“Tomorrow would come and the answer would be the same. Then, just when Murdo was beginning to think they would never sail again, Jon looked at the sky and pointed to the north-flying clouds. “Today we buy provisions. Tomorrow we sail.” He then ordered Murdo to go and fetch the crew from whatever hall or brothel they were to be found, and bring them to the ship.
The chore was quickly accomplished; most of the men, having squandered all their silver long ago, were now eager to sail on. Brothers Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn were dragged from the cathedral cloisters where they were holding forth, and were dispatched to the grain merchant, brewer, and butcher for provisions—this was because no wheedling tradesman ever got the better of the shrewd clerics when it came to striking a bargain.
While the monks were gathering the necessary victuals, the rest of the crew undertook to make certain the longship was seaworthy. The mild winter had left the hull in fine condition—with no water freezing in the joints and ropes, and no raging gales to batter the mast and rudder—so only scrubbing and cleaning was needed. They raised the tent over the platform behind the mast, and by the end of the day, when the casks and bags and boxes of provisions began arriving at the quay, the ship was fit for the seas once more.
Jon Wing, pleased with the work, released the crew to the drinking hall for one last revel in port, and Murdo went off with them. He did not go to the nearby hall, however, but to the smithy to bid farewell to his friends.
“If you stayed a little longer,” Bezu told him, “we might have made an armorer of you yet.” Producing Murdo’s spear, he gave it to him, saying, “I think you might have need of this where you are going.”
“But I have nothing to give you for it.”
“No matter,” Bezu replied. “It is my gift to you.”
“I meant to finish it,” Murdo said, regarding the naked length of hammered iron. Crudely worked, and lacking any appearance of lethal power, it was, in Murdo’s estimation, handsome nonetheless. “I wish I had something to give you.”
“Take it—finish it,” the armorer insisted. “And when men ask you where you came by such a fine and fearsome weapon, you will tell them Bezu, the Master Armorer of Arles, will make them one just as good. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Murdo thanked him for the gift, and told them all that if they ever came to Orkneyjar, they would receive a hearty welcome. Bezu walked with him part way down the street, and then, looking up at the sky, eyes asquint in the quickly fading daylight, wished him a good journey and hurried back to his hovel. Murdo retraced his steps to the harbor and climbed aboard the longship.
“What is that you have there?” asked Jon Wing as he clambered aboard.
“It is a spear I’ve been making,” Murdo answered, holding the length of black iron out for admiration.
“Is it?” chuckled Jon. “It does not look much like a spear. Are you sure it is not a pole for prodding pigs?”
“It is not finished yet,” Murdo replied sourly. “It needs wood for the shaft, and then it must be sharpened.”
The seaman laughed. “So this is what you have been doing all this time! I thought you had a girl in the town.” Pointing at the lance, he said, “From the looks of this, maybe you should try your luck with the girls next time.”
Not caring to provoke any more mirth at his own expense, Murdo retreated to his customary place at the prow where he quickly tucked the unfinished weapon up under the ship’s rail before anyone else should see it. The crewmen returned late that night, and the next morning at dawn Jon Wing roused them and gave the command to cast off. The longship was rowed into the bay and down the river. Once past the headland, they raised the sail and caught the first wind; the sail snapped taut, bellied out, and the Skidbladnir, as if delighted to be free once more, surged forward, cleaving the waves and throwing spray either side of the prow.
The journey resumed, and so too the search for King Magnus’ ships. Murdo was certain that any day they would find the king’s fleet—only the pilgrimage would be over and the ships would be sailing home. Nevertheless, as they slowly worked their way along the coast, pushing ever east and south, they began hearing news of the crusaders’ progress. The Genoese, whose ships supplied the armies, brought back stories, and these were passed on in the ports where they stopped for water and supplies.
Although they always asked if anyone had seen the Norse fleet, the answer was always negative: no one had seen or heard of King Magnus or his ships. One scrap of information did prove useful, however. They learned from the harbor master in Trapani that the crusaders were not in Jerusalem at all, but on their way to Antioch, an inland city some distance to the north of the Holy Land. What is more, this report, he said, was very recent: not more than eight or ten weeks old.
“Antioch!” Murdo exclaimed when he found out. He had heard the name once or twice before and, though he had no idea where it might be, it sounded like a needless delay to him. “Why would they go there? It must be a mistake.”
“Not at all,” Ronan corrected gently. “Antioch is a great city, with formidable defences. Any war host moving overland would have to pass Antioch in order to reach Jerusalem. Indeed, the merchants have been supplying grain and wine to the camps, and they are saying the crusader armies are encamped before the walls of Antioch even now.”
“Antioch is closer than Jerusalem,” Fionn said. “No doubt we will find King Magnus there.”
They sailed on, and the days grew longer. The sea, deep blue and alive with porpoises and small fish that skittered over the waves, grew warmer, and the islands smaller and more numerous. To Murdo, who was used to the low, smooth, green humps of the Dark Islands, the isles of the Middle Sea seemed to be mostly sharp escarpments of bare rock with tufts of gray-green thorny brush clinging precariously to life. Consequently, the arid islands, with their glistening white towns glimpsed among the blue coves and vine-covered clefts of valleys, held little appeal for him; he thought them impossibly dry, dust-filled, and sleepy, and could not imagine anything of interest ever happening. Unlike the monks, who enjoyed wandering around the tiny, fly-blown settlements, talking Greek to the inhabitants, Murdo considered every moment spent ashore a moment wasted. He could not wait to get to Antioch to find his father.
Some weeks later, they heard from a fisherman in Paphos on the island of Creta, who had heard from another fisherman, who had heard from an olive oil merchant who conducted trade between several of the many islands, that some Norse ships had indeed been seen in southern waters. Although he could not be certain, it was thought the fleet of ships was making for Cyprus.
They heard no more about this until reaching Kyrenia on the island of Cyprus, when this story was confirmed. “They say the longships passed by here two or three weeks ago,” Ronan explained. “One of the traders said he heard a fleet of Norse ships put in for water and supplies a few leagues up the coast on the mainland—at a place called Korykos.”
Jon Wing nodded. “Three weeks ago,” he mused, looking at the cloudless sky and stroking his beard thoughtfully. “They will have joined the siege, I think.”
“Indeed,” the elder cleric agreed, “the merchant said it is but two or three days from here—four at most, if the wind is contrary.”
Murdo heard this and his heart beat faster. He could be with his father in two or three days!
Having come so far, to be this close—it was all he could do to contain himself while Jon Wing and Ronan walked down the quayside to consult the master of one of the trading vessels about the best way to reach Antioch. They returned after a lengthy conversation, and Jon began shouting orders to the crew sitting and lying on the wharf. In an effort to speed their departure, Murdo dashed everywhere at once, helping with the ropes, readying the sails, unbinding the oars. Ronan, meanwhile, retraced his steps into the town to summon his brother priests, who were lingering in the marketplace.
Soon Skidbladnir was ready to push away from the wharf, and Murdo had just volunteered to go in search of the monks, when they appe
ared, hastening for the ship as fast as their burdens of wine, goat’s cheese, and olives allowed. They handed their bundles down, and dropped into the boat. Taking up an oar, Murdo helped push away from the wharf, and then settled himself on a rowing bench and rowed as if he would single-handedly propel the ship from the harbor. As soon as they were clear of the other craft, Jon called “up sails,” and Murdo was there to lend a hand with that, too.
It took a while for the wind to find them, but as they came out of the windshadow of the headland to the west, the sails rippled and filled, and the dragonhead prow began to slice blue water once again. They shipped their oars and bound them once more, and Murdo found himself at the rail searching the horizon with an air of expectation he had not felt in many, many days. Emlyn, moving back to the tented platform behind the mast, passed by him; in his exuberance, Murdo remarked aloud, “In three days we will be in Antioch, and I will find my father.”
“So I have heard,” Emlyn replied; he stopped and leaned against the rail. “I am glad for you. It has been a very long trip—a good one, but very long.” He paused, regarding Murdo amiably. “Have you thought about how you will go about finding your father and brothers?”
“That will not be difficult,” Murdo answered confidently. “They are with the Duke of Normandy. As the city is under siege, I have only to look for the duke’s camp and that is where they will be.”
TWENTY - FIVE
The hills rising from the sea, misty purple in the dawnlight, showed no sign of either port or harbor—less yet a city besieged by a hundred thousand warrior pilgrims. Although Murdo had been told that Antioch lay a few leagues inland, he still hoped he might catch a glimpse of it from the sea. Instead, the empty, rock-filled coast stretched out to either side—no towns, no settlements, no holdings of any kind, much less anything resembling the great and ancient city of Antioch. Neither did he see the port of Saint Symeon, which Ronan had said they would find upon reaching the mainland coast.
He folded his arms across his chest and stared out upon the all but featureless coastline. Somewhere on the barren stretch of pale gray rock and dust-colored brush ahead, King Magnus had put ashore. The best harborage, they had been told, was to be found at the port town of Saint Symeon. But, save for a single tiny fishing village now glinting small and white in the early morning sun, there was no other human habitation anywhere.
Stepping over the sleeping bodies of his shipmates, Murdo made his way back to the tiller to speak to Sturli, who had taken the last watch on the helm. “We must have strayed in the night,” Murdo observed sourly. “There is no port here.”
“Hey-hey,” agreed Sturli. “But I do not think we drifted off course.”
“We should be able to see the harbor by now,” Murdo told him. He shoved a hand towards the empty hills, now pink in the rising sun. “Do you see a city anywhere?”
“Nay,” said Sturli, unperturbed by the apparent mistake. “But I do not think we drifted off course.”
“We must have!” Murdo insisted.
“I do not think so,” Sturli replied, shaking his head. “We had a clear night and good stars. I know how to steer a ship. Maybe it is you that is mistaken, hey?”
Murdo—angry now, as well as disappointed—stomped away and slumped onto his bench once more. He hung over the rail and watched the dull hillscape draw slowly closer, and his mind began to wander; he thought about the journey. It had, as Emlyn said, been a good voyage, all in all. Still, the wheel of the year had turned round once already, and there was still no sight of Jerusalem! It would be another year at least before he would see Ragna again.
The thought proved so discouraging, he pushed it firmly from him, and turned instead to thinking about the triumphant day when he and Lord Ranulf would stride boldly into the bishop’s lair, and obtain the return of their lands. He imagined the larcenous old cleric down on his knees, weeping his repentance and pleading for his life. He could feel the swordblade in his hand as the point pressed into the thieving bishop’s fat throat.
This vision consoled him for a long time as the ship turned and began making its way slowly along the coast. A little while later, they passed a jutting promontory, whereupon Sturli shouted from the tiller, “The king’s ships!”
Murdo was on his feet in an instant, straining for a glimpse of King Magnus’ fleet. He scanned the shoreline to the right and left, but saw nothing. “Where?” he demanded of Hallvard, the sailor beside him on the rail.
“There! The king’s ships! I see them!” cried Nial, his arm around the throat of the dragon. He stood on the rail, stabbing a finger at a small cluster of gleaming white buildings clinging to the hillside above a small, rock-sided bay. Murdo squinted his eyes and saw what appeared to be a dark mass on the shining water of the little bay below the town. Rising from this dark mass, like so many headless spears, were the masts of the longships. At long last, they had caught the ever-elusive fleet. Where there were longships, Norsemen could not be far away.
By the time Skidbladnir slid into the cove, Murdo was more than ready to face the entire Saracen warhost all by himself. He did not wait for the keel to bump the small stone quay at the end of the village, but jumped into the shallow water and waded to shore.
“There is no one here,” he called to the others splashing up onto the strand behind him. Jon Wing and the three monks came ashore at the quay, and Murdo ran to where they stood. “The place is deserted.”
The seaman scanned the quiet village’s empty footpaths and by-ways and replied, “We shall see.”
Proceeding on, they paused at the place where the town’s single street met the harbor path. Putting two fingers into his mouth, Jon gave a long, shrill whistle. He whistled twice more, and on the third, a door opened at one of the nearby houses and a tall, fair-haired Norseman staggered out. He took one look at the newcomers and shouted something over his shoulder to someone inside the house, then came running down to the shore to meet them.
“Olvar Three-Toes!” shouted Jon Wing. “We find you at last.”
“Hey-hey,” replied the Norseman, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You have found us, Jon Wing. What has taken you so long?”
“We can only sail as fast as the wind allows,” replied Jon.
“No doubt you have stopped for plunder in every town you passed,” replied the sailor named Olvar with a smile. “This is what has taken you so long, I think.”
“Nay,” answered Jon Wing happily. “We have these monks with us,” he indicated Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn coming up behind him, “so we could not plunder a single town.”
Three more Norsemen emerged from the house and made their way down to the shore, calling noisy greetings to the crewmen they knew. “Is it just the four of you, then?” asked Jon.
“Hey-hey,” replied Olvar. “Us four, and six others. We drew lots, and the losers had to stay behind to guard the ships. All the rest have gone to join the siege.”
“Is the city far?” asked Ronan.
“Three leagues—maybe a little more.” Olvar shrugged. “That is what I heard.”
“What of the villagers here?” asked Emlyn. “Are they friendly?”
“I think so. Most of them have gone to tend the fields up in the hills. Only a few old ones are left behind, and they keep to themselves mostly, but they give us eggs and cheese.”
“Have you seen any Saracens?” wondered Fionn, staring at the dry, brush-covered hills rising behind the village.
“Nay,” replied Olvar. “They have all run to the mountains to hide. They are Greeks here anyway.” Turning back to Jon, he said, “Did you bring any öl? They have only wine in this place, and we are thirsty.”
Jon expressed his regrets, and said that he did not have any ale, either. He then called to some of his crewmen to bring the arms and armor ashore, secure the boat, and prepare to set off.
“You are not staying?” Olvar said, disappointment darkening his sunny features.
“We must hurry to Antioch before the city is taken,
” replied Jon, “otherwise we will get no plunder. Also, the king is waiting for his counselors.”
As the weapons were unloaded and carried ashore, the six other guardsmen emerged from another house and came to greet their comrades. Weapons were then distributed among the men. Unaccustomed to carrying a heavy shield, Murdo took only a spear for himself; the blade was somewhat rusty from the voyage, but the edge and point were sharp still, and the ash-wood shaft was sound. When they were ready, the Norsemen walked with them past the fields beyond the village and showed them which road to follow. Jon and his seafarers, now transformed into a warrior band, bade their comrades farewell, promising to send them ale from Antioch as soon as the city fell.
Murdo, eager to be reunited with his father and brothers, took his place just behind Jon and Ronan, leading the party, and settled into his stride. After so many months at sea, the solid ground felt strange under his feet; he kept expecting the earth to arch and plunge, and continually braced himself for the swell that never came. As they climbed the first low hills beyond the village, he began to notice the smell of the air—heavy and dense as the earth itself, and filled with a hundred heady scents of sunbaked rock and clay and brush and summer flowers.
The morning, already warm, grew steadily warmer the further into the hills they travelled, and Murdo, regretting the times he had complained of the cramped space on deck, began to long for the cooling sea breeze always present aboard the ship. Upon reaching the crest of the highest hill, he turned to look back briefly at the sea glittering flat and calm, and the tiny bay and village already disappearing behind them. Then, shouldering his spear, Murdo turned his face towards the east, and did not look back again.
The Iron Lance Page 27