The Iron Lance (33 page)

Fionn led them to a small tent near the top of the hill. At their arrival, Brother Ronan stepped from the tent, his face solemn. “Good,” he said. “I have told him you were coming. He is anxious to speak to you, Murdo. Are you ready?”

Murdo nodded, and the monks helped him dismount from the donkey; Emlyn took his arm and supported him as he hobbled inside. The sick-sweet stink of a festering wound permeated the close air of the tent. Murdo gagged and choked back bile as the good brothers lowered him down next to a raised pallet covered by a crudely-made matt of grass. On this bed lay a man Murdo did not know.

“We will stay near,” said Ronan as the monks left the tent. “You have but to call out if you need us.”

Murdo made to protest that they had brought him to the wrong man, when the body next to him said, “Is it you, Murdo?”

He looked again, and with a shock recognized in the pale, haggard face of the wretch beside him, the much-altered visage of his father. “My lord?”

“I have been praying one of my sons would come,” Ranulf said, his voice both raw and hushed—little more than a croaking whisper. “I did not know it would be you, Murdo. How is it you are here?”

“I have been searching for you,” Murdo told him. His eyes fell to the stump of his father's right arm. Bound in bloody rags, the arm was missing below the elbow; the stench emanating from the wound gave Murdo to know that it was rotten. Bleak despair swarmed over him and he felt a sensation like falling. “Is it bad?”

“Bad enough…” he closed his eyes, then opened them again, suddenly agitated. “You must hear it!” Ranulf said, rising from his pallet. He seized Murdo by the shoulder. Murdo winced from the pain to his sunburned skin. “You must hear it, and tell others how it was. Take word back to the islands—tell them what happened.”

“I am listening,” Murdo said, trying to soothe. “Rest now. I am here.”

He made to remove his father's hand, but Ranulf clung on, squeezing hard. “Promise me, boy. Promise you will tell them.”

“I will tell them,” Murdo replied. He turned his head to call to the priests, but his father released him and slumped back, breathing hard, exhausted.

“Good,” he said, his breath coming in clotted gasps. “Good.” With the tip of his finger, he indicated a waterskin on the ground beside the pallet.

Murdo took it up and gave him to suck at the opening, watching him as he drank. The face of his father was deeply lined, the eyes sunken, the flesh pale and yellow like old linen. The high, noble brow was waxy and damp, the dark eyes fevered. The once-strong jaw was gray with whiskers, and the lips were dry and cracked, the features pinched with pain.

But the lines eased as the lord drank and the pain released its grip; the fever-bright eyes dulled. Murdo guessed there was some kind of drug in the water. Turning his face from the waterskin, he regarded Murdo for a moment, and the ghost of a smile
touched his mouth. Ranulf seemed to improve somewhat. “I never thought to see you again, Murdo. But here you are.”

“Yes, lord.”

“I am glad,” he said. A spasm of pain coursed through him and he stiffened against it. After a moment the pain passed, and he said, “Listen to me, now. You must tell them…everything.” His voice grew sharp with insistence. “Everything—hear?”

“I am listening,” Murdo answered, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And I will tell them, never fear.”

His father lay his head back and appeared to compose himself, marshalling his strength. Murdo waited, leaning forward to catch each word as it came to his father's lips, fearing these would be the last. After a moment, Lord Ranulf began to speak.

“It was bad for us at Antioch,” Ranulf said, “but Dorylaeum was worse. By God, it was worse.”

Murdo had not heard of the place, but committed the name to memory, repeating it softly to himself. “Dorylaeum.”

“Duke Robert's army was the last to arrive in Constantinople,” Ranulf continued, “and the last to cross the Bosphorus. We were put aboard the ships so fast we got but a bare glance at the Golden City, and then we were on the march again.

“Nicaea was already under siege by the time we got there, and indeed, fell the next day, no thanks to us. Seeing how Amir Kerbogha was away and most of the city's defenders with him, the infidel governor surrendered without a fight. We secured the city and returned it to the emperor's rule, as we were forsworn to do, for all we were that eager to move on to Jerusalem.

“They told us we would be in Jerusalem before summer. Six weeks, they said. Blessed Jesus, it took a year!”

The outburst brought on such a fit of coughing that Murdo pleaded with his father to break off his recitation. “Here, rest a little,” he said. “You can tell me more later.”

Ranulf refused, saying, “It passes…it passes.” He swallowed some more of his elixir and continued. “So that is that. We leave Nicaea to the emperor and we march on. What do we find? The Turks have destroyed everything: settlements deserted, towns
and farms abandoned. Whole forests have been burned, and any source of water has been spoiled—no well, but what it has been fouled; no stream, but what it has been filled with rocks. Truly, it is a God-forsaken place.

“It is not so long—a few days only—and our water is already gone, for we have not been able to get fresh water anywhere. So, it is decided to make two divisions, and each will fend for itself. We draw lots, and it falls that one division will be under Raymond's authority—that is Godfrey, Baldwin, Hugh, and the rest of the Franks—and this one will fare seven miles north of the road.

“The other division is to be led by Prince Bohemond—that is, all the rest of us—and we fare south of the road. We make good marches, meeting no resistance. God help us, but it is dry! We thirst, and people begin to talk of turning back. The commanders push on, and the ranging parties cannot find provender or water—the little they find disappears too quickly, and we are no better for it.

“We come to the mountains—they are small mountains only, not too rough, or too high—and it is a little better for us. The air is not so hot, and we can find a few rock springs still dripping from the rains. There are Turks in the mountains, too, but they cannot get at us with their arrows, so mostly they leave us alone.

“And then all at once the mountains give way to a plain that stretches as far as the eye can see. This plain is full of hills and, God be praised, a river!

“There are no Turks around, so we make for the river as fast as we can, and come upon the ruins of Dorylaeum—it is all broken walls and heaps of rubble so there is nothing to fear. As soon as Bohemond gives the order to halt and make camp, we all flock like geese to the riverside to drink our fill, and oh! the water is sweet and good. We wallow like pigs in it, and spend the
rest of the day filling casks and butts and skins with fresh water. We tether the horses on the meadow and spend a peaceful night.”

Lord Ranulf paused, and swallowed hard. The pain came back into his eyes as he continued, “Next morning, we break camp. We have not seen Count Raymond's division, but he cannot be far away. No doubt they have seen the river, too, and stopped to refresh themselves as we have done. One of the lords says, ‘We should wait for them.' Another says, ‘We should send scouts to find them.' Bohemond will not hear it; he is all for pushing on before it gets too hot. We move on.

“We are marching past the ruined city now…the sun is in our eyes…it is just coming up over the hills and, by God, it is already hot!

“Lord Brusi is riding beside me. We are talking of this and that. Torf and Skuli are behind us, and Paul and Brusi's boys are but spitting distance. Brusi raises his head and says, ‘Here now! What is this?'

“We look up and see four scouts flying back along the column. ‘The enemy approaches!' they shout. ‘Less than two leagues away.'

“We ride to where Bohemond and Tancred have dismounted. The lords of Flanders and Normandy and all the other noblemen hasten to join us. Less than two leagues! We will not even have time to arm ourselves properly. Brave Bohemond is not stirred. ‘How many?' Taranto asks; he is always ready for a fight.

“The scouts are uneasy. They do not want to say. ‘It looks to be the sultan's war host,' says the scout, avoiding the prince's stare.

“‘Answer me!' demands Bohemond, his big voice shaking them out of their fright. ‘How many?'

“‘Sixty…perhaps seventy thousand, my lord,' the scout replies. ‘Maybe more.'

“Seventy thousand! We can hardly believe our ears. We have maybe eighteen thousand knights, and thirty thousand footmen—the rest are women and children, priests, and the like who do not fight. Sultan Arslan's troops are all horsed—the Saracens keep no footmen, mind.

“But the prince is not dismayed. ‘Ride to the other column,' he commands the scouts. ‘Tell Count Raymond we will meet the attack here. He is to join battle at once. Get you gone, by God!'

“The scouts wheel their horses and gallop away while Bohemond instructs his standard bearer to sound the call to arms. Meanwhile, the nobles hold council to order the battle-ranks.

“The field is not good. We are exposed on all sides, with but a marshy place a little down from where we stand. ‘The reeds and shrubs will provide the best cover,' says Taranto. ‘We will put the camp there. The knights will form the line in front of the camp.' The prince points to a low rise just ahead of where the camp will be. The rise stands at the mouth of a valley formed by a low-sloping ridge which curves around the marshland like a bowl. Heaven help us, it is a sorry place to mount a defense, but there is no time to search out a better one.

“The Saracens overmatch us for numbers,' the prince tells us, ‘but not for strength. One knight in battledress is worth ten Saracens. We have but to wait until they close on us, and then we will take them with our spears and drive them back up the hill.'

“So it is agreed. The horns give out their blast and we are racing away in all directions to form the line. Knights are everywhere struggling into hauberk and war cap, and strapping on
greaves and swordbelts. Slinging our shields over our shoulders, we remount our horses and hurry to our places behind our battlechiefs.

“The battle line is only half-formed when the sultan's army appears over the ridge: a hundred thousand strong. Either the scouts have made a poor count, or the Saracen host is growing as more join it from the nearby towns. We pull together as quick as may be—Lord Brusi with his sons, and I with mine, and most of the Scots fall in with Bohemond's troops—but there are big gaps in the line. We tighten our grip on our spears and await the charge. But it does not come.

“Would to God that it did! But, no, Sultan Arslan's warriors do not charge like true fighting men. Instead, they skirt the battlefield in swift, ever-moving swarms. They buzz around us like wasps. They draw near to loose their stinging arrows and feint away again, only to reappear and harass the line somewhere else.

“Still, we hold our ground. We keep our shields between us and the arrows—the few that get by the shields—are easily deflected by our good ring-mail hauberks. We stand our ground, unafraid. Let them swarm and buzz! Where is the hurt?

“Ah, but there are so many of them, and every now and then one of us slumps in the saddle and falls. More often a horse will be struck from under its rider, and that unlucky knight becomes a footman. Yet, though we bide our time, the enemy will not charge.

“Clearly, we cannot endure this abuse forever. It makes no sense to stand by while they slay us man by man. So, after a goodly time, the commanders demand another council. ‘They will not stand!' bellows Stephen in his rage. ‘How, in God's Holy name, can you fight an enemy who will not stand?'

“Once his mind is set, Bohemond is not easily shifted. ‘We have but to wait until they grow tired of this spineless ruse and
make their attack. Then we shall cut them down like saplings.'

“How long must we wait?' shrieks Count Robert. ‘We stand our ground and they cut us down with those infernal arrows. I say we charge!' The Duke of Normandy agrees: ‘Make an attack—break through and scatter the dogs, I say. Cut them as they run!'

“Bohemond commands here,' Tancred reminds them. He says little, this Tancred, but he is shrewd and tough as his cousin. ‘If Lord Taranto says we wait, my lords, then we will wait until Judgement Day.'

“The bold prince flings his hand at the swarming mass of infidel. ‘Look! See how many the sultan commands. They would swallow us whole. We must hold the line until Raymond's forces join us.
Then
we will make our attack—not before.' Bohemond glares around him; he does not like our position any better than the rest, but what else can we do?

“So the lords return to their troops on the line. Brusi and I tell our Scots and Orkneyingar what the prince has decided, and we all hunker down to wait for the rest of their army to join us so the real fighting can begin. But the day is getting on before us; already the sun is passing midday and there is no sign of Raymond's armies. Where are they? But a few leagues separate us—what can be taking them so long?

“Meanwhile, the Seljuq archers are growing increasingly daring and, though it is difficult to tell, it seems more infidel take the field with every assault. We begin to fear the enemy is refreshing itself from an even greater number of warriors than we have yet seen. Bohemond rides up and down the line, calling out exhortations, keeping our courage high.

“All the while, the enemy flies at us—always swarming, swarming like wasps, like hornets shaken from the nest to sting and sting again. We stand firm. The day passes, and still
Raymond's army does not appear. God have mercy! Where are they? Why have they deserted us?”

The question became an anguished cry as Ranulf, reliving the battle anew, felt again the hopelessness of that terrible day. He struggled upright, and the movement brought convulsions of pain and coughing. Murdo sitting rapt at his father's side, brought up the waterskin and gave his father to drink. “Peace,” he said, trying to soothe. “It is done and over; there is nothing to fear.”

Ranulf took a long pull on the waterskin, then pushed it away. “I look down the line,” he said, falling back onto his sweat-soaked pallet. “The gaps in the ranks are larger now. The battleline is growing ragged. The men are clumping together, seeking shelter from the arrows under one another's shields—the first sign of an army feeling its defeat, mark me.

“Bohemond is riding back and forth, shouting for the knights to reform the line, and all at once a great shout rises up. I see Bohemond turn in the saddle, and I turn, too. Duke Robert has broken from the line and is leading a charge into the nearest swarm of Turks. Lord Brusi and his sons have gone with them. We had vowed to stand together with the prince, and the fool has followed the Normandy knights into battle.

“But wait! They have caught the enemy by surprise. The Turks are thrown backward upon themselves—those coming up from behind are driven back by warriors fleeing the charge. All at once they are confounded. Turks scatter in all directions, and it seems the knights will make good the attack. Others are calling now to be released to join the charge.

“Bohemond is wary. He calls for us to stand our ground, but no one heeds him any more. They think they see the chance we have been waiting for, and are desperate to seize it and make an end of the slaughter.

“With a shout for God and glory, they put spurs to their
mounts and charge into them. The Flemish and English troops join the attack, and they are quickly followed by Stephen and Tancred and their warriors. Even Bohemond's knights strain after the others, but the prince holds us back. ‘Stand, men!' he cries, racing back and forth along the line. ‘Hold your ground!'

“Those of us left behind cry out to be allowed to join the assault. It is all I can do to keep Torf and Skuli at my side—they are eager to take the battle to the infidel. Everyone is shouting to attack, but the stubborn prince refuses. He shouts us down with his big voice and forces us to obey on pain of death. ‘I will flay alive any man who defies me!' he bellows, standing in his stirrups at the head of his troops.

“So, we have no choice but to stand and watch as our comrades pursue the enemy over the low hills.” Ranulf paused, swallowed hard, and then continued, his voice growing taut. “God save us, the knights passed from sight over the hilltops, riding hard, and we see them no more. For the space of four heartbeats we hear nothing…suddenly, the Seljuqs reappear. The treacherous dogs have circled around from behind. Oh, their horses are lighter and faster. The Turks are able to move like the wind over the hills, vanishing and appearing at will.

“It is but the blink of an eye, and already the attacking force is surrounded. The enemy presses in on all sides, rending the air with their war cry of ‘Allah akbar! Allah akbar! We stand and watch, but can offer no help. All the while, the short steel-tipped arrows fall upon our comrades like killing rain. We watch our kinsmen tumble from the saddle. God save us, their bodies cover the hillside, and still they fall!

“The knights try to rally. Duke Robert leads them and they drive again and again into the whirling enemy. A small gap appears in the Turkish line. The knights try to break through. I
see the duke fighting his way to the place, only to see it close again before he can reach it. He drives on, regardless. Two Seljuq archers come before his face; they draw their bows and let fly. The first arrow strikes the rim of his shield and glances away; the second hits him in the chest, but he charges on.