Taking his place quickly, Alexius, nodding to the magister officiorum, said, “Bring him.”
A moment later the magister struck the white marble floor with his rod of office, and the great gilded doors of the Salamos Hall swung open. In marched Nicetas, followed by four of the imperial guard—one at each corner—leading a large, thick-set shambling man, tonsured and barefoot, and dressed in the dun-colored hooded cloak and ankle-length mantle of a rural Roman cleric.
Excubitor Nicetas, sweating from his ride in the heat of the day, advanced quickly to the foot of the throne, prostrated himself, and rose at his sovereign’s command to say, “Lord Basileus, I give you Peter of Amiens.”
The rustic priest, suitably awed by the wealth of his surroundings, gazed with wonder at the exalted being on the throne before him. Upon hearing his name, he pitched forward onto his face and seized the emperor by the foot, which he kissed respectfully, saying, “Hail, Sovereign Lord, your willing servant salutes you.”
“Rise, and stand on your feet,” said Alexius sternly. The man rose, shaking his clothes back in the same motion; with his tattered cloak and filthy mantle he looked like a vagrant bird which, having bathed in the dust, now settled its bedraggled feathers.
“They tell us you are the leader of these pilgrim peasants,” the emperor said. “Is this true?”
“By no means, Lord Emperor,” replied Peter. “I am but a poor hermit granted by God and His Holiness Pope Urban the divine favor of going on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
“You know, of course, that martyrdom awaits you,” Alexius informed him, “should you be so fortunate as to reach Jerusalem.”
At this the hermit priest drew himself up to full height. “Lord and Emperor, it is our very great privilege to wrest the lands of our Saviour from the evil infidel. With Almighty God as our protector, this we will do.”
“The Arabs will oppose you,” the emperor stated, watching the man before him. “How do you plan to win Jerusalem?”
“If necessary,” the hermit replied, “we will fight.”
“It will most certainly become necessary—of that we can assure you,” Alexius said, feeling his anger stir within. “The Arabs are fearless in battle, and their resolve is legendary. Where are your weapons? Where are your supplies? Have you any siege engines? Have you the tools to make bridges, dig wells, scale walls?”
“What we need,” answered the cleric placidly, “the Good Lord provides.”
“And has the Good Lord provided any soldiers for your army?”
“He has, Lord Emperor,” answered Peter, shaking back his cloak once more. There was more than a touch of self-righteous defiance in his stance and tone.
“How many?”
“We have eight knights with us. They are led by the most devout Walter Sansavoir of Poissy.”
“Eight,” repeated Alexius. “Did you hear that, Nicetas? They have eight mounted soldiers.” Turning once more to the priest, he asked, “Do you know how many warriors Sultan Arslan commands?”
Peter, uncertain, hesitated.
“Too late you show a little wisdom, my friend,” the emperor said. “Very well, I will tell you, shall I? The sultan has forty thousand in his private bodyguard alone. Forty thousand mounted warriors against your eight.”
“We are sixty thousand strong,” Peter proclaimed proudly. “We are God’s own army.”
“We command God’s own army, priest!” cried Alexius, unable to control his anger any longer. “You are a rabble!”
The emperor’s shout echoed in the hall like the crack of thunder. He leapt from his chair and stood towering over the unfortunate priest. “What is more, you are a wayward and undisciplined rabble. We have heard how you have plundered your way through Dalmatia and Moesia, looting towns and settlements to provide yourselves with food and supplies.” He turned his head to the Captain of the Excubitori. “We are not at war with Dalmatia and Moesia, are we, Nicetas?” he inquired with mock innocence.
“No, basileus,” the commander replied, “the people there are citizens of the empire.”
“You see!” cried Alexius. “You have attacked dutiful citizens whose only fault lay in the fact that they happened to live in the path of your thieving mob.”
“They were Jews,” Peter pointed out smugly. “We have vowed before the Throne of Christ to rid the world of all God’s enemies.”
“Your vow was ill-spoken, priest. You have neither right nor authority to swear such a thing. You are above yourself, and we will not suffer these transgressions lightly,” Alexius declared, glaring hard at the ignorant cleric. After a moment, he appeared to soften. “Nevertheless, despite your flagrant and lamentable trespasses, we will make a bargain with you. In exchange for peace while within imperial borders, we will give you food and water while you are here in Constantinople; further, we will arrange safe conduct for you back the way you came.”
“With all respect, Emperor and Lord,” the hermit replied, “that I cannot do, for we are sworn to liberate Jerusalem at all costs.”
“Then you must be prepared to pay that cost with your lives,” Alexius declared. “For truly, you will not escape with less.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the arms of his throne. “Is there nothing we can say to persuade you to turn back?”
The rustic priest made no reply.
“Very well,” conceded Alexius, “we will see you safely across the Bosphorus, at least. And may God have mercy on you all.”
Humbled at last, the tattered hermit bowed and accepted his lord’s generosity with simple thanks.
“Here me, Peter of Amiens,” Alexius warned, “you proceed at your peril. Take our advice and turn back. Without protection and supplies, your pilgrimage will fail.”
“As God wills,” he replied stiffly. “We look to the Almighty for our aid and protection.”
Alexius, still fuming, glared at the mule-headed cleric and decided there was no point in prolonging the misery; with a flick of the imperial hand, he ended the audience and directed Nicetas to take him away. When they had gone, the emperor turned to Dalassenus. “This is that incompetent Urban’s doing, and he will bitterly regret it. His insufferable interference has brought us nothing but hardship…and now this!”
The emperor stared at his commander, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he said, “Can it be that he has misunderstood our intentions?”
“I do not see how that could be possible, basileus,” Dalassenus replied. “Your letter was most explicit. He had it read out before his bishops, and you have received his favorable reply.”
“Even so, something has gone wrong,” Alexius declared. “I asked for an army to help fill the ranks and restore the themes. I said nothing about a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
“No, basileus,” agreed Dalassenus firmly.
The emperor shook his head. “I fear I must ask you to return to Rome, cousin. We must learn what that old meddler has done, and take measures to prevent any more citizens coming to harm. You will leave at once, and may God go with you.”
FIVE
“I have spoken to Guthorm Wry-Neck,” Lord Brusi was saying as Murdo drifted near, “and he said the ship will leave Kirkjuvágr the day after the Feast of Saint James, God willing.”
“That soon?” His father sounded surprised. “It cannot take so long to reach Lundein.”
Brusi only nodded. “That is what he said.”
“But the harvest will not be finished,” Ranulf pointed out.
“Aye,” Brusi agreed. “There is no help for it, I fear. We must reach Rouen by mid-August and no later if we are to travel with the king’s men.”
“Yes, yes, I see that,” Lord Ranulf agreed. “Still, I had not thought we would be leaving so soon.”
Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Bishop Adalbert, who called his guests to table—the women to tables on the right, and men to the left. In the eager, but not undignified, rush which ensued, Murdo found himself squeezed onto a bench between two mer
chantmen of more than ample girth. The one on his left eyed him disapprovingly—as if he feared that Murdo’s presence might turn feast into fast; but the man on the right winked at him and smiled. “Going to Jerusalem are you, boy?”
“I am not, sir,” replied Murdo in a tone that dared his listener to pursue the matter further.
“Ah,” the merchant nodded sagely, and Murdo could not tell whether he thought this a good thing or not. “I am Gundrun,” he said, “and I give you good greeting, young man.”
“God be good to you, sir,” replied Murdo; he gave his name, and pointed out his father and brothers sitting a few places further down the bench, and identified them to his listener.
The merchant on the left took this in with a heavy grunt, whereupon Gundurn said, “Do not mind him, Murdo Ranulfson; he is always out of temper—is that not so, Dufnas? Never more so than on a feast-day following mass.” The man on the left grunted again and turned his surly attention elsewhere.
A monk appeared just then, carrying a tall stack of round, flat loaves of bread. He passed along the bench, placing a loaf before each guest. “Here now,” said Gundrun, “the food arrives.”
Murdo looked at the solitary loaf, and searched the length of the board in vain for anything resembling a bowl or cup, but saw none anywhere and knew his worst fears confirmed: nothing but dry bread for him today, and not so much as a sip of water to wash it down. Unable to keep his disappointment to himself any longer, he shared his gloomy opinion with his stout companion.
But Gundrun only winked at him again, and said, “Have faith, my friend.”
As if in response to these hopeful words, there came a commotion across the square, and Murdo saw what he took to be a procession emerge from the cloisters. Pairs of monks—dozens of them, all carrying fully-laden trenchers between them—appeared on the green and proceeded at once to the tables, where they delivered their burdens and hastened away.
Almost before the starving Murdo could wonder whether a single platter would suffice for the entire table, two more appeared, and then two more, so that each trencher served a pair of guests either side of the board. While the monks scurried after more platters, still other clerics delivered silver bowls of salt to the table, placing them within reach of the diners.
Murdo gaped at the mound of food before him. Rarely had he seen such a profusion of roast fowl: quail, doves, grouse, and pheasant. Nor was that all, for there were quartered ducks, and the smaller carcasses of larks and blackbirds, and, scattered throughout, the eggs of each of these birds.
The platter had no sooner touched the board than Murdo’s hands were reaching for the nearest bird. His fist closed on the leg of a small duck and he pulled it from the pile, loosening a quail, which tumbled onto the table before him. Gundrun, beside him, and the two diners opposite, helped themselves as well, and a singular hush fell upon the green. Murdo finished the duck and, grease dripping from chin and fingers, started on the quail.
“Good tuck, boy, no?” exclaimed Gundrun tossing bones behind him, and Murdo, mouth too full to reply, nodded enthusiastically.
Murdo finished the quail and helped himself to a pheasant, tearing long strips of meat from the breast of the bird with his teeth. He was thus employed when two monks arrived at his place with a steaming cauldron. Murdo watched with interest as a third monk dipped a cannikin into the larger pot and proceeded to pour the contents onto the flat bread before him, before moving on to Gundrun, and so on down the bench.
Murdo stared at the pottage; it was a deep red color, which he had never seen in a stew before. “Mawmenny,” sighed Gundrun contentedly. Lowering his face to the meal, he sniffed expertly. “Ah, yes! Enchanting!”
Murdo had heard of the dish—said to be served in the halls of kings—but had never seen it. He put his head down and caught the mild, somewhat delicate scent of cherries. Dipping the tip of his finger into the sauce, he found it produced an unexpected, though not unpleasant, warm tingle on his tongue together with the taste of beef and plums.
Following Gundrun’s example, he took a lump of meat between his fingers and thumb and chewed thoughtfully, savoring the rich intermingling of unusual flavors. He then proceeded to devour the rest of the mawmenny without lifting his face from the board until he had finished each succulent morsel. He was only prevented from licking the now-empty bread trencher by the abrupt appearance of a monk who took it up and replaced it with a fresh one.
What a splendid feast! thought Murdo, looking down the board to see the next delicacy just arriving. He saw his father, deep in conversation with Lord Brusi, and his brothers stuffing their faces and laughing loudly with Brusi’s sons. Across the yard at one of the women’s tables, he thought he saw his mother leaning across to Lady Ragnhild. Just as he made to look away again, his eye shifted and he caught sight of Ragna, gazing directly at him, her expression at once shrewd and thoughtful. She was watching him and he had caught her; but she did not look away, nor did her expression change. She continued staring at him, until two monks carrying a cauldron passed between them and removed her from his sight—but not before Murdo had seen, for the second time that day, the secret smile playing on those sly lips.
Distracted and confused, Murdo addressed himself once more to his meal and his companions. Gundrun proved himself not only an amiable table companion, but a veritable fountain of knowledge. He had travelled widely; his trade took him throughout the north and into Gaul. Once, he had even made a pilgrimage to Rome. Thus, when Murdo asked him where Rouen might be, the older man replied, “Why, it is in Normandy, if I am not mistaken.”
“Who is king there?” wondered Murdo.
“That would be William Rufus, King of England,” Gundrun told him. “Are you thinking of joining the pilgrimage after all?”
“No,” Murdo confessed. “I heard my father talking about it. They are to go to Normandy and travel with the king’s men.”
“Ah, no doubt you mean William’s son, Duke Robert of Normandy,” corrected the merchant gently. “It seems he is to lead the Normans and English to Jerusalem—along with some others, of course. There are very many knights and men-at-arms travelling together, you see. At least, that is what I have heard.”
This brought a snarl of disapproval from Dufnas, sitting next to Murdo. Gundrun replied, “What is it to you, my friend, whether the Franks send a blind dog to lead the pilgrims to Jerusalem? You have no intention of going in any event.”
“Foolish waste,” Dufnas declared. Then, having found his voice, added, “I would not set foot in that God-forsaken land for all the gold in Rome.”
Thus delivering himself of this sentiment, Dufnas turned once more to his neglected meal; seizing a pheasant, he broke it in two between his fists—as if to show what he thought of the pilgrimage—and then bit deeply into the half in his right hand.
“Pay him no heed,” Gundrun advised. “He has been to Jerusalem.”
“Twice,” grumbled Dufnas.
“Twice,” confirmed his friend. “He was robbed by Saracens the last time, and he has never forgiven them.”
Murdo turned wondering eyes upon the moody merchantman. He did not appear a likely pilgrim; but then, Murdo had never known anyone who had been as far as Lundein, much less Rome or Jerusalem. “They say,” he ventured, “that the Holy Land is surrounded by a desert, and that the sand burns with a fire that cannot be quenched. Is this so?”
Gundrun passed the question to Dufnas, saying, “Well, my friend, you heard him—what about the desert?”
“Aye,” he agreed between bites, “there is a desert right enough.”
“And does it burn?” persisted Murdo.
“Worse—it boils,” answered Dufnas, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “No one can cross it during the day. You must wait until the night when it freezes like ice.”
Murdo nodded, as if he had long suspected this to be the case. He tucked this nugget of information into his memory to bring out later and impress Torf and Skuli. He was about to ask Dufn
as whether it was also true that the Saracens could take as many wives as they pleased, but the serving monks arrived with pitchers and beakers of wine just then, and everyone began filling their cups and drinking one another’s health. Murdo joined in, and found that he liked wine, and the way it made him feel as if he were glowing inside.
All around the green, the feast took on a more convivial mood, as everyone awaited the appearance of the Saint John’s bread, sweet little barley cakes taken with wine. When at last they arrived, the cakes brought gasps of delight from the celebrants, for, baked into each small round loaf was a silver coin. Murdo plucked the coin from his cake and cupped it in his palm. Though it was but a tiny coin, it was more money than he had ever held at once. He gazed at the coin and marvelled at the Bishop’s generosity.
“The pilgrim’s coin,” Gundrun told him. “It is to pay the gattage.”
“The what?”
“The tax which the gateman of Jerusalem demand of all pilgrims who enter the Holy City.”
“To carry it with you means that you will live to see the city of the Blessed Saviour.”
Dufnas grunted at this, and pressed his coin into Murdo’s hand. “There,” he said, “now you can pay my tax, too, when you get there.”
Murdo thought to remind the disagreeable merchant that, in fact, he was not going to Jerusalem at all, but Dufnas was already draining his second beaker of wine and Murdo thought it best not to disturb him with such trifling matters. He tucked the coins into his belt, and turned his attention to the Saint John’s bread and wine.
The wine, sweetened with honey and lightly spiced, quickly disappeared—most of it down Dufnas’ gullet, it had to be said—so Murdo sipped his cautiously, fearing he would get no more. Yet, no sooner had the empty pitcher touched the board than it was refilled from one of the two tuns of wine the bishop had established at either end of the green. One glance at the broad oak vats supported on their iron stanchions, and Murdo drained his beaker and then thrust it out for Gundrun to refill.
The Iron Lance Page 6