The Iron Lance (24 page)

“Said and done.” I leaned forward eagerly. Never had I known him to be so clandestine.

“As you may have surmised, I have many involvements and interests with which I occupy my time. But there is one I would like to recommend to you. Knowing you as I do, I think you would find it very stimulating.” He glanced at me to see whether I wished him to proceed.

“Do go on. I'm listening.”

“The situation I describe is a strictly private organization, and very exclusive.”

He had become so serious, I sought to lighten the mood somewhat. “A secret society? Pemberton, you do surprise me.”

“A society, definitely,” he said. “Secret? Let us just say that, living in uncertain times as we do, we cannot be overly careful about those to whom we extend our invitations.”

“Forgive me, Pemberton, but are we talking about the Masonic Order?”

“Freemasons?' He looked genuinely shocked. At once his customary decorum gave way, and I caught a rare glimpse of the real man. “Don't be absurd! We have nothing to do with that mumbo jumbo—nothing at all, thank God. As far as I'm concerned the Masons are a miserable tribe of sad little men muttering gibberish and flouncing around in the dark in their mothers' aprons. They are, quite frankly, priests of a long-dead religion venerating all the wrong bones.”

“I see.”

“No, our organization is quite far removed from that sort of thing. While we guard our traditions no less jealously than our masonic comrades, our roots lie in different soil, so to speak. It is known by its initiates as the Benevolent Order, and is wholly
given to good works of various kinds. I have been a member for close to forty years, and we are always looking for men of integrity who could benefit from an association of this type.” He paused and smiled. “It would be my very great honor to sponsor you for membership.”

“It would be my very great pleasure to accept,” I told him.

“Good,” he said, well satisfied with my enthusiastic response. “Good. I will make the necessary arrangements, and you will hear from me shortly.”

A few weeks later, I was inducted into the order, and began to discover a side of society that had heretofore escaped my notice completely. Among the membership of Temple XX—which is what our local meeting hall was called—I was surprised to find several acquaintances, men I knew from my professional life, and two men who were members of the congregation of my church. Consequently, I felt very much at home from the beginning, and found it a convivial, if not utterly inspiring, group.

True to Pemberton's word, the Benevolent Order occupied itself with good works: gifts of books to libraries, wheeled chairs for the crippled, medicine for the invalided, shoes for the indigent, orphanages, and what not. Necessary stuff, and very much welcomed by the recipients, but a tad sleepy all the same. When not organizing deliveries of books or medicine, we were instructed by well-meaning lecturers in the lore of the order, history, and social issues.

My first impression was that the Benevolent Order of the Brothers of Solomon's Temple—to give it its official name—apparently derived much of its impetus and rationale from Freemasonry. We wore white monks' robes with strange insignia, and advanced through various degrees of initiation the stations of which were indicated by the colors of our belts and cowls. We had
secret passwords for recognition, and were made to memorize patterns and liturgies of legendary ritual which we observed from time to time.

Despite Pemberton's protest to the contrary, I imagined that the Brothers of the Temple had been founded, at least partly, in response to the Masonic movement, perhaps even by disaffected former members of that better-known secret society. It was not until I had been a member for several years that I even began to suspect there might be something more to the Order than a bunch of cater-cousin freemasons running around in bedsheets, calling one another Brother Novitiate, Brother Warden, or Brother Preceptor.

The existence of the Brotherhood took me by surprise, I confess. But then, I suppose I had been lulled by the innocuous nature of the larger charitable organization. Certainly, the notion of a second order hidden behind the first was nothing new, but in all the time I had been a member of the Benevolent Order, I had never been given any reason to think that all I saw, was
not
all there was.

However, once I learned of the Brotherhood's existence, the object of the Benevolent Order became abundantly, and astonishingly, clear: it was to be the sorting shed, the clearing house, if you will, for its older, more clandestine associate. In other words, the Benevolent Order, while enjoying its own stodgy purposes, had actually been formed to serve the Brotherhood, and not the other way around.

I also discovered, to my compounded amazement, that only those fortunate enough to be elected to its number were vouchsafed knowledge of the Brotherhood. Thus, within a fortnight of receiving this manifold revelation, I found myself kneeling on the floor of a crypt at midnight on All Hallows Eve, repeating sacred vows, and kissing the blade of a sword—after which I
exchanged my monk's robe and cowl for a black cape lined with crimson satin. I was also given a talisman: a blackened finger bone from the hand of one of the founders of our secret order, a Scottish lord who, rather than betray the Brotherhood, had been burned at the stake.

Ragna smoothed her hands over the gentle swell of her stomach. She had been able to hide the growing fullness for a time, but no longer. Soon the other women around her would notice what she had already told Tailtiu, her handmaid—not that she could have hidden anything from that bright-eyed magpie of a girl. She knew almost before Ragna herself was certain.

“If you tell anyone, Tailtiu,” Ragna warned her, “I will not hesitate to cut out your tongue so you will never be able to tell another secret to anyone for the rest of your life.”

The threat did not distress the servingmaid in the least. “What will you use? The knife you gave to our Murdo?”

“He is not
our
Murdo,” Ragna replied crisply. “How did you know about the knife?”

“It is no longer in your keep-chest,” Tailtiu answered cheerfully. “It is gone and so is Master Murdo. I cannot think he would steal it, so it must be you has given it to him. And he has given a child to you.”

“Listen to me, Tailtiu,” Ragna said, taking the girl by the shoulders, “no one is to know of this until
I
choose to tell them.”

“You are afeared your mother will be angry with you?”

“I am not ashamed of what I did,” Ragna said sternly. “But I will not have it treated as something lewd, to be whispered over by every lustful hinny in Kirkjuvágr. Do you understand?”

“I like him. He is good and kind. You do love him, too, I can tell. Will your father allow the marriage? I think he will be a fine husband.”

“Tailtiu, I mean what I say,” Ragna gave the girl a shake for emphasis. “I will
not
have this brought into disgrace. Do you understand me?”

“I understand, my lady. It shall be our secret.”

“See that it remains so.”

That had been a few months ago, and beyond all expectation the chatter-happy Tailtiu had kept her mouth shut about her mistress' condition—not even so much as to whisper it between themselves. This had allowed Ragna to wait and hope, and when she was at last certain, ready herself to reveal the secret in her own time.

She would tell her mother first, and then lady Niamh. The three of them would decide together what to do about announcing the birth. That, Ragna reckoned, would be the most difficult part. There would be no problem with baptizing the baby; when the time came, it could be done in their own chapel. The birth could be recorded there, and it would not have to be entered on the cathedral rolls until the child was two years old. By then, Murdo would be back and they would be properly married. If she stayed on Hrolfsey until Murdo returned, all would be well. No one outside their own family and vassals need learn about the child until the marriage was duly formalized and recognized by the church.

Through the long summer day, Ragna occupied herself with little chores, waiting for just the right moment to present itself. That moment came when Lady Ragnhild strolled into the herb garden outside the kitchen to cut fennel for the cooks to use in the evening meal. The lowering sun stretched the shadows long among the close-tended rows of plants as Ragna approached her
mother. The warmth of the day and the honeyed light gave Ragna a pleasantly mellow feeling.

“It has been a good summer for the gardens,” her mother observed. “The best I can remember for many years.”

“Perhaps it bodes well for a mild winter,” Ragna offered.

“Winter!” Lady Ragnhild stooped to snip a stunted, discolored stalk from among the tall green forest before her. “Please, summer is short enough without hastening it on its way. We have harvest to think about first, and that is upon us soon enough.”

“Our men will be home by then,” Ragna replied. She plucked a fragrant leaf from a nearby branch, raised it to her nose, then began twirling it between her fingers.

“Our men,” echoed her mother. “It must be Murdo you are talking about. I cannot think you would speak about your father and brothers that way.”

“I miss him, Mother,” Ragna said quietly.

“Aye,” sighed Ragnhild, “I miss your father, too. It is a hard, hard thing to stay behind.”

“It has been good having Niamh here. I am sorry about their lands, but she has been a help to us. I like her.”

“That is good,” observed Ragnhild absently, trimming the severed stalk further.

“It seems to me,” Ragna continued, “that a bride should esteem her husband's mother as her own—and that is not always so easy, I think.”

The trimmer hesitated only an instant, and then…snip—another stalk fell. “All this talk of brides and husbands,” Ragnhild mused. “Am I to think a wedding is anticipated in this house?” She straightened and looked her daughter in the eye. “Or has the marriage already taken place?”

“For a truth, it has. We were hand-fasted before he left.”

Ragnhild nodded and turned back to her work. “Had it been anyone else, your father would have the man flogged through the streets of every town from here to Jorvik.” She paused. “He might do that still, who knows?”

“Father would never oppose the match,” Ragna maintained, a wariness edging into her voice. “He has never said anything against Murdo. He would never refuse us.”

“Nay,” Lady Ragnhild softened. “How could he? Lord Ranulf is a nobleman of rank, and a longtime friend. Your father respects him, and values his friendship. Anyway, the deed is done and we must all make the best of it.” The trimmer neatly lopped the stalk into her basket. “Bishop Adalbert should be your greatest worry. He can refuse to acknowledge the hand-fasting, you know, and your children would be born into perdition.”

“We have time yet.” Ragna bent her head. Her eyes filled with tears. “Until the Christ Mass, at least.”

Ragnhild paused and regarded her daughter thoughtfully. She put down the basket and opened her arms. Ragna stepped into her mother's embrace and the two women stood for a time without speaking.

“Oh, Ragna, if you could have waited…” she sighed, leaving the thought unfinished.

“He will be a good husband, Mother,” Ragna said after a while; she sniffed and rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “He has never been anything but kind to me, and I love him for it—I think I always have. We will confirm our vows in our own chapel when he returns.”

“And if he does
not
return?”

“Mother! I will not hear you speak so.”

“I
do
speak so. Daughter, they are at war. You know as well as I, that men who go away to war do not always come home
again. Of all those who leave home and family, only a few will return. Men die in battle and there is nothing we can do about it. That is hard, but that is the truth.”

“Murdo did not go to fight,” Ragna pointed out. “He went only to bring Lord Ranulf home, not to fight.”

“That is something, at least,” her mother allowed, tenderness and pity mingled in her gaze. “Oh, Ragna, I would that it were different for you.” After a moment she said, “We must tell Niamh, of course; she will want to know soon.”

“Tonight, I thought,” Ragna replied. “I will not be able to keep it from her much longer in any event.”

Lady Ragnhild raised a hand to her daughter's head, and touched it gently.

“Crusade will end long before winter comes,” Ragna told her, forcing conviction to her voice. “The men will have returned, and we will be married before the baby is born.”

“Pray that is so,” Ragnhild said, stroking her daughter's long golden hair. “Pray your Murdo returns soon. Pray they
all
return soon…hale and unharmed.”

After supper that night, Ragnhild suggested that Niamh join them for a walk in the long-lingering twilight. “These few fine days at the last of summer almost repay winter's dark and cold,” she said as they strolled the path behind the house. The sky was flushed with pink and purple, and the few low clouds were red and orange against a sky of deepening blue. The sea breeze was warm out of the south, and the evening star gleamed just above the line of the hills beyond the ripening fields.

“It has always been my favorite time of year,” Niamh agreed placidly. “The cattle have calved and the young are growing. It is nicest before the tumult of harvest.”

“Ragna was saying that she hoped the men would be home for the harvest,” Ragnhild said.

“I hope so, too,” Niamh replied. “But I think we must not expect it. Whatever the next months bring, I fear we must prepare to face it without our menfolk.”

One of the servingmaids called lady Ragnhild away just then, leaving Ragna and Niamh together for a moment. They walked a while, enjoying the mild evening. “You have been quiet tonight,” Niamh observed. “It is not like you. Are you feeling well?”

“Very well, indeed,” Ragna answered. “If I am quiet, it is that I have been trying to find the right words to say what I must tell you.”

“Just say what is in your mind,” Niamh suggested amiably. “I am certain there is nothing you could say that I would not like to hear.”

Ragna nodded. “You are kind, Lady Niamh—”

“Let it be Niá between us,” she replied quickly. “We are friends enough for that, I think.”

“We are,” agreed Ragna, “and it is that very friendship I fear losing.”

“Whyever should you lose it?” Niamh stopped walking and turned to Ragna. “My heart, what is wrong?”

The young woman lifted her head. “Murdo and I are hand-fasted. I am carrying his child.”

“I see,” replied Niamh quietly.

When no further reaction seemed forthcoming, Ragna accepted her reproach. “I do not blame you for withholding your blessing,” she said, bending her head. “No doubt you hoped to make a better match for your son.”

In two steps, Niamh was beside Ragna, gathering the young woman to her breast. “Never say it,” she soothed. “Ah, Ragna…Ragna. I chose you for him the first day ever I saw you. I have made the match a thousand times in my heart. I have never
breathed a word of this to Murdo, mind; but I prayed he would one day see for himself what I saw in you.” She held Ragna at arm's length. “I am happy for you, and for him, too. If I hold any sadness at all, it is for the fact that I fear for your future together—”

“Because of the church? I thought of that. We can confirm—”

Niamh shook her head. “No, the church will be the least of your worries. Rather it is because we have lost our lands, child. Murdo will have nothing, and that is a sorry way to begin a life together.”

“But you will get your lands back,” Ragna said. “When Lord Ranulf and your sons return—you
will
reclaim Hrafnbú. I know it.”

“I wish I could be so certain. The truth is, there is much against us, and even if Lord Ranulf were here now, it might go ill with us.” Niamh paused. “We must not trust too highly in our hopes, for the whims of kings thwart all desires but their own.”

“Would you forbid our marriage for lack of land?” Ragna asked, not unkindly.

“My heart, I would forbid you nothing,” Niamh replied. “I wish you the world, and my dear son with it. And if he were standing here before you now, Ranulf would say the same. Your own father might take a different view. He might consider a landless match beneath his only daughter; he might feel he could do better for you elsewhere. And it would be his right.”

“I want nothing else,” Ragna declared, anger flaring instantly. “And I will have the father of my child to husband, or I will have no one. They will put me in my grave before I wed another.”

“Shh,” soothed Niamh gently. “To speak so is to arouse the Devil's regard. Let us pray instead that the Good Lord will grant you your heart's desire.”

Ragna smiled. “Despite those selfish kings.”

“Of course,” agreed Niamh, “despite all those selfish kings. They are but flesh and blood, and not angels after all.”

She took Ragna's arm, and they strolled on. “Now then, we must begin to prepare for the infant's arrival. We have clothes to make—”

“Warm clothes,” added Ragna, “for it will be midwinter.”

They walked arm-in-arm in the gathering dusk, and talked of the preparations to be made in the next months. That night Ragna went to her empty bed with her soul more settled than it had been for a very long time. She fell asleep with a prayer on her lips. “Lord of Hosts,” she whispered, “send seventy angels to guard my Murdo, and bring him home to me with all speed. If you but do this for me, you shall never lack for a more faithful servant.”