The sun was directly overhead when they reached the hills above the river plain. Murdo, eyes downcast and squinting against the white-hot light, could feel the skin on the back of his brown neck beginning to sizzle; where the sun struck the top of his head, it felt as if his hair was on fire; the soles of his feet were burning through his leather boots; his heavy siarc, wet through with sweat, stuck to his skin and chafed as he trudged along. Even the monks, who ordinarily made no concession to the weather, gathered up their long robes and tucked the hems into their belts.
The long walk had been hot and tiring, but wholly uneventful. The fierce Syrian sun was beginning its long slow slide into the west when the forerunners sang out that their destination had been sighted. Along with the rest of the war band, Murdo picked up his feet and hastened the last few paces up the long slope to the top of the hill, and the city came into view, rising before them across the Orontes valley like the immense cloud-bank of a storm looming on the horizon.
The sight halted the company in their tracks.
The monks had said it was a large city, an important city, a great city—but nothing they said had prepared any of them for the towering magnitude of the place: walls eighty feet high and two leagues long were guarded by three hundred towers, some of which protected the citadel occupying the highest promontory on the eastern wall. The walls on the lower section rose sheer from the slow-flowing river, while those of the upper section were carved out of the mountain itself, allowing the high citadel a commanding view of the valley all the way to the sea on one hand, and the Tarsus mountains on the other.
Murdo gaped in awe. Not only was Antioch the largest, most strongly fortified city he had ever seen, it was also the most beautiful. Looking at it rising across the valley, the straight high walls and towers adazzle in the blinding light, it seemed less a city than an enormous jewel: a monstrous ornament carved of whitest ivory and nestled against the black surrounding mountains, or a colossal milk-colored moonstone set upon the dusty green of the valley to shimmer gently in the heat haze of a blistering summer day.
Crops and grazing land spread in irregular blotches over the river plain; here and there, Murdo could see men working with teams of oxen. Two roads, passing either way along the river, met at a bridge below the main gate, and there were a few people straggling on the roads, some with ox-carts bearing goods into the city. White birds soared in the air over the fields and above the towering walls.
An air of peaceful, if not oppressive, tranquillity pervaded the valley, and even as Murdo marveled at the impressive city, his heart fell. He looked left and right along the walls and plains, scanning the hills and fields and river below—if only to confirm what he already knew: there were no tents, no horse pickets, no besieging armies, no defiant banners streaming from the wall-tops and tower battlements. The crusaders were gone.
He stood and gazed into the placid, empty valley, and felt the frustration uncoiling within him. The pilgrims had not come to Antioch after all; or, if they had, they were not there now. Either way, the search would have to continue. Even as bitter disappointment crushed him down, however, Brother Ronan said, “The siege is ended. They have taken the city.”
Of course, thought Murdo, they have taken the city! They are all inside the conquered walls.
Suddenly, he could not wait to be there, too. Within three heartbeats, Murdo, and all the rest of the Norsemen, were flying down the hill towards the plain. It was not long before their steps became more cautious, however. “See here!” shouted Fafnir, a little way ahead of the group. Murdo saw him stoop and bring up a broken sword from the long, dry grass. Almost at once, Vestein, no more than a dozen paces away, produced half of a shield and the broken haft of a spear. “There was a battle here, I think,” said Fafnir.
They proceeded on, but more slowly, and the further they went, the more they found: battered war helms of a strange, pointed kind; lightweight oval shields made of boiled leather; arrows by the score, most of them broken. And scattered in amongst the remnants of battle, they found the remains of the warriors. Murdo bent down to retrieve a finely curved piece of a bow, and discovered the weapon was still attached to the hand that had last employed it. Both hand and arm came away as Murdo lifted it. There arose a fearsome, stinging stench, and he caught a glimpse of white maggots wriggling from a brown mass by his feet as he dropped the bow and jumped back with a shout.
The corpse was so far decomposed that it no longer looked human; Murdo had simply not seen it when he bent down. He saw it now for what it was and, realizing what lay before him, he began to see others as well. They had come to the part of the battleground where the fighting had been the fiercest, and the dead were lying where they had fallen.
Once fine clothes and cloaks were filthy, rotting rags; flesh and muscle were blasted black by the sun, and withered hard like old leather. Many of the bodies had been attacked by birds and beasts, and, more and more, Murdo caught the glint of smooth white bone gleaming dully from the long grass round about. Once, he stepped over what appeared to be the lower torso of a man and his foot struck what he thought was a stone. The stone rolled, however, and Murdo found himself staring down into a withered brown, worm-ravaged face, whose empty eye sockets gazed darkly up past him and into the sun-bright heavens above.
Murdo clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, and moved on, no longer looking either right or left. It occurred to him as he trudged along that he saw no carcasses of horses, and he wondered about this. Unless the battle had been fought entirely on foot, which he very much doubted, there must certainly have been some horses killed, too. What could have happened to them?
Upon reaching the plain, they passed through several grain fields and proceeded towards the entrance to the city, meeting no challenge until, upon crossing the bridge, they came to the huge, open gate. Six guards in loose, light-colored mantles—three at either of the enormous doors—noticed their weapons and stopped them. “You there! Halt!”
Murdo was surprised to hear these dark-skinned men speaking Latin. “What is your business here?” demanded the foremost guard; he held a long, flat-bladed lance, and carried a short sword in his belt. A large man, he nevertheless looked ill-fed and haggard; those with him appeared even less robust. Murdo decided they looked like men dragged from their sickbeds and forced to stand guard.
Ronan answered. “Pax Vobiscum!” he declared benevolently, raising his hands in priestly blessing. “Greetings in the name of Our Lord Christ. My friend, we are pilgrims on our way to Jerusalem. We were told that this city was yet under siege, but it appears we were ill-informed.”
“The siege is over long since,” replied the soldier, eyeing them with tired suspicion. “The armies have moved on.”
“Ah, yes,” answered Ronan, nodding sympathetically. “As it happens, my brothers and I are priests, as you can see, and we travel in the company of vassals belonging to Magnus, King of Norway, whom we were hoping to meet here. We were told he has come to Antioch, I hope we are not mistaken.”
“Oh, him,” said the soldier, relaxing at last. “He is here. You may enter.” He motioned them through with the head of his spear.
“You know him! Good. Could you tell us where we might find the king?” asked Ronan hopefully.
“All the lords are received at the citadel,” the guardsman said. “That is all I know.”
The elder priest thanked the man for his help, gave him a blessing, and they continued on their way, passing between the great, iron-bound timber doors, and into the cool, shadowed darkness of the gate-tower. The respite was all too brief, however; a moment later, they were stepping once more into the harsh sunlight striking off the stone pavements all around. Momentarily blinded, Murdo put up his hand to shade his eyes; when he looked again, he found he was standing in the middle of a street, the like of which he had never encountered.
Stretching as far as the eye could see was a wide, stone-paved avenue lined with tall, graceful columns either side; moreover, these columns s
upported a second row of columns bearing a vine-covered roof to shelter the walkway below. The civility of this feature amazed Murdo when he realized that the people of the city were not forced to walk in the street with the carts and animals, but beneath a leaf-shaded arbor which kept the hot sun off their heads.
Rising from the broad, flat river bluff on which the city was founded, this remarkable double colonnade swept gracefully towards the heights of the cliffs and mountains, whose peaks could be seen soaring above the rooftops and domes just beyond the city to the south. Straight as a rod along its entire length, the broad street passed the ruin of an old Roman amphitheater, an enormous basilica, and an elegant palace faced with glowing yellow marble. There were so many churches that Murdo soon lost count and interest, delighting himself instead with the profusion of palm trees, and brightly-colored flowers growing in massive earthenware tubs everywhere.
Up the street they went, passing along the stately row of columns, past gleaming white houses with pierced-screen windows and bronze-figured doors. In niches high up in the walls of some of the more elaborate houses, statues looked gravely down upon the passing troop. Perhaps due to the heat of the day, the newcomers had the street and shaded walkway mostly to themselves. Apart from a few ragged water vendors pushing carts laden with clay jars there were few citizens about. They passed likewise empty sidestreets, and a vacant marketplace sweltering in the sun.
Over all the city, a quiet lethargy hung like a pall draped upon a gilded tomb. Murdo had imagined that a city of such size and grandeur must be thronging with people day and night, and the scarcity of citizens surprised him so that he began to wonder at it. Where was everyone? And where were the crusaders? Even if the whole population had been driven off, there should have been pilgrims aplenty to crowd the streets and marketplaces.
But, save for the occasional creak of a wagon wheel, or the rushing flap of pigeon wings as they passed another empty square, the city was quiet. The Norsemen noticed this, too, and their jovial exuberance grew more and more muted and subdued the further up the street they walked, until no one spoke at all, and they passed by the dark and silent houses in a bristling hush.
The wide central street ended at the citadel in the upper part of the city; the final climb to the fortress was the steepest part of the walk, and it left the seafaring warriors winded by the time they reached the square fronting the stronghold. On the left-hand side of the square, beneath the stronghold, four pairs of low, wide doors marked out the stables. The foremost pair of doors gaped open, and from stone troughs on either side, twin vines grew and spread to form a bower before the entrance where five or six men sat lolling in the drowsy shade.
At the approach of the newcomers, one of the men stood and came forward a few steps. He turned and called behind him to someone inside, then came on to meet them. He raised his hand to halt them as five or six more men tumbled out of the stable doorway behind him. The company stopped uncertainly, and waited.
The man spoke to them in a tongue which none of them could understand. When he received no reply, he spoke again, in Latin this time. “What is your purpose here?” he demanded, hand on the knife in his belt.
“We have come to join Magnus, King of the Norsemen,” replied Brother Ronan crisply. “Is the king to be found here?”
Before the guard could answer, one of the men behind him pushed forward suddenly. “Jon Wing!” cried the man in loud Norsespeak. “So! You come dragging in at last.”
“Hey-hey!” replied Jon happily. “Here we are. And who is the first person we should meet?” Turning to the others just behind him, Jon called, “See here! If they are letting a skull-breaker like Hakon Fork-Beard prowl the streets in broad daylight, I know we have come to the right place.”
The two men clapped one another on the back and embraced like kinsmen. They began talking loudly together. More men were staggering out of the stables to join them; the priests, and some of the other crewmen gathered around, happily exchanging greetings with the others like long-lost kinsmen. Murdo stood looking on, suddenly very aware that the moment he had long awaited was upon him, and that his carefully nurtured resolve was swiftly deserting him.
“Come, wayward Sea Wolves!” said the man, his voice booming in the quiet square. “The king will be glad to know his priests and pirates have arrived. Follow me!”
He led them to the door of the stables where he was met on the threshold by another Norseman—taller, younger, and dressed in breecs of brown leather, and a fine new linen siarc. His hair was long and fair, his braid thick. The two exchanged a word, and the one called Hakon motioned them inside, while the stranger stepped aside to greet the newcomers as they passed.
Murdo took his place behind Oski and Ymir at the end of the line. He hung his head and tried to creep by, hoping he would not be noticed. This hope died in vain, for as he came to the doorway, the fair-haired Norseman saw him, and put a hand to his chest and stopped him. “Here now!” he said. “Who is this with his bold glance?” He moved the hand to Murdo’s chin and raised his face. “Where did these Sea Wolves get you, boy?”
Since he had no other choice, Murdo squared his shoulders, raised his head, and looked the man straight in the eye. “My name is Murdo Ranulfson,” he answered forthrightly. “I came aboard with the priests at Inbhir Ness.”
“Did you now!” The man eyed him up and down. “Why would you do that?”
Brother Ronan appeared at the Norseman’s shoulder. “Murdo here has taken the cross and has come to join his father and brothers who are also on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
The fair-haired man accepted this with a nod. “Where is your home, boy?”
“Orkneyjar, my lord,” Murdo answered, and inwardly cringed. Why had he said that?
“Orkneyjar!” repeated the man, much impressed. “I have lands in the Dark Isles, too. It seems we are fellow countrymen, you and I. Greetings and welcome, Murdo Bold-Eye.” He offered his hand in friendship.
Murdo grasped the offered hand, and grinned at his new name: Murdo Bold-Eye. He liked that very much.
“We Orkneyingar should watch out for one another, hey?”
“Just so,” agreed Murdo readily, forgetting his wariness.
“If you find yourself in trouble, just sing out for Orin Broad-Foot, and you will have a stout sword at your side before you can turn around.” The lord slapped him on the back, and bade him enter and partake of the welcome cup.
Murdo stumbled forward into the cool darkness of the room, feeling lost and confused. He had just accepted the friendship and protection of his avowed and hated enemy.
TWENTY - SIX
In the short time King Magnus had been in residence, the main room of the citadel’s stables had been turned into something which at first sight more closely resembled a drinking hall than a horse barn. Seven long boards with benches either side had been erected in the center of the great room, and the former stalls were filled with fresh straw to serve as sleeping places for the warriors.
Murdo sat at the end of the long board by himself, his head in his hands, his cup untouched. The realization that he had just pledged friendship to his worst enemy plunged Murdo into a sulky dejection. It would have been far easier to hate him if Orin Broad-Foot had revealed himself to be the pig-eyed, greedy, hump-backed brute Murdo had so often imagined him. That Lord Orin was a friendly and gracious—perhaps even honorable and trustworthy—nobleman would make it that much harder to betray him when the time came.
I have lands in Orkneyjar, too, Orin had said. Murdo groaned at his own stupidity. How could he have missed that? He knew he was coming into the enemy’s lair. He had foreseen this day a thousand times since leaving home. He should have been on his guard; he should have been ready. Stupid, stupid, boy! Why, oh why, had he allowed himself to be taken in by the amiable lord?
It took all Murdo’s considerable stubbornness and determination to rekindle some small remnant of his enmity. It was only when he reminded himself that he was now at
long last among the very men who had conspired to steal his family’s lands and deprive him of his birthright—it was only when he remembered Ragna, and the unthinkable barren future without her, that he was able to regain some portion of his former animosity.
Beware, Murdo! he told himself. These men are not your friends. They have robbed you and your family. Do not be distracted by their winsome ways. They would destroy you without a thought. Guard yourself against them. Remain vigilant. Your chance to avenge the wrong will come.
Still, he felt ill-used and vaguely cheated—as if he had been offered a boon of considerable comfort and value, but forced on principle to refuse it. He sat glumly by himself and watched the rest of the company as glad welcome turned into revel. He felt alone and angry with himself, and his hard circumstance.
The fact that his father and brothers were no longer in Antioch did not help improve his spirits. That hope had been dashed the very moment he set foot in the citadel stable, for Jon Wing, turning to Lord Orin entering behind him, had asked, “Where are all the people? Is the city deserted then?”
“Almost,” replied Orin. “Those who did not die in the battle were killed by the plague which followed the siege. We saw nothing of this, mind you—it was some months ago. The fighting and sickness was long over by the time we got here. The pilgrims were gone, too.”
“All of them?” wondered Jon. “Who holds the city now? King Magnus?”
“Nay,” Orin replied, “it belongs to one called Bohemond—a Frankish prince.” He then went on to explain how the crusaders had marched on to Jerusalem only a day or two before their arrival, and how this Bohemond had hired King Magnus and his men to help guard the city.
Murdo, hearing enough, had then slunk away to the end of the furthest bench where he now sat, gazing into his shallow cup as if it were the end of the world he saw glimmering dully within. He sat aloof from the others, and hardened himself against those he must now deceive for the sake of his vow. Brother Emlyn, seeing his friend sitting alone, begged him to come and join them. Murdo declined, saying that he was tired from the long walk, and wished only to rest.
The Iron Lance Page 28