The Iron Lance (46 page)

He looked at the long, slender length of cloth-bound iron in his hand, and decided to take a look at the prize for which he had risked his life. He pushed himself up and sat crosslegged, holding the lance across his knees, he untied the golden cord and unwound some of the silken covering.

For all that he could see, sitting in the dark, the holy relic was a simple shank of ancient iron, rust-spotted, and slightly crooked along its length. Despite its age, the crude weapon seemed sturdy still. True, it had lost its wooden shaft, and binding—all that remained was the iron haft and the short, tapering, three-sided blade—still, it did not appear beyond repair. It was simply an old iron lance, and a wholly unremarkable example of its kind at that.

He carefully pulled the winding cloth back into place, and retied the binding cord. This finished, he leaned back against the wall once more. He was tired and hungry, and wished only to be far, far away from this wretched desert land. God, he thought, I want to go home.

He closed his eyes, thinking only to rest a moment, but
awakened with a start to find the night far gone. He looked around quickly, and made to run. But all was quiet. The moon had disappeared, and from the look of the sky to the east, he reckoned it was near dawn.

Rising, he began walking stiffly along the wall, using the lance as a staff. His over-tired muscles were sore, his back ached, and he was hungry and thirsty. He wondered how Emlyn had fared, and whether the monk was waiting for him at the harbor. Murdo walked around the tower, and started along the western wall making for the main gate. The plain where the battle had taken place the previous day was still in darkness, but he thought he could see figures moving on the battlefield—scavengers early to their work, he thought.

The gloom faded as he walked on towards the massive gate tower. Upon reaching the entrance, he darted quickly around the base of the tower—only to find the huge doors closed. Scorched and blackened from the fire of the day before, they had not yet been opened by the gatemen.

He turned and looked out at the battlefield again and saw that he had been mistaken: the figures he had taken for scavengers in the dim early light were actually those of knights and their horses moving slowly among the dead. They seemed to be searching for something…
They, too, seek the lance,
he thought.

Stepping quickly back against the great gatepost, he pressed himself against the stone, hoping someone had not noticed him already. Once beyond the walls, he would not be caught. If he could just avoid being seen until the doors opened—was that too much to hope?

Making himself as small as possible, he squatted down in the corner formed by the door and post to wait. He lay the lance down beside him, and kept his eye on the soldiers moving out
on the plain. While he was watching, he heard the jingle of horses' tack; the sound seemed to be coming from the wall to his right. Keeping low, he leaned out from the doorway and looked down along the city wall. Three riders were approaching at a fast trot; they were making for the gate.

It was too late to hide, and he would never outrun them. He would have to brazen it out. He kicked dust over the lance and hoped to God they would not see it.

In a moment, the riders came around the side of the gate tower to find a young man leaning against the gatepost, head down, half-asleep.

“You there!” said one of the riders.

Murdo raised his head and regarded the three men sleepily. All were knights and, judging from the quality of clothing and horses, at least one was a nobleman. “Greetings, my lords,” Murdo replied. “Pax Vobiscum.”

“What are you doing out here?” demanded the second knight, who seemed to be superior to the other two.

“I was late coming home,” Murdo explained, “and the gates were closed.”

“You spent the night outside the city alone?” inquired the knight suspiciously.

“Aye, for a fact I did,” answered Murdo directly; he gazed honestly into their faces. “I am waiting for the gates to open now.”

The rider's eyes narrowed. “Why were you so late coming home?”

Murdo hesitated. “I was watching the battle,” he said, deciding to tell as much of the truth as he dared.

“What battle?” demanded the foremost rider. He glared at Murdo, and all three were frowning.

“Out there,” Murdo replied, pointing away to the south.
“Bohemond's troops engaged the Turks who slaughtered Godfrey's war band.”

“Bohemond here?” wondered the other knight. “How do you know this?”

“I saw him,” Murdo answered vaguely. “I took it you were men of his war band. I see I must be mistaken.”

“We are from Count Baldwin's camp,” replied the nobleman.

“What is Bohemond doing here?” demanded one of the others.

“I cannot say,” replied Murdo, trying to sound helpful but ignorant at the same time. He did not care for the tone of accusation creeping into the nobleman's voice.

Just then he heard a scraping sound on the other side of the huge timber door; it was followed by a clanking, jangling noise. Murdo guessed the gatemen were drawing the bolts. All he had to do now, was to keep the riders occupied until he could get through.

“We saw the first battle, too,” Murdo volunteered helpfully. He pointed out towards the plain. “The Turks ambushed the knights and killed them. It was a terrible fight. The crusaders fought well, but there were too many Turks, and they—”

While Murdo was speaking the rider to the left of the nobleman leaned close to his companion and whispered, “Look! He has it, by God!”

Murdo saw the knight's gaze shift to the lance behind him on the ground.

“What have you there, thief?” shouted the nobleman.

There came a clunk from the door, and a muffled voice on the other side called out. Murdo took a slow step backwards.

“Stop! Stand where you are!”

The door gave out a creak. Murdo glanced to the side to see
that a smaller door cut in the larger was opening. He took a half-step towards it, away from the lance.

“Stand still!” shouted the knight, handing his reins to the rider next to him as he made to dismount.

Murdo waited until the knight had begun sliding his leg over the saddle, and then leaped forward, throwing his hands in the horse's eyes, and shouting as loudly as he could. “Hie!” he cried, waving his hands. “Hie-yup!”

The frightened animal tossed its head and reared back, lifting its forelegs off the ground and sending the unbalanced knight sprawling, his foot still caught in the saddle. The other horses shied, too. Murdo jumped back, snatched up the lance, and dived for the door, which was yet but half-open. He heard the sharp ring of steel as the knights drew their swords, and then hit the door with his shoulder. The gateman was thrown back off his feet, and Murdo was through.

Gathering his feet under him, he dashed for the nearest street.

An instant later, the first of the knights burst through the door. “Stop; thief!” cried the knight, his voice loud in the quiet of the morning. “Thief! Thief! Stop that man!”

Keeping the sun at his back, Murdo darted quickly along the twisting, narrow streets, working his way down through the city of Jaffa to the harbor. Every now and then, he paused to look for his pursuers, but he neither saw nor heard them, and began to feel he had left them far behind.

As he ran on, he noticed there were more people about in the streets now as the morning's business began to occupy the townspeople. Lest he draw any unwanted attention, he slowed to a purposeful walk, and crossed an empty market square in which merchants and traders were beginning to gather. Once across the square, he entered a covered street stuffed tight with tiny stalls from which the ring of hammer on brass could be heard. Several of the traders called out to him in Greek as he passed, but he ignored them and hurried on.

The sudden sight of the bay brought him up short. He stopped and stepped quickly back, hiding in the early shade of a pillar for a good look around before proceeding. Among the scores of ships anchored in the harbor below—Genoese and Venetian for the most part, along with Greek of various kinds—small fishing boats plied the still water. Here and there along the wharf scatterings of crusaders lazed, waiting, no doubt, for ships to take them home.

At the far end of the wharf, he saw the imposing imperial galley, its tall yellow masts and folded red sails towering over its
nearest neighbors: the low-hulled longships of King Magnus' Viking fleet. He searched among the tall, upswept prows for the one he knew best, and quickly found it;
Skidbladnir
was second from the last, which was nearest the emperor's ship.

Leaving his hiding place, Murdo started down to the wharf, where he made his way quickly towards Magnus' ships, forcing himself to appear calm and unhurried, just one more eager home-going pilgrim. He drew near the Norse fleet, and saw several hulking figures he recognized; men left behind to guard the ships. He had almost reached the first friendly hull when the dreaded cry sounded behind him.

“There he is! Stop him!” the cries went up. “Stop thief! You there! Stop that thief!”

Two men reclining on the planking jumped to their feet as Murdo fled past. They made a grab at him, and one of them snagged a piece of his sleeve and spun him around. But Murdo was ready. Even as he turned, he swung the iron lance down hard on the man's forearm. The fellow yelped and released his hold, falling back with a curse between his teeth as Murdo leapt away.

He put his head down and ran for Jon Wing's ship, and was up and over the rail before anyone else could lay a hand on him. He dived for the prow, his fingers searching under the rail for what he had hidden there. When he did not find it, dull panic seized him in its icy grasp. Had it been found? Had someone removed his handiwork?

The shouts on the wharf were louder. His pursuers were almost upon him. He ducked out of sight beneath the upswept prow, swallowed down his fear, and searched again.

Cold iron met his touch. He grasped the metal, and pulled the spear he had made in Arles from its hiding place. The weapon now wore a thin coat of rust from the sea air and damp
of its long stowage beneath the rail. This gave it a much older appearance, thought Murdo, which was no bad thing.

Hearing footsteps on the deck behind him, he turned and saw the familiar face of Jon's pilot. “Gorm!” he called. “Keep them off the ship!”

Without a word, the leather-skinned pilot swung around, seized a spear from the holder and leveled it on the nearest of the advancing pursuers. The men, unready to face this challenge so early in the morning, hesitated and fell back.

Swiftly, swiftly, Murdo's hands flew over the golden cord and binding cloth of the Holy Lance, stripping it away—and just as quickly rewrapping it. He could hear the voices shouting from the wharf. They were calling for him to come out and show himself. He also heard the clatter of hooves on the dock timbers, and knew that his ruse was all but finished. He could not hope to hold them off any longer. He tied the last knot on the golden cord, carefully lay the lance on the deck, took a deep breath and stood to meet his fate.

A sizable crowd had gathered on the quay. The knights who had raised the pursuit stood on the wharf, weapons drawn, staring at him. At Murdo's appearance, the shouting had ceased; it now began again. Murdo calmly raised his hands—for silence, and to show that he held no weapons. “Please!” he called. “In the name of Our Lord Christ, I beg you, let me speak.”

“Silence!” roared the foremost knight. When quiet reclaimed the crowd, he said, “What do you have to say, thief?”

“Who is your lord?” asked Murdo. He knew, but he wanted those looking on to hear it for themselves.

“We are Count Baldwin's men,” the nobleman replied. “We demand that you return that which rightly belongs to him.”

“What is it that you believe I have stolen from Count Baldwin?”

The nobleman glanced quickly at the crowd around him before answering. Clearly, he did not like the direction the proceedings were moving. Flinging his hand at Murdo, he shouted, “He has stolen the Holy Lance!”

The crowd on the wharf murmured in astonishment. The Lance of Christ! Here? they wondered. How can this be?

“I have stolen nothing from you,” Murdo answered directly. “What I have, I obtained not from you but from the amir.”

“Liar!” shouted the man. “Seize him!”

The crowd, inflamed by the knight's accusations and a desire to involve itself in this interesting conflict, surged forward in a rush towards the ship. Murdo stooped quickly and retrieved the lance and lofted it above his head. “Halt!” he shouted.

Amazed at the sudden disclosure of the relic, the crowd lurched to a stop.

“Stay where you are,” Murdo warned. “If anyone takes so much as one step nearer, I shall throw the lance into the sea.”

“Do it!” challenged the knight. “We will find it again easily.”

“You might,” allowed Murdo. “Then again, you might not. Shall we put your faith to the test?”

The knight glared at him. “I will gut you like a fish and throw the bloody pieces to the dogs if you drop that lance.”

The crowd began muttering again, and several made bold to advance a step nearer. Murdo took one hand away from the spear and let it slip. The throng gasped and shrank back in horror.

Murdo frowned. The thing was not going as he had anticipated. Moreover, the length of iron was heavy and his arm was starting to tire. He did not know how much longer he could hold it outstretched with the weight of the lance at the end. He would have to put it down soon, and then what?

“Hear now,” said the nobleman. “If you but give the lance to
me at once, I will see you absolved of your theft.”

“I did not steal—” Murdo began, but never finished. He heard the wet splosh of water spilling onto the deck and whirled to see two men slip over the side and into the boat. “Gorm! Help!” he cried as the two men rushed upon him.

Murdo threw the end of the lance into the face of the first one, who ducked the blow. He jabbed at the second, who made a grab and somehow caught hold of the silk-wrapped iron and tried to yank it from him. Murdo hung on, and the two pulled him into their grasp. They heaved him up onto the rail where he thrashed and squirmed, clinging desperately to the lance.

The crowd, seeing the fight, began clamoring for the two attackers to throw him in. Those nearest the boat made swiping lunges at him from the wharf, trying to pull him down.

“Peace!”

Even above the outcry of the crowd, Murdo heard the shout. It sounded twice again before it had any effect, and by then Murdo, like everyone else on the wharf, knew that someone of unassailable authority had arrived.

“In the name of God, I pray you cease and desist this unseemly display.” The voice was deep and resonant, and loud enough to be heard from one end of the wharf to the other.

The crowd calmed under its stern admonition, and Murdo turned his eyes to see the throng parting to make way for a tall man on a warhorse. There were half a dozen or more knights with him, and all had swords drawn and shields at the ready.

“You there, on the boat,” the man called. “Release him and stand easy, or answer to me for your disobedience.”

The soldiers reacted instantly to the stranger's command. Much to Murdo's relief they pulled him back aboard the boat and eased their hold on him.

“Step away from him,” the tall man instructed, and the two reluctantly obeyed.

Murdo straightened and found himself looking into the quick, intelligent eyes of Count Bohemond. He sat his saddle easily at the edge of the quay where he calmly regarded Murdo. “God be good to you, friend,” he said. “I think we know each other do we not?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Murdo. “We met yesterday outside the walls.”

“It seems you have roused the ire of half the people of Jaffa, and this before the sun has quartered the sky. I would hear how you performed this prodigious feat.”

“That is easily told,” Murdo said. “I have the Holy Lance, and
they
,” he indicated Baldwin's knights, “would take it from me by force.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Bohemond. “Your tale fascinates me, I confess. I would hear the whole of it. Pray, continue.”

“I will, my lord, and gladly,” Murdo replied. “Give me but space enough and time, and I will tell you all you wish to hear. Nor will you call me thief when I am done.”

“Good man,” answered the Count of Antioch. “You speak well for yourself. Indeed, I would suggest that you speak very like a certain nobleman who has earned my highest regard in these last weeks. Can it be that you and he are kinsmen?”

“I cannot think it likely, lord count,” Murdo replied. “There are few pilgrims from the northern isles, and fewer still from Orkneyjar.”

“But he is the king of the northern isles,” the prince declared. “I am speaking of my vassal, King Magnus—do you know him?”

“I know him—that is to say, I made the pilgrimage with some of his men,” Murdo answered.

Bohemond smiled broadly at this. Raising himself in his stirrups, he turned and called out, “Here! Magnus! I have found one of your countrymen!”

There was a shifting movement of the crowd behind Bohemond's horse, and the familiar figure of King Magnus stepped out from among his bodyguard. Crowding in behind him, Murdo recognized the round figure of Brother Emlyn, trying desperately to squeeze through the tight-pressed throng.

“Hey-hey,” said Magnus by way of greeting. “What have we here?”

“This fellow tells me he came to the Holy Land on one of your ships. Do you know him?”

Magnus cocked his head to one side and studied Murdo for a moment. “He does appear familiar. If he says he sailed with me, I take him at his word and claim him as one of my own.”

“I sailed with Jon Wing, my lord,” Murdo told the king. “It was his ship that brought your priests—one of whom came to Jaffa with me.” Murdo pointed into the crowd below. “He is here now; you can ask him if you do not believe me.”

At that moment, the foremost of Count Baldwin's knights interrupted with a shout. “Enough of this! Serious business lies before us, and you prattle away like spinsters over a pie.” Flinging out a hand to point at Murdo, he said, “This man is a liar and a thief. He has stolen the Holy Lance, and we will see it returned to its rightful place.”

Bohemond looked at the man, his expression placid and good-natured. “Why do you call him liar? He has freely admitted possessing the sacred relic; where is the lie?”

The nobleman glowered at Bohemond. “The lance belongs to Lord Godfrey, and you know it.”

“The Holy Lance belongs to the Holy Church and her people. But, leaving that aside, do you deny that it was taken from
your comrades in the battle?”

“You know well that it was,” the soldier spat. “Godfrey's troops were attacked within sight of the walls and the lance carried off.”

“Are you saying that this unarmed youth defeated Godfrey's army all by himself and stole the relic for himself? Is that what you imagined happened?” Bohemond inquired innocently.

“You twist my words,” the knight growled. “You know it was the Turks.”

“That is the first true word you have spoken,” Bohemond said. “Yes, it was the Turks. We have labored long against them this night, and have come fresh from the battlefield.” Raising his hand to Murdo, the count concluded, “If this fellow has risked his life to recover the lance which was lost at your comrades' hands, it seems to me that instead of seeking his skin, you ought rather to be thanking him and heaping rewards and praise upon his head.”

The knight grumbled at Bohemond's assessment, but made no outright challenge to the count's version of affairs. He and his companions glared their displeasure, but held their tongues. Turning once more to Murdo, the Count of Antioch said, “It would be my pleasure to sit with you and King Magnus, and discuss this matter with the propriety it deserves. If you would allow us to come aboard, I give you my word nothing ill will befall you.”

“Very well,” agreed Murdo, “only allow the priest to join us, and I will tell you all I know.”

The count dismounted and placed his men along the quayside to guard the ship; meanwhile, Gorm quickly produced the plank to allow the lords and their noblemen to board the vessel more easily. Murdo soon found himself clutching the lance and standing face to face with his unanticipated defender, and a
dozen or more noblemen—including Orin Broad-Foot, and the ever-suspicious Bayard. Brother Emlyn bustled up the plank and came to stand breathlessly beside him.

“I waited all night, and when you did not return, I thought to go to the gate to see—”

“Never mind,” said Murdo. “Where is the treasure?”

“You recovered the lance, praise God!” he swallowed a gulp of air. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “There are too many nobles here for my liking. What are we to do about them?”