The iron lance cc-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  So, when the two latest arrivals and their vassal lords were brought into his presence, they found the emperor standing before his throne and looking as if he expected to mount his horse at any moment and charge into battle. His manner, like his surroundings, bespoke an able ruler in full command of his faculties, passions, and authority. Tancred decided, before he had moved a dozen paces into the room, that he would happily sign the oath of fealty to this emperor.

  Bohemond, however, appeared impervious to Alexius' sly design. Ever the arrogant prince, he walked with his customary swagger across the marble floor to stand directly before the throne and look God's Ruler on Earth in the eye.

  'So, Bohemond, here you are again,' said the emperor, unable to bring himself to utter words of false welcome. 'You always wished to gain entrance to our palace; at long last it would appear you have achieved your ambition-unlike the last time you were here.'

  Bohemond's smile was broad and genuine. 'Hail, Alexius! God be good to you, I hope.' He looked around the room, filling his eyes with the grand and stately architecture; even in its subdued condition, the room was still far more magnificent than any royal apartment he had ever known. 'To think,' he said amiably, 'I have achieved in friendship what could not be gained by force of arms.'

  'You call yourself our friend,' remarked Alexius. 'Do we discern a change of heart?'

  'I stand before you, Lord Emperor, your humble servant,' replied Bohemond, spreading his empty hands before him. Alexius remarked how large were those hands, and how powerful those arms. 'As you see me, so I am.'

  'We do see you, Prince Bohemond,' the emperor intoned, 'but the sight does not entirely expunge the memory of our last exchange.' Even as he spoke the words, Alexius judged the changes in the man before him; twelve years had done much for old Robert's son. A tall, rangy youth, he had put muscle to his lanky bones; broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, he stood on long sturdy legs, with not the least hint of meekness in his clear blue eyes. Both chin and cheek were smooth from the razor, and his hair, unlike that of so many Franks, was cut even to his shoulders. He moved easily, and with confidence, alert to all around him. If not for the fellow's insufferable arrogance, pride, and over-reaching ambition, Alexius might have found it in himself to befriend the top-lofty prince.

  'But that was a long time ago, Lord Emperor,' Bohemond was saying, still smiling. 'Then, I was merely a vassal in the command of my father. Today, however, I come freely of my own volition, responding purely out of Christian duty to see our common enemy vanquished, and the lands hallowed by our Lord and Saviour returned to the rightful occupation and veneration of God's faithful people.'

  'Be assured all Heaven rejoices to hear it,' Alexius replied, moving swiftly to the moment of anticipated difficulty. 'We are always glad to welcome men of such high-minded resolve into our confidence-in observance of which we have prepared a small token of our regard.' He lifted a hand to the magister officiorum, who stepped forward with a lacquered tray bearing two fine golden bowls set with rubies and sapphires.

  Alexius allowed his guests to fill their eyes with the prizes, and then, with a nod to Theodosius, Logothete of the Symponus, who advanced bearing the parchment square containing the oath of loyalty which Hugh, Godfrey, and Baldwin had already signed, the emperor said, 'So that we may all be of one accord, and enjoy the benefits of our newfound friendship, it only remains for you to join your fellow pilgrims in the recognition of our imperial sovereignty.'

  Tancred, wishing to express his independence and secure the emperor's favour forthwith, spoke first. 'I will delay only so long as it takes to pare reed and dip pen,' he said, inclining his head. Whereupon the magister unfolded the document and, placing it on a board bearing a pot of ink and a prepared quill, offered it to the young nobleman, who affixed his signature beneath those of Godfrey and Baldwin while the magister held the board.

  'Your readiness shames me, Tancred,' Bohemond observed. 'But I will write my name large so that our friend and emperor will know at a glance who it is that he has clasped to his bosom in friendship.' Taking up the quill pen he dipped the tip in the pot and with an elaborate flourish wrote his name in letters twice the size of all the others. He replaced the quill and, still smiling, inclined his head in submission.

  The emperor, unable to believe the ease with which he had secured Bohemond's vow, said, 'Come, Nicetas, present the gifts to our esteemed guests.'

  Tancred eagerly received the offered bowl; it was definitely worth the cost of travelling to Constantinople. Bohemond did not lift a hand to the tray, however, but remained with his hands clasped before him, smiling as he had since entering the throne room. 'Do not think I shun your gift, Lord and Emperor,' the prince said. 'If I refrain, it is not from scorn, but rather out of forbearance.'

  Alexius stared at the haughty prince and tried to imagine Bohemond exercising this particular virtue. Certainly, he possessed all of his father's insatiable passions, and old Robert Guiscard had never abstained from anything the entire length of his life.

  'You have some other token in mind, perhaps,' the emperor decided at last.

  'Ah, you have hit on the very thing, lord,' replied Bohemond. 'As it happens, the pilgrimage we have undertaken is one in which the warrior arts must, alas, also play their part. It would mean more to me than treasures of gold to receive the imperial blessing on our mutual enterprise.'

  'Our blessing,' echoed Alexius, smelling a trap, but unable to discern what it might be. 'Of course, Prince Bohemond, we ever offer prayers and blessings for the success of God's endeavours, and for those who carry out our Heavenly Father's designs on earth. What form might this blessing take?'

  Bohemond's smile widened even further, showing his strong white teeth. 'Mere words,' the prince replied. 'A title only.'

  'Have you a title in mind?' inquired the emperor, suspicion making him wary.

  'Since you ask, it would please me to become Grand Domestic of the Imperial Armies.' Bohemond spoke simply, humbly-as if this were a thing of no consequence which had only just come into his mind.

  The emperor felt the full implications of the request instantly. 'You are a bold schemer, Bohemond. Any man who doubts it does so to his regret and dismay.'

  The shrewd prince watched the emperor carefully. 'Do you refuse my request?'

  'We do not,' answered Alexius, choosing his words carefully. He knew full well the danger of denying Bohemond; at the same time, he could not possibly give the prince authority over the crusader armies. 'On the contrary, Bold Prince, we deem it a sound and sensible appointment. We doubt the leadership of the pilgrim forces could be placed in better hands. Indeed, we are only sorry that we cannot accede to your desires at this very moment. You will understand the difficulty if we are seen to favour one nobleman over another before all have arrived. Still, we are happy to offer you every assurance that when the time becomes appropriate, the title you seek will be swiftly granted.'

  Bohemond, much to the emperor's relief and gratitude, accepted this answer with good grace. 'I leave it to your discretion, Emperor Alexius. When the time is ripe, you will find me eager to take up my new responsibilities.'

  'We will await the day with keen anticipation. Until then,' said the emperor, almost hugging himself with joy for the way in which he had brought the difficult prince to heel, 'please accept the bowl as a small emblem of the treasures awaiting those who persevere in faith and,' he added pointedly, 'loyalty.'

  EIGHTEEN

  Murdo glowered at the white-haired monk before him. Why did it have to be priests, he wondered, and nosey ones at that? 'I was hoping to go to Jerusalem with King Magnus,' he muttered thickly, 'but I did not reach the ships in time.' The thought of sharing ship space with them filled him with despair-and all the way to Jerusalem!

  'How extraordinary!' remarked the tallest of the three clerics. Somewhat older than the others, he appeared to be the leader of the group. His curly white hair was thick and close cut, making him appear to be wearing a fleece on his hea
d.

  'Extraordinary!' agreed the other two, regarding Murdo with a benign interest that made his skin crawl.

  'That is exactly what happened to us,' the tall monk said. 'It took longer to reach Inbhir Ness than we knew. We arrived too late and missed the king's fleet.' The three fell to squabbling about how narrowly they had missed the boat-was it one day, or two, or more? They could not agree; but then, agreement seemed the furthest thing from their intentions.

  Without a doubt, Murdo reflected sourly, these were the least likely churchmen he had ever encountered: dressed in long robes of undyed wool, the hems of which were tattered and bedraggled with mud; the hoods of their cowls hung down their backs almost touching the ground, and their sleeves were absurdly wide and ample. They were bare-footed, dirty-fingered, and reeking with the odour of lamb fat which Murdo could smell from where he stood.

  Huge, worn, leather satchels hung at their sides from straps over their shoulders and, although they were aboard a ship in the middle of the sea, each one carried a well-worn wooden staff made from a rowan sapling. Their foreheads were shaved from ear to ear, save for a thin circlet of close-cropped hair resembling a crown at the brow.

  Despite his aversion to clerics, Murdo could not take his eyes from them. as he looked on, it occurred to him that they were like ancient Druids – those weird and mysterious figures who inhabited the tales his grandmother used to tell. 'The druid-kind are wise and powerful seers, Murdo-boy,' she would tell him. 'They know all things men can know, for they do peer through the veil of time. They know the pathways that lead beyond the walls of this world and, as we might go to Kirkjuvagr, they roam the Otherworld.'

  Could they be druids? Murdo wondered. But then he saw the large wooden crosses on leather loops around their necks, and decided that, perhaps they were priests after all-but of some obscure variety unknown to him. One tall and rangy, one narrow-faced and round-shouldered, one short and fat, with their filthy and dishevelled appearance, battered satchels and absurd staffs and chunky wooden crosses, they were, if possible, even more odious than the ordinary kind Murdo knew and loathed. Had he possessed a lump of dung, Murdo would have cheerfully pelted them with it.

  It was just past dawn, and all the rest of the ship's crew, save the pilot – a grizzled hank of bone and hair named Gorm Far-Seer -were still asleep. Murdo had just woken from his place at the prow, when the three emerged from the tented platform behind the mast where they had, apparently, been sleeping off the effects of too much Inbhir Ness ale. They then proceeded to hobble up one side of the ship and down the other-not once only, but three times-slowly. They walked with their rowan staffs in their right hands, left hands raised above their foreheads, chanting with high reedy voices in a language that Murdo could not understand.

  Upon the completion of their third circuit of the ship, they had come to stand before Murdo to greet him and make his acquaintance. He had not encouraged their questions, but these strange clerics seemed oblivious to his resentment.

  'Maybe he has been unforeseeably detained,' the fat one was saying. He spoke his Latin in an odd lilting tongue, strangely accented -more like singing than speaking. 'That is exactly what I said: "He has been detained"-did I not?'

  'And I replied, "I fear your hope is mistaken, brother," remember?' answered the thin one in a fine, faintly accented intonation. 'It was, if you will reconsider, precisely explained to us that the king had been there already. The master of the harbour was most emphatic about that.'

  'Ah, but there was no harbour,' pointed out the tall one; his speech danced, too, but in a way slightly different to the others. 'Unless the rudimentary timber mooring on the river could in some way be considered a harbour.'

  'Of course there was no harbour,' replied the thin-faced monk. 'I merely meant that which serves in place of a harbour for the good folk of Inbhir Ness.'

  'If there was no harbour, there could not be a harbour master,' the tall monk rejoined. 'Ergo, the man you spoke to may not, in fact, have possessed the necessary authority to provide satisfactory answer to our inquiry.'

  'There may be something in what you say,' allowed the fat priest. 'Yet, I feel duty bound to point out that the man's authority was never at issue. Rather, it was his perspicacity. Any man with wit enough -'

  Murdo, astonished that they should recount in word-for-word detail their inane argument of two days ago, shook his head in disbelief. 'But how else were we to get to Jerusalem?' wondered the round-shouldered one. 'That is the question before us, brothers.'

  'How indeed?' mused the tall monk. 'If not for the Great King's providential intervention, we might yet be pondering that very question.'

  'We might have walked,' suggested the thin-faced monk. 'Many illustrious persons have done so in the past, much to their spiritual improvement. After all,' he added, 'it is the means of conveyance our Lord Christ himself chose when travelling abroad the land.'

  'Verily, brother, verily,' agreed the elder cleric amiably. 'Well said.'

  'I have no objection to it whatever,' said the fat one. 'I would only offer the observation that Jerusalem may be, according to many and various accounts, rather a great distance from our own green and pleasant shores. Therefore, a journey by foot could conceivably take somewhat longer than we anticipate. The crusade might indeed have achieved its end long before we reached the Holy Land, it must be said.'

  'Alas, I fear you may be right,' sighed the thin one, suddenly disheartened by the thought.

  Murdo, annoyed by their vaunted blather, decided they were harmless enough, if somewhat tedious. He was about to leave them to their pointless debate when the fat one looked up and grinned at him, his round face shining with simple good will. 'Brothers, see here! We are forgetting ourselves. Our young friend has no interest in our trifling suppositions.' The monk inclined his head in acknowledgement of Murdo's patience. 'Like you, we are on pilgrimage. It was arranged for us to join King Magnus' fleet at Inbhir Ness and take passage with him.' Smiling happily, he cheerfully confided, 'We are to be his advisors-in spiritual matters, that is-for the duration of the pilgrimage.'

  'My brothers,' announced the tall monk suddenly, 'this is a most auspicious meeting, and one deserving of proper-and, I dare suggest, hallowed-recognition. The Good Lord has placed this young man in our path as a friend for the journey. Let us acknowledge this glad meeting with a drink!'

  'Ale!' cried the fat monk. 'We must have ale!'

  'The very cry of my heart,' remarked the tall cleric. 'Yes, yes, you and Fionn fetch us all some ale. We will celebrate the Almighty's wondrous providence.'

  The two clerics tottered off along the rail, returning from their tent a few moments later bearing jars of frothy brown ale which they handed around.

  'Hail, Brave Wanderer!' proclaimed the fat monk, thrusting a jar into Murdo's hands. 'May the Lord of Hosts be good to you; may the Lord of Peace richly bless you; may the Lord of Grace grant you your heart's desire.' Raising his jar in salute, he cried, 'Slainte!'

  'Slainte!' echoed the other two, eagerly raising their jars.

  Murdo recognized the word as Gaelic, a language many of Orkneyjar's older families still maintained, and one his mother often employed when more mundane words failed her. Consequently, Murdo knew enough of it to make himself understood. 'Slainte mor!' he said, which brought smiles and nods of approval from the clerics.

  'A man blessed of Heaven's own tongue!' declared the thin-faced monk. 'It is myself, Brother Fionn mac Enda, at your service. May I know your name, my friend?'

  'I am Murdo Ranulfson of Dyrness in Orkneyjar,' he answered, straightening himself and squaring his shoulders so as to be worthy of his father's name.

  'We drink to you, Murdo Ranulfson!' said the monk called Fionn, and all three raised their cups and began slurping noisily. Murdo followed their example, and for a moment they occupied themselves wholly with their cups.

  When the clerics finally came up for a breath, the fat one, beaming like a happy cherub, announced, 'I am called Emlyn
ap Hygwyd, and I am pleased to meet you, Murdo. I believe we shall be good friends, you and I.'

  Although the prospect seemed unlikely in light of Murdo's avowed enmity toward priests, the rotund cleric spoke with such sincerity, Murdo could not bring himself to openly disagree.

  'If you please, good Murdo,' Emlyn continued, 'allow me to present our esteemed superior, Brother Ronan macDiarmuid.'

  The tallest monk bowed his head humbly. 'Superior in years only,' he replied with gentle dignity, 'not, I hasten to assure you, in zeal for our Lord, devotion, or holiness.'

  Murdo repeated the monks names, whereupon they all drank again, and declared the ale a blessing of the highest virtue-in consideration of which they would all be guilty of gross impiety if they did not instantly avail themselves of a second helping. Accordingly, they drained the cups quickly, and Emlyn and Fionn hastened to refill them, returning in a short while, loudly praising the brewer's remarkable skill and generosity.

  After they had guzzled from their jars, Ronan said, 'Now then, if I may be so bold as to suggest, I find it astonishing that a man of your tender years should be undertaking pilgrimage alone -commendable to be sure, even laudable-but astonishing nonetheless.'

  'Many people from Orkneyjar have taken the cross,' Murdo assured him quickly. 'My father and brothers have gone before me-they travel in company with Duke Robert of Normandy, and many other noblemen. I am going to join them.'

  'Ah, yes,' remarked the monk, as if Murdo had supplied the solution to a longstanding mystery.

  'Extraordinary!' the other two declared.

  Eager to avoid further questions, Murdo said, 'How is it that you come to follow King Magnus?'

  'As it happens,' Ronan answered, 'our abbey occupies lands granted to Lord Magnus by Malcolm, High King of the Scots some years ago-near Thorsa. Do you know it?'