'That is a great many rooms,' I allowed. He was obviously ill and somewhat addled in his thoughts.
'We had sixty-eight menservants and forty serving-maids. Our treasure house had a door as thick as a man's trunk and bound in iron-it took two men just to pull it open. The room itself was big as a granary and hollowed out of solid stone.' He mumbled in his bread for a moment, and then added, 'God's truth, in those first days that room was never less than full to the very top.'
I supposed him to be lying to make his sad story less pathetic than it might have been by dreaming impossible riches for himself, and it disgusted me that he should be so foolish and venal. But, Cait, it was myself who was the fool that night.
Since coming to the East, I have discovered the truth of his tale.
With my own eyes, I have seen palaces which make the one at Khemil seem like wicker cowsheds, and treasure rooms larger than your grandfather Murdo's hall, and filled with such plunder of silver and gold that the devil himself must squirm with envy at such an overabundance of wealth.
That night, however, I believed not a word of his bragging. I fed him his bread, and made small comments when they were required. Mostly, I just sat by his side and listened, trying to keep my eyes from his ravaged and wasted body.
'There was an orchard on our lands-pear trees by the hundreds -and three great olive groves, and one of figs. Aside from the principal fortress at Khemil, we owned the right to rule the two small villages and market within the borders of our realm. Also, since the road from Edessa to Aleppo ran through the southern portion of our lands, we were granted rights to collect the toll. In all, it was a fine place.
'We ruled as kings that first year. Jerusalem had fallen and we shared in the plunder. At Edessa, Count Baldwin was amassing great power, and even more wealth. He made us vassal lords-Skuli and I were Lords of Edessa under Baldwin-along with a score or more just like us. All that first year, we never lifted a blade, nor saddled a horse save to ride to the hunt. We ate the best food, and drank the best wine, and contented ourselves with the improving of our realm.
'Then Skuli died. Fever took him. Mark me, the deserts of the East are breeding grounds for disease and pestilence of all kinds. He lingered six days and gave out on the seventh. The day I buried Skuli – that same day, mind-word came to Edessa that Godfrey was dead. The fever had claimed him, too. Or maybe it was poison…'
He fell silent, wandering in his thoughts. To lead him gently back, I asked, 'Who was Godfrey?'
He squinted up an eye and regarded me suspiciously. 'Did Murdo never tell you anything?'
'My father has told me much of the Great Pilgrimage,' I replied indignantly.
The old man's mouth squirmed in derision. 'He has told you nothing at all if you do not know Godfrey of Bouillon, first king of Jerusalem.'
I knew of the man. Not from my father, it is true-Murdo rarely spoke of the crusade. Abbot Emlyn, however, talked about it all the time. I remember sitting at his feet while he told of their adventures in the Holy Land. That good monk could tell a tale, as you well know, and I never tired of listening to anything he would say. Thus, I knew a great deal about Lord Godfrey, Defender of the Holy Sepulchre, and his immeasurable folly.
That night, however, I was more interested in what Torf might know, and did not care to reveal my own thoughts, so I said, 'Godfrey was Baldwin's brother, then.'
'He was, and a more courageous man I never met. A very lion on the battlefield; no one could stand against him. Yet, when he was not slaying the infidel, he was on his knees in prayer. For all he was a holy man.' Torf paused, as if remembering the greatness of the man. Then he added, 'Godfrey was an ass.'
After what he'd said, this assessment surprised me. 'Why?' I asked.
Torf gummed some more bread, and then motioned for the bowl; he drained the bowl noisily, put it aside, and lay back. 'Why?' He fixed me with his mocking gaze. 'I suppose you are one of those who think Godfrey a saint now.'
'I think nothing of the kind,' I assured him.
'He was a good enough man, maybe, but he was no saint,' Torf-Einar declared sourly. 'The devil take me, I never saw a man make so many bone-headed mistakes. One after another, and just that quick-as if he feared he could not make them fast enough. Godfrey might have been a sturdy soldier, but he had no brain for kingcraft. He proved that with the Iron Lance.'
His use of that name brought me up short, as you can imagine. I tried to hide my amazement, but he saw I knew, and said, 'Oh, aye-so your father told you something after all did he?'
'He has told me a little,' I replied; although this was not strictly true. Murdo never spoke about the Holy Lance at all. Again, the little I knew of it came from the good abbot.
'Did he tell you how the great imbecile gave it right back to the emperor the instant he got his hands on it?' Torf gave a cruel little laugh, which ended in a gurgling cough.
'No,' I answered, 'my father never told me that.'
'He did! By Christ, I swear he did,' Torf chortled malevolently. 'Only Godfrey could have thrown away something so priceless. The stupid fool. It was his first act as ruler of Jerusalem, too. He got nothing in return for it either, I can tell you.'
Torf then proceeded to tell me how, moments after accepting the throne of Jerusalem, Godfrey had been deceived by the imperial envoy into agreeing to give up the Holy Lance, which the crusaders had discovered in Antioch, and with which the crusaders had conquered the odious Muhammedans. In order to escape the ignominy of surrendering Christendom's most valued possession, Jerusalem's new lord had hit upon the plan to send the sacred relic to Pope Urban for safekeeping.
'It was either that or fight the emperor,' allowed Torf grudgingly, 'and we were no match for the imperial troops. We would have been cut down to a man. It would have been a slaughter. No one crosses blades with the Immortals and lives to tell the tale.'
It seemed to me that Godfrey had been placed in an extremely tight predicament by the Western Lords, and I said so. 'Pah!' spat Torf. 'The Greeks are cunning fiends, and deception is mother's milk to them. Godfrey should have known that he could never outwit a wily Greek with trickery.'
'His plan seemed simple enough to me,' I told him. 'There was little enough trickery in it that I can see. Where did he go wrong?'
'He sent it to Jaffa with only a handful of knights as escort, and the Seljuqs ambushed them. If he'd waited a few days, he could have sent the relic with a proper army-most of the troops were leaving the Holy Land soon-and the Turks would never have taken it.'
'The Turks took it?' I asked.
'Is that not what I'm saying?' he grumbled. 'Of course they took it, the thieving devils.'
'I thought you said Godfrey gave it to the emperor.'
'He meant to give it to the emperor,' growled Torf-Einar irritably. 'If you would keep your mouth closed-instead of blathering on endlessly, you might learn something, boy.'
Torf called me boy, even though I had a wife and child of my own. I suppose I seemed very young to him; or, perhaps, very far beneath his regard. I told him I'd try to keep quiet so he could get on with his tale.
'It would be a mercy,' he grumbled testily. 'I said the Seljuqs took the Holy Lance, and if it was up to them, they'd have it to this day.
But Bohemond suspected Godfrey would try some idiot trick, and secretly arranged to follow the relic. When Godfrey's knights left Jerusalem, the Count of Antioch got word of it and gave chase.'
Prince Bohemond of Taranto knew about the lance, too, of course. It was Bohemond who had taken King Magnus into his service to provide warriors for the prince's depleted army. Owing to this friendship, King Magnus had prospered greatly. It was from Magnus that we had our lands in Caithness.
Torf was not unaware of this. He said, 'Godfrey and Baldwin had no love for Bohemond, nor for his vassal Magnus. Still,' he looked around at the well-ordered, expansive hall, 'I can see the king has been good to you. A man must make what friends he can, hey?'
'I suppose.'
'You suppose? He laughed at me. 'I speak the truth, and you know it. In this world, a man must get whatever he can from the chances he's given. You make your bargains and hope for the best. If I had been in Murdo's place, I might have done the same. I bear your father no ill in the matter.'
'I am certain he will leap with joy to hear it,' I muttered.
That was the wrong thing to say, for he swore an oath and told me he was sick of looking at me. I left him in a foul temper, and went to bed that night wondering whether I would ever hear what he knew about the Iron Lance.
TWO
Torf-Einar had indeed come home to die. It soon became apparent that whatever health was left to him, he had spent it on the journey. Despite our care of him, he did not improve. Each day saw a diminution of his swiftly eroding strength.
I fed him the next night in silence. Owing to my discourtesy of the previous evening, he refused to speak to me and I feared he would die before I found out any more about what he knew of the Iron Lance. I spoke to my father about this, but Murdo remained uninterested. He advised me to leave it be. 'It is just stories,' he remarked sourly. 'No doubt he knows a great many such traveller's tales.'
When I insisted that there must be more to it than that, he grew angry and snapped, 'It is all lies and dangerous nonsense, Duncan, God knows. Leave well enough alone.'
Well, how could I? The next evening I found Torf in a better humour, so I said, 'You said Godfrey was a fool for losing the Holy Lance. If he was ambushed by the Turks, I cannot see what he could have done about it.'
'And I suppose you know all about such things now,' he sneered. 'Were you there?' He puffed out his cheeks in derision. 'Had it not been for Bohemond, the thieving Turks would have made off with the prize forever.'
'What did Bohemond do?'
'He pursued the Turks and caught them outside Jaffa,' replied Torf. 'They fought through the night, and when the sun came up the next morning, Bohemond had the Holy Lance.'
'Then it was Bohemond who gave the lance to the emperor,' I replied.
'That he did,' Torf confirmed.
'Forgive me, uncle,' I said, determined not to offend him again. 'But it seems to me that Bohemond was no better than Godfrey.'
Torf frowned at me, and I thought he would not answer. After a moment, he said, 'At least he got himself something for his trouble. In return for the lance, he obtained the support of the emperor-and that was worth the cost of the relic many times over, I can tell you.'
This seemed odd to me. I could not understand why he should hold Godfrey to blame, yet absolve Bohemond whose actions appeared in every way just as suspect, if not more so. Realizing that I would only make him angry again, I refrained from asking any further questions. Still, I turned the matter over in my mind that night, and determined to ask Abbot Emlyn about it the next day.
I found the good abbot at the new church the following morning, and succeeded in arousing his interest with a few well-judged questions. Glancing up from the drawings before him, he said, 'Who have you been talking to, my friend?'
'I am giving Torf-Einar his meals in the evening,' I began.
'And he has told you these tales?'
'Aye, some of them.'
The priest wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips. 'Well, perhaps he knows a little about it.'
Something in Emlyn's tone gave the lie to his words. 'But you do not believe him,' I observed.
'It is not for me to say,' the abbot answered evasively. Now, I had never known the good priest to give me, or anyone else, cause to doubt him, but his answer seemed strange, and I suspected he knew much more than he was telling.
'Who better?' I said, pursuing him gently. 'My father, perhaps?'
Emlyn frowned again. 'Sometimes,' he said slowly, 'it is better to let the dead bury the dead. I think you will get no thanks from Murdo for sticking your nose into the hive.'
'True enough,' I concluded gloomily. 'I already asked him.'
'What did he say?' asked the cleric.
'He said it was all just stories,' I replied. 'Traveller's tales and lies.'
The abbot frowned again, but said nothing. This made me even more determined, for I could plainly see that there was more to the tale than they were telling. I got no more out of Abbot Emlyn that day, however.
Indeed, I might never have got to the heart of the mystery if Torf had died before speaking of the Black Rood.
That very night, his strength failed him. He grew fevered and fell into the sleep of death. Murdo summoned some of the monks from Saint Andrew's Abbey to come and do what they could for the old man, and Emlyn came, too, along with a monk named Padraig.
As it happens, Padraig is Emlyn's nephew-the son of his only sister – a thoughtful, well-meaning monk, despite the fact that he grew up in Eire. Our good abb has children of his own, of course: two daughters-one of whom lives with her husband's kinfolk south of Caithness, near Inbhir Ness. The other, Niniane, is a priest herself, as gentle and wise as her father, and who, through no fault of her own, has the very great misfortune to be married to my brother, Eirik.
Now then, it is well known that the Cele De are wonderfully wise in all things touching the healing arts. They are adept at preparing medicines of surpassing potency and virtue. Brother Padraig set to work at the hearth and in a short while had brewed an elixir which he spooned into the dying man's mouth. This he repeated at intervals through the night, and by morning-wonder of wonders-Torf-Einar was awake once more.
He was still very weak, and it was clear he would not recover. But he was resting much easier now, and the fire had left his eyes. He seemed |more at peace as I greeted him. I asked him if there was anything he would like that I could get for him.
'Nay,' he said, his voice hollow and rough, 'unless you can get me a piece of the Black Rood for my confession. Nothing else will do me any good.'
'What is this Black Rood?' I asked. 'If there is any of it nearby, I am certain my father can get it for you.'
This brought a smile to Torf's cracked lips. He shook his head weakly. 'I doubt you will find it,' he croaked. 'There are but four pieces in all the world, and two of those are lost forever.'
This rare thing intrigued me. 'But what is it, and what has it to do with your confession?'
'Never heard of the True Cross?' He regarded me hazily.
'Of course I have heard of that,' I told him. 'Everyone has heard of that.'
'One and the same, boy, one and the same. The Black Rood is just another name for the True Cross.'
This made no sense to me. 'If that is so, why is it called black?' I asked, suspicious of his explanation. 'And why is it in so many pieces?'
Torf merely smiled, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. 'If I am to tell you that,' he replied, 'I must have a drop to wet my throat.'
Turning to Brother Padraig, who had just entered the hall and was approaching the sick man's pallet, I said, 'He is asking for ale. May I give him some?'
'A little ale might do him some good,' replied the monk. 'At least,' he shrugged, 'it will do him no harm.'
While the cleric set about making up some more of his elixir, I went to the kitchen to fetch the ale, returning with a stoup and bowl. Placing the stoup on the floor, I dipped out a bowlful, and gave it to Torf, who guzzled it down greedily. He drank another before he was ready to commence his explanation.
'So,' he said, sinking back onto his pallet, 'why is the rood called black, you ask? And I say because it is black-old and black, it is.'
'And why is it in so many pieces?'
'Because Baldwin had it divided up,' replied Torf with a dry chuckle.
I was about to ask him why this Baldwin should have done such a thing, but Abbot Emlyn entered the hall just then to see how the sick man had fared the night. I think he was expecting to see a corpse, and instead found Torf sitting up and talking with me. After a brief word with Padraig, he came and sat down beside the sickbed. 'It seems that God has blessed us with your company a little longer,
my friend,' Emlyn said.
'It will not be God,' Torf replied, 'but the devil himself who drags me under.'
'Never say it,' chided Emlyn, shaking his head gently. 'You are not so far from God's blessing, my friend. Of that I am certain.'
Torf's lips curled in a vicious sneer. 'Pah! I am not afraid. I did as I pleased, and I am ready to pay the ferryman what is owed. Get you gone, priest, I won't be shriven.'
'As you say,' allowed Emlyn, 'but know that I will remain near and I will do whatever may be done to ease your passing.'
Torf frowned, and I thought he might send Emlyn away with a curse, so I spoke up quickly, saying, 'My uncle was just about to tell me how the True Cross was cut into pieces.'
'Is this so?' wondered Emlyn.
'Indeed so,' answered Torf.
'Then what I have heard is true;' said the abbot, 'the Holy Cross of Christ has been found.'
'Aye, they found it,' answered Torf, 'and I was there.' I noticed the light come up in his eyes and he seemed to rise to his tale.
'Extraordinary!' murmured Emlyn softly.
'Godfrey it was who found the cross-in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,' Torf told us. 'He had gone with his chaplain and some priests to pray. It was after the western lords had begun returning home, leaving only Godfrey, Baldwin, and Bohemond in the Holy Land to defend Jerusalem. Well, Bohemond had sailed for Constantinople with the emperor's envoy, bearing the Holy Lance into Greek captivity. Baldwin was preparing to return to Edessa, and we were all eager to go with him, for he had said he would begin apportioning the land he had promised his noblemen.'
'Some of this I know,' mused Emlyn, nodding to himself.
'Aye, well, the night before we were to leave Jerusalem, word came to us that al-Afdal, the Vizier of Egypt, had landed ships at Ascalon, and that fifty thousand Saracens were marching for Jerusalem. Rather than allow them to put the city under siege, Godfrey decided to meet them on the road before they could raise help from the defeated Turks. Taken together, Godfrey's troops and Baldwin's amounted to fewer than seven thousand, and of those only five hundred were knights. The rest were footmen.
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