The Iron Lance (50 page)

“Get him aboard the ship,” Murdo told the Norseman, who hurried onto the wharf, bearing the near hysterical bishop.

“You cannot hope to gain anything by this,” the abbot sneered. “You are only making things more difficult for yourself. Let us go and we might yet consider granting a pardon for your sins.”

“My sins are not so heavy that I cannot bear a few more for a worthy cause.” Murdo jabbed the abbot once again. “Move along; there is a good wind, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

So saying, Murdo bundled the abbot aboard, and then turned to wait for Emlyn. In a few moments, the monk arrived, puffing and sweating from the exertion. “I think it best that we cast off as soon as possible.”

“What did you tell them?” asked Murdo, helping Emlyn over the rail.

“The truth,” wheezed the monk. “I said that we have come from King Magnus on urgent business with the bishop. That satisfied them for the moment, but if we linger here, I fear they may become curious and come down to see what is happening.”

They clambered over the rail and joined the others on deck. Abbot and bishop stood together, glaring balefully at their captors. At first sight of Emlyn, the abbot spat. “I might have guessed there would be Célé Dé behind this.” He said the word as if it was the worst slander he knew. “Heretics and blasphemers to a man.”

The butt of the spear clipped the abbot on the side of the jaw and sent him sprawling to the bottom of the boat where he lay writhing in agony. “Forgive me, abbot,” said Murdo, brandishing the spear, “it seems I have developed the regrettable habit of striking churchmen.”

Gerardus glowered at him. “You dare raise your hand to me?” he rasped, shaking with rage.

“Perhaps I am at last outgrowing the natural tolerance of youth,” Murdo replied evenly, “but I will raise my hand to anyone who demeans this good man. The Célé Dé have shown me nothing but kindness and respect, and I will not hear their benevolence impugned by the likes of you.”

The abbot sat glaring and rubbing his jaw, but made no further complaint. Turning to Jon Wing, Murdo said, “Our passengers are settled; let us be on our way.”

At Murdo's word, Jon Wing called the order to cast off; Gorm and the three-man crew leaped to the ropes and oars. A moment later,
Skidbladnir
began gliding away from the wharf and into the quiet water of the bay.

“Where are you taking us?” demanded the bishop.

“That is for you to say,” Murdo told him. “Where is the convent?”

Adalbert grew belligerent. Folding his arms defiantly across his chest, he growled, “King Magnus will hear of this!”

“Hey-hey,” agreed Jon Wing cheerfully. “Hear of it he will indeed, for I am telling him myself. I will tell him, too, about all the farms and lands you have stolen from the families of the crusaders while the menfolk were away.”

“I have done nothing wrong,” declared the bishop indignantly. “Those estates were placed in my care freely and forthrightly.”

“Lord Brusi's lands were under the care of his lady wife and daughter,” Murdo told him. “My mother was with them.”

“I know nothing of your mother,” the churchman insisted.

“Oh, you would well remember Lord Ranulf's wife, I reckon,” Murdo told him.

The bishop stared at him for a moment, and his expression slowly wilted. “Young Ranulfson,” he sighed, as if remembering an old and painful irritation. “I heard you followed your father on crusade.”

“That I did,” Murdo confirmed, “and I tell you the truth: it sickens me to see what you have done. While others died for Christ at your behest, you could not wait until they were cold in their graves before swooping in to plunder their lands.”

The young man drew himself up and looked the larcenous bishop in the eye. “Your days of thieving and treachery are finished, priest. Murdo Ranulfson has returned, and now you will take us to this convent of yours.”

“I will not,” declared Adalbert defiantly.

“You will,” said Murdo. “And bishop,” he warned, his voice falling to a whisper, “I suggest you pray we find the women well and happy.”

“I will agree to take you to the convent,” the scheming cleric retorted, “but I cannot be held responsible for any injury to befall the unwary. That is the Almighty's concern, not mine.”

“Those estates were in your care,” Murdo retorted. “That makes it
your
concern. I intend to hold you accountable.”

“You overreach yourself; God is my judge, not you.”

“Then we will send you to your judge,” Murdo said softly, putting his face near the grasping cleric's, “and we will let
him
decide whether I killed an innocent man.”

Murdo and Emlyn paused before the gate. The monk put his hand on the young man's arm. “Allow me to serve you in this,” he said gently. “I will go and speak to the abbess and bring you word.”

Murdo gazed at the large timber door. “I have not come this far to turn aside now. I will see it through.”

“As you will.” Emlyn stepped to the door, lifted the iron ring and swung it down with a hollow thump. In a moment, a small slit door opened in one of the beams and a plump, good-natured face appeared. “Good day, sister. I am Brother Emlyn of St Aidan's Abbey, and this is Lord Murdo Ranulfson.”

“Good day to you, brother, and God's blessing be upon you both,” the old woman replied. “What is your business here?”

“We want to see—” blurted Murdo.

Emlyn swiftly interrupted. “We have come to enquire of the abbess. I pray she is well.”

“She is well indeed,” answered the nun. “A moment, if you please.” The door closed, and they heard a long scraping sound as the bar was withdrawn.

“Why did you do that?” demanded Murdo. “Are we here to find my mother and Ragna, or not?”

“Patience,” chided the monk. “All in good time. It is best to proceed with a little propriety and discretion if we expect to receive their help. Also, I believe we should confine ourselves to
finding your mother. It would be best not to mention Lady Ragna just yet.”

“Why?” It made no sense to Murdo and he said so.

“We do not know what the bishop told the abbess when the women were brought here—not the truth, I think. Therefore, I urge caution until we see how the thing stands.”

Murdo nodded curtly and kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. After a few moments the door in the gate jerked and swung open.

“I am surprised to find the abbey gates closed. Are the doors barred the entire day?” asked Emlyn.

“Alas, they are, brother,” replied the nun. “We are little more than prisoners in our own abbey, for there has been raiding already this year. We were set upon three times last summer. It is that the lords and knights are gone away on pilgrimage, you see. The Sea Wolves know they can plunder the weak who are left without protection.” She smiled, her wrinkles framing a kindly face. “Thank you for asking. Enter please, and I will take you to the abbess.”

The monk offered a small bow and stepped over the threshold. Murdo turned and looked back to the ship waiting in the bay below. In the near distance he could see the broad, curving inlet of the firth the Norse sailors called Dalfjord; away to the south was a smudge of smoke which he took to be Inbhir Ness. Turning back to the door, he took a breath, squared his shoulders and stepped through.

The abbey was a small settlement enclosed behind stone walls, with dwellings of various kinds: a church, gardens, and orchard, livestock pens, storehouses and work shops. There were almost as many buildings inside the walls as outside, and the place seemed especially busy. Murdo was surprised to see plenty of men around—some were monks, but there were
craftsmen and laborers as well; he had expected a convent to contain only women.

“The convent is only a part of the work God has given us,” Abbess Angharad explained upon receiving them in the lodge beside the chapter house. Following Emlyn's advice, Murdo was trying to engage in polite conversation while all he could think about was finding Ragna and his mother. “Subduing a wild and savage land is a toilsome occupation; we turn away none who are willing to earn their crust by the sweat of their brow.”

“And to all appearances, you have succeeded admirably well,” remarked Emlyn. “The settlement thrives, I see. Verily, it flourishes.”

“It is God who prospers us, dear brother,” the abbess replied tartly. Thin-faced, her wrinkled skin brown from the wind and sun, she was wiry and vigorous despite her years, and proving to be more awkward than Murdo had expected. “If we thrive,” she continued, as if lecturing wayward children, “it is only through obedience. We ask no more than to shine as a beacon flame in a dark and treacherous land.”

“And yet,” offered Emlyn lightly, “there is joy in the journey, no? Obedience is good. Esteem is better. Love is best of all. The Great King is ever a gifting giver.”

The thin old abbess regarded him stonily, her gray brows puckered. “I see you and your brothers are yet slaves to the old deception. We continue to pray for your enlightenment,” she informed him primly.

“Even as we pray for yours, abbess,” Emlyn said. His sudden laugh induced the sober lady to raise her brows and purse her lips severely. “Forgive me,” he said quickly, “but it suddenly occurred to me that if our ardent petitions were to be answered at the same time, the resulting enlightenment would certainly make Scotland the brightest realm in all the world.”

The abbess did not share the gentle monk's amusement. Folding her hands before her, she said, “Now then, I do not believe you have come to enquire after my soul's well-being. Was there perhaps another purpose to your visit?”

“We have come seeking—” began Emlyn.

“Lady Niamh of Dýrness,” put in Murdo, his patience at an end. “Is she here? Is she well?”

Abbess Angharad regarded him as if he had uttered a blasphemy. “And who are you that you should concern yourself with her welfare?”

“I am her son,” he answered, and explained how he had followed his father on crusade, and had just returned. “We have been told that my mother was brought here in the company of some others. I have come to take her home.”

“I can tell you that she is here, and she is well,” the abbess replied. “It may be, however, that she has no wish to go with you. Nor will I compel her.”

Murdo stared at the woman. The resistance he felt was as solid as the gray granite hills above the firth, and he began to see why Emlyn had counselled politeness and caution.

“But she will want to see me,” insisted Murdo. “She has been waiting for my return.”

“Perhaps,” allowed the abbess. “But it may be otherwise. This will be determined.”

“I do not understand,” said Murdo, growing more confused and frustrated by the moment.

“It is not so difficult,” the abbess replied, offering a brief, superior smile. “Women come here for many reasons. Oft times a woman will find that her fortune or, God knows, even her very body, has become an affliction to her. Whatever the reason, we take them in and provide a haven for them, and protect them as best we can.” She paused, pressing her mouth into a firm line.
“Do you expect me to hand over one of my charges on your command when I know nothing of you? Indeed, for all I know, it might easily be that you are the one she has come here to escape.”

“But, I am her son,” countered Murdo feebly, looking to Emlyn for help.

“There are murderous sons, just as there are lusting and covetous husbands,” the abbess replied crisply. “And the fact that you have come here in the company of a monk of a disreputable order does not commend your cause in the least.”

“Sister abbess,” said Emlyn gently. “Your vigilance would do good Saint Peter credit, but I stand as God's witness to the plain truth that this young man has travelled to the Holy Land and back for the sole purpose of righting a terrible wrong perpetrated by cruel circumstance upon his family. His father, the Lady Niamh's husband, was killed in the taking of Jerusalem, and—”

“Jerusalem is won?” The abbess gasped. “Are you certain?”

“As certain as the sun and stars, good abbess,” replied Emlyn smoothly. “We were there, and saw the victory with our own eyes.”

“All praise to the Almighty,” declared the nun. “We had not heard.”

“Forgive me,” Emlyn said. “I thought word had reached you here, or I would have told you at once.”

“Jerusalem is reclaimed out of heathen bondage,” sighed the old abbess. “Christ is triumphant at last.”

“It is this very thing we have come to tell Lady Niamh,” the monk continued. “That Jerusalem is won, but at fearful cost, including the life of her husband—sad tidings for the lady, to be sure. Yet, it is our hope that we might mitigate the severity of the lady's grief by reuniting her with her surviving son.” Placing
a hand on Murdo's shoulder, he said, “All we ask is the opportunity to speak with her for a moment, and then whether she stays or goes will be her decision to make, and hers alone, as you suggest.”

The monk's mollifying tone produced the desired effect. In fact, his address worked so well that Murdo suspected the abbess had been waiting to hear those precise words before proceeding further.

“Very well,” Abbess Angharad promptly conceded, “I will arrange for you to see Lady Niamh. You will wait here, please.”

The dutiful abbess departed, leaving them to themselves. Murdo, anxious and indignant at being made to wait some more, stalked back and forth across the floor. In an effort to distract him, Emlyn talked about the convent and its useful presence in the place, and the sisters' tireless good works on behalf of the people.

Murdo waved him to silence as Abbess Angharad pushed open the door just then. She entered the room, hands folded, pursing her lips and regarding the fat brother with rank disapproval. Turning to Murdo she said, “Lady Niamh will see you. Follow me, and I will take you to a place where you can speak privately.”

The sister led them out across the yard to a wooden door set in one of the walls. Here she paused, and indicated that Murdo was to enter. “I will give you a few moments to yourselves.”

Murdo thanked the abbess, and stepped through the doorway. “You go ahead,” Emlyn said. “I will await you here.”

Murdo found himself in a small orchard, walled on every side to protect the trees from the cruel northern winds. But this day, in the full flower of spring, the air was warm and full of the sound of bees working among the pear and apple trees. The sunlight was bright, and it took him a moment to see the figure
bending low in the shadow of one of the boughs.

Dressed in the gray, shapeless robe and mantle of the nuns, her hair wrapped in the same cloth, she knelt over something on the ground, her back to him. Murdo took two awkward steps and stopped. “My lady?” he said, his voice low, so as not to frighten her.

The figure straightened instantly, and froze.

“My lady,” he said again, “it is Murdo. I have returned.”

The woman turned her head and Murdo's heart clenched in his chest. “Ragna?”

The slender young woman stood slowly, and took a hesitant step toward him, a multitude of emotions playing over her features. She gave out a cry and rushed into his arms. “Murdo!”

“Ragna…” he said, and then her mouth found his and he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her fiercely to him, as if to make up in one embrace for all the times he had yearned to hold her, but could not. Ragna kissed him again and again, raining kisses on his face and neck, her hands clutching him so that he would not escape again, tears of gladness streaming down her cheeks.

“Ragna…my heart…how I have missed you,” he said, burying his face in the hollow of her slender neck. “I am here. I am home.”

“My love,” she whispered. “They did not tell me you—”

“They said I was to see my mother, I did not know—”

“She is here—”

“I have come for you. We will leave this place at once. We will go—”

“Shh!” she whispered, placing her fingertips to his lips. “Do not speak. Just hold me.”

They stood still, eyes closed, their bodies pressed tightly to one another, and Murdo felt a warmth descend upon him, and
his heart quickened—as if a shard of ice which had pierced his heart had begun to melt away in the heat of Ragna's loving embrace. Murdo would have been content to stay like this for ever, but he slowly became aware of another presence in the orchard. He opened his eyes and looked over Ragna's shoulder to the place where she had been kneeling.

There, in the long, green grass, sat a chubby, round-faced infant, staring at him with wide brown eyes. At Murdo's glance the babe let out a spirited yelp, drawing Ragna's attention. Taking Murdo's hand, she led him to the child, then stooped and gathered the babe into her arms.

“Eirik,” she said softly, putting her lips to the child's round cheek. “Your father has come home. See? This is Murdo. He is your da.”

“Da!” exclaimed the child, reaching out with a plump little hand.

Murdo, awestricken, took the tiny hand in his own and the strength of the tiny grip filled him with wonder. “Mine?” he gasped. “I have a child?”

“Ours,” corrected Ragna. “Yes, my love, you have a son. His name is Eirik.”

Raising a hand to touch the child's pale yellow curls, he put his face near the babe's and whispered, “My son…” That was all he could get out before the lump in his throat took away his voice.

He gathered Ragna and the child to him, kissing them both, and the three were yet standing together when he heard a soft footfall in the grass. He turned his face to see his mother approaching swiftly through the grass. “Oh, Murdo…Murdo,” she said, her eyes shining with tears. “When abbess told me you were here, I…I knew you would come back.”

He turned to take her hands, and drew her near. “Mother…” he said, as she kissed him on the cheek.

“Welcome home, Murdo, my heart, I knew you would come for us.” Looking to Ragna, she said, “We both prayed every day for your safe return.”

“Mother,” he said gently, “I am the only one to return.” He then told her of Ranulf's death.

Niamh, clutching her hands, bowed her head and began to cry. Murdo put his arm around her, and let her weep. When the first wave of grief had passed, Murdo told her, “I saw him before he died. We talked long and he told me everything. I will tell you all he said, but now is not the time.”

“I feared he would not be coming home,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought I was prepared for the worst, but…” She broke off, drew a deep breath, and said, “Tell me now—I must know, what of Torf-Einar and Skuli? Were they killed, too?”