The Iron Lance (10 page)

The old grave mound had been raised by the first inhabitants of Dýrness in times past remembering. It was a single long chamber marked out and roofed over with great slabs of stone and covered with earth. Its low entrance opened onto the sea, and from any distance its shallow hump appeared as nothing more than a hillock of grassy turf.

There was an old tale that the People of the Otter had built the mound as a tomb for their revered dead; there might have been something in this, so far as Murdo knew, for some men near Orphir had once found skulls and leg bones, beads, and carved stones in a similar mound; even so, he had never found anything but bits of shell and a few otter teeth, and he had been inside many times.

By the time he reached the tumulus, Murdo was out of breath. He had led the intruders a furious chase, allowing them tantalizing glimpses of him as he drew them further and further away from the coast, before losing them in the bracken of the valley. He then doubled back to the hill and, when he was certain he was not followed any longer, raced along the cliff track to the barrow.

“Hin,” he called softly, kneeling at the small dark entrance. “Jötun.”

He waited a moment. When he did not receive any reply, he called again. Again, there was no answer, so Murdo knelt down and, cursing Hin's stupidity, wormed his way into the mound.
The interior was cool and still as any cavern. He knew, before opening his mouth to call for the third and last time, that Hin was not there.

He backed out and climbed to the top of the mound and lay down on his stomach, scanning the fields between the cliff-top and the house. There was no sign of Hin, nor was there any sign of Lord Orin's men.

The devil take him, thought Murdo angrily, as he slid down the rounded rump of the mound. He had little choice now but to make for the cove and hope that Hin, having grown tired of waiting, had ignored his instructions and gone there instead.

Murdo struck off along the coast track, adopting a peculiar low trot which, though uncomfortable, would keep him out of sight from the house and surrounding fields. Upon reaching the bay a short while later, he looked down to the strand below, saw the boat, Peder, and his mother standing nearby—but neither Hin nor Jötun were anywhere to be seen.

He scrambled down the stepped path. “Where is Hin?” he called as soon as his feet touched the sand.

“He went with you and has not returned,” his mother replied, hurrying to meet him. “Why? What has happened, Murdo?”

“Intruders have taken the house,” he informed her. “They killed Fossi—”

“No!”

“Yes—killed with the sword. The intruders chased us, but we got away,” Murdo explained. “I told Hin to wait for me at the barrow. I was just there, but could not find him.”

“Why would they kill Fossi?” asked Niamh, struggling to keep her voice steady as the shock of his words struck her.

“I will explain it later.” With that he turned and started away again. “Stay here.”

“Murdo, no!” she cried, even as she marveled at her son's courage.

“I am going to find Hin,” he shouted behind him. “Help Peder make ready to sail. Put to sea as soon as you see us on the cliff.”

Murdo reached the tumulus and, once again, called for Hin. Receiving no reply, he edged around the side of the mound and looked back towards the bú. As his eyes swept the expanse of empty fields, he heard a shout in the distance, looked in the direction of the sound and saw Hin running to meet him, Jötun loping easily at his side.

Stepping quickly from behind the mound, Murdo put his hands to his mouth and urged them to hurry. Even as his shout hung in the air, the intruders appeared—four big men, armed with spears.

They were gaining on Hin, but Murdo reckoned he would reach the cove before the intruders could catch him. “Run!” he cried. “They are onto you, man! Run for your life!”

Hin put his head down and ran the harder. Seeing his master, Jötun, too, increased his pace. Murdo thought to run back to help ready the boat for their escape, but could not tear himself away from the chase before him. He could not help Hin by staying; neither could he leave. “Faster!” he cried.

Murdo glanced across the cliff-top towards the hidden cove, torn between going and staying. He looked back to the chase just in time to see Hin stumble and fall headlong to the ground. “Get up!” cried Murdo, dashing towards his fallen friend.

Hin regained his feet in an instant, and started running again. The wild whoops of the pursuers pierced the air, and Murdo, crying encouragement, raced empty-handed to the rescue.

He had taken but a dozen steps, however, when the hapless Hin, risking a look behind him, tangled his feet and went down again. He sprang up and ran on—but not as fast as before, his gait labored. One of the foremost pursuers, seeing a chance, put back his arm and, with a mighty heave, loosed his spear into the air. The shaft landed only a few paces behind the struggling Hin.

Murdo cursed the brute's cowardly heart, and shouted for Hin to hurry. The second spear was in the air before Murdo drew breath again. He watched the deadly thing arc and fall beside his friend. Hin ran on.

“Hin! Jötun!” cried Murdo. He could see Hin's face now, and knew he was injured. “Come, you both! The boat is waiting!”

Murdo did not see the third spear thrown—merely the cruel glint of the blade in the air as it dropped, and then Hin's face as he felt it strike home. The force of the blow carried him forward a few steps before he fell.

Murdo halted and stood gazing in horror at the spearshaft protruding from Hin's back. Jötun, too, sensing the terrible distress of the human with him, turned and began pulling at the wooden shaft as if he would draw it with his teeth.

Hin made to rise. He pushed himself up on stiff arms and looked to Murdo. White-faced, eyes wide and bulging, the unlucky youth opened his mouth to call out, but collapsed as the foremen rushed upon him.

Murdo spun away and did not look back—not even when he heard the cheers of the victors. The world became a blur around him—grass, rocks, sea, sky—everything melted and merged, and Murdo ran as he had never run in all his life, rage and fear lending speed to his flight. He ran, tears in his eyes and a curse between his teeth. Upon reaching the-cove, he flung himself headlong down the cliff-side, shouting, “Go! Go! Go!”

The boat was in the water a few dozen paces from the shore. Peder had already turned the vessel; the prow was pointing seaward.

“Go!” Murdo shouted, and saw the oars strike the water. “Row!”

The invaders gained the top of the promontory and started down the narrow trail. Murdo leapt the last few steps, and fell sprawling on elbows and knees in the deep sand.

He heard his mother scream, and he scrambled forward, crab-like, hands and feet churning. In the same instant, a spear struck the sand in the very place he had landed. Half-rolling, half-running, he struggled on, the soft sand dragging at his feet.

“Row!” cried Murdo. “Row, Peder!”

Behind him, Orin's men, having sighted the boat and its passengers, loosed wild whoops and flew down the cliff-side trail.

Murdo gained the water's edge and splashed to his knees in two bounds, then lunged into a dive and came up swimming, all the time shouting “Row, Peder! Row!”

The boat had increased its distance from the shore, and was moving more quickly now as Peder's swift sure oar-strokes carried it forward. For an awful moment, Murdo thought he would not be able to swim fast enough to catch it. Tired from his run, he could already feel the strength ebbing from his arms and legs. His lungs burned and he felt himself sinking lower in the water.

Closing his eyes, Murdo swam until he thought his heart would burst. He heard a voice call out to him, and felt something hard strike him and wrap him in stiff coils. He opened his eyes to see that his mother had thrown a rope. He grabbed it and felt himself drawn through the water.

Three heartbeats later, he bumped against the side of the boat, reached up a hand and somehow grasped the rail. Then his
mother's hands were on him, hauling him up from the sea; he kicked his legs and was dragged over the rail. He slid into the bottom of the boat and lay gasping and panting like a landed salmon.

His mother, bending over him, brushed the water from his face and searched him with her eyes. “I—I,” he wheezed, “I am—not hurt.”

There came a raw cry from the beach and Niamh turned towards the sound. Murdo, pushing himself up, leaned against the side of the boat and looked back at the beach to see a dark mass streaking across the sand towards the water.

“Jötun!” cried Murdo.

As if in answer to his name, the great hound barked once and sped between two Norsemen. One of the men lunged at the dog with his spear, missed, and fell onto his knees as the animal raced by.

“Come, Jötun!” shouted Murdo, dragging himself up. “Jötun! Here!”

All four Norsemen were on the beach now, and two were wading into the water as if they might give chase. The dog, swimming mightily, passed out of reach, but the intruders, having lost the boat and its passengers, appeared reluctant to allow the animal to get away, too. Picking up stones from the beach, they threw them at the dog and at the retreating boat, venting their frustration in curses and crude abuse.

Gripping the rail, Murdo leaned over the water and called encouragement to the hound. Jötun paddled with renewed fervor, but it was clear the animal could not overtake the boat. “Stop rowing, Peder!” called Murdo. “He cannot reach us.”

So saying, Murdo, rope in hand, plunged over the side once more and swam to meet the dog.

“Murdo!” screamed Niamh, striking the rail with the flats of
her hands. “He'll drag you down, son!”

The invaders, seeing Murdo in the water once more, redoubled their efforts. The stones came thick and fast. One of the foremen dived into the sea and began swimming towards the youth and his dog.

Ignoring his mother and the commotion on the beach, Murdo swam to Jötun, seized a handful of wet fur at the nape of the beast's neck, and shouted, “Pull us in!”

Upon reaching the boat, Murdo gripped the rail and tried to lift the dog out of the water; the animal was too heavy—it took both Peder and Lady Niamh to drag the soggy hound into the boat. Murdo followed, slithering over the side like an eel. He then had to brave Jötun's wet and happy welcome, while Peder and his mother stood looking on.

As the dog licked his master's face with great lashes of his tongue, Murdo took his head in both hands and tried to hold him back. “Down! Jötun, down!”

Suddenly, a tremendous splash sent water cascading over the rail. “They's on the cliff!” shouted Peder, taking up the oars once more.

Murdo raised his eyes to the promontory high above them and saw three Norsemen raising an enormous chunk of stone. They swung it once…twice…and let it go. The rock tumbled slowly as it sank, striking the cliff-face and spinning out into the air to smash into the cove a mere hairsbreadth from the stern.

“Row!” shouted Murdo, leaping to the bench. Settling himself beside Peder, he took an oar and began pulling with all his might.

By the time the third stone struck the water, the boat was moving again, slowly, edging away from the cliff. Two more stones were thrown—each further away than the last, and
Murdo knew they were finally out of reach.

They gained the mouth of the cove and Peder, shipping his oar, dashed to the tiller, calling, “Up sail, boy!”

Murdo leapt to the mast, quickly untied the loosely-secured line, and dragged it towards the prow. The yard rose slowly and came around as the sail unfurled; he then pulled for all he was worth, and when the yard gained the top of the mast, he quickly ran to secure the line once more. For a few agonizing moments, the sail flapped idly, slapping the mast in an uncertain wind. Peder gave a few mighty heaves on the oars, and the boat came clear of the cove. All at once the lank sail snapped smart, filled, and the boat lurched forward, the prow biting deep into the swell.

“Hruha!” cried Peder. “Hruha-hey!”

Murdo, sweating and exhausted, stood and watched the figures on the shore and sea ridge dwindle away, and even when he could no longer see them, he still watched. Niamh came to stand beside him. Neither one spoke, until Peder, manning the tiller, called out to know what course he should set.

“Hrolfsey,” Niamh told him. “We will return to Cnoc Carrach, and hope we can warn them in time.”

“They will have taken those lands, too,” Murdo pointed out. “They have taken everything.”

“Maybe,” allowed his mother. “But I do not see what else we can do.”

Hugh, Count of Vermandois, arrived in Constantinople well ahead of his army. Owing to a nasty shipwreck, the unfortunate young lord had lost his horse, armor, a few hundred good men, and most of his coin, and was therefore relieved when an imperial escort arrived two days later. While he was borne swiftly to the capital, his army—reprovisioned at the emperor's expense, and led by a regiment of Pecheneg mercenaries—undertook the long march through Macedonia and Thrace.

The excubitori hastened their noble charge along the Egnatian Way, sweeping through the Golden Gate and into the streets of the most magnificent city Count Hugh had ever seen. There were buildings of such size and grandeur as to make the castles of his brother, Philip, King of the Franks, appear little more than cow byres.

He saw men wearing long robes of costly material, and women aglitter with gold and jewels, walking about unattended and unarmed. He saw men astride elegant horses, and beautiful dark-haired women borne through the streets in chairs, their slaves better arrayed than himself. Everywhere he looked a new wonder met the eye: churches with domes of gleaming copper, topped with crosses of silver and gold; basilicas of glazed brick; statues of emperors, some carved in stone, others cast in bronze; victory columns and triumphal arches erected to celebrate commanders and conquests unknown in the west; long, broad
avenues paved with stone radiating out from circular plazas in every direction as far as the eye could see.

Count Hugh was given no time to savor these sights, but was conveyed straight away to the emperor's palace, where, still breathless from the relentless chase of the last days, and dazzled by the prodigious wealth and power he saw all around him, he was led stiff-legged with wonder into the imperial throne room. There, seated on an enormous chair of solid gold, he was received by God's Vice-Regent, the Equal of the Apostles and Emperor of All Christendom, Alexius Comnenus.

The magister officiorum indicated that the young count was to prostrate himself before the throne. He did so, pressing his fevered brow to the cool marble floor with a profound sense of relief and thanksgiving.

“Rise, Lord Hugh, and stand before us,” Alexius commanded genially in impeccable Latin. “Word of your recent misfortune has reached our ears. Perhaps you would allow us to offer you a small expression of our commiseration over your loss.”

Lifting a hand, the emperor summoned a half-dozen Varangi, who stepped forward, each bearing an item of armor, which they placed at the much-impressed Count Hugh's feet. He saw a fine new mail hauberk and steel helm; there was a splendid sword, belt, and scabbard, and a handsome dagger to match, and a long spear with a gleaming new blade. A sturdy round shield with spiked silver boss was laid atop the rest.

“Lord Emperor, I thank you,” Hugh gushed. “Indeed, I am over-whelmed by your generosity and thoughtfulness.”

“Perhaps you would bestow on us the inestimable honor of being our guest during your stay in the city,” Alexis said.

“I am your servant, Lord Emperor,” Hugh replied, not quite believing his remarkable good fortune. After a disastrous beginning, it appeared his pilgrimage was at last coming right. “But,
if it please you, lord, a humble bed in a nearby abbey or monastery would suit me. My needs are simple.”

“Come now,” the emperor cajoled gently. “You are our esteemed guest. We cannot allow you to wander the streets alone. You will, of course, reside here in the palace with us.”

Hugh acquiesced with good grace. “Nothing would please me more, Lord Emperor.”

“So be it,” Alexius said. “Magister, conduct our friend to the apartment prepared for him. We will expect to see him at table tonight where we will share wine, and he will relate the tale of his recent adventures.”

Hugh, still overcome by this surprising turn of events, bowed low and backed away from the throne. Upon reaching the carved marble screen before the door, he turned and followed the magister officiorum from the reception hall.

When he had gone and the doors were closed once more, Grand Drungarius Dalassenus stepped beside the throne. “Do you trust him, basileus?”

Alexius pressed his fingertips together and leaned back in his great chair. “I think so, but time will tell,” he replied, tapping his fingers against his lips thoughtfully. “Still, if I have an ally among the western lords, it will be easier to deal with those who come after. This one is harmless, I think. He is the Frankish king's brother; he has lost everything in the shipwreck and is therefore needy. We will make him beholden to us, and see if he will repay his debt.” Turning to his commander, the emperor asked, “How many soldiers remain to him?”

“Only a few thousand,” answered Dalassenus. The emperor glanced at him sharply, so he amended his reply accordingly. “Four thousand mounted troops, and maybe half again as many on foot. They should arrive in Constantinople sometime in the next three or four weeks.”

“The others will have arrived long since,” Alexius observed dismally.

“Yes, basileus,” Dalassenus concurred. “Our Pecheneg watchers tell us they are but ten days' march from here.”

“Ten days…” Alexius frowned. It was not much time. “Well, there is nothing to be done about it. We must take them as they come and, God help us, deal with them as best we can.”

Two days later, after receiving numerous gifts of gold, as well as a handsome and well-trained horse from the emperor's own stables, the all-but delirious Count Hugh, having been feasted and shown the treasures of Byzantium, was once more summoned before the throne. He entered to find the emperor dressed in purple and surrounded by a contingent of Varangian guardsmen wearing helmets with horsetail plumes, and carrying spears with broad leaf-shaped blades.

“Greetings, in Christ's name, Lord Hugh,” the emperor said. “Come closer, friend, and learn the subject of our latest meditations.”

“If it pleases you, Lord Emperor,” replied Hugh, utterly beguiled by the affable and compact Alexius. He stepped to the very foot of the throne and awaited his benefactor's sage reflections, glancing now and again at the fearsome Varangi, standing tall and silent in their ranks a few paces behind the throne.

“We have been thinking about this pilgrimage, this Holy Crusade which the pope has decreed,” the emperor began. “It would seem to us a difficult task to bring so many men from so many different nations to Jerusalem.”

“It is our duty and our joy,” replied Hugh confidently. “As good Christians we happily obey God's will.”

“Of course,” agreed Alexius, “and it is laudable that so many have answered the call of this duty—laudable, yes, but difficult nonetheless.”

“The hardships are insignificant in view of the glory to be obtained,” Hugh remarked. “What are earthly travails compared to Heaven's treasures?”

“Indeed,” said the emperor. “Yet, we find we have the power to alleviate a few of those hardships for you. The matter of supply and provisioning, for example, weighs heavily on all competent commanders. Soldiers and animals must be fed and watered, after all. Weapons and equipment must be maintained. We have ready stores of grain and oil, wine and meat, and so forth. These could be made available to the armies that pass through imperial lands.”

“It would be a blessing, Lord Emperor,” replied Hugh, impressed yet again by the emperor's incomparable largesse.

“Good,” cried Alexius jubilantly. “We will cause orders to be given to establish provisioning stations along the way for the armies yet to come. Further, some arrangement must be made to promote harmony and unity of purpose among men arriving from such diverse lands and realms. It would seem that as we assume the burden for supplying these armies, we also accept the responsibility for encouraging their accord.” The emperor regarded his guest placidly. “Is that not reasonable?”

“Entirely reasonable, Lord Emperor,” replied Hugh readily. “It is wisdom itself.”

“What better way to bind the disparate members of this unruly body,” Alexius continued, “and remind them of their common purpose, than to bring them under the authority of the one who shoulders the burden and responsibility?”

Hugh, entirely agreeable, nodded his support for the notion.

“Therefore, we propose a declaration of allegiance, recognizing the supremacy of the imperial throne,” Alexius concluded. He smoothed his purple robe with battle-hardened hands and gazed benignly upon his guest.

“Does the emperor envision the form this declaration might take?”

Alexius pressed his mouth into a thin line and held his head to one side—as if considering this question for the first time. “A simple oath of fealty should suffice,” he answered equably, then added a satisfied: “Yes, that should serve us nicely.”

Before Hugh could reply, the emperor continued, “Naturally, the noblemen who lead this pilgrimage, and benefit from the empire's protection and provision, would take the oath, binding them one to another under the dominion of the imperial throne.”

Recognizing what was required of him, Count Hugh happily complied. “Might I beg a boon, Lord Emperor? I would deem it an honor if I were allowed to be the first to take this oath.”

“Oh, indeed, Lord Hugh,” the emperor replied. “Take it, you shall.”