Before Murdo could answer, Fionn broke in, saying, 'When we learned that the good king had taken the cross and intended following the crusade, we made entreaty for the privilege of accompanying our monarch and benefactor on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'
'Our bishop kindly granted our petition,' explained Emlyn, 'and it was arranged that we should accompany King Magnus to Jerusalem. I can only think that something must have gone amiss, otherwise he would not have sailed without us.'
'We were,' offered Ronan, resuming his story, 'to be the king's guides and counsellors in all matters pertaining to the Holy Land and its environs-leaving, of course, any actual combat to the more militarily inclined among the king's retinue.'
'I have never touched a sword,' Emlyn proclaimed cheerfully. 'I am certain I would cut off my own foot before ever coming so much as a stone's throw from a Saracen.'
'He would,' confirmed Fionn. 'Indeed, he would-we all would. We are not warlike in the least.'
Murdo considered this pronouncement a pathetic confession of weakness, thinking that if he owned such a defect, he would not tell another soul; certainly, he would not boast about it with the pride these confused clerics appeared to enjoy.
'Well, I suppose the king has warriors enough already. No doubt he needs priests, too,' Murdo allowed, although why anybody should want three such garrulous clerics was a mystery-especially when even one priest was a priest too many in Murdo's reckoning.
Still, the mention of King Malcolm's name piqued his interest. That these monks should have some association with his mother's kin intrigued Murdo. What, he wondered, had the King of the Scots to do with the King of Norway? And why should either of them be giving lands to this curious breed of cleric? Clearly, there was more here than he knew, and he determined to find out.
The sun was a foul yellow flare directly overhead when Skidbladnir came in sight of the jutting peninsula called Andredeswald by the Angles who lived there. 'That is where we shall put in for supplies,' Jon Wing announced.
The weather had been fair and the winds good for many days, allowing the knife-hulled ship to soar over the gentle sea swell as it made its way down along the eastern coast, bearing its crew and passengers swiftly southward. They made landfall now and then at safe havens to refresh the water skins and stoups, always moving swiftly on. Murdo, anxious to reach the Holy Land, resented stopping now-especially since they seemed to have plenty of provisions already.
But Jon would have it no other way but that they put in to shore. 'Dofras is the last good market this side of the strait,' he explained. 'Where we fetch up next, I cannot say. Better to take with us what we can.'
The monks agreed this seemed the wisest course. 'The voyage could be long,' Emlyn told him.
'How long?' asked Murdo suspiciously.
'A year, perhaps even longer-or so I have heard,' replied the priest.
'A year!' challenged Murdo. No place could be so far away that it could take so long. He imagined a few more weeks would be more than sufficient.
'Oh, yes,' agreed Fionn. 'What with winter harbourage, it could well take longer.'
This information cast Murdo into such a dismal mood that he lost all interest in going into the town. As soon as the boat touched the strand, the monks scampered away to the market to secure the needed supplies. Jon, having no wish to visit the settlement himself, allowed his men to go and enjoy a brief diversion. 'I will stay and look after the ship,' he told them. 'You go on without me, but try not to get too drunk.' Turning to Murdo he advised, 'You should go, too. We will not see another familiar settlement in a very long time, nor-get any ol.'
'I left the last familiar settlement behind long ago,' Murdo told him. 'As I have no wish to drink ol in the marketplace, I will stay to help you with the boat.'
Jon shrugged, and proceeded to undertake an examination of his vessel, searching the craft prow to stern and rail to keel for anything requiring his attention; finding nothing particularly troublesome, he turned his scrutiny to the ropes and tiller and mast. Meanwhile, Murdo slipped over the side and waded to shore. The strand was flat and wide here, the settlement a fair distance from the sea, sheltering beneath towering cliffs of white stone. He walked a while along the sand, returning some time later to find Jon Wing wading around the hull of the ship, feeling the planking with his hands. Every now and then, he would take a deep breath and dive underwater, surfacing again in a moment to resume his inspection.
Murdo sat down on a low rock to watch, and approved of the precautions Jon was taking. He had quickly learned to respect the Norseman's seamanship, and that of his crew. They all worked well together, rarely provoking one another; each seemed to anticipate what the other would do so that Jon had little need to call commands or raise his voice in reprimand. Murdo knew enough about sailing to know that it was not as easy as Jon Wing and his crew made it appear. He concluded that this accord had been gained through long experience; probably they had sailed with one another for a few years at least.
The first of the evening stars were glowing when the monks and seamen returned, staggering over the strand, toting casks of ale, and sacks of grain, and numerous other bundles, including an entire side of smoked pork. The monks had purchased an enormous heap of common foodstuffs-so much, in fact, that Jon Wing complained that his ship would sink beneath the weight at the first contrary wave.
The monks merely shrugged and said that the market was so well-stocked with delicacies they could not help themselves. Apparently, restraint was not, Murdo reflected, a priestly virtue these curious clerics recognized.
Nevertheless, the supplies were quickly stowed, and Murdo, after a dull and tiresome day ashore, fairly itched to see the sail raised and the dragonhead prow slicing deep waves once again. But Jon Wing chose a snug little bay just a stone's throw down the coast and coved the boat for the night. 'After this, there is no more land for many days,' he said, when Murdo voiced his frustration. 'We will sleep on solid ground tonight. You should enjoy it while you can.'
The monks seemed overjoyed to have a night on dry land, and busied themselves with making a fire and preparing the evening meal. Despite his initial annoyance, supper that night was an extravagance Murdo welcomed. He watched hungrily while the clerics brought forth the victuals and set to work, as deft and clever in their movements as weavers. The seamen were amazed at the monks' proficiency with provisions. After securing the boat for the night, they settled before the campfire to gaze with increasing admiration at the masterful display.
Various raw ingredients appeared and were nimbly dispatched to pot and pan and skewer. The three worked efficiently, rarely speaking, wielding knives and spoons with the adroit agility of jugglers. Their craft, and the rising esteem of the onlookers, was augmented by the very good ale which they quaffed liberally and shared all around, 'To restore the inner man,' as Brother Emlyn put it.
The monks prepared food enough for a hundred footweary pilgrims: pease porridge and new brown bread; smoked fish cooked in milk and butter and onions; chops of pork roasted slowly above the fire, and over which, from time to time, they sprinkled a concoction of dried herbs; and apples, cored and cooked in cream and honey.
Ordinary fare, but exquisitely prepared, and Murdo, after devouring one bowl of porridge and two chops, began to see a side of monastery life previously unknown to him. Priests were still a bane and a blight – deceitful as snakes, and just as poisonous-but these,.he reflected once again, were of a wholly different stripe than any he had seen or heard tell of before. He wondered what other talents they possessed.
The seamen were equally impressed. Jon Wing could not help asking, 'Do you eat like this all the time in the monkery?'
'We are on pilgrimage,' Ronan cheerfully explained. 'It is forbidden for pilgrims to fast.'
By the time the last bowl was licked clean and the last bone tossed away, the moon had risen and stars could be seen reflecting on the smooth surface of the bay. Fionn banked the fire for the night, and the good brothers f
ell to discussing whether the soul of a sinner was heavier than that of a saint-being burdened down, as it was, with the dross of iniquity. The exchange was good-natured, and Murdo followed their musical speech as best he could until, full of good food and ale, he grew too drowsy to keep his eyes open anymore. Rolling himself in his cloak, he was soon asleep with the murmur of monks droning pleasantly in his ear, and dreams of Ragna floating through his head.
He was roused the next morning well before dawn by a cup of cold water dashed over him. Murdo leaped up, spluttering and swinging his fists. 'Here now,' Jon said, 'and I thought you were eager for leaving.'
Murdo shook the water out of his eyes and, with a grumble about the coarseness of the jest, fell to helping the others fill the water skins; meanwhile, the monks, yawning and scratching themselves, stowed their cooking utensils, and within a few moments of rising, the crew and passengers were aboard and rowing the boat towards the open sea once more. Murdo nestled himself among the grain bags in the centre of the ship and leaned against the mast; he watched the early-morning mist swirling over the water and listened to the birdcalls in the trees along the river. He must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing he knew, he was rolling on the bottom of the boat.
Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed the rail and looked out to see low, green, cloud-covered hills far behind, and nothing but empty sea and sky ahead. The sail snapped sharply and the ship plunged into the swell again. Jon Wing, pulling hard on the tiller oar, turned onto a new heading, and the ship began to run smoothly before the wind.
Murdo felt the sheer exhilaration of the chase stirring his blood. Somewhere out there, across the grey and vasty sea, his father and brothers were fighting the cunning Saracen, and he, Murdo, would find them and bring them back. It would happen; it must. He would make it happen.
He spared no kindly thought for the pope or his innumerable lackeys, nor for the sacred duty of the pilgrimage. Whether the crusade succeeded or failed was all one to Murdo; he could not have cared less one way or the other. His heart was filled with a single desire and had no room for anything else: to see the lands of his fathers restored. His life, his future, his happiness with Ragna -everything depended on saving Hrafnbu. That meant more to him than all the empire's gold-and certainly, far, far more than the pointless protection of a handful of churches and a few dusty relics no one he knew had ever seen.
'You are very grim for a young man,' Emlyn observed cheerfully.
Murdo turned his head to see the round-shouldered monk reclining on his elbows against the rail. 'I was thinking.' He shifted on the grain sacks for a better look at the jovial priest.
'About the crusade, yes?'
Murdo heard the word, but the crusade was so far from his thoughts that for a moment he could not make sense of what the cleric was saying. 'No, not that,' he answered at last. 'I was thinking about my farm-home, I mean.'
'You are wishing you had not left home perhaps,' suggested the monk. 'Ah, fy enaid,' he sighed wistfully. 'I, too, sometimes grow melancholy thinking of my home in blessed Dyfed.'
Murdo had never heard of the place and said so.
'Never heard of Dyfed!' cried the monk, aghast. 'Why, it is the best place on earth. God has showered every gift on that fair realm and the people there are the happiest to be found under Heaven's bright vault. How not? The land abounds in streams and lakes and springs of every kind-all of them flowing with water sweet and good to drink, water that makes the lightest, most delightful ale ever known, water that makes the thirsty kine content and the lambs' wool fine as silk.
'Truly, the weather is never harsh, and the breeze is soft as a mother's breath upon the cheek of her dearling child. The days are warm and the sky always blue as the lark's egg. Never does the stormcloud threaten, less yet conceal the glorious sun, for it rains only at night and then but gently, gently, wetting the land with dew as mild as milk. Thus, every good thing grows in abundance, and one has only to scatter the grainseed wherever he will to reap a bounteous harvest. Everywhere the grass is green and lush, fattening the cattle most remarkably well.'
The rapturous monk gulped down a breath, and plunged on in praise of his magical home. 'The women of Dyfed are beauty and elegance made flesh, and the men are bards and warriors every one. They live together in peaceful harmony, never speaking rudely to one another, much less raising their voices in anger. They spend their days making songs which are the envy of the angels themselves. Indeed, it has often been known that a bard will sing a song before his lord, and that night be taken up to Paradise so that he may teach the Heavenly Choir the blessed refrains he has composed.
'The wealth so coveted by other nations is wholly despised by the Cymry. Gold and silver are mere enticements for craftsmen to take up their tools and practice their masterly arts. The trifles they fashion become adornment for kings and queens, and even children are skilled in making the most wondrous and delicate designs. And… and…'
Overcome by the memory, Emlyn lapsed into an enraptured silence. Murdo gazed at the man and thought again how odd these monks appeared. Were they, as they professed to be, truly clerics? If so, the church they served must be different by far from the one Murdo knew.
'It seems a most remarkable realm, the way you tell it,' Murdo observed.
Emlyn nodded solemnly. 'I tell you the truth: when Eden was lost to Adam's race, our Kind Creator took pity on his wayward children and gave them Ynys Prydein, and Dyfed is the finest corner of our beloved isle.'
'If it is as you say, I wonder anyone should ever leave it at all.'
'Oh, but that is the very heart and soul of our predicament,' the monk wagged his head sadly from side to side. 'For the Cymry, blessed of the Gifting Giver with all the highest boons, were also given a solitary affliction lest men of other realms and races eat out their hearts in hopeless envy. Heaven's Most Favoured were endowed with an irresistible taithchwant so that they might not become too proud in the enjoyment of their many-splendoured homeland.'
Emlyn spoke with such a soulful longing, that Murdo's heart was moved to hear it. 'What is this tai-taith -
'Taithchwant,' the monk repeated. 'Oh, it is less an affliction than a cruel travail. It is a kind of wanderlust, but more potent than any yearning known to humankind. It is that gnawing discontent which drives a man beyond the walls of paradise to see what lies over the next hill, or to discover where the river ends, or to follow the road to its furthest destination. Truly, there is nothing more powerful, and only one thing that is known to be its equal.'
'What is that?' wondered Murdo, entirely taken in by the monk's sincerity.
'It is the hiraeth,' answered the monk. 'That is, the home-yearning-an aching desire for the green hills of your native land, a matchless longing for the sound of a kinsman's voice, a greedy hunger only satisfied by the food first eaten at your mother's hearth. Alas, the hiraeth is a hankering torment so strong it can bring tears to a man's eyes and make him forget all other loves, and even life itself.'
He sighed. 'So, you see? We are forever pinched between the two most formidable cravings men can know, and therefore we cannot ever be happy to remain in one place very long.'
Murdo admitted that it did seem a very shame, at which thought the cleric brightened once more, and said, 'God is good. He has made us his special messengers, equipping us to take his pure and shining light to a world benighted and lost in darkness. We are the Cele De,' he proclaimed proudly, 'the Servants of the High King of Heaven, who has abundantly bestowed his grace and favour upon us.' Emlyn leaned close as if to confide a secret; he lowered his voice accordingly. 'Hear me: we are the Keepers of the Holy Light, and the Guardians of the True Path.'
NINETEEN
Raymond of Saint-Gilles, Count of Toulouse and Provence, arrived at Constantinople the day before Bohemond's army was to depart. Having wintered in Rome, where he had been joined by the papal legate Adhemar, Bishop of Le Puy, the count had crossed the Adriatic and landed his army at Dyrrachium. Then, hastened on th
eir way by the governor, the count and bishop had begun the long, uncomfortable climb up through the rough Macedonian hills.
The journey had proven blessedly uneventful, with only a few minor lapses of discipline among troops-unfortunate misunderstandings which resulted in the pillage and destruction of several unsuspecting Byzantine towns, and the temporary imprisonment of Bishop Adhemar by the stern Pecheneg escort the emperor had sent to help speed their journey to its destination. Nevertheless, the troops, though tired, were in good spirits and eager to savour the delights of Byzantium.
Upon reaching the capital, the newcomers saw the armies of Bohemond and Tancred encamped before the great western wall -a city of tents spread upon the plain like an enormous multicoloured cloak flung out to dry on the uneven ground. The first ranks of the straggling warrior host saw their comrades and surged forth in a giddy rush and, unable to hold back their knights and foot soldiers any longer, the leading lords gave the men leave to join their fellow pilgrims in enthusiastic celebration of the successful completion of the first leg of their journey.
Leaving their servants and footmen to pitch the tents and prepare their camp, Raymond and Bishop Adhemar proceeded to Bohemond's enclave. They were greeted by noblemen of the prince's retinue, who welcomed them in their lord's absence.
'Bohemond not here?' demanded Raymond. 'We have been in the saddle for three months without rest. We have come from the pope himself.'
'With all respect, lord,' the foremost knight replied, 'we did not know you would arrive today.' The knight, a kinsman of Bohemond's named Rainuld of Salerno, gestured toward the prince's tent. 'Even so, wine awaits. We will raise cups while -‘
'Where is Bohemond?' Adhemar interrupted, frowning at the manifest thoughtlessness of the prince.
'He is in consultation with the emperor, Lord Bishop,' Rainuld answered. 'The prince and his family, along with Tancred and some others, are dining at the palace today. They are not expected to return until tonight. But, please, you are most welcome to remain here and take your ease while your own camp is established.'
The iron lance cc-1 Page 19