavernous vaults of the roof, making it seem as if moaning angels hovered far, far overhead like desultory doves.

On their previous visits, Lady Niamh had presented herself to the first monk who met them, and requested an audience with the bishop. On each occasion, the entreaty was duly channeled along lines of proper authority and they were politely conducted to the cloistered gallery outside the chapter house where the bishop held consultation with those members of his flock seeking his advice on matters both temporal and spiritual. There they were asked to wait until the bishop could receive them.

Five times they had sat and waited, and five times they had departed without so much as a glimpse of the elusive churchman. The first three times, after a lengthy wait, a monk had come to inform them that the bishop's previous consultations had run overlong and that he begged to be pardoned but he would not be able to see them. They were, with all cordiality,
invited to please come again next week; the bishop would certainly see them then. On their fourth visit, they were informed, after another long and tedious wait, that Bishop Adalbert had been suddenly called away on a matter of utmost urgency and that he would not return for several days. Then, last week, after waiting through most of the day, they had at last been forced to leave when the bells rang vespers and the cathedral was closed to visitors. No explanation was offered for the bishop's failure to see them.

With each disappointment, Murdo watched his mother's fortitude weaken a little more. It hurt him to see her losing her resolve, and he determined that he would not allow her dignity to be stolen, too. The waiting, he concluded, was meant to wear them down, to make them so grateful for their audience, should they finally receive it, that they would gladly accept whatever sop the bishop deigned to offer them.

Now, here they were, for the sixth time, and Murdo decided it would be the last.

As before, they were met by a monk who conducted them to the chapter house door where they were asked to wait. The monk bade them sit and indicated the wooden bench, then turned, opened the door, and made to step inside. Murdo, however, moved in swiftly, seized the door and held it open. “I think we have waited long enough,” he told the monk.

“Please! Please! This is a holy place. You cannot force—”

Murdo shoved the door wider. “Coming, Mother?”

Niamh, overcoming her reluctance, joined her son. “Yes, I think we have waited long enough,” she told the monk. To her son, she whispered, “Be careful, Murdo,” and gave him a sharp warning glance as she passed.

They entered a long dark cell. A single narrow window high up in the wall allowed a little sunlight into the room; otherwise,
the few candles scattered here and there provided the only light. Five or six clerics toiled at a large table beneath the window; they looked up as the visitors entered, but then resumed their work. To Murdo, the scratching of their quills sounded like rats scrabbling in the dry husks in the barn; and there was something decidedly vermin-like about the brown-robed clerics and their bristly, half-shaven heads and narrow eyes held close to their work.

“Where is the bishop?” asked Murdo, his voice loud in the thick silence of the room. “We want to see him
now
.”

The monk made no reply, but his eyes shifted towards one of the two doors at the farther end of the room. “In there, is he?” asked Murdo, already moving towards the door. He lifted the latch and pushed it open even as the monk hurried to stop him. Stepping into the room, he saw a cleric sitting at a table piled high with loose scrolls. The man was hunched over his work, and looked up as Murdo walked quickly to the table.

“Ah, young Ranulfson—is it not?” Abbot Gerardus said, his voice flat, expressing neither surprise nor concern.

Murdo frowned. The smarmy abbot was the last person Murdo wanted to meet. “We have come to see the bishop,” he told the abbot coldly. “Where is he?”

“We?” the abbot asked, his smile thin and self-amused.

“My mother and I—” began Murdo, gesturing behind him as Lady Niamh entered the room, the ineffectual monk darting in behind her.

“I am sorry, abbot—they would not wait,” the monk began, but the abbot silenced him.

“Never mind, Brother Gerald,” said the abbot, rising from his chair. “They are here now; I will see them myself.”

“It is the bishop we have come to see,” Murdo repeated.

“That is not convenient,” the abbot said, turning to Murdo,
his eyes hard. “Perhaps if you had made proper application—”

“We have been coming here for five weeks!” Murdo snapped. “Each time we make
proper application
, and each time we wait and wait, and we go away without seeing anyone! This time, we
will
see the bishop. I do not care whether it is
convenient
or not!”

The abbot bristled. His eyes narrowed, and he glared at the young man before him, his mouth tight with unexpressed loathing.

“Abbot Gerardus,” Niamh said, stepping briskly forward, “I will ask you to forgive my son's bad manners. He seems to have forgotten himself in his impatience.”

“Of course, Lady Niamh,” said the abbot, inclining his head in a modest bow, instantly the self-effacing cleric once more. “I am your servant. How may I help you?”

“It is as my son has said: we have come to see the bishop, and in light of our previous attempts, I must insist we see him today.”

“Then I fear you will be disappointed yet again,” the abbot replied with a small gesture of helplessness—as if to say that the matter was in the hands of an authority much greater than his own. “You see, the bishop has given instruction that he is not to be disturbed for any reason. Perhaps you will allow me to help you in his stead.”

“Show us where he is,” Murdo demanded. “That will help us best.”

Laying a hand on her son's arm, Niamh said, “Peace, Murdo. It may be that once we have explained our purpose, the abbot will intercede for us.” She turned to the abbot for confirmation of this assertion, but the abbot merely smiled wanly back.

Murdo wanted nothing more than to shove his fist into the abbot's smirking face, but refrained for his mother's sake, and for the sake of Hrafnbú.

“As you will know,” Lady Niamh began, moving a step nearer the table, “the rule of the islands has passed from Jarls Erlend and Paul, to Prince Sigurd, son of Magnus, King of Norway.”

“Certainly,” Abbot Gerardus replied, “we are only too aware of the upheaval this has caused. This is precisely the reason why you have found it so difficult to gain audience with the bishop these last weeks.”

“In consequence,” Niamh continued, “our lands have been taken from us. Two of my servants were killed, and we have escaped with only our lives.”

The abbot pressed his mouth into a firm line. After a moment, he said, “Most distressing, to be sure. Yet, I cannot see what you expect the church to do about it.”

Niamh stared at him in amazement. “This injustice must be remedied as swiftly as possible,” she said. “Our estate has been seized and given to one called Orin Broad-Foot, a nobleman said to be an advisor to Prince Sigurd. The bishop must intercede for us with the prince. He must demand the return of our lands—on pain of excommunication, if need be.”

“Would that we could wield such power as you imagine us to possess,” Abbot Gerardus said with a show of weary resignation. “In truth, we have no such authority. The bishop would tell you the same.”

“Then let him tell us face to face,” growled Murdo.

“If only that were possible,” replied the abbot.

“Do you refuse to allow us an audience?” demanded Niamh.

“Alas, it is not within my sway to allow
or
refuse,” the churchman said. “It is the bishop's command. We all must obey.”

“My husband is on pilgrimage,” Niamh said pointedly. “He is fighting for the church—and you ask me to believe that the
bishop, at whose insistence he took the cross, cannot now find the time to address a wicked violation of the peace which he himself upholds.”

“Again,” the abbot replied, “you think us more powerful than we are. The church has no authority to compel the compliance with—”

The abbot broke off suddenly as the door behind him opened and all turned to see the bishop himself emerge from his audience chamber. “It is well, abbot,” Adalbert said in a kindly voice. “I heard voices and thought to interrupt my meditations if I might be of service.” He smiled benevolently and, turning to his visitors, said, “Lady Niamh, it is so good to see you. Tell me now, daughter, how may I help you?”

While the abbot stood frowning, Niamh stepped to the bishop and quickly explained the theft of their land and the predicament forced upon them. Murdo watched in growing disbelief as the bishop, nodding in heartfelt sympathy replied, “It is most distressing. Yes, most distressing. Believe me, I wish there was something we could do.”

“But you can intercede for us,” Niamh insisted. “You are the sole authority of the church in Orkneyjar. There has been a dire mistake. On pain of excommunication, you can force them to relinquish the land they have stolen.”

The bishop, still sympathetic, replied, “Lady, I cannot.” He seemed to reconsider his reply then; raising a finger, he asked, “What was the name of the man who has assumed ownership of your estate?”

“He is one of Prince Sigurd's house carles—a nobleman called Orin.” Niamh glanced at Murdo for confirmation; he nodded curtly, suspicion swarming around him like wasps.

The bishop appeared to hesitate, as if drawn up short by the name. “Lord Orin Broad-Foot?”

“The same, yes,” Niamh answered. “Do you know him?”

“Alas,” sighed the bishop, “would that you had said any name but that. Was I not holding audience with that man in this very room, Gerardus?”

“Indeed, yes, Bishop Adalbert,” replied the abbot, who seemed to Murdo to have become curiously complacent about the proceedings.

“Then you know that what I have said is true,” Lady Niamh declared.

“Dear lady,” rejoined the bishop, “I have never doubted you for a moment.”

“Then you will help us.”

“I have already told you that I would if I could,” Adalbert maintained. “But Lord Orin has followed his king's leading and has taken the cross.”

Murdo felt a sick dread stealing over him. He could feel the knife sliding into his gut, though he had not yet seen the blade.

“Indeed, he like so many of our island sons, is to become a pilgrim,” the bishop continued. “In view of the upcoming journey, he has availed himself of the pope's decree regarding the guardianship of the land.”

Niamh stared at the bishop. “You mean…” She faltered, unable to make herself say the words.

“The Holy Church of Christ has pledged protection for the estate,” the bishop replied. “The pertinent documents have been signed and are now on their way to Jorvik for safekeeping. So you see, it is too late.”

“When did this take place?” Niamh's voice had gone cold.

“Two days ago,” said the abbot, almost gloating with triumph.

“Two days!” shouted Murdo. “Two days! Yet, you
knew
we
had been here seeking audience every week for five weeks! You knew it and did nothing!”

“Calm yourself, son. Your anger is misplaced. As it happens, the assumption of Prince Sigurd has brought about many sudden and unexpected changes, as you can imagine. We have been kept busy from dawn to dusk merely to keep pace with the demands which, like your own, have arisen in the wake of the jarls' removal. I assure you, we knew nothing of your plight until you told us just now.”