The Iron Lance (47 page)

“Trust me,” replied Murdo. “Now tell me—my father's treasure, where is it?”

The priest leaned nearer. “It's here, aboard this very ship—where else should it be?” Glancing around, he said, “Maybe you should give the lance to me. I could—”

“Hear me, Emlyn,” warned Murdo, “say nothing. Whatever happens, hold your tongue.”

“Be careful, Murdo. These men will stop at nothing to have their way. Do not give in to them.”

“I mean it!” Murdo growled sharply. Grasping the priest by the wrist, he squeezed hard. “Whatever I say or do, just keep quiet and stand aside. Understand?”

Stunned, Emlyn nodded and stepped away, rubbing his wrist.

Turning from the monk, Murdo faced Bohemond. “Thank you for saving me,” he said, lowering his head in dutiful respect. “I fear I would be drowned now if you had not arrived when you did.”

“And that would have been a great pity,” Bohemond told him. “To lose both the Holy Lance
and
its most ardent protector at a stroke—it does not bear thinking about. Therefore, let us pass on to happier fields of discussion.” He put out his hands
to Magnus and Murdo. “Sit with me, friends, and let us decide what is best to do.” They settled themselves on rowing benches. Indicating the silk-wrapped object in Murdo's lap, the count said, “Now then, I would hear how the Sacred Lance came into your possession.”

Murdo nodded, and began his tale; he described how, after Count Bohemond and his troops had departed to engage the Turks, he had followed and heard the clash on the strand. He told how, upon climbing the hills for a better look, he had discovered the tent hidden among the dunes. “The amir's treasure was inside the tent,” he concluded simply. “I found the Holy Lance and came away with it. The Turks returned before I could get more.”

“Remarkable,” said Bohemond, shaking his head slowly. “You have rescued the holy relic from its enemies—both Turk and Christian. I commend you…” he hesitated. “Please, I still do not know your name.”

“I am Murdo, son of Lord Ranulf of Dýrness,” he answered, glancing at Magnus, who regarded him thoughtfully, but showed no recognition of the name.

Bohemond received the name with a gracious nod, and continued, “I commend you, Murdo, Son of Ranulf of Dýrness. Your bravery shall be rewarded. I pledge a thousand pieces of silver for the return of the lance.” So saying, he extended his hand to take possession of the weapon.

“Murdo, no!” cried Emlyn, unable to help himself. “Please, for the love of God, you must not—”

Murdo silenced him with a single sharp look, and turned once more to Bohemond. “Again, lord, you have my thanks,” he replied, maintaining his grip on the iron lance. “Forgive me, but I will take nothing from your hand for the return of the relic. I have my own reasons for what I did, and it is not right
that anyone should amass profit upon the sacrifice of Christian lives. It will be enough for me to see the lance returned to its rightful place.”

Bohemond's expression became shrewd. “More remarkable still,” he murmured.

King Magnus, who had taken in everything in silence, now leaned forward and, speaking in Norse, addressed Murdo directly, “Son, think carefully about what you are saying. Jarl Bohemond here is a powerful man, and here he stands ready to give you anything you ask. Only give us the spear, and I will see you live to enjoy your reward.”

Murdo perceived the implied threat, but had already decided to brazen out his plan come what may. “I thank you for your concern, lord,” he replied in polite Latin. “Pray, do not think me disrespectful if I refuse your kind reward. For, what good is silver when a man's land has been stolen, and his family turned out of their rightful home?”

King Magnus was not slow to grasp Murdo's meaning. “If this is what troubles you, my friend, then your hardship is at an end. As I am King of Norway and Orkneyjar, I will see justice served.”

“Very well,” replied Murdo, inclining his head in assent. “I ask for no more than that.”

“Splendid!” cried Bohemond, slapping Murdo on the back. “It is agreed.”

“Now then,” the king said, “tell me who has perpetrated this offense, and when we return to the Dark Isles I will have the man summoned and demand an accounting for his crimes.”

“There is no need to wait for our return to Orkneyjar,” Murdo answered bluntly. “The man I speak of is here among us even now.”

“Here!” wondered Magnus, drawing back suddenly as if sus
pecting a trap. Casting a quick, worried glance at his liegemen, he said, “Certainly, you must be mistaken.”

“There is no mistake,” Murdo assured him. Pointing to the rank of onlooking noblemen, he declared, “Orin Broad-Foot is that man.”

Magnus, aghast and dismayed, stared at Murdo, and then at his vassal lord, who was as surprised as his king at this startling accusation. Bohemond appeared bemused; he regarded Murdo wonderingly, as the Norse lord rose and stepped quickly to his nobleman. The two held close conversation for a moment while all those about them shuffled and murmured in restless anticipation.

“This is a most difficult matter,” Magnus announced, turning from his consultation. “It seems my son, Prince Sigurd, is responsible for taking your lands. Naturally, Lord Orin knew nothing of your family's plight and he is not to blame in this matter.”

“God knows it is true,” Orin swore. “If I had known the bú belonged to your father, I would never have taken it. But I had it on good faith from the bishop that those lands had fallen forfeit when Jarl Erlend was dethroned.”

Magnus nodded, satisfied with his lord's declaration of innocence. “For this reason,” he continued, “I do not think justice would be accomplished by punishing a good man for a crime which he neither knew nor intended.” Murdo opened his mouth to protest, but the king, anticipating his complaint, raised a hand to stay him. “Still, it is not right that you and yours should bear such ill-fortune. I would be a worthless king indeed if I did not offer some remedy for injuries caused by my son's inexperience.”

Bohemond nodded approvingly, and the noblemen added their endorsement of the king's judgment with grunts and
growls of support. “Therefore,” Magnus resumed, “I would make amends to you and your family and vassals by offering you other lands on which to build and settle.” He paused to take in Murdo's sour disposition, and then added, “However great your lands in Orkneyjar, ten times that much again shall be given to you.”

“There is no estate in all Orkneyjar so big as that,” Murdo observed somewhat warily.

“That may be as you say,” answered Magnus. “So I will give you land in Caithness—a portion of the kingdom granted me by Malcolm, King of the Scots. I give it right freely, and welcome you to take it.” He offered his hand to Murdo—the gesture of a Norseman when striking a bargain.

Realizing he had achieved a boon far greater than anything he would have dared ask, Murdo rose to his feet. “My father, Lord Ranulf, fell at Jerusalem,” he said. “But if he were standing here before you, I know he would accept your generous offer, freely forgiving any grievance or ill-feeling toward Lord Orin, or Prince Sigurd. Therefore, in honor of my father, I accept.” He grasped the offered hand, thereby sealing the bargain. “Know, too, that my father would want to see the Holy Lance placed in safe and trustworthy hands for the good of all.”

With that, Murdo delivered the lance to Count Bohemond, who received it gladly, then stood at once, crossed to the rail, and lofted the silk-wrapped weapon above his head to the rapturous delight of the crowd who yet stood waiting to see how the confrontation would be resolved. “The Holy Lance is recovered!” he called. “Praise God, and give thanks for its swift return.”

Murdo heard a loud sigh behind him and turned in time to see Emlyn crumple to the deck. Overcome by the sight of his trusted companion delivering the lance to the adversary, the priest had swooned.

Bohemond wasted not a moment summoning the imperial envoy to deliver his prize. Like Godfrey, he understood his survival depended on the good will of the emperor. Unlike Godfrey, he was not afraid to make the sacrifice which would secure Alexius' support. In his brief and prickly appearance before the council in Jerusalem, Dalassenus had left little doubt that the emperor's future co-operation depended on the return of the lance.

The wily count had decided that if the lance could secure the emperor's support, it was a price he would gladly pay. In order to derive the maximum benefit from the gift, Bohemond must be seen to be the agent of its return. Even as he and Magnus walked from the council chamber, he had begun scheming as to how to get the relic away from Godfrey.

The instant Bohemond learned that Godfrey's men had departed Jerusalem, he put his spies to work. Upon discovering that Godfrey intended sending the sacred lance to the pope for safe-keeping, he had set off in pursuit with his best knights. True, he had not reckoned on fighting the Turks all night, neither had he foreseen Murdo's intervention. And if the gatemen had not been telling everyone about the youth who had stolen the Holy Lance, he would have despaired of ever finding it again. Life in the eastern empire was full of surprises, however, and he was learning to seize each opportunity as it arose.

Grasping the iron lance in his hand, he marveled at his own good fortune. “Take word to the Grand Drungarius,” he said, turning to Bayard. “Tell the envoy that Count Bohemond comes bearing the Holy Lance of Christ, and that we would be pleased to wait upon him for the relic's delivery at his earliest convenience.”

Bayard and two of Bohemond's nobles were dispatched to the imperial ship with the count's message.

Murdo knelt beside the stricken priest, and shook him gently. After a moment, the priest woke with a moan and sat up. He saw Murdo and clutched at his sleeve. “You gave the lance to Bohemond!” he gasped. “We must try to get it back—it is not too late. We must—”

He struggled to rise. “Shh!” Murdo warned, pushing him back down. “Be still.”

“The lance!” Emlyn hissed. “He means to give it away!”

“All will be well,” whispered Murdo, bending near. Gripping the monk by the arm, he helped him slowly to his feet. “Listen to me, there is not much time. Magnus is here—which means Ronan and Fionn cannot be far away. The less they know about this, the better, I think.”

Emlyn searched the young man's face for a reason, found none, and shook his head sadly. “I do not understand. Last night you said you would follow the True Path and rescue the lance, yet today you give it away. What has changed you, Murdo?”

“Nothing has changed,” Murdo told him. “We have to see this through.”

At that moment, Bohemond, standing at the rail with King Magnus beside him, lofted the Holy Lance in the air, and called out in a loud voice so everyone on the wharf could hear, “Make way! Make way, my friends, for the emperor's envoy. He comes
to receive this most holy relic into his care.” The sailors and crusaders near by looked up to see the golden cord and silken wrapping flash in the sun; they saw the emperor's emissary moving towards them, and backed away, uncertain as to what was about to happen.

Bohemond put his hand out in a conciliatory gesture. “Join me, drungarius,” he called. “Let us stand together and pledge troth before all gathered here.”

While the Grand Drungarius made his way through the through to the dragon-prowed ship, Bohemond delivered a high-sounding speech to his onlookers, speaking eloquently about the suffering of the crusaders and their noble achievement in securing the Holy City for all time. He spoke of God's great design for his people, and the supremacy of the emperor as the Almighty's sole representative on Earth, and how it was good to reflect on the suffering of all those who had died in the struggle, and how the Good Lord himself had blessed their great enterprise by revealing the Holy Lance as a sign of his favor.

From his place beside Murdo, Emlyn gazed longingly at the lance in the count's hands. “He is giving it away!” The monk started forth.

“Peace, brother,” Murdo muttered, taking his arm and holding him to his place. “Be still.”

The monk, growing desperate, squirmed in Murdo's grasp. “We cannot stand by and let him give it away!”

“That is exactly what we will do.” Murdo jerked hard on the monk's arm. “Now stand still and be quiet.”

Dalassenus, with four Varangian guards on either side, mounted the plank to the ship and came to stand before Bohemond. The prince embraced the emperor's envoy like a long-lost kinsman. Taking the Holy Lance across his palms, he extended it towards Dalassenus, saying, “In the name of Our
Lord Jesus Christ, I charge you to place this most sacred relic under the keen protection and loving care of the Supreme Ruler of all Christendom, Emperor Alexius. Let him know by this, that the lords of the West honor and revere him, and that we bend the knee to his authority, joining with him in the upbuilding of the Christ's great kingdom.”

With that he delivered the Iron Lance into Dalassenus' hands. The Greek commander inclined his head regally and accepted the sacred relic with the grave respect due the occasion. “On behalf of the Emperor Alexius, Equal of the Apostles, God's Vice-Regent, and Life of the Church, I welcome the charge laid upon me, and swear before these gathered witnesses that this holy relic, sacred to Our Saviour's memory, shall be given all the care, veneration, and protection deserving of its eminence.”

Those looking on—aboard the ship, and below on the quay—greeted this bestowal with a muted, if not puzzled, response. While some called out to know what was going on, others gave out half-hearted cheers of acclaim; most simply went about their business once more.

The Grand Drungarius then thanked the count for returning the lance and upholding the vows sworn before the emperor's throne. “Rest assured, Emperor Alexius will wish to thank you himself. Perhaps, when your duties permit, you will return to Constantinople and allow the emperor to reward you himself.”

Bohemond, looking suitably deserving, smiled benevolently at the prospect of meeting the emperor once more, and beckoned his nobles to share in his glory. King Magnus stepped beside him, and the two lords embraced; other crusaders or the prince's entourage were invited to bask in the reflected glory of their lord's triumph.

Lastly, the magnanimous count turned to Murdo and motioned him to join them, but he refused.

He declined politely, saying, “I thank you, lord, but I have my reward. I am content.”

The noblemen exchanged vows of eternal brotherhood, and eagerly accepted Dalassenus' invitation to join him on the imperial ship for wine and a service of thanksgiving. Murdo and a much-subdued Emlyn retreated to the prow to watch as Bohemond and Magnus, flushed with pride at their salutary accomplishment were conducted to the imperial ship by an honor guard of Immortals, led by the emperor's emissary. They were escorted onto the emperor's ship, where they were served with wine and a lavish selection of local delicacies.

“It is not right that they should glory so,” Emlyn grumbled sourly. “It is an offense against heaven.”

“Heaven can take care of itself,” Murdo answered. “We still need the good will of kings.” Scanning the wharfside activity, he found what he was searching for. “Look, there is Jon Wing—Ronan is with him.”

Murdo called to them, and saw that the sea lord and priest were leading a small procession which snaked its way along the edge of the crowd on the pier, with Fionn and the sailors of the
Skidbladnir
bringing up the rear. Many of the seamen seemed to be laboring—dragging or carrying something as they came.

Ronan and Jon reached the edge of the quay and started up the plank. “Hail, Murdo! Emlyn! God be good to you,” called the elder monk. “We hoped we might find you before you sailed.”

“Behold!” said Jon Wing, stretching his hand to those coming on behind. “Today you see the making of a king!”

Murdo looked where the Norseman was pointing, and saw
the first of the sailors as they came swaying up the plank carrying open baskets of gold and silver objects. In all, six baskets of plunder were carried aboard to be carefully stowed within the tent on the platform behind the mast. One of the sailors helping secure the treasure emerged from the tent, and called out, “Jon, there are some dead people here! What should we do with them?”

“Leave them in peace,” replied Jon. Turning to Murdo he said, “Ronan told me about your father, and I was sorry to hear it. I knew you would want him to accompany you to Orkneyjar. Do not worry. Unless he begins to stink, I will not put him off the ship.”

Murdo thanked the sea lord for his thoughtfulness, and asked, “How did you come to get so much treasure?”

“Bohemond chased off the Turks who ambushed Godfrey's troops,” answered Jon Wing. “We arrived with Magnus in time to aid in the rout of the Turks. The amir's treasure was taken for spoils.”

“They had the treasure with them,” put in Fionn, joining the group as the last of the baskets was brought aboard and placed in the tent. “King Magnus' men helped liberate the treasure and were granted a sizeable portion.”

“Would that you had joined us just a few moments ago.” Emlyn said, speaking up at last. “You might have saved the Holy Lance as well.”

This occasioned a much-interrupted explanation of all that had happened to them since leaving Jerusalem—their narrow escape from the Seljuqs, the battle before the city walls, Murdo's recovery of the sacred lance, and his extraordinary bargain with King Magnus for the return of the relic. The others agreed with him that the bargain was extraordinary indeed.

“The king is known to be a fair and generous lord,” Jon
Wing declared. “I suppose he was at pains to prove it—with Bohemond and his noblemen looking on.” To Murdo he said, “You had him in a very tight place, if only you knew it.”

“If not for Bohemond's intervention,” Murdo replied, “I have no doubt it would have ended otherwise. Baldwin's men were for slitting my throat. I still do not know why the count acted as he did.”

“No doubt it was to do with the council.” He told Murdo how the emperor's envoy had appeared before the Latin lords and demanded the Holy lance as a sign of the crusaders' recognition of Alexius' supremacy. “When Bohemond learned that the lance had been sent from the city, he set off with a force of men to help protect it.”

“If you had but lingered half a day longer in Jerusalem,” added Jon Wing, “you would have learned all this. What is more, you could have travelled to Jaffa with us.”

“Alas,” sighed Emlyn, “it was
this
close.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “We had it in our grasp…” He glanced reproachfully at Murdo, and shook his head.

The three priests fell silent, reflecting on how near they had come to realizing their divinely-ordained vision. Murdo steeled himself against their benign disapproval, and held his tongue.

“Maybe it is not so bad,” said Jon, trying to console them. “Such a secret is difficult to keep. It would have been nothing but trouble for you. It is better this way, I think.”

Jon Wing moved off, and the monks, disheartened, went to the stern to pray and seek the good Lord's direction following their failure to rescue the valuable relic. Murdo longed to go and comfort them, but held himself apart. In a little while, one of the king's house carles returned and summoned Jon. Murdo watched while the two spoke together, whereupon Jon called
Gorm, and the two put their heads together in close consultation.

“The emperor's envoy is anxious to return to Constantinople,” Jon informed Murdo when he saw him standing alone at the rail. “It seems our generous Count Bohemond has pledged the king's fleet to sail with him to help guard the treasured relic. Magnus has sent word that we are all to be ready to sail at first light.”

“And then what?” asked Murdo. “What happens when we get to Constantinople?”

“I do not know what the others will do,” replied the sea lord, “but as for me and my ship, we are going home.”

At these words, relief swept through Murdo with such a force that his knees buckled and his throat grew tight. He had intended finding a ship, but had not dared hope he might sail with his friends. This, together with the stringent demands of the last days, combined to make him light-headed; he swayed on his feet, and if Jon had not put out a hand to steady him, Murdo might have fallen over backwards.

“Here, Murdo,” said the great Norseman, patting him on the back, “a drink will restore you. Gorm! Bring us a jar!” When the bowl arrived, Jon put it in Murdo's hands, saying, “It is a shame we have no öl, but wine is not so bad.”

The wine did revive him, he drank deep and passed the bowl to Jon, who hailed his friend, saying, “You are a good man, Murdo. You can sail with me any time.”

“When I get home, I will sail no more,” Murdo vowed, taking another good swig of wine, “but if I did, I would not think to go to sea with anyone but you.”

“It is a long way to Orkneyjar,” Jon pointed out. “You might change your mind.”

The rest of the day was spent readying the ships and amass
ing the necessary supplies and provisions for the journey. As the kegs, casks, and baskets came aboard, Murdo helped store everything and make sure it was tied down securely. Although Jon Wing bade him to rest and let the sailors do the chores, he declined; the work kept his mind off the long journey ahead. Still, every time he thought of it, his heart gave a leap inside his chest and he felt a quiver of excitement in his stomach.

As the sky sank by ever deeper degrees from flame red to the purples of night, Murdo found himself staring westward at the dying light, and imagining that it was the cold northern sea he was staring at, not the warm Mediterranean; and that it was the low Dark Isles lifting their sleek heads from the still waters, not clouds drifting on the far horizon. The yearning to be home grew in him like an ache and consumed him. “Ragna…” He whispered her name to the sea and to the gentle twilight. “Ragna, I am coming home.”