“Hey-hey,” said Magnus by way of greeting. “What have we here?”
“This fellow tells me he came to the Holy Land on one of your ships. Do you know him?”
Magnus cocked his head to one side and studied Murdo for a moment. “He does appear familiar. If he says he sailed with me, I take him at his word and claim him as one of my own.”
“I sailed with Jon Wing, my lord,” Murdo told the king. “It was his ship that brought your priests—one of whom came to Jaffa with me.” Murdo pointed into the crowd below. “He is here now; you can ask him if you do not believe me.”
At that moment, the foremost of Count Baldwin’s knights interrupted with a shout. “Enough of this! Serious business lies before us, and you prattle away like spinsters over a pie.” Flinging out a hand to point at Murdo, he said, “This man is a liar and a thief. He has stolen the Holy Lance, and we will see it returned to its rightful place.”
Bohemond looked at the man, his expression placid and good-natured. “Why do you call him liar? He has freely admitted possessing the sacred relic; where is the lie?”
The nobleman glowered at Bohemond. “The lance belongs to Lord Godfrey, and you know it.”
“The Holy Lance belongs to the Holy Church and her people. But, leaving that aside, do you deny that it was taken from your comrades in the battle?”
“You know well that it was,” the soldier spat. “Godfrey’s troops were attacked within sight of the walls and the lance carried off.”
“Are you saying that this unarmed youth defeated Godfrey’s army all by himself and stole the relic for himself? Is that what you imagined happened?” Bohemond inquired innocently.
“You twist my words,” the knight growled. “You know it was the Turks.”
“That is the first true word you have spoken,” Bohemond said. “Yes, it was the Turks. We have labored long against them this night, and have come fresh from the battlefield.” Raising his hand to Murdo, the count concluded, “If this fellow has risked his life to recover the lance which was lost at your comrades’ hands, it seems to me that instead of seeking his skin, you ought rather to be thanking him and heaping rewards and praise upon his head.”
The knight grumbled at Bohemond’s assessment, but made no outright challenge to the count’s version of affairs. He and his companions glared their displeasure, but held their tongues. Turning once more to Murdo, the Count of Antioch said, “It would be my pleasure to sit with you and King Magnus, and discuss this matter with the propriety it deserves. If you would allow us to come aboard, I give you my word nothing ill will befall you.”
“Very well,” agreed Murdo, “only allow the priest to join us, and I will tell you all I know.”
The count dismounted and placed his men along the quayside to guard the ship; meanwhile, Gorm quickly produced the plank to allow the lords and their noblemen to board the vessel more easily. Murdo soon found himself clutching the lance and standing face to face with his unanticipated defender, and a dozen or more noblemen—including Orin Broad-Foot, and the ever-suspicious Bayard. Brother Emlyn bustled up the plank and came to stand breathlessly beside him.
“I waited all night, and when you did not return, I thought to go to the gate to see—”
“Never mind,” said Murdo. “Where is the treasure?”
“You recovered the lance, praise God!” he swallowed a gulp of air. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “There are too many nobles here for my liking. What are we to do about them?”
“Trust me,” replied Murdo. “Now tell me—my father’s treasure, where is it?”
The priest leaned nearer. “It’s here, aboard this very ship—where else should it be?” Glancing around, he said, “Maybe you should give the lance to me. I could—”
“Hear me, Emlyn,” warned Murdo, “say nothing. Whatever happens, hold your tongue.”
“Be careful, Murdo. These men will stop at nothing to have their way. Do not give in to them.”
“I mean it!” Murdo growled sharply. Grasping the priest by the wrist, he squeezed hard. “Whatever I say or do, just keep quiet and stand aside. Understand?”
Stunned, Emlyn nodded and stepped away, rubbing his wrist.
Turning from the monk, Murdo faced Bohemond. “Thank you for saving me,” he said, lowering his head in dutiful respect. “I fear I would be drowned now if you had not arrived when you did.”
“And that would have been a great pity,” Bohemond told him. “To lose both the Holy Lance and its most ardent protector at a stroke—it does not bear thinking about. Therefore, let us pass on to happier fields of discussion.” He put out his hands to Magnus and Murdo. “Sit with me, friends, and let us decide what is best to do.” They settled themselves on rowing benches. Indicating the silk-wrapped object in Murdo’s lap, the count said, “Now then, I would hear how the Sacred Lance came into your possession.”
Murdo nodded, and began his tale; he described how, after Count Bohemond and his troops had departed to engage the Turks, he had followed and heard the clash on the strand. He told how, upon climbing the hills for a better look, he had discovered the tent hidden among the dunes. “The amir’s treasure was inside the tent,” he concluded simply. “I found the Holy Lance and came away with it. The Turks returned before I could get more.”
“Remarkable,” said Bohemond, shaking his head slowly. “You have rescued the holy relic from its enemies—both Turk and Christian. I commend you…” he hesitated. “Please, I still do not know your name.”
“I am Murdo, son of Lord Ranulf of Dýrness,” he answered, glancing at Magnus, who regarded him thoughtfully, but showed no recognition of the name.
Bohemond received the name with a gracious nod, and continued, “I commend you, Murdo, Son of Ranulf of Dýrness. Your bravery shall be rewarded. I pledge a thousand pieces of silver for the return of the lance.” So saying, he extended his hand to take possession of the weapon.
“Murdo, no!” cried Emlyn, unable to help himself. “Please, for the love of God, you must not—”
Murdo silenced him with a single sharp look, and turned once more to Bohemond. “Again, lord, you have my thanks,” he replied, maintaining his grip on the iron lance. “Forgive me, but I will take nothing from your hand for the return of the relic. I have my own reasons for what I did, and it is not right that anyone should amass profit upon the sacrifice of Christian lives. It will be enough for me to see the lance returned to its rightful place.”
Bohemond’s expression became shrewd. “More remarkable still,” he murmured.
King Magnus, who had taken in everything in silence, now leaned forward and, speaking in Norse, addressed Murdo directly, “Son, think carefully about what you are saying. Jarl Bohemond here is a powerful man, and here he stands ready to give you anything you ask. Only give us the spear, and I will see you live to enjoy your reward.”
Murdo perceived the implied threat, but had already decided to brazen out his plan come what may. “I thank you for your concern, lord,” he replied in polite Latin. “Pray, do not think me disrespectful if I refuse your kind reward. For, what good is silver when a man’s land has been stolen, and his family turned out of their rightful home?”
King Magnus was not slow to grasp Murdo’s meaning. “If this is what troubles you, my friend, then your hardship is at an end. As I am King of Norway and Orkneyjar, I will see justice served.”
“Very well,” replied Murdo, inclining his head in assent. “I ask for no more than that.”
“Splendid!” cried Bohemond, slapping Murdo on the back. “It is agreed.”
“Now then,” the king said, “tell me who has perpetrated this offense, and when we return to the Dark Isles I will have the man summoned and demand an accounting for his crimes.”
“There is no need to wait for our return to Orkneyjar,” Murdo answered bluntly. “The man I speak of is here among us even now.”
“Here!” wondered Magnus, drawing back suddenly as if suspecting a trap. Casting a qui
ck, worried glance at his liegemen, he said, “Certainly, you must be mistaken.”
“There is no mistake,” Murdo assured him. Pointing to the rank of onlooking noblemen, he declared, “Orin Broad-Foot is that man.”
Magnus, aghast and dismayed, stared at Murdo, and then at his vassal lord, who was as surprised as his king at this startling accusation. Bohemond appeared bemused; he regarded Murdo wonderingly, as the Norse lord rose and stepped quickly to his nobleman. The two held close conversation for a moment while all those about them shuffled and murmured in restless anticipation.
“This is a most difficult matter,” Magnus announced, turning from his consultation. “It seems my son, Prince Sigurd, is responsible for taking your lands. Naturally, Lord Orin knew nothing of your family’s plight and he is not to blame in this matter.”
“God knows it is true,” Orin swore. “If I had known the bú belonged to your father, I would never have taken it. But I had it on good faith from the bishop that those lands had fallen forfeit when Jarl Erlend was dethroned.”
Magnus nodded, satisfied with his lord’s declaration of innocence. “For this reason,” he continued, “I do not think justice would be accomplished by punishing a good man for a crime which he neither knew nor intended.” Murdo opened his mouth to protest, but the king, anticipating his complaint, raised a hand to stay him. “Still, it is not right that you and yours should bear such ill-fortune. I would be a worthless king indeed if I did not offer some remedy for injuries caused by my son’s inexperience.”
Bohemond nodded approvingly, and the noblemen added their endorsement of the king’s judgment with grunts and growls of support. “Therefore,” Magnus resumed, “I would make amends to you and your family and vassals by offering you other lands on which to build and settle.” He paused to take in Murdo’s sour disposition, and then added, “However great your lands in Orkneyjar, ten times that much again shall be given to you.”
“There is no estate in all Orkneyjar so big as that,” Murdo observed somewhat warily.
“That may be as you say,” answered Magnus. “So I will give you land in Caithness—a portion of the kingdom granted me by Malcolm, King of the Scots. I give it right freely, and welcome you to take it.” He offered his hand to Murdo—the gesture of a Norseman when striking a bargain.
Realizing he had achieved a boon far greater than anything he would have dared ask, Murdo rose to his feet. “My father, Lord Ranulf, fell at Jerusalem,” he said. “But if he were standing here before you, I know he would accept your generous offer, freely forgiving any grievance or ill-feeling toward Lord Orin, or Prince Sigurd. Therefore, in honor of my father, I accept.” He grasped the offered hand, thereby sealing the bargain. “Know, too, that my father would want to see the Holy Lance placed in safe and trustworthy hands for the good of all.”
With that, Murdo delivered the lance to Count Bohemond, who received it gladly, then stood at once, crossed to the rail, and lofted the silk-wrapped weapon above his head to the rapturous delight of the crowd who yet stood waiting to see how the confrontation would be resolved. “The Holy Lance is recovered!” he called. “Praise God, and give thanks for its swift return.”
Murdo heard a loud sigh behind him and turned in time to see Emlyn crumple to the deck. Overcome by the sight of his trusted companion delivering the lance to the adversary, the priest had swooned.
FORTY - SEVEN
Bohemond wasted not a moment summoning the imperial envoy to deliver his prize. Like Godfrey, he understood his survival depended on the good will of the emperor. Unlike Godfrey, he was not afraid to make the sacrifice which would secure Alexius’ support. In his brief and prickly appearance before the council in Jerusalem, Dalassenus had left little doubt that the emperor’s future co-operation depended on the return of the lance.
The wily count had decided that if the lance could secure the emperor’s support, it was a price he would gladly pay. In order to derive the maximum benefit from the gift, Bohemond must be seen to be the agent of its return. Even as he and Magnus walked from the council chamber, he had begun scheming as to how to get the relic away from Godfrey.
The instant Bohemond learned that Godfrey’s men had departed Jerusalem, he put his spies to work. Upon discovering that Godfrey intended sending the sacred lance to the pope for safe-keeping, he had set off in pursuit with his best knights. True, he had not reckoned on fighting the Turks all night, neither had he foreseen Murdo’s intervention. And if the gatemen had not been telling everyone about the youth who had stolen the Holy Lance, he would have despaired of ever finding it again. Life in the eastern empire was full of surprises, however, and he was learning to seize each opportunity as it arose.
Grasping the iron lance in his hand, he marveled at his own good fortune. “Take word to the Grand Drungarius,” he said, turning to Bayard. “Tell the envoy that Count Bohemond comes bearing the Holy Lance of Christ, and that we would be pleased to wait upon him for the relic’s delivery at his earliest convenience.”
Bayard and two of Bohemond’s nobles were dispatched to the imperial ship with the count’s message.
Murdo knelt beside the stricken priest, and shook him gently. After a moment, the priest woke with a moan and sat up. He saw Murdo and clutched at his sleeve. “You gave the lance to Bohemond!” he gasped. “We must try to get it back—it is not too late. We must—”
He struggled to rise. “Shh!” Murdo warned, pushing him back down. “Be still.”
“The lance!” Emlyn hissed. “He means to give it away!”
“All will be well,” whispered Murdo, bending near. Gripping the monk by the arm, he helped him slowly to his feet. “Listen to me, there is not much time. Magnus is here—which means Ronan and Fionn cannot be far away. The less they know about this, the better, I think.”
Emlyn searched the young man’s face for a reason, found none, and shook his head sadly. “I do not understand. Last night you said you would follow the True Path and rescue the lance, yet today you give it away. What has changed you, Murdo?”
“Nothing has changed,” Murdo told him. “We have to see this through.”
At that moment, Bohemond, standing at the rail with King Magnus beside him, lofted the Holy Lance in the air, and called out in a loud voice so everyone on the wharf could hear, “Make way! Make way, my friends, for the emperor’s envoy. He comes to receive this most holy relic into his care.” The sailors and crusaders near by looked up to see the golden cord and silken wrapping flash in the sun; they saw the emperor’s emissary moving towards them, and backed away, uncertain as to what was about to happen.
Bohemond put his hand out in a conciliatory gesture. “Join me, drungarius,” he called. “Let us stand together and pledge troth before all gathered here.”
While the Grand Drungarius made his way through the through to the dragon-prowed ship, Bohemond delivered a high-sounding speech to his onlookers, speaking eloquently about the suffering of the crusaders and their noble achievement in securing the Holy City for all time. He spoke of God’s great design for his people, and the supremacy of the emperor as the Almighty’s sole representative on Earth, and how it was good to reflect on the suffering of all those who had died in the struggle, and how the Good Lord himself had blessed their great enterprise by revealing the Holy Lance as a sign of his favor.
From his place beside Murdo, Emlyn gazed longingly at the lance in the count’s hands. “He is giving it away!” The monk started forth.
“Peace, brother,” Murdo muttered, taking his arm and holding him to his place. “Be still.”
The monk, growing desperate, squirmed in Murdo’s grasp. “We cannot stand by and let him give it away!”
“That is exactly what we will do.” Murdo jerked hard on the monk’s arm. “Now stand still and be quiet.”
Dalassenus, with four Varangian guards on either side, mounted the plank to the ship and came to stand before Bohemond. The prince embraced the emperor’s envoy like a long-lost kinsman. Taking the
Holy Lance across his palms, he extended it towards Dalassenus, saying, “In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, I charge you to place this most sacred relic under the keen protection and loving care of the Supreme Ruler of all Christendom, Emperor Alexius. Let him know by this, that the lords of the West honor and revere him, and that we bend the knee to his authority, joining with him in the upbuilding of the Christ’s great kingdom.”
With that he delivered the Iron Lance into Dalassenus’ hands. The Greek commander inclined his head regally and accepted the sacred relic with the grave respect due the occasion. “On behalf of the Emperor Alexius, Equal of the Apostles, God’s Vice-Regent, and Life of the Church, I welcome the charge laid upon me, and swear before these gathered witnesses that this holy relic, sacred to Our Saviour’s memory, shall be given all the care, veneration, and protection deserving of its eminence.”
Those looking on—aboard the ship, and below on the quay—greeted this bestowal with a muted, if not puzzled, response. While some called out to know what was going on, others gave out half-hearted cheers of acclaim; most simply went about their business once more.
The Grand Drungarius then thanked the count for returning the lance and upholding the vows sworn before the emperor’s throne. “Rest assured, Emperor Alexius will wish to thank you himself. Perhaps, when your duties permit, you will return to Constantinople and allow the emperor to reward you himself.”
Bohemond, looking suitably deserving, smiled benevolently at the prospect of meeting the emperor once more, and beckoned his nobles to share in his glory. King Magnus stepped beside him, and the two lords embraced; other crusaders or the prince’s entourage were invited to bask in the reflected glory of their lord’s triumph.
Lastly, the magnanimous count turned to Murdo and motioned him to join them, but he refused.
The Iron Lance Page 51