“Calm yourself, son. Your anger is misplaced. As it happens, the assumption of Prince Sigurd has brought about many sudden and unexpected changes, as you can imagine. We have been kept busy from dawn to dusk merely to keep pace with the demands which, like your own, have arisen in the wake of the jarls’ removal. I assure you, we knew nothing of your plight until you told us just now.”
“Hrafnbú is ours!” shouted Murdo; fists balled, he stepped towards the bishop. “It is ours and you knew it!”
“Yes!” Adalbert snapped, anger flickering to life. “And I tried to make your father see reason, but he refused. So be it. Now you must live with the consequence of his stupidity.” Glancing at Niamh, he quickly added, “I am sorry to be so blunt, good lady, but there is nothing I can do.”
Abbot Gerardus moved to the bishop’s side. “If Lord Ranulf had not been so covetous of his rents, the estate would sooner have been under our control, and you would still have a home.”
Murdo gave a strangled cry and started for the abbot, who backed away swiftly.
“Murdo!” his mother shouted, her voice sharp as a slap. She drew him back, saying, “Come away, son. We will not weary these churchmen further with our trifling grievance. They must have other sheep in their flock to look after—it seems it is the shearing season after all.”
“Lady Niamh,” protested the bishop, “I fear you have taken my meaning amiss.”
“Have I?” she challenged tartly. “Covetous of his rents…the estate under our control…” She paused, eyes ablaze. When she spoke again, her voice was low, barely audible. “I believe I understood your meaning very well, proud priest.”
The bishop frowned. “Please, you must be patient. No doubt the matter can be disentangled when the claimants have returned from pilgrimage to resume the governance of their estates.”
“What would you have us do until then?” demanded Niamh. “Beg in the marketplace like paupers?”
“The convent is ever—” began the abbot.
But Niamh was no longer listening. “Come away, Murdo. There is no justice for us here.”
She turned her back on the churchmen, and walked to the door. Murdo glared at the men with all the hate his soul could muster, and felt the awful impotence of frustrated rage. “You will curse the day you slandered my father and sided against us,” he said, his voice trembling with fury. “Hear me! Murdo Ranulfson makes this vow.”
“Come away, Murdo,” his mother called from the door. “Do not waste your breath on them.”
Murdo, still glaring at the clerics, took a slow step backwards. “You know well the worth of a vow made on holy ground. Mark me, and remember.”
The abbot made to speak, but the bishop waved him silent, and Murdo and his mother stepped into the anteroom. Murdo saw the table where the abbot had been sitting—two other monks now hovered over the document the abbot had been studying. Murdo strode to the table, snatched up the ink pot and dashed it over the parchment. Black ink splashed everywhere. The horrified monks shrieked, one threw his hands above his head, while the other began pawing at the ruined manuscript in a desperate effort to save it.
Murdo, allowing his anger full rein, raised his foot, put his boot against the table, and shoved with all his might. The sturdy thing tilted and slammed to the floor with a colossal crash, scattering documents and smashing the ink pot.
Other monks, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room, saw the overturned table, and flew at Murdo. He dodged aside, but one of them seized him by the arm, and the others fell on him.
“Remove him!” shouted the abbot from the doorway.
The monks hauled Murdo to his feet and dragged him away.
“Let him go!” cried Niamh, rushing to his aid.
One of the clerics, in his excitement, put out his hand and pushed her aside. Murdo saw her fall and, gripping his captors’ arms tightly, swung both feet into the hapless cleric’s face. His foot struck the man squarely on the chin. The man’s head snapped back on his shoulders and he dropped like a felled tree. Meanwhile, the force of Murdo’s kick unbalanced the monks who held him and they all collapsed in a heap on the floor, taking the boy with them.
“Get him out of here!” Abbot Gerardus shouted again, hoarse with rage.
The monks, still clasping their prisoner tightly, jerked him to his feet once more. The abbot stepped swiftly to where they struggled. “You stupid, insolent little—” He drew back his hand to strike.
“Enough!” shouted the bishop. He stood in the doorway, his face livid, but his manner composed. “Enough, I say. This is a house of God and you are behaving shamefully.” He thrust his hand towards the door. “Lady Niamh, I must ask you to leave this place at once.”
“We are going,” Niamh said tersely. “Come away, Murdo.”
Murdo shook off his captors’ grip, and joined his mother. “You call this a house of God,” Murdo spat, “but I see only thieves and cowards.”
The monks started for him again, but Niamh took his arm and drew him quickly away. They hastily retraced their steps back through the cloisters and church, and did not stop again until they were standing in the muddy track outside the cathedral. “Worse than vipers, the lot of them,” Murdo muttered, still shaking with anger.
“We will have our lands back, never fear,” Niamh assured him. “When your father returns, we will—”
“What are we to do until then?” asked Murdo. “What if they do not return until next summer—or even the summer after that? How long must we wait to reclaim what is ours?”
“We can stay at Cnoc Carrach. Ragnhild has offered—”
“You stay at Cnoc Carrach with Ragnhild,” Murdo told her harshly. “I will not spend another day waiting—not while our home is held by thieves and greedy priests.”
Niamh regarded her son silently for a moment. “What is in your mind, Murdo?”
“If we cannot take back what is ours until Lord Ranulf returns, then I will go and bring him back.”
“No,” Niamh told him firmly. “Think what you are saying, son; you cannot go to the Holy Land.”
“Why not? Everyone else is going—even Orin Broad-Foot. Perhaps I will go with him!”
In truth, his thoughts had been scattered and confused. Yet, the moment he spoke the words, everything became clear and simple. Murdo knew what he would do.
Niamh saw the light of grim determination come up in his gray eyes, and recognized in the set of his jaw the stubborn resolve of Lord Ranulf himself. “No, Murdo,” she repeated. Turning, she started down the track to the harbor where Peder was waiting with the boat. “I will not hear it.”
She walked a dozen paces and, when Murdo made no attempt to follow, she turned back. “Stop behaving like a child.”
“Fare well, Mother.”
“Murdo, listen to me.” She walked back to where he stood, and Murdo knew he had won his way. “You cannot go—not like this. It is impossible.”
“I am going.”
“You must have provisions and money—you cannot simply go off as if it was a market fair. You must be prepared.”
Murdo said nothing, but gazed impassively at his mother.
“Please,” Niamh continued, “come back to Cnoc Carrach at least, and we will make proper preparation for the journey.”
“Very well,” agreed Murdo at last. “But when Orin Broad-Foot sets sail for Jerusalem, I will be on that boat.”
THIRTEEN
Night lay heavy on the house and on Murdo’s soul. He stared into the darkness, unable to sleep for the ceaseless whirling of his mind. He thought about the journey to come and the trials he might endure, and how he would find his father. Niamh had written a detailed and passionate plea for Ranulf’s return, but Murdo reckoned the campaign would probably be finished by the time he reached Jerusalem, and anyway, he would have little difficulty convincing his father and brothers to hasten home and redress the outrage practiced against them in their absence.
He thought about the wickedness of Bish
op Adalbert, and Abbot Gerardus; he cursed them breath and bones. He thought about how he would get himself a place aboard one of King Magnus’ ships. Most of all he thought about Ragna. Tomorrow he was leaving Cnoc Carrach, and he did not know when he would return. After being near her every day for the last many weeks, the prospect of not seeing her as she went about her chores, not hearing her voice in the morning as they broke fast together, not being near her and knowing he might catch sight of her at any moment—to be so deprived seemed an almost insufferable hardship.
As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard the creak of a floor-board outside his room, and an instant later the latch of his door lifted. He sat up in bed. The candle had burned low, but he took it up and stood; unable to sleep, he had not bothered to undress. The door swung open and Ragna stepped into the room, pulling the door shut silently behind her.
She saw him standing with the candle, as if he knew she would come and was waiting for her; she smiled and moved quickly to his side, her limping step more prominent with bare feet.
“Ragna, what do you—” he began.
She lay a finger to his lips. “Shh! Not so loud. Someone will hear us.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No—no.” He looked at her wide eyes and long unbraided hair, the gentle swell of her breasts under her nightdress, and desire welled up inside him. “Stay,” he said. “I could not sleep.”
“Neither could I,” she told him. “This is your last night and after tomorrow I will not see you anymore.”
“I will come back,” he pointed out hopefully.
“I know.” She bent her head unhappily. “But then everything will be different. You will go back to Hrafnbú and I will stay here, and…”
“No,” he said, and surprised himself with this reply. Ragna glanced up quickly, her eyes shining in the candlelight. “We will be together,” he suggested.
“Do you think so? I would like that, Murdo. I would like that very much.” Suddenly embarrassed by her own audacity, she hesitated and looked away. “You must think me wicked,” she said softly.
“Never,” Murdo protested gently. “I think you…beautiful.”
She smiled again. “I brought you something.” From a fold in her mantle she brought out a slender dagger and held it up in the candlelight. “It belonged to my mother, but she gave it to me last Yuletide.”
He took the knife and hefted it in his hand. The blade was thin and the handle light; it was a woman’s weapon, but exceedingly well made: the edge was straight and sharp and the tip pointed as a serpent’s tooth. It was obviously very expensive. “Are you sure you want me to take this?”
Ragna nodded. “I thought if you kept it inside your siarc it would help keep you safe.”
“Thank you.” He looked at the knife for a moment, and then at Ragna. “I have nothing for you,” he confessed.
She lay her hand over his. “I have everything I want—at least, I will when you return. Promise me you will come back for me, Murdo.”
“That I will, Ragna.”
“Promise,” she insisted.
Murdo nodded solemnly at the young woman who held him with her burning eyes. “With all my heart, I promise: I will come back to you. Murdo Ranulfson makes this vow.”
She put her hand to the back of his head, drew his face near, and kissed him. Her lips were warm and he wished he might linger there forever. Never had leaving seemed such a bleak and daunting prospect as it did then.
After a moment, Ragna pulled away and held her cheek against his. “I will wait for you, my love,” she whispered in his ear. “Pray God, let not that wait be long.”
Rising, she turned and stepped from the bed, casting a last glance over her shoulder. She hesitated, and Murdo, seeing the hesitation, reached out and caught her by the hand. “Stay,” he said.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, then glanced towards the door hesitantly.
“Please,” he said, swallowing hard.
She came into his arms in a rush. They fell back onto the bed together, their bodies entwined, mouths searching, kissing hungrily. Murdo’s hands stroked her body, feeling the warm and willing flesh through the thin stuff of her nightdress. He gave a groan and sat up all at once.
Ragna rolled away. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Wait.”
He slid off the bed and went to the chest where he had placed his belt and pouch. Taking up the belt, he unfastened the pouch and withdrew the small silver pilgrim’s coin the merchant Dufnas had given him for the gattage at Jerusalem. Returning to the bed, he took up the knife Ragna had given him and pressed the sharp edge into the small disc of silver.
Ragna, on her knees now, watched him, her heart beating so fast and hard in her breast she could not speak.
Laying aside the knife, Murdo took the silver coin between the thumb and first finger of either hand, bent it and, bringing all his strength to bear, tore the coin in two. He offered one of the halves to Ragna, saying, “As this is torn, so shall our souls be torn when we are parted.”
Ragna took the coin and, holding it out towards Murdo’s half, reunited the two pieces. “As this is joined, so shall our souls be joined.”
They then clasped hands over the coin and said together, “From this night, and henceforth, forever.”
Murdo drew her to him once more and they kissed to seal the vow. Ragna threw aside the bedclothes, and pulled Murdo down with her into their marriage bed. Their first lovemaking fled past Murdo in a blind frenzy of heat and aching need. Afterwards, they lay panting in one another’s embrace.
“They might—” Murdo began when he could speak again. “They might try to challenge our vow—”
“Hush,” Ragna whispered. “We are hand-fasted, and joined in the eyes of God. No one can separate us now. When you return we will confirm our vows before the altar.”
“I will never set foot in that cathedral again.”
“In our chapel, then,” Ragna suggested.
“Very well,” he agreed, “in your chapel.” He bent his head to kiss her once more. “I wish I did not have to go. But it will be morning soon and—”
She placed a fingertip to his lips. “Speak no word of leaving. This is our wedding night.” So saying, she sat up and, taking the hem of her nightdress, lifted it over her head. Murdo saw the exquisite fullness of her breasts and the supple curve of her hip as she bent to extinguish the candle. And then she was beside him again, kissing him, caressing him, guiding his hands in their discovery of her body. Their second lovemaking was slower, and sweeter, and Murdo wished it would never end; but it did, leaving Murdo’s heart cleft in two for the beauty of Ragna’s giving of herself to him.
They slept then, their faces close, breathing one breath, their bodies sharing one space, one warmth. Ragna rose and slipped from his room just before dawn, and Murdo knew he would never be whole unto himself again. Part of him would remain with Ragna forever.
Later, after breaking fast, Niamh, Ragnhild, and Ragna walked down to the cove with Murdo. Peder and two of Lord Brusi’s men were waiting at the boat. The early morning sun had burned away the low-hanging mist, and the day was coming clear. “A good wind out of the north,” Peder called as they approached. “We shall have a fair run to Inbhir Ness.”
Niamh halted on the path. “You will turn back if there is trouble,” she said.
“As I have told you.”
“Or, if you cannot get a place on one of the ships,” she added.
“Mother,” answered Murdo with gentle, but firm resolve, “we have talked about this a hundred times. I am no pilgrim. I will not fight. I mean to find my father and bring him home. That is all.”
“And your brothers,” added Niamh.
“Of course.” He gave a gently exasperated sigh.
Niamh halted on the path. “It’s just that you are the only one left to me. If anything should happen to you, Murdo, I do not think I could—”
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Embarrassed to be overheard by Ragna and her mother, he turned and quickly reassured her. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I am not going alone. I will be travelling with a large warband, after all. Nothing will happen. I promise.”
They started walking again. “I will be home again before you know it,” Murdo said, trying to lighten the somber mood settling around him. Now that the moment of leaving was upon him, he was far less eager for it than he had been even the day before. Indeed, after his night with Ragna, he wanted nothing more than to stay in Orkneyjar and for the two of them to remain together always.
If he stayed, however, that would never happen. The way Murdo saw it, his only hope of making a life for himself and Ragna was to regain possession of Hrafnbú. The only way to do that was to find his father and bring him home.
If his zeal for the journey had waned, these thoughts reminded him that there was even more at stake than recovering stolen property; his future happiness was at risk so long as intruders held their lands. So, Murdo put iron to his resolve and set his face to the sea.
His mother continued to offer advice and elicit his promises to be vigilant and careful, but Murdo was no longer listening. The sooner he was away, the sooner he could return, and his heart was set on a swift returning.
Upon reaching the shingle, Murdo turned at the water’s edge and thanked Lady Ragnhild for her continued care and hospitality of both himself and his mother, and thanked her, too for the fine new clothes he was wearing—a handsome red-brown cloak of wool; a pair of sturdy breecs of the same cloth and color with a wide belt and soft boots of new leather; and a long siarc of yellow linen. He also thanked her for the money she had given him to aid his travels, and promised to repay it at the first opportunity.
“It is nothing I would not do for my own blood kin,” Ragnhild told him; her emphasis on the last words, along with the lift of her eyebrow and not altogether approving gaze gave him to know that Ragna must have told her mother what had passed between them during the night. “Your mother and I are more than sisters,” Ragnhild continued, “I do welcome her company, all the more so with the menfolk away. We will be safe here, never fear. Look to yourself, Murdo, and God speed your return.”
The Iron Lance Page 13