He declined politely, saying, “I thank you, lord, but I have my reward. I am content.”
The noblemen exchanged vows of eternal brotherhood, and eagerly accepted Dalassenus’ invitation to join him on the imperial ship for wine and a service of thanksgiving. Murdo and a much-subdued Emlyn retreated to the prow to watch as Bohemond and Magnus, flushed with pride at their salutary accomplishment were conducted to the imperial ship by an honor guard of Immortals, led by the emperor’s emissary. They were escorted onto the emperor’s ship, where they were served with wine and a lavish selection of local delicacies.
“It is not right that they should glory so,” Emlyn grumbled sourly. “It is an offense against heaven.”
“Heaven can take care of itself,” Murdo answered. “We still need the good will of kings.” Scanning the wharfside activity, he found what he was searching for. “Look, there is Jon Wing—Ronan is with him.”
Murdo called to them, and saw that the sea lord and priest were leading a small procession which snaked its way along the edge of the crowd on the pier, with Fionn and the sailors of the Skidbladnir bringing up the rear. Many of the seamen seemed to be laboring—dragging or carrying something as they came.
Ronan and Jon reached the edge of the quay and started up the plank. “Hail, Murdo! Emlyn! God be good to you,” called the elder monk. “We hoped we might find you before you sailed.”
“Behold!” said Jon Wing, stretching his hand to those coming on behind. “Today you see the making of a king!”
Murdo looked where the Norseman was pointing, and saw the first of the sailors as they came swaying up the plank carrying open baskets of gold and silver objects. In all, six baskets of plunder were carried aboard to be carefully stowed within the tent on the platform behind the mast. One of the sailors helping secure the treasure emerged from the tent, and called out, “Jon, there are some dead people here! What should we do with them?”
“Leave them in peace,” replied Jon. Turning to Murdo he said, “Ronan told me about your father, and I was sorry to hear it. I knew you would want him to accompany you to Orkneyjar. Do not worry. Unless he begins to stink, I will not put him off the ship.”
Murdo thanked the sea lord for his thoughtfulness, and asked, “How did you come to get so much treasure?”
“Bohemond chased off the Turks who ambushed Godfrey’s troops,” answered Jon Wing. “We arrived with Magnus in time to aid in the rout of the Turks. The amir’s treasure was taken for spoils.”
“They had the treasure with them,” put in Fionn, joining the group as the last of the baskets was brought aboard and placed in the tent. “King Magnus’ men helped liberate the treasure and were granted a sizeable portion.”
“Would that you had joined us just a few moments ago.” Emlyn said, speaking up at last. “You might have saved the Holy Lance as well.”
This occasioned a much-interrupted explanation of all that had happened to them since leaving Jerusalem—their narrow escape from the Seljuqs, the battle before the city walls, Murdo’s recovery of the sacred lance, and his extraordinary bargain with King Magnus for the return of the relic. The others agreed with him that the bargain was extraordinary indeed.
“The king is known to be a fair and generous lord,” Jon Wing declared. “I suppose he was at pains to prove it—with Bohemond and his noblemen looking on.” To Murdo he said, “You had him in a very tight place, if only you knew it.”
“If not for Bohemond’s intervention,” Murdo replied, “I have no doubt it would have ended otherwise. Baldwin’s men were for slitting my throat. I still do not know why the count acted as he did.”
“No doubt it was to do with the council.” He told Murdo how the emperor’s envoy had appeared before the Latin lords and demanded the Holy lance as a sign of the crusaders’ recognition of Alexius’ supremacy. “When Bohemond learned that the lance had been sent from the city, he set off with a force of men to help protect it.”
“If you had but lingered half a day longer in Jerusalem,” added Jon Wing, “you would have learned all this. What is more, you could have travelled to Jaffa with us.”
“Alas,” sighed Emlyn, “it was this close.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “We had it in our grasp…” He glanced reproachfully at Murdo, and shook his head.
The three priests fell silent, reflecting on how near they had come to realizing their divinely-ordained vision. Murdo steeled himself against their benign disapproval, and held his tongue.
“Maybe it is not so bad,” said Jon, trying to console them. “Such a secret is difficult to keep. It would have been nothing but trouble for you. It is better this way, I think.”
Jon Wing moved off, and the monks, disheartened, went to the stern to pray and seek the good Lord’s direction following their failure to rescue the valuable relic. Murdo longed to go and comfort them, but held himself apart. In a little while, one of the king’s house carles returned and summoned Jon. Murdo watched while the two spoke together, whereupon Jon called Gorm, and the two put their heads together in close consultation.
“The emperor’s envoy is anxious to return to Constantinople,” Jon informed Murdo when he saw him standing alone at the rail. “It seems our generous Count Bohemond has pledged the king’s fleet to sail with him to help guard the treasured relic. Magnus has sent word that we are all to be ready to sail at first light.”
“And then what?” asked Murdo. “What happens when we get to Constantinople?”
“I do not know what the others will do,” replied the sea lord, “but as for me and my ship, we are going home.”
At these words, relief swept through Murdo with such a force that his knees buckled and his throat grew tight. He had intended finding a ship, but had not dared hope he might sail with his friends. This, together with the stringent demands of the last days, combined to make him light-headed; he swayed on his feet, and if Jon had not put out a hand to steady him, Murdo might have fallen over backwards.
“Here, Murdo,” said the great Norseman, patting him on the back, “a drink will restore you. Gorm! Bring us a jar!” When the bowl arrived, Jon put it in Murdo’s hands, saying, “It is a shame we have no öl, but wine is not so bad.”
The wine did revive him, he drank deep and passed the bowl to Jon, who hailed his friend, saying, “You are a good man, Murdo. You can sail with me any time.”
“When I get home, I will sail no more,” Murdo vowed, taking another good swig of wine, “but if I did, I would not think to go to sea with anyone but you.”
“It is a long way to Orkneyjar,” Jon pointed out. “You might change your mind.”
The rest of the day was spent readying the ships and amassing the necessary supplies and provisions for the journey. As the kegs, casks, and baskets came aboard, Murdo helped store everything and make sure it was tied down securely. Although Jon Wing bade him to rest and let the sailors do the chores, he declined; the work kept his mind off the long journey ahead. Still, every time he thought of it, his heart gave a leap inside his chest and he felt a quiver of excitement in his stomach.
As the sky sank by ever deeper degrees from flame red to the purples of night, Murdo found himself staring westward at the dying light, and imagining that it was the cold northern sea he was staring at, not the warm Mediterranean; and that it was the low Dark Isles lifting their sleek heads from the still waters, not clouds drifting on the far horizon. The yearning to be home grew in him like an ache and consumed him. “Ragna…” He whispered her name to the sea and to the gentle twilight. “Ragna, I am coming home.”
That night Murdo curled up in his customary place at the prow, and fell asleep with his beloved’s name on his lips. Dawn found him awake and waiting for the call to shove away from the pier. The call finally came, and Murdo took up an oar and settled himself on the bench as the emperor’s ship slid slowly out into the harbor, to be followed by the smaller, faster, Norse boats. One by one, they pushed away from the wharf and followed the envoy’s vessel
into open water. Once clear of the harbor, Jon Wing gave the call to up sails, and the return journey commenced.
The tawny sail rose and stretched—as if stirring itself from a long sleep. The heavy cloth flapped slowly and shook out its creases, then caught the wind, filled, billowed, and the ship began to glide away.
As Jaffa dwindled slowly behind them in a haze of gleaming, sun-bright white, Murdo lifted his eyes to the arid hills east of the city and looked his last on the Holy Land. He felt a fleeting pang of sadness for leaving his father and brothers behind. He breathed a silent farewell to them, and them turned his face once more to the west, and to the long voyage home.
FORTY - EIGHT
Gray mist scudded low, billowing on the sharp-gusting wind, obscuring the sea and all upon it. Overhead, the sky remained bright and blue, untroubled by haze and mist. Murdo, after so long a time at sea, stood at the prow gazing into the dense gray wall, refusing to accept defeat by anything so insubstantial as fog. Somewhere on the sea ahead lay the whale-like humped backs of the Orkney islands, and he meant to see them.
The voyage from Constantinople, though long, had been uneventful. For most of the journey, they had enjoyed the company not only of King Magnus’ fleet, but of Venetian and Genoese ships as well. Now that the Holy land was secured, the merchant princes were eager to establish trading ties with the new Latin kingdoms. Their cargo-laden ships were already plying the sea of Middle Earth in increasing numbers.
Magnus, intent on inducing more men to help him carry away the wealth of the East, took leave of Count Bohemond in Constantinople, vowing to return as soon as he could arrange his affairs and acquire more ships. He then pursued a relentless course west and north, sailing always by the shortest routes and making the best running whenever the wind obliged—which gratified Murdo, and saved Gorm from a plague of incessant demands for speed from an impatient passenger.
Upon reaching the Caithness coast, the doughty king made landfall near his principal Scottish residence at Thorsa. Little more than a mud-and-timber fishing settlement, it nevertheless boasted a large and lordly hall, and a new stone church. Within moments of his arrival, the king ordered a feast to celebrate his safe return. While the ale vats were being set up outside the hall, he called Murdo to him and bade the young man to stay. “I will make you one of my house carles,” Magnus offered. “Together we could win much plunder in the Holy Land, you and I.”
“My place is here, and here I mean to stay. But if I ever return to Jerusalem, I will not undertake the journey with anyone else,” Murdo declared. “Despite the trouble between us, no other lord has treated me half so well as you, King Magnus. For that I am grateful, and will erect a shrine in your memory as soon as I have established myself in my new lands.”
“As to that,” the king replied, “come to me when you are ready, and we will set out the boundaries of your realm.”
That I will, lord,” Murdo replied. He stayed one night on dry land, and set off the following day for the Dark Isles, having tempted Jon Wing with the promise of a substantial reward for delivering him swiftly to Hrolfsey.
Dawn was still a mere rumor in the sky as Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn walked down to the strand with Murdo to see him away. “The king will remain here gathering men and provisions until mid-summer,” the elder priest informed him, “and then he plans to go to Norway and do the same. He hopes to depart for Jerusalem before winter and, unless God intends otherwise, we will go with him.”
“I will come back as soon as I can,” Murdo promised.
“Do that,” the elder priest advised. “I would see you settled before we leave.”
“The sooner we are away,” Jon Wing said, starting towards the boat, “the sooner we can return.” He moved on, shouting to his pilot. “Gorm! Make ready to sail!”
“We will say farewell then, Murdo, and pray for you a swift and safe return.” Ronan raised his hand in benediction. “Bless you, my friend. May the Lord of Life shield you and protect you until we meet again.”
Murdo thanked the priests and added, “Save some ale; we will lift a jar together when I return.”
Jon Wing called him then, and Murdo bade the priests farewell and started towards the ship, only to find Emlyn by his side once more. “Why farewell?” asked the monk. “Am I not going with you? How will you find your way back without me to guide you?”
Murdo smiled, and accepted the priest’s offer. Jon Wing clapped his hands loudly. “Over the side those staying behind!” he cried, then leaned over the rail and called to the men waiting on the shore. “Here now! Stand to! Push us away!”
The ship lurched awkwardly and Murdo heard the keel scraping against the pebble shingle. “Heave!” shouted Jon Wing to the shoremen. “Heave away!”
The men groaned and all at once the shingle dropped away and the boat glided into deeper water. “To oars!” called Gorm from the tiller. Murdo, Emlyn, and the three crewmen snatched up long oars from the holders at the rail, and set themselves to rowing. In a few moments, the dragon-prowed longship was sliding through the dark waters of the bay.
Upon rounding the protecting headland, the ship turned north and onto the open sea. The sails were raised at Gorm’s command, and the rowers shipped their oars as Skidbladnir began its run to the islands.
The day broke dull and murky with a dense sea mist on the water and thin gray clouds high above. All morning long Murdo stood at the prow searching through the shifting sea mist for the first glimpse of his homeland. His vigilance was rewarded when, just after midday, the sun burned through the hanging overcast. The sudden warmth banished the mist and all at once Murdo found himself gazing at the smooth, shapely hills of the Orkney isles.
From the direction of their approach, he thought he could make out the low flat rise of the Dýrness headland, and beyond it, pale blue in the distance, the steeper hump of Hrolfsey. Murdo’s heart beat faster, and he at last allowed himself to contemplate the homecoming he might receive—a craving he had not dared indulge all the long months at sea. Now, with home in sight, and his journey swiftly nearing its end, he could no longer hold back the flood of images that rose within him: Ragna with her hair long and glinting golden in the sun, her arms outstretched in glad welcome; his mother, smiling through her tears to see him, hurrying to gather him into her loving embrace; Lady Ragnhild, warmly extending her hands in the blessing of her daughter’s betrothal…
Oh, but there were less happy moments to come. It would be his sad duty to tell the women that their husbands and sons would not be coming home.
At Murdo’s direction, Gorm held Skidbladnir on a steady course for Hrolfsey, rounding the Dýrness peninsula and passing swiftly along the wild eastern coast. Murdo stood at the helm with the pilot, guiding him by old and familiar landmarks through the narrow straits between the mainland and the scattering of islands and islets. From a distance they could see Kirkjuvágr, which, after the shimmering white port cities of the East, now seemed small and impossibly colorless and crabbed to Murdo. The sleek ship carried them swiftly on and soon Hrolfsey loomed into view.
The sun was low in the west when they finally slid into the deep-water bay below Cnoc Carrach. Murdo pointed out the house, observing that all appeared quiet and in good order; he would have leaped from the ship then and there, but Jon Wing advised caution.
“It has been two years, you know,” the seaman warned lightly. “Maybe things have changed a little. It might be good to let them know you are coming before bursting in upon them.”
“Changed?” demanded Murdo as if he had never heard the word. “They are waiting for me.”
“Maybe they are,” allowed Jon sagely, “but maybe they are busy with other things.”
“What other things?” Murdo stared at him as if the Norseman had lost his mind.
“Two years is a long time,” Jon answered with a shrug.
“He is right,” put in Emlyn. “Perhaps it would be best if we went ahead of you.”
“Then you must catch me first,
” replied Murdo. With that he was over the side and flying up the steep path as if all the Seljuqs in Palestine were baying for his blood. Jon Wing shook his head as he watched him go. “He is stubborn, that one.”
“He is young,” Emlyn said. “Come, we will go and share in his welcome, and pray that it is all he hopes.”
“You pray,” suggested the seaman, drawing a spear from the bundle at the rail. “I will carry this—should his welcome be less than he expects.”
Murdo heard Jon Wing’s call behind him as he entered the yard, but refused to wait for the Norseman to catch up with him. He strode towards the house and called out loudly. “Ragna! Niamh! I have returned!” He paused, and when his cry produced no effect, he shouted again, more loudly. “Ragna! Niamh! It is Murdo! I have returned!”
Receiving no answer, he started for the house.
“Wait!” shouted Jon Wing, puffing up behind him. He looked at the house and empty yard. “Is there no one here?”
“Most likely they are busy inside,” Murdo replied, trying to convince himself.
They moved to the door, but found it barred. Murdo stood on the step and shouted again. He beat on the door with the flat of his hand. There came no answer.
“It is very quiet for such a big steading,” observed Jon.
“Perhaps they have gone to the market,” suggested Murdo, frowning now. “Or, maybe they are in the fields.”
“Everyone?” The Norseman shook his head. “The sun is up and a farm this size should be busy.”
They moved quickly across the yard between the barn and the granary and past empty livestock pens; the pigsty was empty, too. The fields, however, were well planted and neatly tended, the early greens bright against the rich black earth. Still, they saw no one at work anywhere, and Murdo, fighting down his desperation, started back to the house. They were crossing the yard when they heard someone sneeze. “Listen!” Murdo turned this way and that. “It came from the kitchens.”
The Iron Lance Page 52