The Iron Lance (34 page)

“One of the archers has already darted away, but the duke catches the other squarely in the middle of the back as the fellow turns to flee. The force of the blow carries the slender Seljuq out of the saddle and he slams to the earth with the spear in his back. The duke's sword is in his hand before the hapless Turk touches the ground, and fifty more knights charge into the breach their fearless commander has forced.

“A heartbeat later, the crusaders are streaming through and the enemy cannot prevent their escape. The knights gallop back to the line which Bohemond has succeeded in holding all alone. ‘Join us here,' the prince commands. ‘Reform the line! For the sake of Christ, reform the lines!'

“‘They are very devils!' shouts the duke as he pulls the arrow from his hauberk. Knights are thundering back to resume their places. There are far fewer than before. I look, but I cannot see Lord Brusi. The other sorties have fared less well than Robert's Tancred and Stephen, having run aground at the top of the hill, are scarcely able to slash their way back to the line. Good men and horses fall around them every step of the way. Once a knight is unhorsed, the Seljuqs fall upon him and cut him to pieces with their thin swords—three and four of them, hacking like butchers, until the knight is dead.

“The Count of Flanders and a great number of knights have become surrounded, and only escape when the enemy archers run out of arrows and must break off the attack. Before the sultan's troops enclose them again, the Flemish gather up their wounded and fly back to the line leaving a trail of bodies as they
go. It is a slaughter, God knows, and we can do nothing but stand and watch it happen.

“The prince and lords are angry now, and desperate. ‘Where, for the love of Christ, is Raymond?' bellows Duke Robert. You could have heard him all the way to the sultan's camp.

“Maybe he is attacked, too,' says Stephen, rubbing sweat and blood from his eyes. ‘Maybe he cannot reach us.'

“‘Get back to your troops!' Bohemond roars—angry at the fools for breaking ranks. They have wasted good men in their folly, and the prince is in no humor to listen to them. ‘Regroup and reform the line.'

“But the lords are discouraged. ‘What is the use?' demands Count Robert. ‘There
is
no line—we are surrounded on every side. There is nowhere to turn.'

“Bohemond is adamant. He is furious. ‘I say we will hold the line until the Devil himself comes to take us.'

“‘We will die!' shouts the count, and the others agree.

“Then say your prayers,' Bohemond roars, ‘and die as faithful knights of the cross.'

“They glower at him, and curse his name, but Bohemond will not be turned. ‘Get you back to your men. Dismount and put your horses behind you. Lock shields and stand behind your lances.' Turning to Stephen, he cries, ‘Send men to the camp and tell the footmen and women to bring water to the line.'

“Well, it is over for us,” said Ranulf, after another drink from the drugged waterskin, “the sun moves across the sky, and the battle continues. The women and foot soldiers hurry back and forth to the line bearing jars and buckets of water. The Seljuq swoop and swirl, filling the burning air with arrows and their hateful, jeering cry, ‘Allah akbar! Allah akbar!' God is great! God is great!

“Then, above the triumphant cries of the infidel and the
thunder of their horses, I hear a wail arising from the marshy land behind us. We all turn to see the camp followers fleeing towards us. The Turks have at last overcome the foot soldiers guarding the camp and are plundering the tents and wagons, and slaughtering the defenseless women and children who are trying to escape into the reeds and mud of the marsh.

“I look and see two Turks ride down a young woman from behind—one of them splits her skull, and the other tramples her body under the hooves of his horse. They whoop in triumph as they murder her, and then turn their horses and ride back into the screaming mass to kill again.

“Bohemond is alight with rage. He is a very berserker! Look at him! Screaming in defiance, he springs to the saddle, bellowing for his troops to fall back and protect the camp. The other lords are to fill in behind us and hold the line. Before his orders can spread to the flanks, the prince is already racing back to camp. Alas! The other troops see the center of the line collapse, and they retreat.

“Oh, the fools! The fools! All at once, the whole army is in motion. War band after war band withdraws—falling away from the line by scores and hundreds. Since no one had been ordered to cover the mistaken withdrawal, the retreat swiftly becomes a rout. The Turks, seeing the line crumble at last, believe that the moment for the attack has come. They draw their swords and charge, riding us down from behind. Cutting us to pieces with their swords. The screams of the dying fill the air.

“The battle is lost. The end of the crusade is at hand.”

Lord Ranulf fell silent. He lay back sweating, his breath coming in gasps from the effort of telling his story. Murdo, kneeling at his side, leaned close and offered another drink. After a moment, he lowered the skin from his father's lips and asked, his voice small against the horror of the battle, “What happened next?”

“The battle is lost,” said Ranulf after a time. The drug that kept the pain at bay began to make his voice thick. He spoke, and the words seemed to struggle up from the depths of torment, as from a deep well. “We stand on our feet and make the sign of the cross over ourselves. We prepare to die.

“But Bohemond is not defeated. He struggles forward through the onrushing tide of retreating troops, striving to turn them to battle. Duke Robert and Count Stephen follow his lead—they gather what is left of their armies and take their places either side of Bohemond.

“We can hardly stand. Our swords are heavy in our hands.

“The sultan sees the victory now.

“They come at us. By the thousands they come. For the first time all that long day, we have a solid force before us. We grip our spears and meet the charge, making good account of the weapons in our hands. We are fighting for our lives!

“The sound is deafening. I hear nothing but a growling roar like angry thunder. Faces swim before me out of a mist of sweat and blood. I grip my spear but the haft grows slippery in my grasp, and it is soon carried away. I fumble for my sword…God help me! I cannot find it! My sword!

“There! I have it! I make to pull it free from the scabbard and I feel a sharp pain in my arm. I look to see blood spurting from a gash above my wrist. The infidel's sword is quick. It strikes
again before I can defend myself. I see the curved blade flick out, and feel the sting again—it bites to the bone.

“My fingers will not close on the hilt. The blade spins from my grasp. I cover myself with my shield and await the final blow.

“But my attacker is gone! God in heaven, they are falling away. I look down the line to see the infidel fleeing the field. Why? What can this mean?

“There! Streaming down the hill! See them? They come! They come! Raymond and the other lords have found us at last. God be praised! We are saved!

“I see crusaders sweeping down the hillside. Who is it? Is it Duke Godfrey? It is! His column is first over the ridge. Riding at the head of his troops, he leads them into the unsuspecting Turks.

“The other lords ride fast behind. Count Raymond gains the ridge to the left of Godfrey, and Bishop Adhemar—the bishop himself leading a force of five hundred knights—appears in the valley by way of a narrow gap in the hills. Suddenly, I see them flying towards us from all sides.

“The startled Seljuqs turn as one to see a new army charging down upon them. One moment they are at our throats, bearing down for the kill—an instant later, the sultan's entire war host is streaming away in wild retreat. Praise God, they are running over one another in their haste to get away!

“Bohemond seizes the chance. Oh, he is not slow. He lofts his sword and sounds the war cry. Then he is charging into the retreating enemy. Reaching for my sword once more, I slip my shield onto my right arm, and grasp the blade with my left. It is awkward, by God, but it will serve.

“Somehow we stir our feet, and rally once more. We wade into the maelstrom, hewing at the enemy horsemen as they pass by. We cut them from the saddle, and impale them on our
spears. The blood runs down our upraised swordblades and the hilts became greasy in our hands. Yet, we stand to our work, slashing and chopping, until we can no longer grip our weapons.

“When there is no one else to kill, we look up. The enemy is gone from the field. Godfrey, who has begun the assault, gives charge of his troops to Baldwin. ‘Pursue them with a vengeance,' he commands. ‘Whatever happens, do not let them regroup.' And Baldwin, eager for blood, chases the fleeing enemy through the valley.”

Ranulf paused to swallow, tears in the corners of his eyes as he remembered the great tide of relief at their deliverance. Murdo looked at his father's stump of an arm, feeling the dull horror of the unrelenting day.

“We see no more. The retreat carries the battle from our sight, and we slump down to the ground to catch our breath. Wheather wounded or hale, we all hug the earth and thank God we are still alive.

“Later, we are told that the chase led back to where Sultan Arslan had established his camp away over the hills to the east. So swift is the pursuit, the sultan had no time to dismount and change horses before the crusaders were upon him. The sultan's bodyguard put up enough of a fight to cover their master's retreat—then they too fled after him, leaving tents, horses, and all the sultan's treasure behind.

“See, the Arabs are a wandering people. They trust not to palaces nor cities. That is their way, and that is how we get the plunder: we run them off and take it from them. God in heaven, the sultan had a very great treasure hoard, and we took it all.”

Ranulf fell to coughing again. Murdo watched helplessly as the convulsions racked his father's wasted body. Ranulf paused; he touched his fingertips to his lips. Murdo raised the waterskin
again, and gave his father to drink. “Rest a little,” he suggested. “I will stay with you. We can talk again later.”

But Ranulf seemed not to hear. “The treasure is vast,” he continued, his voice dry and hollow, “gold and silver beyond imagining. Baldwin seizes it at once. The battle is over…I look around. The cries and shouts still roar in my ears. I can hear nothing for the tumult of war yet raging in my head. I stumble out upon the battleground.

“The dead…the dead…Blessed Jesu there are more dead than living. I cannot walk for falling over the bodies…knights and footmen…women and children—their bodies are ripped and torn, their blood and inward parts spilled upon the ground…corpses with neither head nor limbs…I saw a priest disembowelled, and a baby with hoofprints on his back…”

“Father, please,” Murdo begged.

“Seventy thousand!” cried Ranulf, struggling up once more. “Seventy thousand in one day! That is what they said—add to that women and children, priests and old men—who knows how many more? Seventy thousand knights and footmen went down in death at Dorylaeum. More than twenty thousand were wounded, and many of these lingered in agony only to die in the next few days.

“I searched for Brusi and his sons,” he said, falling back once more. “I searched the night, but never saw them again. They fell at Dorylaeum with all the rest…with all the rest. I never found them.”

The air inside the tent was stifling and Murdo longed for a fresh breath, but dared not leave his father's side. “Rest now,” Murdo begged, “you will regain your strength.”

“Nay, son.” Ranulf gave a slender shake of his head. “I am dying.”

Murdo blinked, trying to hold back the tears. “Father,
I…” he began, and could say no more before the tears burst anew.

“Nay, nay,” Ranulf hushed. “I am shrift and ready. Take word to your mother—tell her how I died.”

“Of course,” answered Murdo. “I will tell her.”

“Wicked the waste! Wicked!” croaked Ranulf, growing agitated once more. “Arrogant fools! We paid the price for our folly, by God! We paid with our lives.”

“It is over now,” Murdo said, trying to soothe his father. “The fighting is finished. Jerusalem is taken.”

But Ranulf would not be calmed. Rising up from his bed, he clutched at Murdo. “Go home. Find your brothers and go home. This fight is not for us.” He gripped Murdo by the shoulder. “Tell them what happened here. Promise me, son.”

“I have already promised, remember?” said Murdo, dashing the tears away with the heels of his hands.

“So you have. Good,” said Ranulf. “Listen to me now. There is one thing more. I leave this to your care, and that of your brothers.” Releasing his hold on his son, Ranulf fumbled at the edge of the pallet with his remaining hand. Strength failing, he fell back, drawing the lumpy mat away from the crude wooden frame.

Murdo gaped in amazement. For there, heaped in a jumbled, gleaming mass beneath the dying man was a treasure trove of gold and silver objects, more valuable, more opulent, more wonderful than anything he could have dreamed.

Even in the ochre half-light of the tent, the treasure dazzled. Murdo filled his gaze with the glimmering objects: cups and bowls, plates and platters, armbands and bracelets, bejewelled chests and chalices, caskets, and boxes, necklaces, diadem, and chains of all kinds in heavy gold and fine silver. Scattered in amongst the valuables, like shells or pebbles on the beach, were golden coins, bezants bearing the emperor's image. Some of the surfaces gleamed with the quick bright fire of rubies, the rich green glow of emeralds, and the luxurious milky radiance of pearl. Unable to resist, Murdo reached into the heap and pulled out a gold-handled dagger in a sheath set with sapphires—the sheath alone was more valuable than anything he had ever touched.

Murdo cradled the knife as if it were the frail soul of his father to be snatched away from him at any instant. He held his breath, clutching the knife, trying to comprehend the meaning of such an immense amount of wealth: certainly it was more than Jarl Erlend ever possessed, and doubtless more than many a northern king would amass in a lifetime; probably more than King Magnus himself owned, including all his ships and lands.

“Is it truly ours?” asked Murdo at last, still struggling to take in the immensity of their fortune.

Ranulf, his eyes closed, breath raspy in his throat, gestured to his lips. Murdo retrieved the waterskin and applied it again to his
father's mouth. The lord drank but a mouthful before pushing the skin away. “Even before Nicaea we had decided that any plunder should be shared out equally among the nobles, for the lords to distribute as they saw fit. Everyone agreed. No one knew it could be so much. Nicaea…Dorylaeum…Antioch…” He coughed. “What you see is all my share, which I saved. Take it, son,” gasped Ranulf. “Use it for the increase of Hrafnbú.”

A pang of guilt and remorse pierced Murdo at the word. He could not now bring himself to tell his father that Hrafnbú was gone.

After a moment, Ranulf roused himself. “Torf and Skuli…they have joined Baldwin at Edessa. They were not here when the battle commenced, but you can find them—find them and go home.”

Murdo nodded. “I will find them, lord, and we will return to Dýrness.”

“Good.” Ranulf closed his eyes again and sank into the mat. “Leave me now. Let me rest.”

“I will stay.”

“No, son. It is better you go.” He reached out his hand, which Murdo took in both of his. “Remember what I said.”

“I will remember.” Murdo put the waterskin next to his father's side where he could reach it, and limped painfully to the entrance of the tent. “I will be outside if you need anything.”

Lord Ranulf's lips framed a ghostly smile. “I am glad you came, son.”

Murdo nodded, and pushed the tent flap aside. Emlyn was there to support him. Ronan and Fionn, sitting nearby, stood up and came to him. “He is going to sleep now,” Murdo informed the monks. “I told him I would stay nearby.”

The priests helped him to a comfortable position in the shadow of the tent. Then Fionn went to fetch the grass mat, and
asked Ronan to bring some food and water for them all. Emlyn sat with Murdo, his eyes full of sorrow for his young friend's anguish.

They sat together in silence until they heard footsteps approaching. “That will be Fionn returning,” said Emlyn rising. It was not Fionn who appeared, however, but a woman. She glanced at him, and hesitated, then saw Emlyn and said, “Ah, it is you, brother. I am sorry to be so long.” She produced a small stone jar from a bag she carried on her shoulder. “I have brought him another draught of the potion.”

“He is sleeping now,” the monk told her. “This is his son,” he said, indicating Murdo.

The woman glanced at Murdo, and nodded. “I will just put it nearby so he can have it when he wakes.” She pushed aside the flap and stepped into the tent.

“Genna has been caring for your father,” Emlyn explained. “Her own husband was a knight killed at Antioch. They were on pilgrimage together and—” He broke off as Genna opened the tent flap.

“You should come,” she said simply.

Emlyn was on his feet at once. He stepped to the tent entrance, looked inside, then bent his head. After a moment, he turned to Murdo.

Murdo could tell from the monk's expression what he was going to say. “Is my father dead?”

“Yes,” replied Emlyn. He stooped to raise Murdo to his feet, and helped him to the tent.

Lord Ranulf lay on his crude pallet as before, but now his features were relaxed and clam, and he was gazing up tranquilly as if contemplating a peaceful sky. He still clutched the waterskin, but it was empty now; he had drained it to the dregs, and the pain-numbing potion had done its final work.

Murdo stood for a long time, trying to make sense of the welter of his emotions, feeling angry, hurt, lost, and alone.

Emlyn stepped to the pallet and, placing a hand to the lord's face, drew down the eyelids. He then stretched his hand over the body, and began chanting softly. “Our Father in Heaven, most holy is your name. Let your will be done on earth, as in your kingdom. Do not let us fall into the traps of the Evil One, but deliver us from all harm…”

Murdo heard the words—he had heard them countless times—but they meant nothing to him. Instead he observed how death had transformed his father's face, returning most of that which the fatal wound had taken from him. His features, gnawed thin and sharp by weeks of hunger and the last days of pain, were relaxed in repose: the tightness around the eyes and mouth eased, the pinched brow smoothed.

In a moment, the priest finished his prayer. He reached down and made the sign of the cross on Lord Ranulf's forehead. “Sleep,” said Emlyn quietly, “sleep, friend, in the calm of all calm. Death lies on thy brow, but Jesu of Grace has his arm around thee. Rest in God's peace.”

Genna retrieved the stone jar and turned away. “I am sorry,” she said softly, then ducked quickly out of the tent.

Arriving a moment later, Fionn and Ronan entered, their faces solemn. “The woman told us,” Ronan said gently. Fionn crossed to Murdo, and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. “May God bless you, my friend, and enfold you in his mercy.”

“Brothers,” said Ronan, “let us commend this pilgrim's soul to God.”

The three took their places around the bed—one at the foot, one at the head, and one beside. They then stretched out their hands over the body, and began to chant softly in a language
Murdo did not know. He watched and listened, thinking that his mother would want to know every detail; no doubt she would recognize the words of the chant.

The Célé Dé repeated their song three times, and then, folding Ranulf's arms over his breast, they straightened his limbs and began readying the body for burial. The swiftness of the preparations alarmed Murdo. “Must it be so soon?”

“We dare not delay any longer,” Fionn said, and added, “—owing to the heat, you see.”

“We will see him properly buried,” Ronan assured him. “Emlyn will stay with you while Fionn and I prepare the grave. We will come for the body when we have finished.”

Emlyn settled down beside Murdo, and the two of them sat gazing at the body. “It was good you could say farewell, at least,” the monk said after a while. “I would that we had found him sooner.”

“You were searching for him all this time?” wondered Murdo.

“Aye, we were,” replied Emlyn. “They told us in the camps that Duke Godfrey's troops had been first on the wall, and Duke Robert's army was with him. The fighting was fiercest there, they said, and those first on the wall had borne the brunt of the attack and suffered heavy losses. So,” the monk concluded sadly, “we began searching here.”

They fell silent for a time, and Murdo's thoughts turned again to the treasure. “Emlyn,” he said, “there is something I must show you.”

The cleric turned his eyes to the young man beside him.

“My father was…” Murdo began, but could not find the words. Instead, he simply lifted the edge of the grass mat and revealed his father's treasure.

The cleric stared at the mound of gold and silver on which
the dead man lay. “Oh, fy enaid,” Emlyn gasped. He reached out and touched a golden bowl. “Then it is true—we have been hearing tales of marvelous treasures, but I never imagined…” His hand fell away and he looked at the precious objects, shaking his head slowly.

“It was his share of the battle plunder,” Murdo explained. “He said I was to use it for the increase of our lands.” His voice faltered; he was suddenly pierced by an ache of longing so intense it took his breath away. “I want…” he said, breathing hard, “I want to go home, Emlyn.” He bent his head and let the tears fall in the dust.

A short while later, Ronan and Fionn returned to announce that the grave was ready. They brought with them a linen burial cloth in which they carefully wrapped the body, securing the shroud with long strips of binding cloth. Then, as they prepared to remove the body from the tent, Murdo said, “One of us must stay here.”

Ronan glanced at him in surprise, and Fionn made to protest, but Emlyn said, “I will remain behind.”

“But why?” said Fionn. “There is no need. We are finished here and the tent can be of use to someone else. It is—”

“Murdo has his reasons,” Emlyn said firmly. “You three go. I will wait behind.”

“Are we to know these reasons?” asked Ronan, turning to face the hesitant young man.

Murdo frowned, gazing at the body of his father in its cocoon-like shroud. “Very well,” he answered. “I have entrusted the secret to Emlyn already; I will tell you, too, and be done with it.”

Lifting the edge of the mat, he exposed the treasure trove to their view. The astonishment of the two clerics was no less than Emlyn's. Fionn reached in and took hold of a golden drinking
bowl with rubies on the rim. “There is a kingdom here!” he declared.

“Less a secret than an affliction,” observed Ronan tartly. Turning to Murdo he said, “If you would take my counsel, get rid of it.”

“Get rid of it!” cried Murdo, shocked that anyone would suggest such a thing.

“Truly,” intoned Ronan solemnly, “wealth such as this is the root of all evil.”

“Surely, brother,” objected Emlyn, “it is the
love
of wealth which is the root of all evil—not the simple possession of it.”

“It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle,” Fionn reminded them, “than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Quite so,” agreed Ronan. “So long as you hold to these riches, your soul will be in danger of hell.”

“He is right, Murdo,” conceded Emlyn. “The treasure will be nothing but a curse to you. Very soon it will begin to poison your life and soul. Unless you are very strong, it will kill you in the end.”

“Give it away,” Ronan urged earnestly. “Give it as alms to the poor. Get it far away from you as quickly as possible.”

“I will
not
give it away,” insisted Murdo. “I promised my father it would be used for the increase of our lands. Anyway, my brother Torf-Einar is Lord of Dýrness now, so it is his place to decide what shall be done with it.”

“Never tell him,” Ronan countered. “Let the secret die with your father.”

“I will honor the vow I have made,” Murdo told them bluntly, “and will hear no more about it. I have shown you the treasure, and now bind you to secrecy. If anyone learns of this, the blame will fall on your heads, and I—”

Ronan raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Peace, Murdo,” he said gently. “No one will hear the smallest breath of a word about the treasure from our lips. Your secret will abide with us for so long as you care to keep it. We will stand by you and do whatever we can to protect you.” Turning once more to the body on the pallet, he said, “But before we sit down together to decide what is best to do for the living, we must complete our care of the dead. Are you ready, son?”

Murdo nodded; his anger had faded as quickly as it flared. Sorrow claimed him once more.

“Then let us proceed with the burial,” Ronan said. “Emlyn will remain behind to keep watch over the treasure until we return. Come, it is time to see our brother on his way.”

Together, the priests lifted Lord Ranulf's body and carried it from the tent to the donkey waiting outside. They slung the limp corpse over the patient beast and, leaving Emlyn to stand guard, began a small, somewhat curious procession to the burial ground. Ronan led the way, walking at the head of the donkey; Fionn came behind, bearing Murdo on his back. The priests chanted a low, mournful lament in Gaelic as they went; the plaintive sound of their voices in the bright daylight of an alien land seemed strange and unutterably sorrowful to Murdo.

They proceeded over the hill behind the hospital camp to a little valley where the bodies of dead crusaders were being buried. The whole of the valley was filled with small oblong mounds of newly-turned earth—hundreds upon hundreds of graves, each marked with a crude cross made of sunbleached stones. There were many priests and women at work, digging the shallow graves which would forever hold someone's father, husband, brother, or lord.
At least
, Murdo thought bitterly,
my father will not lack for companions
.

They came to a hole scratched in the dry, desert ground,
whereupon the priests ceased their mournful song. Murdo sat on a rock and watched as they lifted his father's body from the donkey and laid it beside the grave. “Would you speak, Murdo?” asked Ronan.

Murdo shook his head. He could think of nothing to say.

Ronan nodded to Fionn, and the two priests shifted the body into the grave. They began chanting again—a psalm in Latin this time. Fionn took up a handful of dust-dry earth and gave it to Murdo, indicating that he should toss it onto the corpse. Murdo stood, hobbled forward a few steps, knelt down and placed the first handful squarely on his father's chest.