To the amazement of everyone looking on, the near-corpse replied, “And who should it be but myself? Unbind me, I say, and let me up.”
“God in heaven!” cried Murdo. “Is it true?” Gesturing to some of the men, he said, “Here, my brother is back from the dead—help me loose him.”
I came forward along with the abbot and several others, and we untied my long-lost uncle. He had returned from the Holy Land where he had lived since the Great Pilgrimage. The eldest of my father’s two brothers, he and the next eldest, Skuli, had joined with Baldwin of Bouillon. In return for their loyal service they were given lands at Edessa where they had remained ever since.
When asked what happened to his brothers, Murdo would always say that they had died chasing their fortunes in the Holy Land. In all the years of my life till then, I had never known it to be otherwise. How not? There never came any word from them—never a letter, or even a greeting sent by way of a returning pilgrim—though opportunities must have been plentiful enough through the years. That is why Murdo said he had come back from the dead. In a way, he had; for no one had ever expected to see Torf-Einar again—either in this world or the next.
But now, here he was: to my eyes, little more than gristle and foul temper, but alive still. Of his great fortune, however, there was not so much as the pale glimmer of a silver spoon. The man I saw upon that crude litter had more in common with the sore-ridden beggars that huddle in the shelter of the monastery walls at Kirkjuvágr than a lord of Outremer. Even the lowest swineherd of such a lord would have presented a more impressive spectacle, I swear.
We untied him and thereby learned the reason he had been carried to shore on a plank: his legs were a mass of weeping sores. He could not walk. Indeed, he could barely sit upright. Still, he objected to being bound to his bed and did not cease his thrashing until the cords were loosed and taken away.
“After all these years, why return now?” asked Murdo, sitting back on his heels.
“I have come home to die,” replied Torf-Einar. “Think you I could abide a grave in that godforsaken land?”
“The Holy Land godforsaken?” wondered Emlyn, shaking his head in amazement.
Torf’s wizened face clenched like a fist, and he spat. “Holy Land,” he sneered. “The pigsty is more wholesome than that accursed place, and the snake pit is more friendly.”
“What about your lands?” asked Murdo. “What about your great fortune?”
“Piss on the land!” growled Torf-Einar. “Piss on the fortune, too! Let the heathen have it. Two-faced demon spawn each and every one. A plague on the swarthy races, I say, and devil take them all.”
He became so agitated that he started thrashing around again. Murdo quickly said, “Rest easy now, Torf. You are among kinfolk. Nothing will harm you here.”
We carried him to the dún, and tried our best to make the old man comfortable. I call him “old man” for that was how he appeared to me. In truth, he was only a few years older than my father. The ravages of a life of constant warring and, I think, whoring, had carved the very flesh from him. His skin, blasted dark by the unrelenting Saracen sun, was as cracked and seamed as weathered leather; his faded hair was little more than a handful of grizzled wisps, his eyes were held in a permanent squint and his limbs were so scarred from wounds that they seemed like gnarled stumps. In all, the once-handsome lord looked like a shank bone that had been gnawed close and tossed onto the dungheap.
We brought him into the fortress and laid him in the hall. Murdo arranged for a pallet to be made up and placed in a corner near the hearth; a screen was erected around the pallet to give Torf a little peace from the comings and goings in the hall, but also to shield others from the ragged sight of him, to be sure.
The women scurried around and found food and drink for him, and better clothes—although the latter was not difficult, for the meanest dog mat would have been better than his own foul feathers. My lady mother would have preferred he had a bath before being allowed beneath her roof, but he would have none of it.
When the serving-maid came near with hot water and a little Scottish soap, he cursed her so cruelly she ran away in tears. He called upon heaven to witness his oath, saying that the next time he bathed would be when they put him under the turf. In the end, Murdo declared that he should be left alone, and Ragna had to abide. She would not allow any of the maidens to serve him, however, and said that as he was manifestly unable to make himself agreeable to simple human courtesy, he could receive his care from the stableboy’s hands. Even so, I noticed she most often served him herself.
That Torf-Einar had come home to die soon became apparent. His sores oozed constantly, bleeding his small strength away. That first night I happened to pass by the place where he lay on the pallet my father had had prepared for him, and heard what I took to be an animal whimpering. Creeping close, I looked on him to see that he had fallen asleep and one of the hounds was licking the lesions on his exposed leg. The pain made poor Torf moan in his sleep.
Jesu forgive me, I did not have it in me to stay by. I turned away and left him to his wretched dreams.
Over the next few days, I learned much of life in the East. Sick as he was, he did not mind talking to anyone who would listen to his fevered ramblings. Out of pity, I undertook to bring him his evening meal, to give my mother a respite from the tedium of the chore, and sat with him while he ate. Thus, I heard more than most about his life in the County of Edessa. In this way, I also discovered what had befallen poor Skuli.
True to his word, Lord Baldwin had given Torf and Skuli land in return for service. Nor was he ungenerous in his giving. The two brothers had taken adjoining lands so as to form one realm which they then shared between them. “Our fortress at Khemil was crowned with a palace that had fifty rooms,” he boasted one night as I fed him his pork broth and black bread. His teeth were rotten and pained him, so I had to break the bread into the broth to soften it, and then feed it to him in gobbets he could gum awhile and swallow. “Fifty rooms, you hear?”
“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 sa
ve 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 traveler’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 humor, 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 farther 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.
The Black Rood Page 2