The iron lance cc-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  'Your Holiness flatters me,' Dalassenus answered smoothly. 'Perhaps you will permit me to say that the Basileus has sent his kinsman and servant so that you may know the high regard he has placed on your counsel, and the eagerness with which he awaits your reply.'

  Urban regarded the emperor's letter, bound with ribands of gold and sealed in purple. Could it be that now, at long last, his adversary was accepting the peace he had laboured so diligently to achieve? Healing the generations-old fracture had been one of the chief aims of his papal tenure and, if he understood Dalassenus correctly, that selfsame reconciliation was now delivered into his grasp.

  Dalassenus continued, 'Also, the Basileus would have it known that, after a lengthy investigation into the matter, it has at last come to light that the name of the Patriarch of Rome had been omitted from the diptych not by any canonical decision but, as it were, from carelessness. Rest assured this highly unfortunate oversight has been corrected.'

  The pope moved to secure the peace at once. 'I rejoice to hear it,' Urban replied, smiling benignly at his guest. 'Tonight we will dine together you and I, and discuss the preparations for a celebration to mark the resumption of friendly relations between Rome and Byzantium.'

  'Nothing would please me more, Bishop Urban. Unfortunately, my stay must be brief; Basileus Alexius expects my imminent return.'

  'Then tell me your errand, my friend,' the pope said, 'and I will do my best to accommodate you however I may.'

  'It is simply this,' Dalassenus replied and, using every grain of discretion at his command, inquired whether the pope had seen fit to reply to the emperor's request for troops to help restore the themes for the coming campaign to recover the imperial territories lost to the Arabs.

  'As to the matter of the emperor's enquiry,' Urban answered happily, 'you may tell our brother and friend, that I did indeed take his entreaty to heart. What is more, I wasted not a moment, but acted on it without delay. You see, I myself have but recently returned from the field of battle, so to speak.'

  The pope went on to describe what he called his inspiration in convening a council of bishops to discuss the need for aiding the empire, and to decide what form this aid might take. 'I am pleased to relate that the council has seen the wisdom of protecting the cradle of our salvation from heathen predation. Moreover, I have sent letters to all the bishops under my authority to preach Crusade.'

  'Crusade?' Dalassenus had never heard the word before, but knew his worst fears confirmed.

  'It is to be a pilgrimage like no other,' the pope explained. 'I have called upon the lords of the West to raise up an army of holy warriors to defend the Holy Land.'

  'Then it is true,' the young commander confirmed. 'You are sending an army into Byzantium.'

  Allowing himself a smile of quiet satisfaction, the Bishop of Rome answered, 'The idea was not original, I assure you. Confidentially, far too many of our noblemen are preoccupied with petty wars among themselves. Think you it pleases God to see his children wasting life and substance fighting each other when godless heathen occupy the Holy City, and stain the very stones where Jesu walked with the blood of the righteous? It is nothing less than an abomination.'

  'Of course, Lord Bishop,' agreed Dalassenus quickly, 'but -

  'This I have preached, and the call has been answered. God be praised! Even now the lords of the West, mighty men of faith one and all, are raising armies to march against the infidel. I only wish that I could lead them myself,' he sighed, then pressed on with enthusiasm: 'Still, may it please God, I have delegated the task to one of my bishops-Adhemar of Le Puy enjoys my full authority so far as the disposition of the pilgrimage is concerned.'

  'Bishop Adhemar,' the drungarius repeated dully.

  'Do you know him?'

  'Alas, no.'

  'A wonderful man-solid of faith and rich in good works, a saint unflagging in zeal and courage.'

  'Be that as it may,' Dalassenus said, 'it appears your intentions have been anticipated somewhat.' He then told the pope about Peter the Hermit and his pilgrim horde, and their unruly excursion through imperial lands.

  Bishop Urban shook his head sadly. 'It is unfortunate, I agree, but I do not see how it can be prevented. God calls who he will. Are we to judge who may take the cross, and who must refrain? It is the instrument of salvation for many, and no earthly power has the right to deny it.'

  'When will these-Dalassenus hesitated. To avoid needless antagonism, he said, 'These crusaders – they will pass through Constantinople, no doubt? In that event, it would be useful to know how many we might expect to receive.'

  The pope's eyes went wide at the question. 'I have no idea! It is God's will, my friend. He alone knows the number. Yet, I can tell you the call was most enthusiastically received.'

  'When might we expect them?'

  'I have decreed that those wishing to follow Bishop Adhemar on pilgrimage must be ready to depart no later than August of this year. God willing, you may expect their arrival by the Christ Mass, if not before.'

  'The emperor will be delighted to hear it,' the young commander replied, trying not to let dismay colour his tone.

  'Good,' the pope answered. 'So be it.'

  'Now, if you will excuse me, I must make arrangements for my departure.'

  'Such devotion to duty is laudable, Drungarius Dalassenus. But must you leave Rome so soon? I had hoped you would dine with us here in the palace. These are exciting times, and there is much to discuss.'

  'I am sorry. As much as I might wish otherwise, I am compelled to rejoin the Basileus as soon as possible.'

  'As you will.' Urban, Patriarch of Rome, extended his hand for the kiss, and the young commander brushed the papal ring with his lips. 'Farewell, my son. Greet the emperor in my name, and tell him he is remembered daily in prayer, as are all our brothers in the east.'

  'Thank you, I will indeed tell him,' Dalassenus answered. 'Fare well, Bishop Urban.'

  The young commander turned on his heel and departed the audience room. Urban sat for a long time, contemplating the incredible event which had just taken place. Then, when he had set the thing properly in his mind, he called his abbot to him and, giving him the emperor's letter, commanded him to read it aloud. The priest broke the seal, unfolded the heavy parchment square and, in a high, thin, reedy voice, began to read.

  'Slowly, Brother Marcus,' the pope chided, 'slowly-and in Latin, please. My Greek has never been more than adequate. Begin again, my friend, if you please.'

  As the abbot began once more, Pope Urban leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Yes, he thought, the long hoped-for reconciliation had come; what is more, thanks to the tremendous response to his call to Crusade, it was now proceeding more swiftly than he would have dared dream possible.

  SEVEN

  Harvest time sped by Murdo in a dull blur of sweat and fatigue. Day after day, he dragged his aching body out of bed at first light, pulled on his clothes, and was in the fields by dawn, where he laboured until long into the radiant northern twilight, pausing only to break fast at midday, and then again for supper. He took his meals in the field with the vassals and, like his father, worked elbow to elbow with them, never allowing himself even so much as a swallow of water unless he could offer them the same.

  By the time the last sheaf of grain had been gathered and the last lonely kernel gleaned, Murdo knew deep in every bone and sinew that he had never worked so hard, nor accomplished so much. The fact that the final three rows were harvested under black, threatening skies with the rumble of thunder in the distance only increased his sense of triumph. When the last wagon trundled into the yard and the oxen were led to the barn, he stood and gazed proudly at the great stacks of yellow grain, marvelling at the achievement. When his mother came and put her arm around his shoulder in a gentle hug, Murdo could not have been more delighted if heaps of gold had been mined and stored away.

  'You have done well, Murdo,' his mother told him. 'I cannot remember a
richer harvest. Your father could not have done better, and he would tell you the same if he were here.'

  'The weather remained dry, and that helped,' he replied sagely. Casting an eye towards the dark clouds overhead, he added, 'I feared the storm would take the last, but it can rain from now until Yuletide and I will not breathe a word of complaint.'

  'A harvest like this deserves a feast,' Niamh suggested. 'Tomorrow we will celebrate. Tell the tenants and vassals, and then choose a pig-oh, and one of the yearling calves, too. We will make it a fine harvest celebration.'

  As his mother hurried off to begin ordering the preparations, Murdo stood for a time admiring his handiwork. Then, adopting the manner of the absent lord himself, he strode into the barn where the workers were placing the last sheaves onto the stack, and began praising the men for their diligence and hard work. 'Tomorrow will be a feast-day at Hrafnbu farm,' he told them, and bade them bring wives, children and their old ones to help observe the festivities properly. Leaving the others to finish in the barn, Murdo and Fossi went to the cattle pens to choose the calf and pig for the feast.

  Fossi was the family's oldest and most trusted servingman. Though his hair had grown grey in the service of Lord Ranulf's father, he still moved with the spry step of a man twenty years younger; his eye was as clear and his hand as steady as Murdo's. Never one to speak two words where one would do, that one word was worth ten of anyone else's. Old Fossi could be relied on to say what he thought without regard to rank or favour.

  'What think you, Fossi?' asked Murdo as they leaned on the enclosure fence.

  'The gathering-in?'

  'Yes. How do you mark it?'

  'I marks it right fair.'

  They stood a little in silence before Murdo coaxed some more out of him. 'I am thinking it is better than last year,' Murdo suggested.

  'Oh, aye,' agreed Fossi.

  'We shall have enough to plant the new field, I think,' Murdo ventured. Lord Ranulf had cleared a patch of ground to the south of the present barley field earlier in the summer, and it was Murdo's plan to sow it in the spring as his father intended.

  'Aye,' Fossi concurred, 'we will.'

  Satisfied with this, Murdo chose a fine, fat calf from among the yearlings, and one of the pigs. 'Mind you do not take Red William by mistake,' Murdo warned. 'He is for the Yule board.'

  Fossi frowned and regarded Murdo with dark disapproval for impugning his abilities, but said nothing. Leaving Fossi to oversee the butchering, Murdo walked back to the house, tired in every muscle, but glowing with a contentment he would have envied in anyone else. The first drops of rain splashed into the dust at his feet as he reached the yard; he paused and stood as the rain pattered down around him, feeling the cool splashes on his upturned face.

  'Come winds and rain and winter cold,' he hummed to himself, reciting the words to the song, 'my hearth is warm and my house is dry, and I shall not stir until the sun does rise on blessed Easter morning.'

  The good weather held long enough for the folk of Hrafnbu to enjoy their feast the next day, but after that a gale broke in full across the isles. The golden autumn dissolved in a rainy haze that did not lift, giving way instead to cold, grey days of rain and snow. Winter came early and stayed long, but the great house and its inhabitants remained in good spirits, passing a fine, if somewhat subdued, Yuletide with guests from the neighbouring farms.

  Murdo reluctantly returned to his wintertime pursuit of Latin, and made steady progress in both reading and speech. His natal day passed uneventfully and unmarked, save for his mother's thoughtful present of one of Lord Ranulf's best hunting spears-one which Murdo had secretly coveted for some time. True, it was not the swordtaking he would have wished, but it would have to do until his father returned. He prized the spear, and alternated his Latin with hunting from then on.

  Following the turn of the year, he and his mother, along with some of the neighbours, rode to the church at Saint Mary's for the Feast of the Virgin. They stayed seven nights at Borgvik, the estate of Jarl Erlend's younger sister, Cecilia, and her family. There were many young people, but no one Murdo's age, and while the older people made vague attempts to include him in their conversations, all the talk of fishing and farming soon grew wearisome and he decided to play games with the children instead.

  Upon their return to the bu, Murdo began the task of repairing the tools and equipment for the spring planting. Besides that, there was the lambing to think about, but mostly the days remained uncluttered and he had time to himself. He occupied himself with riding the estate, often taking the spear and, with two or three of the tenants' sons, trying his hand at hunting for the table. The woods at the end of the valley yielded a young stag, and though they often saw wild pigs, they were never able to get close enough to one for a good cast.

  Often on these excursions Murdo pretended he was on pilgrimage fighting Saracens. With every throw and thrust of the spear, he struck a decisive blow for Christendom. From time to time, he wondered about his father and brothers. He had no idea how far distant Jerusalem might be, but he thought they must soon be returning. How long could it take to liberate the Holy Land from the slack grasp of a few vexatious Arabs?

  According to common opinion, the pilgrims would make short work of it so that they could return to the comforts of home as soon as possible. Murdo decided that his father and brothers would be back well before the next harvest, and he would not have to undertake that chore alone.

  Thus the months passed, and winter grudgingly receded. The days grew longer and warmer, and the rains less fierce. As spring firmed its hold on the land, Murdo frequently found himself weighing the possibility of paying a visit to Lord Brusi's estate to see how Lady Ragnhild and her daughter were bearing the lord's absence. Try as he might, however, he could find neither a convenient nor convincing excuse to go to Hrolfsey. Sailing from one island to another was not difficult, but it was not a thing one did casually, and it was not in the way of a simple day's outing. His mother would have to know, and he had no satisfactory means of explaining his sudden interest in the welfare of the Hrolfsey farming estates.

  He decided instead to make certain he and his mother attended the Eastertide ceremonies at the cathedral-in the hope that Lady Ragnhild would do the same. It took him several days to work up his courage to broach the subject with her, and then several more to find just the right opportunity to introduce it naturally into the conversation so that she would not suspect him of plotting anything. His chance came one night when, after their supper, he and Lady Niamh were sitting in their chairs before the hearth. His mother was mending a siarc, and he was stropping a knife on a length of leather when his mother said, 'We will soon begin our Lenten observances.'

  'Is Eastertide so near?' he wondered, assuming an air of astonishment. 'I suppose it must be. What with the planting and all, I had completely forgotten.'

  This statement, uttered with innocent sincerity, caused his mother to look up from her needle to regard him curiously. Murdo continued stropping the knife, aware of her glance, but betraying no sign. After a moment, Lady Niamh resumed her sewing. 'We must give a thought to Eastertide preparations,' she said.

  'Did we go to the cathedral last year?' Murdo asked. 'I have forgotten.'

  'Oh, Murdo, of course we did,' his mother informed him with quiet exasperation. 'You forget because it is beneath your regard to remember. You have so little heart for the church, I wonder you go at all, Murdo.'

  I would not go, he thought to himself, if I was not forever pestered into going. Adopting a suitably contrite tone, he admitted, 'It is not often uppermost in my thoughts, it is true. But I did enjoy the Saint John's feast, and I would be happy to hear Easter Mass at the cathedral-if that is what you wish.'

  Oh, that was well done. He had deftly turned the entire affair into a matter of pleasing his mother. Murdo commended himself on his shrewdness and aplomb.

  His exultation was short-lived, however, for his mother downed her needlework to stare at him-a
s if unable to determine whether it was indeed her son sitting beside her, or a sly impostor. 'As it happens,' she said, 'I have already made other plans. We are to spend Eastertide elsewhere.'

  Murdo felt his heart sink. After all his cunning and careful planning, he was not to go to the cathedral at all. In desperation he said, 'Yet the cathedral is a splendid sight on Easter-what with all the gold and finery. Could we not hear the mass, at least, before chasing off somewhere else? I do so like it there.'

  Lady Niamh frowned and shook her head. 'You are a wonder. I had no idea you held such strong opinions on the matter.' She paused, considering what to do. After a moment, she said, 'Honestly, I wish you had spoken sooner, Murdo. Lady Ragnhild has invited us to join them, and I have accepted. I do not see how I can tell her that we will not come after all-they will have made many preparations for us.' She paused again. 'But, if you are determined, we might-'

  'Lady Ragnhild – wife of Lord Brusi…' Murdo interrupted quickly.

  'Yes, the same-and if you tell me you cannot remember them, Murdo, I will thump you with a broom.'

  'I remember them right well,' Murdo replied truthfully. 'But I do not recall seeing a messenger hereabouts.'

  'Messenger? Whatever do you mean? There was never any messenger.'

  'Then how-?'

  His mother regarded him with frank exasperation and clucked her tongue. 'Ragnhild herself invited us at the Feast of Saint John. She knew we would be alone-as she would be herself- with the menfolk gone on pilgrimage. I told her we would be honoured and delighted to observe the holy days with them.'