The Iron Lance (44 page)

The voice was so clear and lifelike, he opened his eyes and looked around. There was no one nearby, of course, and Emlyn was still asleep, so he knew he must have imagined it. Though the voice was imagined, the words were those of Saint Andrew, and he had promised to do what he could. Perhaps, he thought, the same lord who honored the circle in the dirt—the caim of protection—could deliver him safely home.

“Only get me home, and I will build a realm for you,” Murdo said; “I will build it next to my own.”

His mumbling roused Emlyn who opened his eyes drowsily. “Did you say something?” he asked, yawning.

“No,” whispered Murdo. “Go back to sleep.”

The monk yawned again and closed his eyes. “It looks like smoke,” he said, his voice falling away as he drifted off to sleep again.

Murdo lay for a moment before it occurred to him to wonder what Emlyn had said. Turning his head, he looked in the direction that Emlyn was facing, and saw the hard-baked land, white with dust, beneath a heat-riven sky so bleached it appeared almost gray. A thin thread of darker gray was snaking up through the cloudless heights. Yes, concluded Murdo, it
did
look like smoke. What could be burning in this God-forsaken place?

He raised his head and looked again. The thread was slightly
thicker now, and a little darker, rising out of the west. It was Jaffa!

Rolling to his knees, Murdo looked out, shielding his eyes with his hands. The sun was beginning its long, slow slide into the west, its fierce light all but drowning out the faint smoke trail. He dragged himself to his feet, and climbed to the top of the gully for a better look—only to find that he had to go all the way back to the road in order to see down to the distant horizon.

One quick look confirmed his suspicion: the smoke was coming from the walled city.

Hurrying back to the thorn bush, he quickly pulled his siarc off the branches and drew it back on. He then knelt and shook Emlyn awake. “You were right about the smoke,” Murdo told him. “Jaffa is burning.”

“They must be fighting there,” the monk said.

“Maybe,” Murdo granted. “It is still too far to see.”

“I hope the ships are not in danger.”

“The ships!” It had not crossed his mind that the ships might be at risk in any conflict. What if the Turks were attacking the port? “Hurry!”

“Murdo, wait!” Emlyn called after him. He struggled to his feet and started up the side of the gully, remembered the camel, and paused to untie the rein rope.

Their short rest had far from restored either of them, and here they were, starting out again in the heat of the day. It was madness, thought Murdo; even if he reached the fighting in time, what could he do?

“Murdo, slow down,” called Emlyn, struggling up out of the gully and onto the road. He held tight to the camel's rope, all but pulling the beast after him.

Ignoring the monk, Murdo charged on, head down to keep
the sun out of his eyes. Though more desperately thirsty than ever, he kept his mouth shut, and concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other. How long this continued, he could not say. Time seemed to melt into a stagnant pool; he was no longer aware of its passing. This strange state persisted until he heard Emlyn say, “Look, Murdo! I can see the harbor.”

Murdo raised his head and was amazed to see how far they had come. The city lay on the shelf of the sea plain below them, its white dwellings shimmering pale gold in the light of a low-sinking sun. The sea stretched out on either hand in a broad band of shining white silver. Smoke rose in a dark column from the city walls in the vicinity of the central gate, where, judging from the darkly writhing stain on the plain outside the city, the battle still raged. But the ships rode at anchor in the bowl-shaped harbor, as yet untouched by the fighting outside the walls.

“Can you see who it is?” asked Emlyn, toiling up beside him. The cleric sank to the road and rested on his haunches in the dust.

“No,” answered Murdo, “they are still too far away. I suppose it is Godfrey's troops—the ones that passed us earlier. No doubt the Turks were waiting for them.”

With that, he started off again.

“Murdo, for the love of God, man, can you not wait even a moment while I catch my breath?”

“Catch your breath later,” Murdo called back to him. “We must get down there.”

“Murdo, stop!” cried the monk. “We can await the outcome here.”

He hastened down the track leading to the city. Behind him he heard Emlyn call out, “Murdo, if you cherish your life at all, do not go down there!”

He stopped and looked down upon the broad plain. Emlyn was right; there was nothing he could do down there except get himself killed. He returned to where the priest was waiting, took the rope from his hand, and led the camel off to the side of the road where they found another low bush and settled down to watch and wait until the battle was over.

From their high vantage they watched as the movement on the plain gradually ceased, whereupon the greater mass separated itself from the lesser, and moved off, skirting the city and disappearing up the coast. Murdo stood slowly. “It is over. The Turks have gone.”

They then started down the hill track once more. By the time they reached the plain, the battlefield had been invaded for a second time—by a host of people from Jaffa, many of whom were yet streaming out of the city and onto the plain. Murdo and the monk hurried to meet them, proceeding to the edge of the battleground where the first corpses they encountered were those of crusader knights, struck down by Seljuq arrows. There were more horses than men, and several of the animals were still alive, thrashing in agony on the ground as they hurried by.

Closer to the center of the fighting, the corpses became more numerous. They came upon the body of a knight who had fallen beneath his mount. The horse still lay upon its rider, whose arm extended from beneath the animal's neck, the hand still clutching the sword. Murdo paused and regarded the unfortunate, then looked at the water skin on the horse's saddle.

“He has no further use for it,” Emlyn said, “and is past caring in any event.”

Murdo nodded, stooped quickly and untied the strap holding the skin; he removed the stopper and put the skin to his mouth. The water slid over his parched tongue and down his throat in a cool deluge. He drank down great greedy gulps, pulling the waterskin away reluctantly and passing it to Emlyn with a gasp of relief.

They shared the water between them until the skin was empty, whereupon Emlyn replaced it. He made the sign of the cross over the fallen warrior, and offered a death blessing. The water revived them wonderfully well, and they moved on towards the center of the field where the battle had been most fierce. The dead became more numerous, the parched ground beneath them black with spilled blood. Though they looked, they could see no wounded. Most of the soldiers had suffered both arrow wounds and sword cuts. “Felled by arrows and finished with the sword,” Murdo observed grimly. “The enemy showed no mercy.”

“It is because of Jerusalem,” remarked Emlyn. He stood gazing sadly upon the slaughter, his round shoulders bending under the weight of a terrible vision. “Now begins the season of revenge, when Death reigns, and evil is loosed upon the world.”

At these words, Murdo saw again the ghastly carnage unleashed upon the Holy City in a veritable storm of hate and greed and butchery. He saw himself wandering through the blood-rich desolation, fearful, lost, and alone, while high above him, sailing through the smoke-filled air with leathery wings outstretched, laughing with wicked glee, the Ancient Enemy rejoiced in the slaughter and chaos.

Murdo looked around him and saw the same grisly destruction, and heard the same demonic laughter streaking through the empty heights. What was begun in Jerusalem will last a thousand years, he thought; of war and revenge there will be no end. These dead, still warm upon the blood-soaked earth, are
but the first of a blighted race whose population will grow more numerous than the stars.

Somewhere, thought Murdo, there must be a refuge, a haven from the storm of death and destruction. Somewhere there must be a place of peace and prosperity—if only to remind men that such qualities could still exist this side of heaven.

Build me a kingdom
, Saint Andrew had said.
Establish a realm where my sheep may safely graze, and make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night
.

As Murdo stood gazing upon the field of death, the words of the ghostly monk quickened in his heart:
All you possess was given to you for a purpose. I ask you again
, said the voice from the catacombs,
will you serve me?

At the time, he had pledged to do what he could. Now, looking upon the wanton, senseless waste of life in the ignorant service of rapacious, power-mad avarice and ambition, he knew,
knew
beyond all doubt, what he was being asked to do.

I will do what I can
, he had vowed, at the time. No, he decided, I will do more. I will build that haven from the storms of death and destruction. I will build a kingdom where the Holy Light shines as a beacon flame in the darkness of that terrible night.

At Emlyn's touch, Murdo came to himself with a start. “What were you saying? It sounded like Sanctus Clarus—are you well, Murdo?”

The young man nodded.

“We should see if there is anything we can do,” the monk said, moving on. Murdo followed, leading the camel, his heart
and mind churning with the certainly that he had been called to this place and this moment.

Picking their way among the bodies, they came at last to the place where the crusaders had made their stand. Here, the corpses were heaped one upon another on the ground, and there were few horses. The unhorsed knights had been no match for the mounted Seljuqs. Arrows bristled from every corpse; most had been struck many times.

Here also, the people of Jaffa had begun their work. A number of them were removing the harnesses and saddles from the horses, and others were skinning the animals and butchering them where they lay. Their red, raw carcasses glistened in the harsh light, and the rank smell of their entrails mingled with the sweet stink of blood already thick in the air. A little apart, other groups of townsfolk were separating the crusaders from the Turks—flinging the Seljuqs onto a heap, and dragging the Christians off to be placed in long ranks on the ground, where other men and women were moving along the rows, stripping the dead knights of valuables, weapons, and any useful items of clothing.

These articles were then taken to waiting wagons where they were loaded under the watchful eye of a man in a tall black hat with a staff in his hand. He was standing before a small heap of objects on the ground.

As this man appeared to be giving orders to the others, they went over to him to learn what they could of the battle. Emlyn greeted the fellow politely, and he turned his face towards them, frowning. “What do you want?” he asked, eying the camel suspiciously.

“We saw the battle,” Emlyn said. “We were on our way to Jaffa and saw—”

Black Hat turned away and shouted at a fellow standing in
one of the wagons. “Only the weapons in that one!” he cried. “How many times must I tell you?”

Turning back to the priest, he said, “It was not much of a battle. The Turks were waiting for them.” Indicating the pile of valuables at his feet, he said, “Have you anything to sell?”

“We saw smoke,” said Murdo. “Was the city attacked?”

“Aye, they tried to burn the gates,” the merchant told them. “Third time this month. But we put the fire out.” He shouted at his helper in the wagon again, then said, “If you are going to stand here, you might as well make yourself useful. I pay good silver for their belongings.”

“What about the wounded?” asked Emlyn looking around.

The merchant shrugged. “If you find any, you can give them last rites.”

There came a clatter of steel from the nearby wagon. “Careful with those!” the merchant roared. “Can I sell broken blades?”

A woman came up to the black hatted merchant; she was holding a belt with a silver buckle—a knight's sword belt. The man took the belt, looked at it, and threw it down on the heap in front of him. Reaching into a purse at his side, he drew out a fistful of coins and counted a few of them onto the woman's palm. She bowed her head and scurried away, returning eagerly to her work.

Murdo and Emlyn moved among the fallen, searching for any who might yet be saved. They had not gone far when they heard a soft, moaning sigh. “Over there!” said Emlyn, hurrying towards the sound, calling encouragement as he went. Murdo quickly tied the camel to the pommel of a dead horse's saddle, and removed the waterskin hanging there; he joined the priest as he knelt beside a knight with an arrow in his chest and another in his thigh.

The wounded man struggled up onto an elbow as Murdo handed the priest the waterskin. “Turks…” he gasped as the priest knelt over him.

“Rest easy, friend,” Emlyn said gently. He drew the stopper and offered the skin. “Drink a little. We will help you.”

The knight, a fair-haired young Norman, grasped the skin clumsily and tipped it to his mouth. He drank, the water spilling from his mouth and down his neck to mingle with the blood oozing from the wound in his chest. He drank too fast and choked; water gushed from his mouth and he fell back.

The monk quickly retrieved the waterskin, replaced the stopper, and said, “We must remove these arrows. Murdo, give me your knife.”

“The Seljuqs attacked us…They took it…” said the knight. Seizing Emlyn by the mantle, he jerked the monk forward. “They were waiting for us—” He grimaced, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Tell Godfrey the lance is gone…”

Murdo reached into his siarc and brought out the slender knife Ragna had given him. The knight, his face twisted in his agony, reached his hand towards Murdo. “Tell Godfrey…they took it!”

“Peace,” soothed Emlyn. “Be still. We will soon have those wounds bandaged.”

Before Murdo could ask what he meant, the knight closed his eyes and passed from consciousness. Emlyn lowered his face to the wounded man's, and then sat back. “He sleeps.” Turning worried eyes to Murdo, he said, “It will be dark soon. We must work quickly.”

Using the knife, the monk carefully sliced through the soldier's siarc to expose the wound. The arrow had entered at the top of his chest, below the bones of his left shoulder. “This one was fortunate,” Emlyn observed.

Taking up the waterskin, the monk dashed water over the wound to wash away the blood. Then, holding the blade gingerly in his fingers, he carefully pressed it into the wound beside the arrow. The knight groaned, but did not wake.

“Grasp the arrow firmly,” he directed. Murdo did as he was told, and the monk said, “Now, on my command, I want you to pull upwards on the shaft. Ready?”

Murdo gripped the arrow in both hands. “Yes.”

“Pull.”

Murdo gave an upwards tug and Emlyn, pressing down on the shoulder with his free hand, twisted the knife blade at the same instant, and the arrow came free. The knight jerked his arm, and then lay still.

“That was well done,” breathed Murdo, tossing the arrow aside.

The monk handed him the knife. “Cut strips from his mantle to bind him,” he said, dashing more water over the wound. Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he took out a small bag and withdrew a pinch of yellowish stuff which he sprinkled over the shoulder, before binding it with the strips which Murdo handed him.

That done, Emlyn turned his attention to the wound in the knight's thigh, repeating the procedure with a deft efficiency which caused Murdo to marvel anew. Twice in this eventful day he had been surprised by the monk; he wondered what else the priest could do that he did not know about.

They were just finishing tying up the leg wound when the sound of horses reached them from the hills east of the plain. Murdo turned towards the sound, expecting to see the Seljuq horde sweeping down upon them. Instead, galloping towards them in the yellow afterglow of the setting sun, he saw two long columns of knights.

“Who are they? Can you see?” asked Emlyn, rising to stand beside him. “The banners—can you see them?”

“Black and yellow, I think,” replied Murdo.

“The yellow and black—that is Prince Bohemond,” said Emlyn.

The crusaders skirted the battlefield and came on to where their comrades had made their final stand. They reined up along the fallen front line, whereupon many of the knights dismounted and began moving quickly among their dead comrades. Their leaders, meanwhile, rode on to where Black Hat stood directing the scavengers.

“Stay with him,” Murdo told the monk. “I want to hear what they are saying.”

“Greetings, friends,” called a tall, broad-shouldered man to the Jaffa merchant as Murdo edged near. The knight's freshly burnished helm and hauberk glimmered golden in the fading light. His long fair hair curled from beneath his helm, and his arms bulged with knotted muscle as he struggled to hold his mount still. From the man's easy authority, Murdo knew it must be Bohemond himself who addressed them.

“I see no surviving warriors of Lord Godfrey's war band.” He regarded the small gathering with grave dark eyes. “I pray you, tell me I am wrong.”

The Jaffa merchant took it upon himself to answer for everyone. “Alas, lord,” he replied, “you are too right. The Turks were waiting in ambush. Their victory was complete; there are no survivors.”

“If you saw the ambush,” said the man with Bohemond, speaking up, “I wonder that you did not send soldiers from the town to aid in the fight.”

“They set fire to the gate,” the merchant countered. “What could we do?”

“Has the city no other gates?” demanded the knight angrily.

Bohemond held up his hand for silence. “Desist, Bayard. The deed is done.” He gestured towards the wagon into which the weapons were being loaded. “Go and see what they have found.” The knight rode to the wagon, and while he began questioning the townsfolk working there, the count turned once more to the merchant. “These men were coming from Jerusalem. Am I to assume they did not reach the city?”

“No, my lord, they did not,” Black Hat confirmed. “Unfortunately, they were attacked before they could reach the safety of the walls.”

The Prince of Taranto nodded and looked around. He saw Murdo standing nearby, and said, “You there. Is that the way you saw it?” The question held neither suspicion, nor judgment. Bohemond gazed mildly at the young man before him, his handsome face ruddy in the dying light.