The Iron Lance (29 page)

“Then how—”

“If you will keep your tongue from flapping, I will tell you,” the priest chided. “As it happens, two nights later another pilgrim had the same vision—
then
the lords began to take an interest. This second man—by name of Stephen of Valence, a chaplain to one of the lords, and by all accounts as humble, pious, and upright as Brother Peter is rascal—decides to hold a prayer vigil in the church, to seek holy wisdom. He gathers with some of the faithful in the Church of Saint Peter, and, lo and behold! in the middle of the night he is visited by an unknown monk dressed in white. ‘Dig!' urges the White Monk. ‘Dig and find! O, men of small belief, do you not know that victory is assured if you carry the Lance of Christ before you into battle?'

“So now, how can he keep this to himself? At once he runs to his lord and says that he, too, has seen the mysterious priest in white who tells him the battle will be won if only they recover the Holy Lance. The lord demands to know where they should search for the spear. ‘Seek the lance in the Church of Saint Peter. That is where it will be found.' That is what he tells them.

“So, they begin searching. But can they find it? No, they cannot. They look here and there; they search the vaults and catacombs, they begin to dig beneath the floor. Three days they dig! Some of the lords abandon the search—they did not believe anyway. And even Raymond, who has faith, tires of the search and says they must desist, for the troops are growing discour
aged. He turns from the excavation—they have begun digging beneath the altar—and walks to the door. He is not well; the fever has got hold of him. Raymond reaches the threshold and what should he hear?

“Here it is! We have found it! He turns and sees Brother Peter standing in the trench, pointing to the discovery. Lord Hugh of Vermandois is there; he leaps down into the pit and, while the object is yet embedded in the earth, presses his lips to the Holy Lance. Then Brother Peter raises up the spear.”

“What does it look like?”

“It is a Roman spear,” answered the monk, wiping the sweat from his face. “Those who have seen it say it is a long, thin piece of hand-forged iron with a short, narrow blade. A wooden haft would have encased the lower portion, and indeed, the remnant of just such a wooden haft still clings to the base of the spear. But, mostly, all that is left is the rusted iron blade and shaft.”

“Where is it now?”

“Patience, boy,” the monk told him. “All in good time. Where was I?”

“They take up the lance.”

“Yes, yes, they lay hold of the lance. But finding the spear is only half of the vision—now they must make their attack. The lords met that very night and battle plan was decided. At dawn the next morning, they rode out from the main gate and routed the Seljuqs. Forty thousand were slain, and the rest driven off. It was a magnificent victory, just as the vision foretold.”

Emlyn gulped a breath, his flabby chin shaking with excitement. “Think of it, Murdo! The most valuable treasure of our faith has been recovered, and even now goes before us into Jerusalem to prepare the way for the restoration of the Holy City. The defeat of our enemies is certain. We will return the Sacred Lance to its rightful place in the sepulchre of Our Lord.
Who could have imagined such a thing when we first began?”

Murdo agreed that it was a very miracle. “But what of this vision?” he asked. “You said the chaplain saw a priest in white who spoke to him. Did he say who this might have been?”

“Did I not say it already? It was none other than Saint Andrew, the apostle, brother to Saint Peter, and the same who as a tireless missionary sowed the seeds of many churches, including the church at Constantinople.”

“Saint Andrew…” Murdo murmured, and wondered whether he should tell Emlyn that he had seen a white priest, too.

But no, he decided, his encounter had been no dream in the night; it had happened in the clear light of day. Lost and confused, he had stumbled on the little chapel purely by accident—inasmuch as he could not find the street to the market, why wonder that he could not find the chapel again when he looked for it? The streets were baffling, the city strange and unknown, and he, desperate to escape the harassment of the beggars and merchants had not been looking where he was going. Where was the mystery in that?

“You have become very quiet, Murdo,” observed Emlyn. “Do you doubt the tale even now?”

“No—no,” Murdo replied quickly. “I was only thinking. By Heaven, it is hot though!” he said quickly. “My feet are on fire already, and we have only begun.”

“Verily,” answered Emlyn, puffing out his cheeks. “If it were not for the sake of Jerusalem, I do not think I could endure this heat.”

Murdo then suggested that perhaps it was better to conserve their strength and talk no more. In truth, he wanted a space to contemplate what he had just heard. He loped along, head down, his long legs swinging easily. Gradually, the monk fell fur
ther and further behind, and Murdo was alone with his thoughts.

By the time they reached the little fishing village on the coast, he had convinced himself that the discovery of the Holy Lance, however it might have happened, was nothing to do with him. Moreover, nothing else mattered but that he should find his father at the first opportunity.

The monks followed Lord Magnus onto his ship and, since no one told him otherwise, Murdo followed the monks. One of the crusaders now, he joined in with a will. He picked up an oar and rowed, desperate now to be in Jerusalem. All around him, men talked about the battles and, from the things they said, he gathered that the pilgrims had suffered greatly in their skirmishes with the enemy. Of all those who had begun the pilgrimage, they said, fewer than half now remained.

Murdo did not allow himself to contemplate the possibility that his father might be among the dead. Instead, he clung to the certainty that Ranulf was alive. I
will
find him, Murdo vowed with every stroke of the oar. I
will
bring him home.

The Norsemen used the days aboard ship to prepare their weapons and armor for battle. They honed, sharpened, and stropped their swords, spearblades, and axes; burnished their shield rims, war helms, and hauberks; repaired or renewed all the leather fastenings, bindings, straps, and ties; then polished everything until, upon reaching the port town of Jaffa on the Palestinian coast, King Magnus' war band—nearly four hundred fearsome Vikings—fairly gleamed and glittered with battle-keen ferocity.

Magnus secured his fleet in the Jaffa harbor, newly reconquered by the sailors of the Genoese merchant guild, which the wily king paid to keep watch over his ships so that he would not have to leave any men behind. They paused only long enough to
assemble the wagons and load the supplies and water casks, then set off for the Holy City, two days' march inland.

They were yet half a day away when they saw the smoke rolling heavenward in a heavy black column. The Norsemen reached Jerusalem at midday to find that the northwestern wall had been breached and the rape of Jerusalem begun.

Jerusalem's high walls were breached on the fifteenth of July, 1099. The initial combat had been fierce. The crusaders suffered terribly under a constant rain of arrows and Greek fire as they labored to fill the deep ditch at the foot of the wall so that the siege towers could be wheeled into position. Despite heavy losses, Godfrey, commanding from the top of one of the towers, had succeeded in lowering a bridge from his tower to the wall top. The first man across the bridge forced a way onto the battlement and somehow remained on his feet long enough to enable others to scramble in behind him.

Godfrey joined the fray, bearing the Holy Lance into battle once more. Emboldened by his example, other knights swarmed after him. Soon the courageous crusaders had secured a section of the wall, and Godfrey ordered scaling ladders to be brought up, enabling more attackers to join the fight. While his knights cut their way into the gate tower, Godfrey lofted the Holy Lance and urged more and more warriors up the ladders and onto the battlements. Meanwhile, his initial contingent of knights fought their way down to the gate itself, where the Arabs made a valiant stand. Crusaders were pouring into the city through the gate tower, however; the defenders were slaughtered and the Gate of the Column opened wide to allow the main attacking force to enter at a run.

Once through the gate, the crusaders made straight for the
citadel, meeting little resistance on the way. Thus, they had the good fortune to surround David's Tower before Amir Iftikhar knew they were inside the city. The amir had no time to order a proper defense. Cut off from the main force of defenders on the northern wall, he had only his bodyguard at his command, and though they put up a desperate fight, Raymond's forces far outnumbered them and they had little choice but to withdraw to the protection of the citadel.

Once the northern wall and gates were lost, the Arab defenders regrouped and hastened to the Haram al-Sharif, the temple precinct, to mount their last defense. They retreated to the Al-Aqsa Mosq, which now occupied the site of Great Solomon's temple, hard by the Qubat Al-Shakhra, the Dome of the Rock.

Tancred, leading a large force of knights, pursued the fleeing Arabs to the Temple Mount and promptly surrounded the mosq. The defenders climbed onto the roof of the holy building and loosed arrows into the upturned faces of their attackers. This caused only momentary vexation, however, as the crusaders simply fell back and waited until the arrows were spent. Lacking the weapons and supplies to endure a lengthy siege, the Arab defenders threw themselves upon the mercy of their Christian conquerors. Tancred accepted the surrender of the infidel, and commanded his banner to be flown from the top of the temple as a protection to those sheltering within.

Elsewhere, the wily amir, high in David's Tower, sent word to Count Raymond that he was ready to deliver the city to the crusaders, but would do so only under Count Raymond's personal pledge of honor. In exchange for this pledge, Amir Iftikhar promised to pay a heavy ransom for himself and the men with him. Raymond accepted the conditions of surrender and, after receiving a considerable amount of treasure, escorted the amir and his bodyguard out of the city and saw them safely on the road to Ascalon.

With the departure of the amir, all resistance ceased, leaving Jerusalem and its citizens unprotected.

At first, few guessed the danger. While the Muhammedans cowered behind barred doors, the Armenian and Greek Christians were glad to welcome their western brothers, and threw open the windows and doors of their houses to shower flower petals and rose water upon the heads of the liberators. The Jews were less enthusiastic, to be sure, but not overly concerned. It was their city, after all—a claim which every occupying force from the Persians to the Muslims had recognized.

Then the slaughter commenced.

Unable to tell Armenian from Muhammedan, Greek from Jew or Byzantine, and unwilling to barter peace—after their long ordeal across the Syrian and Judean deserts, after their suffering at Dorylaeum and Antioch, after their grim endurance of countless privations, disease, and death since leaving their homes—the triumphant pilgrims would not be satisfied with anything less than blood.

Crusaders fresh to the fight poured into the city by way of the gates on the north and west. They ran through the streets, breaking into the houses and putting the inhabitants to the sword, before sacking the dwellings and carrying off any treasure they found. The terrified people fled before the onslaught, abandoning their homes for the safety of the southern half of the city where the attackers had not yet penetrated. There, they hoped to escape through one of the southern gates below Mount Zion.

King Magnus and his Norse battle host arrived at Jerusalem just as the pillage reached its climax in the northern part of the city, and was beginning to spread to the southern quarter.

 

Murdo squatted on the hillside in the shade of an olive tree, sweating from the long climb up through the hills. He gazed out upon the Holy City perched on a high rock escarpment, its massive walls rising sheer from the Hinnom Valley, soaring above the crusader camps spread like rumpled skins along the valley floor. From where he knelt, Murdo could see the vast stone curtain stretching away to the north, following the upward sweep to the heights of Mount Moriah to the east, and cresting Mount Ophel and Mount Zion to the south above the Vale of Kidron. Smoke, dirty and dark, filled the air from ground to sky, casting all below in a filthy brown, foul-smelling haze.

The Jaffa Gate gaped open, allowing a steady stream of crusaders into and out of the city. Shouts and cries, and the clashing sounds of battle, could be heard from various quarters, mingling with an eerie ululating wail that rose and fell with the wind, coursing hot and dry in fitful guests through the valley. The sun shone as a dull blood-brown ember burning through the thick pall of smoke, bathing the city in a strange and lurid light. Murdo put his hand to his purse and shook out the small gattage coin onto his palm. Looking at the bit of silver glinting in the fevered light and, suddenly feeling foolish for having carried it so long, he tossed it away. He would not need it now.

All around him, Norse warriors chafed the dust-dry earth with the butts of their spears, and boasted to one another how much plunder they would get, and how many foe men they would kill. King Magnus, though eager as the next man for his share of the city's spoils, at least paused long enough to acquaint himself with the lay of the land. The monks, familiar with the Holy Land through long study, had prepared a simple drawing of the city for the king; Fionn held the crude map while Ronan pointed out the foremost features of the city and surrounding countryside.

Murdo, ignoring the vacuous banter around him, strained to hear what the elder cleric was saying. “Before us is the main entrance—the Jaffa Gate,” Ronan explained, indicating the great timber doors on the western side. The priest's finger moved to the clustered domes directly over the entrance. “There is David's Tower—which is what they call the citadel.” The finger moved to another cluster of domes rising high above the rest of the city. “That is the temple precinct on Mount Moriah. That is where the Muhammedans have built their mosq.”

Brother Ronan went on to indicate other landmarks for King Magnus and his battlechiefs. Murdo crowded closer to hear. Little remained of the original temple, the priest told them; the ancient walls had been razed by the Romans, rebuilt by the Byzantines, and taken over by the Muhammedans. Murdo could see the golden dome gleaming through the smoke haze, and the mosq's towers, or minarets, still stately and grand above the city.

“The Mount of Olives is on the southern side of the city,” Ronan continued. “We cannot see it from where we are standing.”

“I think we can see Golgotha from here,” Fionn suggested, looking up from the map. “It might be that small hill there.” He squinted at one of the lumpy mounds in the distance. “Or, maybe the one next to it.”

“The Church of the Holy Sepulcher is inside the walls,” Emlyn added helpfully. “Many believe Our Lord was never buried there anyway, but was laid to rest in the Garden Tomb, which is outside the walls.” Pointing east along the valley, he said, “Is that the Church of Saint Mary I see? If it is, the tomb must be—”

“But you are mistaken, brother,” Fionn interrupted. “That is
certainly the Church of Saint Stephen which you see on the hillside. The Church of Saint Mary is on Mount Zion.” He pointed to the hump of rock rising to the south of the city.

“You are right, of course,” agreed Emlyn placidly. “Yet, I believe the Chapel of the Garden Tomb lies between us and the church. This was the point I wished to make.”

“And I am grateful for it,” said King Magnus, speaking up quickly. “But the day is speeding from us.” Turning to Ronan, he said, “Unless you have anything else to tell us, we will join the battle.”

“I have told all I know,” Ronan said, nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe that is all.”

King Magnus thanked his wise counselor, and declared he would make for the temple precinct. If any fighting continued, it would be there, he reckoned, where resistance was bound to be most fierce. The king turned, raised his sword, and cried, “For Christ and Glory!” He then led his men into battle.

They descended the hill and quickly crossed the narrow valley. Upon reaching the gate, they did not hesitate, but rushed directly into the smoke-filled streets to join their fellow crusaders in sacking the city. Murdo and the monks followed close behind, until coming to the entrance. There, amidst the commotion of warriors hastening both into and out of the city, the monks halted. “We will remain outside the walls until the city is delivered. We can be of more use caring for the wounded,” Ronan said. “Stay with us, Murdo. It seems the fighting is nearly over. Lord Magnus will not require your spear today; I will tell him you remained behind to help us.”

“My father and brothers are here,” Murdo told him. “I am going to find them.”

“Wait but a little,” Emlyn pleaded. “We will help you find them when Jerusalem is won.”

“No,” Murdo turned away brusquely, “I have waited long enough. I am going to find them now.”

The monks did not try to dissuade him further, but gave Murdo a blessing instead. Raising his hands, Ronan said, “Great of Heaven, send an angel to go before our brother, and an angel to go behind, an angel above, an angel below, and an angel on either side to guard and protect him through all things, and bring him safely to your peace.” Ronan made the sign of the cross over Murdo and said, “Come to us when your search is completed. We will uphold you in our prayers until we see you again.”

Murdo nodded once in acknowledgement of the monk's request, then joined the soldiers thronging through the gate. More tunnel than doorway, the entrance was dark and full of smoke; Murdo took a deep breath and, clutching his spear tightly, entered the city. The last thing he heard was Emlyn's voice telling him to be careful.

He emerged beneath the gate tower. Bodies of both crusaders and infidel lay smashed on the stone pavement where they had fallen from the breastwork high above. The pooled blood of these unfortunates was now scattered in a hundred thousand dark footprints radiating into the Holy City by way of its tight, impossibly tangled pathways.

Distracted by the corpses heaped around the gate, Murdo started down the street before him…only to realize that he no longer recognized anyone around him. Turning around, he pushed back through the crowd, quickly retracing his steps; yet, by the time he reached the gate once more, the Norsemen were nowhere to be seen. Still, he heard the clatter of arms and the echo of voices down one of the streets to his left. Putting his head down, he ran as fast as he could, following the sound.

The street twisted and turned, crossing one path, and then
another. Murdo thought he would see his comrades at any moment—he would round the next bend, and there they would be. But the further he ran, the fainter grew the sounds.

He paused to catch his breath and look around. The street was deserted. The houses were silent. He did not know whether to go back the way he had come, or to proceed.

As he was trying to make up his mind, there came a tremendous crash from further up the street. he made for the sound, thinking that if he did not find his lost companions, he might at least find someone who could tell him how to reach the Temple Mount.

The street turned, and turned again, and he entered a wider way, lined with trees and larger houses. Up ahead he saw a number of crusaders darting from house to house, or from one side street to another. He hastened to join them. Upon passing the first of the fine houses, he heard the crack of splintering wood overhead and glanced up just in time to avoid being struck by a wooden chest which was hurled from an upper window onto the street below.

The chest landed with a colossal thud at his feet It was swiftly followed by another, smaller box, which smashed on impact, spilling a horde of silver coins which bounced and rolled over the paving stones. “You there!” cried a voice from the upper window. Murdo glanced up to see an angry face glaring down at him. The soldier shouted something, and when Murdo failed to respond, repeated in Latin: “Get away! That's ours!”

Murdo was still staring up at the face when two crusaders ran out from the house and began scooping up the coins by the fistful. They were quickly joined by two more, who seized the larger chest, raised it over their heads and threw it down—once, twice, and again, before the chest split, scattering treasure into the street. Murdo caught a flash of silver and gold as cups and
bowls, plates, bracelets and chains, rolled and spun in every direction. The crusaders shrieked at their good fortune, and dived to retrieve the plunder, snatching up the valuables and stuffing them into their siarcs.

When they had grabbed it all, one of the pilgrims peered around guiltily, saw Murdo watching, and turned on him. “You!” he yelled. “I told you to get away from here!” The man made a clumsy lurch towards him, but Murdo was already running away.