The Iron Lance (38 page)

“Tell him he can keep it,” Murdo said. “We want nothing more from him but to leave quietly.”

Ronan spoke again, and the man smiled quickly and whipped the coin out of sight. He then loosed a rapid babble of words, snatched up Murdo's hand and pressed it to his lips.

“He says that he is most grateful,” Ronan explained, “and that if we have need of his animal again, or his house, or his barn, or anything he might possess, however large or small, we are to come to him and it will be given with immense joy.”

The sky was glowing pink in the east as they started back down the hill. Murdo, hungry, and exhausted by the events of the day, wished only to find a cool place to sleep before facing whatever trials lay ahead.

“I suppose King Magnus will wonder where we have been so long,” Emlyn said, moving up beside him.

“I suppose,” Murdo agreed. In the turmoil of all that had happened in the last days, he had forgotten about the king and his war band, of which he was a member. “Do you think he will be angry?”

“He has been busy with his own affairs,” the priest suggested lightly. “I expect he will not have missed us very much.”

“The farmer,” Murdo said, “what language was he speaking?”

“Aramaic,” the cleric replied, “a very ancient tongue. It was the speech of our Lord Christ. Many still speak it hereabouts. Does it surprise you that Ronan should know it?”

Murdo shrugged again. “I do not know what priests are taught.”

“My friend,” Emlyn reproved gently, “you should know by now, those who follow the True Path are not at all like other priests.”

January 21, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland

As I think on it now, I am convinced that I was chosen to replace Angus. In saying this, I do not mean to degrade my own selection, or belittle my worthiness to accede to the honor and status granted me by my initiation into the Brotherhood. I mean, simply, that if Angus had lived, in all likelihood I would never have been asked to join the Benevolent Order in the first place.

The plain truth is that Pemberton was Angus' friend, not mine. I believe the old gent had been grooming him for several years; I have no doubt that in due course, Angus would have made a tremendous contribution to the Brotherhood. I know
I
have missed his boundless enthusiasm, his easy nature, his wit and loyalty. But life is rarely predictable; destiny scorns even the best intentioned plans: Angus was taken, and I was left behind.

In a way, one might say Angus passed his birthright on to me through our friendship. Upon his death the Brotherhood began the search once more; because of our close affinity, I suppose, they happened to light on me as a possible successor. Or, perhaps I am mistaken, and there is more to it than that.

Be that as it may, the night of my initiation I returned home
with my cape and blackened fingerbone, and knew beyond any doubt that my life had once more undergone a deep and profound change, the effects of which I could not fully imagine or anticipate, but would, in due course, discover.

Indeed, it would be years before I began to appreciate the sheer scale of the Brotherhood's interests and involvements throughout the world, and yet more years before I fully understood them. Nor did I realize that, far from having arrived, I had merely embarked upon the first few halting steps of a long and eventful journey—a pilgrimage of phenomenal lengths.

Nevertheless, I returned home to Cait and the children that night feeling as if I had downed a keg of burning pitch. I was aflame with an excitement I could not contain. I did not sleep. Instead, I paced the floor from hall to den and back, clasping my hands and murmuring a babble of half-remembered prayers and liturgies. It was all I could do to keep from running through the streets, shouting at the top of my lungs. One moment I was laughing, and the next would find me dissolved in tears—the one emotion as wholly surprising and inexplicable as the other.

All I know is that something had taken place during the initiation, something genuine and rare, extraordinary and unique—perhaps “sacred” is the word that best conveys my feeling. For when I knelt to kiss the sword and don the cape, God help me, I
did
feel as if a crusader's mantle had been draped over my shoulders. I felt as if I had joined a circle of fellowship that stretched back and back through the centuries to the first rough knights who had taken the cross and pledged their lives to champion Christ's name. I had joined their number and could no longer look upon the world in the same way.

In that sacred instant, I glimpsed, however imperfectly, the shape of the sacrifice required of me. I saw the burden to be borne, and without hesitation accepted it. I had come so far
already, to turn aside would have been not only an act of low cowardice, but betrayal as well. When so many before me had given all to the Brotherhood, could I refuse? Could I hold my life higher than theirs, and still think myself an honorable man?

I could not; neither could I forsake the trust that had been placed in me by those who had shielded me and supported me over the years. Thus, I gripped the naked blade in my hand and kissed the swordhilt with my lips—the ancient sign of knighthood taking on the burden of the cross—and in doing so, took my place beside those worthy knights of ages past.

Upon receiving the cape and talisman, I had succeeded to the First Degree. There was no way, of course, that I could have known there were six more degrees of fellowship to attain; each following grade was guarded with such secrecy as to prevent anyone who was not already a member learning anything about it. In retrospect, and at long remove, I can say with absolute certainty that no more than half the members of the Brotherhood ever understood that there were higher degrees of any sort at all.

I hasten to point out that the secrecy was not employed in order to create an élite—as is sadly so often the case—but for the protection of those whose lives would be endangered by the knowledge. For each initiation was accompanied by greater revelation, and therefore greater risk. While I have no wish to sound melodramatic—like some beetle-browed hack of the penny dreadfuls—it is a plain fact that the enemies of the Brotherhood are legion, and it only stands to reason one cannot betray a secret one does not possess.

My first year as a new initiate was taken up with study. I learned much about the many involvements of our Order, and the subtle ways in which we brought our influence to bear. I learned the lore and teaching of the Temple and a few of its secrets. Sadly, the very nature of the secrets we protected often
meant that we were not at liberty to reveal our full powers, nor could we interfere with the natural course of events in the world at large.

We could but stand aside and watch as the manifold catastrophes of man and nature wreaked havoc great and dire upon the world. In this, I began to learn something of the heroic patience of the saints. To stand aside and watch while the worst mistakes were made again and again—and always, always to the cost of those who could least afford it—was almost more than I could take. Often was the time I sought retreat, sickened in my soul over the inhumanity rampant around me.

I watched and learned, and slowly mastered the arcane history of our clandestine Order. The years passed, and Annie and Alex grew, attended school and, eventually, flew the nest to begin families of their own. Cait and I continued in all happiness, and looked forward to grandchildren, in good time, and a leisurely life as a couple once more.

Meanwhile, I advanced in the Order, passing on from one unknown level to the next until arriving at the Sixth Degree, which I erroneously assumed was as high as one could attain. At each stage of this long journey, there were fewer companions. For example, when first inducted into the Benevolent Order, I learned there were upwards of seventy thousand members in various Temples throughout the world. Upon becoming a member of the Brotherhood, I discovered there were only seven hundred First Degree brethren; when I attained the Second Degree, that number diminished by more than two hundred, and so on. With each ascending rung of the invisible ladder, the numbers decreased accordingly. No more than thirty members ever hold a Sixth Degree membership at any time.

The reason for this is, again, protection. The fewer the number of people who know a secret, the greater the security. Until
three weeks ago, however, I could never have imagined that the magnitude of the secrets guarded at the highest level increased astronomically. That is to say, what was shown me but a few nights ago in the Inner Temple has convinced me beyond all doubt of the necessity for our secrecy. In this I am utterly sincere.

How then, you might ask, is it possible for a man who believes in the righteousness of his cause, and the crucial necessity of secrecy to protect and advance it—how is it possible for that man to reveal its most confidential information? How is it possible for that man to divulge the very secrets he has sworn to protect with his life?

Allow me to reiterate: I would gladly suffer death a thousand times rather than betray the Brotherhood, or endanger the Great Work.

How then, this document? The answer is that, as the most recent initiate of the Inner Temple, and therefore the most receptive to the remarkable methods employed in the dissemination of the knowledge I have lately acquired, I have been given the task of chronicling the development of the Order from its very beginnings.

The purpose of this task is twofold. In committing to paper all that has been vouchsafed to me, I will gain greater mastery over it. Secondly, the Inner Temple has, in its wisdom, foreseen the day when the preservation of that which we hold so jealously at present will best be served not by secrecy and stealth, but by outright proclamation. One day, they say, the surest way to protect a secret will be to shout it from the housetops.

If this seems a ludicrous paradox, I can only say that the particular circumstances which make this extremity of purpose necessary, though not yet fully apprehended, are drawing inexorably nearer. Friends, we live in troubled times. The day is coming when the whole world will be tried in the crucible of war.

By God's will and by his hand, we may emerge from the fiery furnace. But if we are destroyed, then this record may be all that is left of our illustrious order, and it will fall to those who come after us to complete the Great Work we have begun.

Thus, in the very first days following my Seventh Degree initiation I began the occupation which has been urged upon me. I confess I have written in haste; my chief desire has been to capture the bright images just as they appeared to me in the white heat of the vision. Loath to let the dream fade, or allow time to cloud my memory, I have secluded myself in my study at the top of the house, and I have not stirred, save for infrequent meals. Scarcely have I rested.

Dear Caitlin fears I am losing my sanity. “Far from it,” I tell her, “I am rescuing sanity's last remnant.” And that is true. I do believe that if I desisted even for a day, the chaos of my thoughts would overwhelm me. So long as I work, I make sense of the strange double life I have acquired. If I lose myself in these pages, it is only so that I may find myself again. Thus, I have no choice. I dare not stop until my work is finished.

Even so, the end is in sight.

If my poor chronicle should in future find any readers, I would like it known that I have, in so far as possible, striven for the truth in every particular. Any triumph belongs to those whose story is here related. Any failure is my own.

It is the story of the Sanctus Clarus, yes, but it is also the story of the men and women who strove to keep that Holy Light burning through the ages. I ask you to remember this when weighing out our failings. We are but flesh and blood, and not angels after all.

Bohemond, Prince of Taranto and Count of Antioch, arrived in Jerusalem with two hundred knights. He wasted not a moment, but established himself in the palace recently vacated by the commander of Amir Iftikhar's bodyguard. The high-walled house, with its numerous columns and floors of polished stone, was swiftly converted to an armory and stables. The generous courtyard and gardens were given to the prince's horses which were allowed to drink from the white marble fountains.

King Magnus quickly joined his avowed lord in the palace, and the two began scheming how best to get their hands on a healthy share of the city's newly liberated wealth. Towards this end, Bohemond let it be known through various subtle means that he would be inclined to support the claim to kingship of any noble who supported his claim to plunder.

The lords and noblemen whose sweat and labor had secured the Holy City were not pleased with the late-comer's demands, and resisted all attempts to persuade them otherwise. There were harsh words and hard feelings on each side, and rising tension among the lords as they anticipated the next day's council.

Murdo and the monks came to hear of this when they returned to the king's war band. It had taken most of the day following their midnight visit to the monastery of Saint Mary outside the walls to find their comrades; the place where they had been camped was vacant, and no one in the area had paid
any attention to the movements of the long-haired Norsemen. Despite Murdo's aversion to returning to the city, they had no choice but to continue the search inside Jerusalem.

The streets along which they passed were eerily silent, the houses vacant and, for the most part, quiet—except where looters still worked: furniture, clothing, and valuables of the dead were often hurled from the upper windows into the street below, to be more easily collected and carted off. The Temple Mount had been turned into a huge repository for the treasure hoard prior to its division and distribution.

Dark stains still marked the paving stones, and the stench and clouds of flies were formidable, but the number of corpses to be found lying untended in alleyways and courtyards was not so many as Murdo had feared. In all, they encountered only five wagons piled with bodies, each making its slow way to the bone fires; the disposal of Jerusalem's dead had been accomplished with remarkable efficiency.

They came upon a procession of monks who had already commenced the reconsecration of several of the city's smaller chapels and churches which had fallen into disuse under the Muhammedan occupation. Upon inquiring of the bishop, they learned of Bohemond's arrival and his seizure of Iftikhar's commander's palace. “Find Bohemond,” Ronan declared, “and there we shall find our king and companions.”

A short time later, they arrived at the palace of Jerusalem's former warlord—a handsome and imposing edifice, which the other crusader lords deemed unsuitable, owing to its former association with the Muhammedan infidel. Bohemond had no such scruples; his brief residence in Antioch had given him a taste for Arabian opulence. Murdo and the monks found the Norsemen firmly ensconced in the apartments lately occupied by Amir Iftikhar's physician and his retinue of advisers.

Murdo, tired from the previous night's activities, found himself a quiet corner and promptly went to sleep. He was roused some time later when King Magnus returned to the palace with Bohemond. While the king dined with his liege lord and benefactor, his house carles sat at meat in the hastily-altered hall, discussing the day's inconclusive events.

“Mark me: it will come to blows. The kingship will only be settled by combat.” Lord Orin took another swallow of wine from his cup.

“Hey-hey,” agreed Jon Wing. “But it is not Bohemond's fault that he was not here. It is a long way from Antioch to Jerusalem. If the siege had lasted longer, he would have been first through the gate, I think.”

This sentiment was greeted by a general growl of approval from all those looking on and listening. More than one cup was lofted to drink the prince's singular courage.

“It is not his bravery they are doubting,” pointed out Magnus' pilot, a man named Sven Horse-Rope. “Rather, it is his right to share in plunder he did not help to win. If it was
my
place, I do not know that I would be so quick to divide my treasure with him.”

The Norsemen rejected this line of reasoning with loud grunts of protest—not because it was wrong, but because, if followed rigorously, it would deny them their own share of what they reckoned was an immense fortune. King Magnus, in siding with Bohemond, had bound himself to the rise and fall of the prince's fortunes. They had gained but little for themselves out of the fall of Jerusalem, and were hungry for more. For better or worse, Prince Bohemond promised to be the most likely source for gaining a portion of the vast hoard of Jerusalem's wealth to be carved up among the western lords.

“The fighting lasted but a day;” Tolf Bent-Nose pointed out,
“many of Count Raymond's men did not lift a blade, either. Yet, they still claim a full portion. Also, we have collected as much plunder as anyone else—”

“
And
as many bodies!” grumbled Sven, frowning at the stink, still fresh in his memory. This sentiment was shared by one and all around the board.

“This fact should be put to the lords at the council tomorrow, I think,” said Tolf, to which everyone heartily concurred.

The next day's discussions were followed with keen attention by the king and his mercenary vassals. Each feint and counterthrust in the subtle struggle of swagger and bluff was duly noted and reported that night in the hall over cups of raw Palestinian wine. Murdo, too, listened to all the talk, although it failed to ignite in him the same fiery itch that inflamed the others. He already possessed a fortune in plunder and, as he was not interested in the crusade or its leaders, cared nothing for their interminable squabbles over position and power. He viewed them all with the same weary indifference—save one: Baldwin. Whenever that name was mentioned, Murdo drew near to hear.

His brothers were with Lord Baldwin, he knew, and he was anxious to join them as soon as possible. To this end, he listened to all that was said, and learned that Lord Baldwin was brother to Duke Godfrey of Bouillon. Godfrey, it seemed, was a truly pious man and a fierce warrior—the same who had gained and held the wall during the first assault of the recent battle, and his fearless action did more than any other to bring about the fall of Jerusalem.

Younger brother Baldwin's esteem had slipped considerably lower, because he had not fulfilled his crusade vows, preferring instead to assume the rule of Edessa, a city a few days' march to the north. Murdo spent much of the next day pondering how he might undertake the journey to find his brothers, when word
arrived at the palace that Baldwin and his war band had arrived at Jerusalem and were encamped on the Mount of Olives. He wasted no time finding Emlyn to tell him.

“My brothers are here,” he said, “I am going to find them.”

“It will be dark soon,” the priest pointed out. “Perhaps you should seek them tomorrow.”

Murdo would not contemplate even the slightest delay. “I am going now,” he insisted. “If I hurry, I can be there before nightfall.”

“I will accompany you,” Emlyn said. “Only give me time enough to take our leave of the king.”

The monk hurried away, returning a short while later with a staff for himself, a spear for Murdo, and a waterskin to share between them. Leaving the palace, they entered the street outside the amir's residence, and hurried down through the city to the Jaffa Gate. Owing to the lateness of their start, Emlyn thought it best to find their way to the Mount of Olives
outside
the walls, rather than try to navigate the tangle of unfamiliar streets in the dark. So, they departed by the western gate and, once outside the walls, struck off onto the road which encompassed the city. This track was continually joined and divided by other roads which led off to various settlements and cities—Hebron, Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Damascus, and others—and was ringed by clusters of little farms, each with its tiny patch of green behind low white walls, or dense hedges of thorn and cactus.

The heat of the day was slowly releasing its hold on the land, though the sky was still flame-colored in the west. The air was warm and still, and held an arid, woody scent which seemed to emanate from the small dusty shrubs all around. The road was nearly deserted; they met only the occasional farmer or laborer, and these, seeing Murdo's spear, recognized the couple as
Franks, giving them a wide and wary berth. They walked along, keeping the city wall on their left hand, their eyes on the olive-planted hills rising before them. The hills were dull purple in the evening light, and the gnarled trunks of the olives pale blue, their leaves black.

They walked along in silence for a time, and Murdo found himself thinking about all that had taken place in the last two days. He thought about their midnight flight to the monastery, and his vision of Saint Andrew in the catacombs.
Build me a kingdom, brother
, the apparition had said.
I will do what I can
, he had promised. His cheeks burned with shame as the weight of his unworthiness descended over him—like a mountain shifting and settling full upon his soul.

In a little while they came to the place where they had met the soldiers two nights before, and Murdo asked, “Is it true what you told those men the other night?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“About the pope's decree of absolution?” Emlyn gave him a sideways glance. “Well,” he sighed, “it is how I feel. No doubt our Latin brothers would have a different view, but those soldiers last night did not know we were not of the same order as the rest. Men like that are rarely eager for spiritual counsel; the guilty are reluctant sheep at best, I find.”

“Is it that you do not agree with the pope's decree?”

“You and I are friends, so I will speak freely,” Emlyn replied. He paused, gazing at the twilight sky; when he spoke again, his voice was thick with condemnation. “The pope is a fool if he believes sin and forgiveness are commodities to be bartered in the marketplace of men's souls. The sins committed here will corrode the spirit just as surely as any others, and the lack of confession will haunt the heart through all eternity.”

These words produced a peculiar sensation in Murdo; he
heard in them the ring of truth, and felt himself moved to confess his part in the wickedness perpetrated on that evil day. He saw again the smoke-dark sky and the leering faces of the soldiers, the blood sluicing red and hot from the wounds, the small mutilated bodies in the street. He could feel the suffocating oppression and revulsion of all he had witnessed that day, and knew it was not a burden he cared to shoulder the rest of his life.

“I am as guilty as anyone,” Murdo declared, his voice low.

“Yes?” Emlyn's voice was gently probing.

“I have done wrong,” he said and, with halting words, described the carnage and destruction he had seen in the Holy City—the burned temples filled with blackened corpses, the streets filled with bodies and flowing with blood, the poor drowned child, the insane slaughter of defenseless people. He told how he had come upon three soldiers chasing a woman and her babies, and how, after killing the woman and her children, the crusaders had turned on him. “They would have killed me, too, but they were careless, and I was quicker. I killed the leader and the others ran away.” He then described how he had stripped off the mantle of the dead crusader and put it on himself. “I was afraid,” he concluded. “I wanted only to get away from there—from that. On my life, I did not mean to kill him. But he attacked, and he was so sloven, so thoughtless…the spear was in before I knew it. In truth, I might have avoided killing him, but I did not care. He died in the street, and I was afraid the others would come back. I took his cross so I would not be attacked again.”

“I see,” replied Emlyn after a moment's thought. “You killed only to save yourself. You acted out of fear, perhaps, but no more. Had the soldiers given you another choice, you might have acted differently, yes?”

Murdo nodded.

“There is little sin in this, if any,” the priest told him. “You acted merely to preserve your own life. There is no condemnation in that.”

“I did not care!” Murdo countered miserably. “If I had acted sooner, the woman and her children might have lived. I stood there and watched and did nothing to help them. I was afraid!”

“Fear is ever the great failing of Adam's race, to be sure,” the monk replied. “While it is true that fear sometimes leads us into sin, it is rarely a sin in itself.”

“I knew what I was doing,” Murdo countered. “That is why I took the killer's cross for myself. That woman died trying to protect her children, but when the blades turned on me, I was a coward. I should have died defending her—instead, I stole another man's cloak so I could escape.”

“I am beginning to understand,” replied Emlyn. “Perhaps, as you insist, you might have saved that poor woman and her babies. If nothing else, you feel you should have resisted deceit. You should have refused to allow wickedness and iniquity to outwit and overpower you. Yes?”

“It is true,” confirmed Murdo, feeling worse by the moment.

“You are a man of high integrity, my friend,” Emlyn observed. “You demand it of yourself no less than of all those around you.” At Murdo's cautious look, he said, “This is true as well—I know, otherwise you would not feel these things so deeply. You believe that you should have remained faithful to the truth that was in you, rather than relinquish your honor to the great lie all around you. These things you did not do, and for these things you stand condemned—in your own heart, at least.”

Murdo, in full agreement with the priest's impeccable judgment, felt his failure anew. Misery descended over him in thick,
black waves. His throat tightened and he could not speak.