The iron lance cc-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  It took all Murdo's considerable stubbornness and determination to rekindle some small remnant of his enmity. It was only when he reminded himself that he was now at long last among the very men who had conspired to steal his family's lands and deprive him of his birthright-it was only when he remembered Ragna, and the unthinkably barren future without her, that he was able to regain some portion of his former animosity.

  Beware, Murdo! he told himself. These men are not your friends. They have robbed you and your family. Do not be distracted by their winsome ways. They would destroy you without a thought. Guard yourself against them. Remain vigilant. Your chance to avenge the wrong will come.

  Still, he felt ill-used and vaguely cheated-as if he had been offered a boon of considerable comfort and value, but forced on principle to refuse it. He sat glumly by himself and watched the rest of the company as glad welcome turned into revel. He felt alone and angry with himself, and his hard circumstance.

  The fact that his father and brothers were no longer in Antioch did not help improve his spirits. That hope had been dashed the very moment he set foot in the citadel stable, for Jon Wing, turning to Lord Orin entering behind him, had asked, 'Where are all the people? Is the city deserted then?'

  'Almost,' replied Orin. 'Those who did not die in the battle were killed by the plague which followed the siege. We saw nothing of this, mind you – it was some months ago. The fighting and sickness was long over by the time we got here. The pilgrims were gone, too.'

  'All of them?' wondered Jon. 'Who holds the city now? King Magnus?'

  'Nay,' Orin replied, 'it belongs to one called Bohemond-a Prankish prince.' He then went on to explain how the crusaders had marched on to Jerusalem only a day or two before their arrival, and how this Bohemond had hired King Magnus and his men to help guard the city.

  Murdo, hearing enough, had then slunk away to the end of the furthest bench where he now sat, gazing into his shallow cup as if it were the end of the world he saw glimmering dully within. He sat aloof from the others, and hardened himself against those he must now deceive for the sake of his vow. Brother Emlyn, seeing his friend sitting alone, begged him to come and join them. Murdo declined, saying that he was tired from the long walk, and wished only to rest.

  'Come now, Murdo!' Fionn called, lofting the bowl. 'A wee sip of wine before lying down.'

  Still, Murdo refused. Placing his spear beside the others lined against the wall, he dragged himself off to a quiet corner and collapsed into it. He closed his eyes and pressed his hot back and shoulders against the cool stone, feeling the delicious shock of the chill against his skin.

  He sat for a while, listening to the clamour of voices across the vaulted room and wishing he could join in the revelry. Instead, he crossed his arms across his chest and pretended to sleep-all the while grinding his teeth against the malicious tricks of an indifferent God-always giving with one hand, while snatching away with the other. The injustice of this bitter observation occupied him until the members of the king's foraging party trooped noisily into the stables, bearing the day's findings: sacks of greens and flat bread. Close on their heels came the rest of the king's men-over two hundred in all – returning from their duties at the garrison in the lower city. In the commotion caused by their arrival, Murdo slipped out of the stable and into the dusky light of a dying day.

  Though the sun had set in a murky white haze in the west, and the streets were sinking into shadow, heat still streamed from the pavements and stonework of the buildings all around. Murdo began walking, passing along a path so narrow he could have touched the buildings on either side with outstretched hands, and so low that the doors of the houses could only be reached by high stone steps set in the pavements. Shuttered windows fronted the street; the shutters were open now that the sun was gone, and strange smells reached him from open windows above; the scents of flowers, and food cooking, and fragrant smoke mingled to produce ineffably exotic aromas.

  The street opened just ahead, and he soon came to a marketplace-deserted now, its only occupant a skinny dog nosing in a heap of dung and refuse off to one side of the square. The miserable dog slunk away the moment the lanky human appeared, head low, tail between its legs. And then Murdo had the place all to himself.

  The square was bounded on one side by a stone breastwork, and Murdo wandered over to see the entire city of Antioch spread out beneath him in a haphazard jumble of rooftops: flat squares beyond number, all falling away in dizzying terraces down the steep-sloped streets towards the all-encompassing walls.

  Softened by smoke and evening light, the colour fading into the gentler hues of night, the close-crowded chaos took on a friendlier aspect. On most of the rooftops he could see small trees and leafy shrubs growing, and even the smallest had a vine or two forming an arbour for shade; on many of the rooftops he saw people going about their chores, taking in the day's washing, perhaps, or cooking their evening meals; the smoke from the countless braziers drifted like silver threads in the still, heavy air. He could hear the voices of the people-shouts of children echoing unseen in the streets, and somewhere a baby was crying.

  What must it be like, he wondered, to live so close to so many others? What manner of people built such cities as this? Did they never yearn for the clean, empty sweep of sea and sky, or the softly-rounded hills progressing in their gentle undulations towards the far distant horizon?

  He gazed out across the jumbled rooftops. Countless domes bulged among and above the flat roofs of the houses. Some of the domes boasted odd round towers beside them; from the tops of these he could see curious standards in the shape of crescent moons. Many more of the domes, however, bore crosses, identifying them as churches; Murdo began counting the crosses, but soon lost count and turned his attention instead to the many-towered walls and the land beyond. A handful of stars glimmered low in the swiftly-darkening skies above the Tarsus mountains to the north. Away to the west lay the sea, and to the east, the dark meandering thread of the dull Orontes river.

  It was not a place he would choose to live, he decided. Even in such an enormous place as Antioch, Murdo felt the great walls looming, pressing in; the closeness of the city's houses and churches seemed to clutch at him. Feeling suddenly cramped and confined, he turned and walked from the square, returning to the citadel as the last light faded from the sky overhead.

  The sound of raucous laughter spilled out from inside the stables and Murdo entered, hoping to creep back into his corner unnoticed. It was not to be, however, for Orin Broad-Foot saw him and called out, 'Come, Murdo! I would have you meet your lord and king.'

  Murdo took a deep breath, turned, and crossed the room to where the king and his noblemen sat at table. Jon Wing sat at the king's right hand, and Orin Broad-Foot on the left; the three monks, happy to be reunited with their benefactor, sat beaming beside Jon, and others Murdo did not know filled the rest of the places. But it was the sovereign alone who held Murdo's interest.

  King Magnus, while not as tall as Orin, nor as well-muscled as Jon Wing, nevertheless possessed a powerful presence that commanded the regard, if not the respect, of all who came under his sway. His beard and hair were plaited, the dark braids oiled so they glistened; his eyes were pale as the Skandian sky, alert and intelligent.

  His smile was a sunflash of brilliant goodwill, and his manner at once casual and dignified.

  As Murdo approached, taking the measure of the Norse king, he heard Orin say, 'Here now, my lord, I give you one of your own -an Orkneyingar by the name of Murdo Bold-Eye.'

  'So!' cried the king in good-natured surprise. 'Hail and welcome, friend. How is it that one so young is to be numbered among my warrior host?'

  Murdo was saved having to give an explanation by Jon Wing, who at that very moment leapt up from his chair and climbed onto the table, his cup in his hand. 'Hear! Hear!' he called, lofting his cup. 'Hail, King Magnus!' he cried, and began loudly pledging his loyalty to the king while the men all around pounded the boards with their fists, or
the handles of their knives. The newcomers all drank the health of the king, whereupon others, not to be outdone, also rose to renew their vows of fealty and offer up compliments to the king.

  Murdo did not stand waiting long, but took the first opportunity to slink away. He found a place at one of the tables and settled in between Tiggi and Arnor. There was bread in baskets before him, and soup in a small tun. Taking up an empty bowl, he dipped it into the tun, helped himself to a piece of flat bread, and began to eat. The soup, made from the greens collected earlier, was thin and tasteless, and the bread tough; still, after the day's walk, he was glad to get something warm inside him. He ate two bowls of soup, and three pieces of bread before stealing away again to one of the stalls to sleep.

  He had just scraped together enough straw to make a bed when Emlyn appeared with a bowl, which he pressed into his hands. The wine was sweet and pleasantly cool. Murdo drank a deep draught, thanked the priest and handed back the cup, whereupon Emlyn sat down beside him. 'Ah, mo croidh,' he sighed. 'I do not think I will last very long in this land. All the saints bear witness, it is so hot!'

  'You would not feel it so much if you were not so fat,' Murdo told him.

  'Have you heard what they are saying?' asked the monk, sipping from the cup. 'They are saying a miracle happened here.'

  'What kind of miracle?' Murdo took the cup and drank again.

  'Something to do with an earthquake, and the discovery of the Holy Lance,' the priest replied. 'They say that was how they were able to defeat the Saracens, but inasmuch as none of them were here at the time, they cannot say more.'

  The comment did not seem to require any reply from Murdo, so he lifted the cup to his mouth and drank some more. Miracles, so far as he could tell, always happened to someone else at some other time and in some other place.

  'Also,' the breathless monk continued, 'it seems the Patriarch of Antioch has been restored to his position, and the church of Saint Peter has been reconsecrated. We are going there tomorrow, so we will ask the priests what they know of this miracle. Come with us, Murdo. It is a very ancient and venerable church. You should see it.'

  Murdo shrugged. 'I have seen old churches before.' He drank again.

  'Antioch, Murdo!' the monk exclaimed suddenly. 'This is the city where the followers of Jesu received the name Christian. Think of it! Here the apostle Paul and the blessed Barnabas preached and taught in the earliest days of our faith. Saint Peter himself ordained the first bishop, and commanded the church to be built on the very place where Paul stood in the market and proclaimed the Risen Lord to the Greeks and Jews of this land. It is a very holy place.'

  Murdo nodded and passed the cup to Emlyn, and leaned his head against the cool wall. 'How long must we stay here?'

  'Who can say?' replied the priest. 'King Magnus has agreed to help Prince Bohemond defend the city. In return he has been given a hundred thousand marks in silver, and this,' he gestured expansively to the room, 'the former stables, for his retinue. The king has rooms above, and-'

  'Why does this Prince Bohemond need the king's help?' Murdo interrupted. He could see no reason why they should not simply press on to Jerusalem.

  The monk explained that, owing to the cruel predations of the Syrian campaign, Prince Bohemond now found himself in desperate need of mercenaries to help hold his newly-won city. So many of his own knights and footmen had succumbed to starvation, plague, and Seljuq arrows, that his formerly great army was reduced in size to that of a merely respectable regiment.

  'Indeed, they are saying that more than twenty thousand followed the prince from Taranto, but only nine hundred remain,' Emlyn told him, adding that many of these were yet recovering from the fever that had swept the city in the wake of the crusader victory. Hence, fit fighting men were of such value, the wily prince had granted the lately-arrived Norsemen not only a vast quantity of silver, but also the best of food and shelter he had to offer as well-all in exchange for their vaunted battleskill and eagerness for plunder.

  'I thought now that we were all together, we would go on to Jerusalem to join the pilgrimage.'

  'I suppose we shall,' answered Emlyn. 'But there is a time for everything, Murdo, and a season for every purpose under Heaven. We will get to Jerusalem in God's good time, never fear. But we are here now – so enjoy!' The monk raised the cup and drained it in a long, guzzling swallow.

  Murdo frowned. The whole world, it seemed, was travelling to Jerusalem and here he was, stranded in Antioch. It beggared belief.

  'This cup is empty,' Emlyn declared. Heaving himself onto unsteady legs, he staggered off in search of more wine.

  'Enjoy,' muttered Murdo darkly.

  Despite the merrymaking, the day's exertion and the wine combined to give Murdo a good night's sleep. He awoke early-just in time to see the three monks leaving for their dawn service. He kept his head down until they left so he would not have to decline the inevitable invitation to go with them, then rose quickly and hurried off, intending to stay out of the king's sight as much as possible to save having to explain his presence.

  Taking a piece of bread from last night's supper with him, he gnawed the loaf and walked again to the square he had visited the night before. The city looked far different in the morning light, but no better for it, he thought. Most of the back streets were beaten earth, and powdered dust coated every surface, making the bottom half of all the buildings the same pale, yellow-grey colour.

  As he passed one house, an old woman emerged with a bundle of twigs and began sweeping off the step before her door. She stared at Murdo as he walked by, muttering at him, and crossing herself with the bundle of twigs in her hand.

  Although the sun was newly risen, he could feel the heat of the day already mounting in the square. The valley beyond the walls was hung in a thick bluish haze, and the sun, white as a hot poker, burned through a dead pale sky. Even as he stood looking out across the city, the first of the merchants began arriving to erect their stalls in the empty square. Murdo watched as the men and women went about their work, and quickly found himself admiring the clothing they wore. All of them were dressed in billowy flowing mantles that reached from neck to feet, gathered at the waist with a girdle of winding cloth – and all in a wild profusion of colours: blood red and blue stripes; glistening emerald green; deep yellow the hue of egg-yolk; rich brown with purple stripes and tiny silver threads between; pale ivory white, and sky blue; rose pink, and scarlet, and gold, and indigo so blue it was almost black.

  Their extravagant clothes made Murdo aware of his own drab appearance. He looked down his length at what he was wearing. Both siarc and breecs were threadbare, and showing through at elbows and knees. Boots and belt were in good condition yet, but his once-handsome red-brown cloak was now faded and travel-stained, and ragged at the edges.

  While far from persuaded to adopt the attire of the inhabitants of Antioch, he decided that perhaps he might buy a new siarc at least, and so lingered at the edge of the market while more and more merchants arrived and began busily erecting their cloth-framed shelters, and arranging their various wares, which they placed in baskets, or on mats of woven grass, or strips of cloth on the ground. Many of the traders had donkeys to carry their burdens, others lugged the baskets themselves. Murdo had never seen a donkey before, but thought the small, fuzzy horselike creatures absurd and amusing.

  As the marketplace began to fill, Murdo strolled into the square for a closer look at the various wares, and was instantly assailed by a dozen or more brown children, who ran up to him and began tugging on his clothing, and gibbering at him in a strange, chirpy tongue. Some merely held out their hands in gestures of supplication, but others rubbed their stomachs and pointed to their empty mouths.

  As he had no intention of giving them anything, he resented their noisy insistence, but tried to extricate himself gracefully-to no avail. The diminutive mob followed him, clinging to him, grasping at him. When he felt a small hand inside his shirt, snatching at the knife Ragna had given h
im, he became angry.

  'Get away from me!' he shouted, seizing the hand and squeezing it hard so that it released the knife. 'Get away!' He stomped his feet at them, and they scattered, only to watch and follow him a few paces further away. His outburst succeeded in drawing the notice of some of the merchants, who likewise began clamouring for his attention. The closer ones came running to him, beseeching him in their strange language, vying for his patronage.

  'No! No!' he shouted, walking briskly away. This merely provoked them all the more, and they shouted even more loudly, putting their hands on him, touching him, tugging at him.

  Murdo could not abide the commotion. Desperate to flee, he rushed from the square down the nearest street, and kept running. When he was certain he was no longer followed, he stopped to look around and found that not only had he lost the grasping merchants and his beggar escort, he had lost himself. Nothing looked familiar, nor could he tell in which direction he had come, or which way he might be going.

  No matter, he told himself, he could easily retrace his steps to the market square. So, he turned around and started back, but soon came to a place where the narrow way divided; the paths diverged to the left and right of a huge stone water basin, now dry and empty. Both pathways looked exactly alike to Murdo, and he had no idea which one he had used before. He chose the right-hand path and proceeded down it with the idea that if he did not recognize it, he could quickly retrace his steps and take the other way. But the street wound around and, upon retracing his steps, he returned only to find that it was not the place he remembered at all.

  The divide was gone, and in the place where he imagined the water basin should be was a small domed hut with a crude wooden cross above its door. He turned around and stared down the narrow street, but it all looked strange to him. Had he passed this way? Two men appeared and came towards him. Murdo hailed them in his best Latin, and asked if they could help him find his way. Both men frowned at him and passed by quickly.