The iron lance cc-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  'Listen to me, Tailtiu,' Ragna said, taking the girl by the shoulders, 'no one is to know of this until I choose to tell them.'

  'You are afeared your mother will be angry with you?'

  'I am not ashamed of what I did,' Ragna said sternly. 'But I will not have it treated as something lewd, to be whispered over by every lustful hinny in Kirkjuvagr. Do you understand?'

  'I like him. He is good and kind. You do love him, too, I can tell. Will your father allow the marriage? I think he will be a fine husband.'

  'Tailtiu, I mean what I say,' Ragna gave the girl a shake for emphasis. 'I will not have this brought into disgrace. Do you understand me?'

  'I understand, my lady. It shall be our secret.'

  'See that it remains so.’

  That had been a few months ago, and beyond all expectation the chatter-happy Tailtiu had kept her mouth shut about her mistress' condition-not even so much as to whisper it between themselves. This had allowed Ragna to wait and hope, and when she was at last certain, ready herself to reveal the secret in her own time.

  She would tell her mother first, and then Lady Niamh. The three of them would decide together what to do about announcing the birth. That, Ragna reckoned, would be the most difficult part. There would be no problem with baptizing the baby; when the time came, it could be done in their own chapel. The birth could be recorded there, and it would not have to be entered on the cathedral rolls until the child was two years old. By then, Murdo would be back and they would be properly married. If she stayed on Hrolfsey until Murdo returned, all would be well. No one outside their own family and vassals need learn about the child until the marriage was duly formalized and recognized by the church.

  Through the long summer day, Ragna occupied herself with little chores, waiting for just the right moment to present itself. That moment came when Lady Ragnhild strolled into the herb garden outside the kitchen to cut fennel for the cooks to use in the evening meal. The lowering sun stretched the shadows long among the close-tended rows of plants as Ragna approached her mother. The warmth of the day and the honeyed light gave Ragna a pleasantly mellow feeling.

  'It has been a good summer for the gardens,' her mother observed. 'The best I can remember for many years.'

  'Perhaps it bodes well for a mild winter,' Ragna offered.

  'Winter!' Lady Ragnhild stooped to snip a stunted, discoloured stalk from among the tall green forest before her. 'Please, summer is short enough without hastening it on its way. We have harvest to think about first, and that is upon us soon enough.'

  'Our men will be home by then,' Ragna replied. She plucked a fragrant leaf from a nearby branch, raised it to her nose, then began twirling it between her fingers.

  'Our men,' echoed her mother. 'It must be Murdo you are talking about. I cannot think you would speak about your father and brothers that way.'

  'I miss him, Mother,' Ragna said quietly.

  'Aye,' sighed Ragnhild, 'I miss your father, too. It is a hard, hard thing to stay behind.'

  'It has been good having Niamh here. I am sorry about their lands, but she has been a help to us. I like her.'

  'That is good,' observed Ragnhild absently, trimming the severed stalk further.

  'It seems to me,' Ragna continued, 'that a bride should esteem her husband's mother as her own-and that is not always so easy, I think.'

  The trimmer hesitated only an instant, and then… snip-another stalk fell. 'All this talk of brides and husbands,' Ragnhild mused. 'Am I to think a wedding is anticipated in this house?' She straightened and looked her daughter in the eye. 'Or has the marriage already taken place?'

  'For a truth, it has. We were hand-fasted before he left.'

  Ragnhild nodded and turned back to her work. 'Had it been anyone else, your father would have the man flogged through the streets of every town from here to Jorvik.' She paused. 'He might do that still, who knows?'

  'Father would never oppose the match,' Ragna maintained, a wariness edging into her voice. 'He has never said anything against Murdo. He would never refuse us.'

  'Nay,' Lady Ragnhild softened. 'How could he? Lord Ranulf is a nobleman of rank, and a longtime friend. Your father respects him, and values his friendship. Anyway, the deed is done and we must all make the best of it.' The trimmer neatly lopped the stalk into her basket. 'Bishop Adalbert should be your greatest worry. He can refuse to acknowledge the hand-fasting, you know, and your children would be born into perdition.'

  'We have time yet.' Ragna bent her head. Her eyes filled with tears. 'Until the Christ Mass, at least.'

  Ragnhild paused and regarded her daughter thoughtfully. She put down the basket and opened her arms. Ragna stepped into her mother's embrace and the two women stood for a time without speaking.

  'Oh, Ragna, if you could have waited…' she sighed, leaving the thought unfinished.

  'He will be a good husband, Mother,' Ragna said after a while; she sniffed and rubbed the tears from her cheeks. 'He has never been anything but kind to me, and I love him for it-I think I always have. We will confirm our vows in our own chapel when he returns.'

  'And if he does not return?'

  'Mother! I will not hear you speak so.'

  'I do speak so. Daughter, they are at war. You know as well as I, that men who go away to war do not always come home again. Of all those who leave home and family, only a few will return. Men die in battle and there is nothing we can do about it. That is hard, but that is the truth.'

  'Murdo did not go to fight,' Ragna pointed out. 'He went only to bring Lord Ranulf home, not to fight.'

  'That is something, at least,' her mother allowed, tenderness and pity mingled in her gaze. 'Oh, Ragna, I would that it were different for you.' After a moment she said, 'We must tell Niamh, of course; she will want to know soon.'

  'Tonight, I thought,' Ragna replied. 'I will not be able to keep it from her much longer in any event.'

  Lady Ragnhild raised a hand to her daughter's head, and touched it gently.

  'Crusade will end long before winter comes,' Ragna told her, forcing conviction to her voice. 'The men will have returned, and we will be married before the baby is born.'

  'Pray that is so,' Ragnhild said, stroking her daughter's long golden hair. 'Pray your Murdo returns soon. Pray they all return soon… hale and unharmed.'

  After supper that night, Ragnhild suggested that Niamh join them for a walk in the long-lingering twilight. 'These few fine days at the last of summer almost repay winter's dark and cold,' she said as they strolled the path behind the house. The sky was flushed with pink and purple, and the few low clouds were red and orange against a sky of deepening blue. The sea breeze was warm out of the south, and the evening star gleamed just above the line of the hills beyond the ripening fields.

  'It has always been my favourite time of year,' Niamh agreed placidly. 'The cattle have calved and the young are growing. It is nicest before the tumult of harvest.'

  'Ragna was saying that she hoped the men would be home for the harvest,' Ragnhild said.

  'I hope so, too,' Niamh replied. 'But I think we must not expect it. Whatever the next months bring, I fear we must prepare to face it without our menfolk.'

  One of the servingmaids called Lady Ragnhild away just then, leaving Ragna and Niamh together for a moment. They walked a while, enjoying the mild evening. 'You have been quiet tonight,' Niamh observed. 'It is not like you. Are you feeling well?'

  'Very well, indeed,' Ragna answered. 'If I am quiet, it is that I have been trying to find the right words to say what I must tell you.'

  'Just say what is in your mind,' Niamh suggested amiably. 'I am certain there is nothing you could say that I would not like to hear.'

  Ragna nodded. 'You are kind, Lady Niamh -'

  'Let it be Nia between us,' she replied quickly. 'We are friends enough for that, I think.'

  'We are,' agreed Ragna, 'and it is that very friendship I fear losing.'

  'Whyever should you lose it?' Niamh stopped walking and
turned to Ragna. 'My heart, what is wrong?'

  The young woman lifted her head. 'Murdo and I are hand-fasted. I am carrying his child.'

  'I see,' replied Niamh quietly.

  When no further reaction seemed forthcoming, Ragna accepted her reproach. 'I do not blame you for withholding your blessing,' she said, bending her head. 'No doubt you hoped to make a better match for your son.'

  In two steps, Niamh was beside Ragna, gathering the young woman to her breast. 'Never say it,' she soothed. 'Ah, Ragna… Ragna. I chose you for him the first day ever I saw you. I have made the match a thousand times in my heart. I have never breathed a word of this to Murdo, mind; but I prayed he would one day see for himself what I saw in you.' She held Ragna at arm's length. 'I am happy for you, and for him, too. If I hold any sadness at all, it is for the fact that I fear for your future together-'

  'Because of the church? I thought of that. We can confirm -'

  Niamh shook her head. 'No, the church will be the least of your worries. Rather it is because we have lost our lands, child. Murdo will have nothing, and that is a sorry way to begin a life together.'

  'But you will get your lands back,' Ragna said. 'When Lord Ranulf and your sons return-you will reclaim Hrafnbu. I know it.'

  'I wish I could be so certain. The truth is, there is much against us, and even if Lord Ranulf were here now, it might go ill with us.' Niamh paused. 'We must not trust too highly in our hopes, for the whims of kings thwart all desires but their own.'

  'Would you forbid our marriage for lack of land?' Ragna asked, not unkindly.

  'My heart, I would forbid you nothing,' Niamh replied. 'I wish you the world, and my dear son with it. And if he were standing here before you now, Ranulf would say the same. Your own father might take a different view. He might consider a landless match beneath his only daughter; he might feel he could do better for you elsewhere. And it would be his right.'

  'I want nothing else,' Ragna declared, anger flaring instantly. 'And I will have the father of my child to husband, or I will have no one. They will put me in my grave before I wed another.'

  'Shh,' soothed Niamh gently. 'To speak so is to arouse the Devil's regard. Let us pray instead that the Good Lord will grant you your heart's desire.'

  Ragna smiled. 'Despite those selfish kings.'

  'Of course,' agreed Niamh, 'despite all those selfish kings. They are but flesh and blood, and not angels after all.'

  She took Ragna's arm, and they strolled on. 'Now then, we must begin to prepare for the infant's arrival. We have clothes to make -

  'Warm clothes,' added Ragna, 'for it will be midwinter.'

  They walked arm-in-arm in the gathering dusk, and talked of the preparations to be made in the next months. That night Ragna went to her empty bed with her soul more settled than it had been for a very long time. She fell asleep with a prayer on her lips. 'Lord of Hosts,' she whispered, 'send seventy angels to guard my Murdo, and bring him home to me with all speed. If you but do this for me, you shall never lack for a more faithful servant.'

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Skidbladnir passed between the Pillars of Hercules and entered the warm blue waters of what the monks called the Mare Mediterraneus. The Sea of Middle Earth?' wondered Murdo, thinking he must have heard it wrong.

  'Exactly,' Fionn told him. 'We have come to the sea in the centre of the Earth. Of all the seas in the world, this is the best. It is the most peaceful and tranquil, and the fishing here is better than anywhere else.'

  This boast was put to the test at once, and as the days went by Fionn's assertion did gather substance. Several places they coved for the night provided remarkable catches of fine-tasting fish of several kinds-some of which no one had ever seen before; one time they even caught crabs, which Murdo enjoyed, as they reminded him of Orkney.

  A scant three weeks after entering this calm sea, however, the season changed; the good weather deserted them. The days grew colder and the winds increasingly harsh and fickle, and Jon Wing decided it was time to begin searching for winter harbourage. Accordingly, they searched the coastline for a suitable port, eventually settling on the small inland town of Aries, an ancient walled settlement on the southern coast of Gaul in the Kingdom of Burgundy. Jon Wing chose the town especially-rejecting larger port towns like Toulon and Narbonne, which were too big, he said: 'Too many people, too many ships, also too many snares for unwary sailors.' He liked Aries, however, because it was small and quiet; moreover, it was a much cheaper place to stay. Little Aries lay upriver a short distance from the sea, yet possessed a bay and harbour large enough to serve many sea-going trading vessels-a fair number of which had also chosen the inland town for their wintering.

  The monks were pleased with the choice; they were more than happy to spend the cold, rainy days in prayer and discussion with the local clerics at the Cathedral and Priory of Saint Trophime. Their mighty disputations were enhanced with the liberal application of the region's good red wine, which they praised and consumed with equal ardour. The rest of the crew divided their time between the several drinking halls and brothels of the harbour precinct, indulging one desire while contemplating the other.

  The enforced idleness hung heavily on Murdo, however; he found little in the town to interest him. Having no itch to enrich the whores of the town, nor thirst enough to keep the brewers busy-neither did the allure of learned debate with Gaulish monks tempt him -he instead occupied himself with climbing the hills beyond the town, or tramping along the quiet river. The hills were green with winter rain, and he liked the scent given off by the low-growing shrubs, but there was little else to recommend them, and he soon turned to exploring the ancient town.

  The streets of Aries were narrow and the houses close and crabbed, and shut against the wind gusting chilly and damp out of the north and west. When the sun shone, Murdo strolled the twisting pathways. There were many peculiar-looking buildings: some had been built by the Romans, Brother Fionn told him; the rest were made by the Moors. The Moorish buildings were strange to the eye; with their white walls, and tall, slender columns, curious onion-shaped arches, bulbous towers, and high narrow windows covered with hundreds of squares of glass, Murdo always thought they looked like palaces out of a dream.

  The most remarkable of these was an imposing white building which stood on one side of the market square. The market itself was a forlorn place on rainy winter market days; inasmuch as there was little produce to be had, few people bothered to come and, save for a few forlorn sellers of eggs and cheese, Murdo often had the place to himself.

  On one of his rambles, he discovered that the quiet little town boasted an armourer. There were two other smiths, he knew, and both supplied the port and farming trade, making fittings for ships and ploughs, and such like. But the third smithy was on the other side of the town, away from the port and market. Murdo stumbled upon the place one day while trying to circumnavigate the town by way of the wall. Drawn by the gusty whoosh of the bellows and the ring of hammer on anvil, he had found a low, dark dwelling built into the old Roman wall. Once a gatehouse, the gate had long since been sealed with stone; the house – little more than a covered recess excavated in the wall-now served a man skilled in making weapons.

  The smithy was a warm place to stop on a dark, windy day, and as the craftsmen did not seem to mind his presence, Murdo paused to watch.

  'Here now!' called the smith upon noticing the tall young man loitering at the open door. 'You like to work with iron, eh? Maybe you want to be a smith like me.'

  Murdo explained that he was a pilgrim in the company of a warband bound for the Holy Land. 'Our ship is wintering here,' he said. 'We will sail again in the spring.'

  'Ah, you are from the longship!' answered the smith, his Latin crude, but expressive. 'Very fierce warriors, these Norsemen, I am told. Good weapons they have, too-but mine are better. Come, I will show you something.' He beckoned Murdo into the hut, which was almost completely filled by the enormous central hearth and forge. Taking a glo
wing stub of iron from the red coals, he said, 'This will be a sword. It does not look like much now, perhaps -but soon! Soon it will fit the hand of a lord in Avignon.'

  Murdo learned that the smith-a blunt, sweaty, black-fingered man named Bezu-had two apprentices and, owing to the increased demand for arms and armour brought about by the pope's crusade, two was not enough. Bezu was looking for a third man to help him meet the rising flood of orders for his wares. 'A strong boy like you would make a good smith. I could teach you. I could talk to your father maybe; I think we might come to an agreement.'

  Murdo politely declined the offer, but the smithy became the place he visited most often. Indeed, Murdo became such a familiar onlooker that one day they invited him to share their midday meal of salt beef, cheese, and bread; in return for this kindness, he stayed to help with some of the smaller chores. When they had finished for the day, Bezu told him he was welcome to come and work and eat with them the next day.

  Murdo happily agreed, and was soon spending much of his time with the armourer and his apprentices. The three worked together in a convivial haze of heat and smoke and earthy conversation, and Murdo enjoyed their camaraderie as much as he enjoyed watching them hammer the glowing red iron into sword-blades, spearheads, and shield-bosses. Bezu let Murdo try his hand at the bellows, and when he professed to enjoy this labour, the smith asked him whether he would like to learn how to make a spear.

  'First, we must select the iron,' Bezu said, pawing through a stack of long, flat lengths of the black metal, some almost as long as Murdo was high. This amazed Murdo, who had imagined the head of a spear to be more properly fashioned from a short, thick square.

  'Ah, this is where you are wrong, young Murdo. We are making this lance in the old Roman way,' the armourer told him. Laying a finger beside his nose, he added, 'It is a secret my family has kept for ten generations.'

  'And you will tell me?' wondered Murdo, flattered by this unexpected confidence. 'Why?'