Adalbert looked up from his reading to gaze upon the assembly as if to say, I, too, have seen this glory, greatness and courage. He then cleared his throat and continued. “‘We have heard that some of you desire to go to Jerusalem. Know then, that anyone who sets out on this journey, not out of lust for worldly advantage but only for the salvation of his soul and for the liberation of the Church, is remitted in entirety,’” the bishop paused so to repeat this astounding offer with appropriate weight, “‘remitted in entirety all penance for his sins, if he has made a true and perfect act of confession.
“‘O, most valiant knights, descendants of unconquerable ancestors, remember the courageous faith of your forefathers and do not dishonor it. I urge you to become Soldiers of Christ and follow the cross whereby you have received your strong salvation. For this purpose and to this end, we have appointed this a year of jubilee to be celebrated in the pursuit of Godliness and righteousness, the culmination of which is to be a pilgrimage to free Jerusalem from the wicked oppressor under which the Holy City languishes even now.
“‘Beloved in Christ, if God calls you to this task, know that this Most Holy Crusade will set out, with the aid of God, the day following the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. May Almighty God strengthen you in His love and fear, and bring you free from all sins and errors to the contemplation of perfect charity and true piety through this pilgrimage of faith.’”
Here the bishop laid aside the epistle and, gazing benevolently over his congregation, said, “Brothers and sisters, the day has come to declare our intentions in this holy enterprise. Whosoever would become a soldier for Christ, let them come forward now and, before this devout assembly, let them take the cross!”
At this, Murdo braced himself against the surge as the congregation started toward the pulpit. All around him, men and women were clamoring for the cross, reaching, stretching out their hands and calling on God to hear their heartfelt vows. The canny bishop was ready for the rush which met his invitation. No fewer than a dozen senior monks appeared on the dais below the high pulpit, each with a bundle of white cloth in his arms.
Murdo saw the bundles and, despite himself, his heart beat faster. The crosses! He had heard about the white cloth crosses, of course, and the thought that his brothers should receive them while he must go without was almost unbearable. He watched in an agony of jealous torment as the monks proceeded to distribute the white cloth crosses to the eager throng. The commotion of voices echoed among the roof beams like the din of bells.
When the crosses had been distributed all around, Bishop Adalbert instructed every recipient to kneel. He then led them in a vow of allegiance whereby they all swore a sacred oath never to abandon the holy pilgrimage so long as Jerusalem remained captive. His pilgrims duly forsworn, the bishop then took up his crozier and offered the benediction. “God bless you and keep you, and make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you now and forever. May victory be swift, and trials few, and may God speed your safe return. Amen.”
“Amen!” shouted the newly-recruited soldiers of Christ.
Murdo glared darkly at Torf and Skuli, who remained blissfully unaware of their younger brother’s poisonous stare as they fingered the white cloth crosses and argued with Paul over whether it was best to wear them on the front or back. The interminable service finally over, Lord Ranulf led his family out of the church. Murdo shuffled after them, head down, defeated, and collided with Paul when the family was halted just outside the door by a monk in a brown robe. The cleric exchanged a brief word with Ranulf, who made a courteous reply, and then turned and announced, “We have all been invited to observe the feast at the bishop’s table.”
Murdo heard this and hope rekindled in his heart. The bishop’s board was renowned throughout the isles, and second only to the jarl’s table. Murdo allowed himself a smile at his unexpected good fortune. The bishop’s table! Such lavish bounty, such wild abundance—who could have foreseen it?
The monk led them across the crowded courtyard, through an arched doorway, and into a sunny, cloistered square where at least ten long tables had been erected on the green. There were a good many people already gathered here and, to Murdo’s increasing dismay, more, and still more guests, were arriving by way of other doors along the cloisters.
As no one had been given leave to sit, everyone swarmed onto the green, eagerly awaiting the summons to dine. There were so many! Had the bishop invited the entire congregation? By even the most casual estimation, Murdo reckoned he would be fortunate indeed to get so much as a gravy-soaked crust. And this, a true feast-day—in Murdo’s regard, second only to the Christ Mass at Yuletide. All the other festal days, so far as Murdo could see, were unutterably dull and tedious, requiring, as they did, mass and prayers and obscure observances of various kinds. And anyway they were not true feasts at all since no special food was ever laid on, and chores still had to be done despite spending the whole day in church, which meant that he often ended up working in the dark, a thing Murdo loathed.
Saint John’s day, however, was different. Though he still had to go to church, that hardship was made more endurable by the fact that, however long the services—and they could be bone-achingly endless—there was the promise of good meat and ale and cakes afterwards. Occasionally, one or another of the priests was invited to Ranulf’s board—an invitation, Murdo noticed, that was never, ever declined—and this made the festivities even better. Though Murdo resented the clerical intrusion, at least when monks were present the lord and lady tended to offer more lavish fare. Also, folk from neighboring farms often joined in, bringing food and drink with them so that the resulting feast was a celebration worthy of the name. What is more, falling as it did at midsummer, the festivities of this special day would inevitably extend far into the long-lingering twilight.
But now…now it was all ruined. Murdo watched the multitude assembling and his heart sank; he could not see how so many people could be fed, let alone feasted. There were not enough cakes and ale in all Orkneyjar to fill them. His stomach rumbled and he abandoned any hope of an adequate meal.
He was still occupied with this grim thought when he heard someone hail his father, and glumly looked around to see who might be joining them at the table. He saw a man he knew—Lord Brusi Maddardson—striding purposefully toward them across the green with his family straggling along in his wake.
Like Lord Ranulf, the Maddardson clan farmed a large estate on the island of Hrolfsey and consequently attended the same councils as Murdo’s father. What is more, Murdo’s mother and Lady Ragnhild were childhood companions, and had maintained a warm friendship over many years. The lord of Hrolfsey had three sons, the youngest of which was Torf’s age, and one daughter, Ragna, who was only a year or two older than Murdo.
Owing to his age, Murdo had never been of interest to the brothers Maddardson, who always preferred the company of Torf and Skuli to the point of excluding Murdo entirely—not that Murdo minded overmuch, for he found the older boys frivolous and loud, interested only in fighting, boasting, and besting one another.
Ah, but Lord Brusi’s daughter was as different from her brothers as moonbeams from muck. She was, in Murdo’s opinion, the sole saving grace of the entire Maddardson tribe. And this day, with its relentless indignities and insults, he had need of the sweet solace he always felt in her presence. Indeed, but one glance at the golden-haired Ragna approaching across the greensward, and the low dark clouds of despair parted and the sun shone full on Murdo again.
Tall and willowy, and with a fair and shapely form, the smooth-skinned Ragna embodied Murdo’s idea of female charm. She possessed a kindly disposition, but was neither overly timid, nor too fastidiously female for Murdo’s liking. Intelligent, and with a ready tongue to match, she held her own in any company, and Murdo respected that. To Murdo, her forthright demeanor seemed more boyish than maidenly, and it always struck him anew whenever they met; on those rare occasions, he wondered if it resulted from the fact th
at she was raised in a family of men, or whether her nature was in some way ordained by her childhood deformity.
The way Murdo heard it, she had been but a toddling babe when Lord Brusi’s swineherd, upon hearing a squealing commotion, discovered her lifeless body in a field the pigs were gleaning. Upon driving off a recently-farrowed sow, he scooped up the child and, thinking only to wash away the mud and blood from the little mauled corpse, plunged her into the water trough. The cold shock revived her, whereupon the astonished swineherd ran with the screaming babe all the way back to the house where her wounds were swiftly tended. The damage was done, however; her badly-mangled foot had never straightened, resulting in a stutter-step limp. The horrid gash to her mouth had healed in time, and was not usually noticed until she smiled: the hair-thin scar lifted the corner of her lip slightly, making her appear always somewhat sly and subtly mocking.
None of this mattered to Murdo; he had never considered these flaws to mar her beauty. To him, she was good and kind and smart, and far, far better than her brothers, or his own. Those few and infrequent times when they were together, he always came away with a craving for more—as if a feast had been spread before him and he had received but a single taste.
He looked at her now, dressed in a gown of pale green, with a yellow mantle, and he thought she had never looked so womanly. His heart quickened. He drank in the sight of her, and felt a quiver of joy leap up within him; and the ruin of the day receded.
Then he remembered he was not alone. Murdo’s gaze shifted quickly to where Torf, Skuli, and Paul stood, as yet unaware that they were about to be joined by the Maddardson tribe. Good, he thought, and breathed easier; they had not seen her.
Then Torf looked up, saw the approaching clan, and nudged Skuli; Paul turned his gaze to where the others were looking, and Murdo watched beastly grins appear on all three faces. Skuli made a crude gesture with his thumb and fingers, and then all three sniggered obscenely. Murdo, embarrassed beyond words, wished the ground would open and swallow them whole.
For her part, Ragna gazed steadily and placidly ahead, her clear hazel eyes untroubled beneath the delicate arches of her fine brows, her lips neither smiling nor frowning, her elegant features impassive to all that occurred around her. Indeed, it seemed to Murdo that though their feet touched the common turf, Ragna walked in flowered fields far beyond the cathedral’s cloistered walls. Obviously, the dull proceedings around her were unworthy of her regard. And why not? Ragna was finer than any mere princess, after all.
Lord Brusi and Lady Ragnhild greeted his parents, and the Lord of Hrolfsey presented his sons to the Lord and Lady of Dýrness. Murdo could not help noticing that the men, lord and sons alike, clutched white cloth crosses. Torf and the others noticed, too, and joined their friends in noisy exultation of their high honor while both lords beamed proudly over their respective broods and pronounced upon the certain success of the pilgrimage. The ladies, meanwhile, exchanged more solemn words; Niamh led Ragnhild aside and the two stood head-to-head, clutching one another’s hands and talking earnestly.
Murdo, unable to hear what they said, turned and found himself unexpectedly alone with Ragna. The shock made his poor empty stomach squirm and his hands grew moist.
“Greetings, Master Murdo,” she said, and, oh! her voice was like burned honey, all liquid sweetness and smoke.
Even if she were not a very vision in Murdo’s eyes, he would still have found her ravishing for the sound of her voice alone. She had only to speak a single word and the rich, low, luscious tone sparked fire in his deepest heart. If to other ears Ragna’s speech seemed a little too hoarse, perhaps, and lacking the natural mellifluence of a well-born maiden, Murdo considered that where other girls twittered, Ragna purred.
“It is a pleasant day, is it not?” Ragna inquired innocently. She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes and Murdo felt the blood rush to his face. His throat tightened, and he could not breathe.
Murdo opened his mouth to reply…only to discover he had misplaced the power of speech and was completely mute.
“I believe we are to observe the feast together,” she continued, unaware of his affliction. “Or, so it would appear.”
“Very pleasant, indeed, Mistress Ragna.” The response surprised Murdo, who did not recognize the utterance as his own.
She regarded him demurely, and seemed to be expecting him to say something more. “I have always liked Saint John,” he blurted, and instantly wished he had never been born.
“I like him, too,” Ragna laughed, and the sound drew the sting from his stupidity.
“The feast, I mean,” Murdo hastily corrected. “It is my favorite feast-day—apart from the Christ Mass, I mean.” Fool! he shrieked inwardly. I mean—I mean…Is that all you can say? Idiot!
“Oh, indeed,” agreed Ragna happily, “the Feast of Christ is by far the best. But I like Eastertide, too.”
There followed an awkward silence as Murdo struggled desperately to think of something else to say. Ragna rescued him. “I see you do not carry a cross.”
Murdo gazed down at his empty hands in remorse. He shook his head. “My brothers are going,” he admitted woodenly. “I am to stay behind to help look after the bú.”
Although he expected Ragna to spurn him, now that the awful truth was known, his confession produced a wonderful result. The young woman hesitated, glanced left and right quickly, and leaned forward, boldly placing one long-fingered hand on his sleeve. The skin of his arm burned beneath her touch. “Good! I am glad of it,” she whispered, adding a nod for emphasis.
Murdo did not know which astonished him more, her hand on his arm, or the conspiratorial glee with which she imparted her extraordinary assertion.
“Good?” wondered Murdo, his head spinning.
Ragna fixed him with a clear and steady eye. “It is not a pilgrimage, but a war.” She said the word as if it were the worst thing she knew. “That is what my mother says, and it is the truth.”
Murdo stared, unable to think what to say. Of course it is a war! he thought. There would be no point in going otherwise. But to speak that sentiment aloud would immediately place him outside the balmy warmth of Ragna’s confidence and, having just acquired it, he was loath to abandon it so quickly. “It is that,” he muttered vaguely, which satisfied her.
“My mother and I are staying, too,” Ragna informed him proudly. “Perhaps we shall see one another again soon.”
Before he could reply, Lady Ragnhild noticed them talking and called her daughter to her. Without another word, Ragna spun on her heel and rejoined the women—but Murdo thought he saw her smile at him as she turned away.
FOUR
“A disaster of undeniable magnitude,” groaned Alexius.
“Certainly unforeseen, basileus,” offered Nicetas helpfully.
The emperor shook his head, venting another groan of mingled anger and despair. He stood with a small retinue of advisors—the sacrii consistori, and the commander of the palace guard—on the wall above the Golden Gate, looking out upon the dark ungainly flood creeping toward the city from the west with a strange, almost dreamlike lethargy.
For three days Constantinople had been receiving reports—often contradictory—regarding the size and direction of this slow-moving invasion, and now, for the first time, the invader could be seen. Ignoring the road for the most part, they simply sprawled across the plain in ragged clots and clumps, rolling recklessly over the land in an untidy mass.
At the sound of hurried footsteps, the emperor turned. “Well, Dalassenus, what have you discovered?”
“They are indeed Franks, basileus,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “But they are peasants.”
“Peasants!”
“For the most part, basileus,” Dalassenus continued. “There are but a handful of soldiers among them. Nevertheless, they insist they are coming at the Patriarch’s behest, and what is more, they are on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
“Indeed?” Alexius turned his eyes o
nce more toward the straggling flood. “Pilgrims!” he shook his head in dismay. “We cannot possibly protect them. Do they know that, Dalassenus?”
“They say they do not require our aid in any way,” the commander answered. “They say God Almighty protects them.”
“Extraordinary,” sighed the emperor, shaking his head again. The dust from the feet of this rag-tag invasion rose into the clear summer sky. The day would be hot; no doubt the pilgrims would welcome water before they reached the city walls. Alexius, already calculating how best to fend off the swarm, began arranging the distribution of water.
“There is more, basileus,” said the drungarius, breaking into the emperor’s thoughts.
“Tell us, Dalassenus, what else?”
“They are led by a priest named Peter, who believes they have been commanded by the Patriarch of Rome to liberate Jerusalem from the rule of the infidel. It is their intention to do so.”
This pronouncement brought a laugh from Nicetas and some of the others on the wall. “Liberate Jerusalem!” scoffed one of the advisors. “Are they insane, these peasants?”
“They say Bishop Urban has called for every Christian to take the cross and go on pilgrimage to fight the Saracens.”
“The Saracens?” wondered Nicetas. “We have not been troubled by the Saracens for more than thirty years.”
“Fifty years,” suggested another of his advisors.
Alexius had heard enough. “Nicetas, find this Peter and bring him to us. We would speak to him and learn his true intentions.” The commander of the excubitori made a salute and departed on the run. The emperor, taking one last look at the slow-approaching horde, shook his head in disbelief, then hurried off to await the arrival of his unwelcome guest.
He did not have long to wait, for he had just finished donning his robes of state when word of Nicetas’ return reached him. Moving from the inner chamber to the audience room, he mounted the dais and took his place on the throne, the Holy Scriptures beside him on a purple cushion; Grand Drungarius Dalassenus, together with the emperor’s usual assortment of court officials and advisors, stood behind the dais, solemn and mirthless, exuding a somber gravity befitting the seriousness of the extremity facing the empire.
The Iron Lance Page 5