The Black Rood (3 page)

His use of that name brought me up short, as you can imagine. I tried to hide my amazement, but he saw I knew, and said, “Oh, aye—so your father told you something after all did he?”

“He has told me a little,” I replied; although this was not strictly true. Murdo never spoke about the Holy Lance at all. Again, the little I knew of it came from the good abbot.

“Did he tell you how the great imbecile gave it right back to the emperor the instant he got his hands on it?” Torf gave a cruel little laugh, which ended in a gurgling cough.

“No,” I answered, “my father never told me that.”

“He did! By Christ, I swear he did,” Torf chortled malevolently. “Only Godfrey could have thrown away something so priceless. The stupid fool. It was his first act as ruler of Jerusalem, too. He got nothing in return for it either, I can tell you.”

Torf then proceeded to tell me how, moments after accepting the throne of Jerusalem, Godfrey had been deceived by the imperial envoy into agreeing to give up the Holy Lance, which the crusaders had discovered in Antioch, and with which the crusaders had conquered the odious Muhammedans. In order to escape the ignominy of
surrendering Christendom's most valued possession, Jerusalem's new lord had hit upon the plan to send the sacred relic to Pope Urban for safekeeping.

“It was either that or fight the emperor,” allowed Torf grudgingly, “and we were no match for the imperial troops. We would have been cut down to a man. It would have been a slaughter. No one crosses blades with the Immortals and lives to tell the tale.”

It seemed to me that Godfrey had been placed in an extremely tight predicament by the Western Lords, and I said so. “Pah!” spat Torf. “The Greeks are cunning fiends, and deception is mother's milk to them. Godfrey should have known that he could never outwit a wily Greek with trickery.”

“His plan seemed simple enough to me,” I told him. “There was little enough trickery in it that I can see. Where did he go wrong?”

“He sent it to Jaffa with only a handful of knights as escort, and the Seljuqs ambushed them. If he'd waited a few days, he could have sent the relic with a proper army—most of the troops were leaving the Holy Land soon—and the Turks would never have taken it.”

“The Turks took it?” I asked.

“Is that not what I'm saying?” he grumbled. “Of course they took it, the thieving devils.”

“I thought you said Godfrey gave it to the emperor.”

“He
meant
to give it to the emperor,” growled Torf-Einar irritably. “If you would keep your mouth closed—instead of blathering on endlessly, you might learn something, boy.”

Torf called me boy, even though I had a wife and child of my own. I suppose I seemed very young to him; or, perhaps, very far beneath his regard. I told him I'd try to keep quiet so he could get on with his tale.

“It would be a mercy,” he grumbled testily. “I said the Seljuqs took the Holy Lance, and if it was up to them, they'd have it to this day. But Bohemond suspected Godfrey would try some idiot trick, and secretly arranged to follow the relic. When Godfrey's knights left Jerusalem, the Count of Antioch got word of it and gave chase.”

Prince Bohemond of Taranto knew about the lance, too, of course. It was Bohemond who had taken King Magnus into his service to provide warriors for the prince's depleted army. Owing to this friendship, King Magnus had prospered greatly. It was from Magnus that we had our lands in Caithness.

Torf was not unaware of this. He said, “Godfrey and Baldwin had no love for Bohemond, nor for his vassal Magnus. Still,” he looked around at the well-ordered, expansive hall, “I can see the king has been good to you. A man must make what friends he can, hey?”

“I suppose.”

“You
suppose
!” He laughed at me. “I speak the truth, and you know it. In this world, a man must get whatever he can from the chances he's given. You make your bargains and hope for the best. If I had been in Murdo's place, I might have done the same. I bear your father no ill in the matter.”

“I am certain he will leap with joy to hear it,” I muttered.

That was the wrong thing to say, for he swore an oath and told me he was sick of looking at me. I left him in a foul temper, and went to bed that night wondering whether I would ever hear what he knew about the Iron Lance.

T
ORF-EINAR HAD INDEED
come home to die. It soon became apparent that whatever health was left to him, he had spent it on the journey. Despite our care of him, he did not improve. Each day saw a diminution of his swiftly eroding strength.

I fed him the next night in silence. Owing to my discourtesy of the previous evening, he refused to speak to me and I feared he would die before I found out any more about what he knew of the Iron Lance. I spoke to my father about this, but Murdo remained uninterested. He advised me to leave it be. “It is just stories,” he remarked sourly. “No doubt he knows a great many such traveler's tales.”

When I insisted that there must be more to it than that, he grew angry and snapped, “It is all lies and dangerous nonsense, Duncan, God knows. Leave well enough alone.”

Well, how could I? The next evening I found Torf in a better humor, so I said, “You said Godfrey was a fool for losing the Holy Lance. If he was ambushed by the Turks, I cannot see what he could have done about it.”

“And I suppose you know all about such things now,” he sneered. “Were you there?” He puffed out his cheeks in derision. “Had it not been for Bohemond, the thieving Turks would have made off with the prize forever.”

“What did Bohemond do?”

“He pursued the Turks and caught them outside Jaffa,”
replied Torf. “They fought through the night, and when the sun came up the next morning, Bohemond had the Holy Lance.”

“Then it was Bohemond who gave the lance to the emperor,” I replied.

“That he did,” Torf confirmed.

“Forgive me, uncle,” I said, determined not to offend him again. “But it seems to me that Bohemond was no better than Godfrey.”

Torf frowned at me, and I thought he would not answer. After a moment, he said, “At least he got himself something for his trouble. In return for the lance, he obtained the support of the emperor—and that was worth the cost of the relic many times over, I can tell you.”

This seemed odd to me. I could not understand why he should hold Godfrey to blame, yet absolve Bohemond whose actions appeared in every way just as suspect, if not more so. Realizing that I would only make him angry again, I refrained from asking any farther questions. Still, I turned the matter over in my mind that night, and determined to ask Abbot Emlyn about it the next day.

I found the good abbot at the new church the following morning, and succeeded in arousing his interest with a few well-judged questions. Glancing up from the drawings before him, he said, “Who have you been talking to, my friend?”

“I am giving Torf-Einar his meals in the evening,” I began.

“And he has told you these tales?”

“Aye, some of them.”

The priest wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips. “Well, perhaps he knows a little about it.”

Something in Emlyn's tone gave the lie to his words. “But you do not believe him,” I observed.

“It is not for me to say,” the abbot answered evasively. Now, I had never known the good priest to give me, or anyone else, cause to doubt him, but his answer seemed strange, and I suspected he knew much more than he was telling.

“Who better?” I said, pursuing him gently. “My father, perhaps?”

Emlyn frowned again. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “it is better to let the dead bury the dead. I think you will get no thanks from Murdo for sticking your nose into the hive.”

“True enough,” I concluded gloomily. “I already asked him.”

“What did he say?” asked the cleric.

“He said it was all just stories,” I replied. “Traveler's tales and lies.”

The abbot frowned again, but said nothing. This made me even more determined, for I could plainly see that there was more to the tale than they were telling. I got no more out of Abbot Emlyn that day, however.

Indeed, I might never have got to the heart of the mystery if Torf had died before speaking of the Black Rood.

That very night, his strength failed him. He grew fevered and fell into the sleep of death. Murdo summoned some of the monks from Saint Andrew's Abbey to come and do what they could for the old man, and Emlyn came, too, along with a monk named Padraig.

As it happens, Padraig is Emlyn's nephew—the son of his only sister—a thoughtful, well-meaning monk, despite the fact that he grew up in Eíre. Our good abb has children of his own, of course: two daughters—one of whom lives with her husband's kinfolk south of Caithness, near Inbhir Ness. The other, Niniane, is a priest herself, as gentle and wise as her father, and who, through no fault of her own, has the very great misfortune to be married to my brother, Eirik.

Now then, it is well known that the Célé Dé are wonderfully wise in all things touching the healing arts. They are adept at preparing medicines of surpassing potency and virtue. Brother Padraig set to work at the hearth and in a short while had brewed an elixir which he spooned into the dying man's mouth. This he repeated at intervals through the night, and by morning—wonder of wonders—Torf-Einar was awake once more.

He was still very weak, and it was clear he would not recover. But he was resting much easier now, and the fire had left his eyes. He seemed more at peace as I greeted him. I
asked him if there was anything he would like that I could get for him.

“Nay,” he said, his voice hollow and rough, “unless you can get me a piece of the Black Rood for my confession. Nothing else will do me any good.”

“What is this Black Rood?” I asked. “If there is any of it nearby, I am certain my father can get it for you.”

This brought a smile to Torf's cracked lips. He shook his head weakly. “I doubt you will find it,” he croaked. “There are but four pieces in all the world, and two of those are lost forever.”

This rare thing intrigued me. “But what is it, and what has it to do with your confession?”

“Never heard of the True Cross?” He regarded me hazily.

“Of course I have heard of
that
,” I told him. “Everyone has heard of that.”

“One and the same, boy, one and the same. The Black Rood is just another name for the True Cross.”

This made no sense to me. “If that is so, why is it called black?” I asked, suspicious of his explanation. “And why is it in so many pieces?”

Torf merely smiled, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “If I am to tell you that,” he replied, “I must have a drop to wet my throat.”

Turning to Brother Padraig, who had just entered the hall and was approaching the sick man's pallet, I said, “He is asking for ale. May I give him some?”

“A little ale might do him some good,” replied the monk. “At least,” he shrugged, “it will do him no harm.”

While the cleric set about making up some more of his elixir, I went to the kitchen to fetch the ale, returning with a stoup and bowl. Placing the stoup on the floor, I dipped out a bowlful, and gave it to Torf, who guzzled it down greedily. He drank another before he was ready to commence his explanation.

“So,” he said, sinking back onto his pallet, “why is the rood called black, you ask? And I say because it
is
black—old and black, it is.”

“And why is it in so many pieces?”

“Because Baldwin had it divided up,” replied Torf with a dry chuckle.

I was about to ask him why this Baldwin should have done such a thing, but Abbot Emlyn entered the hall just then to see how the sick man had fared the night. I think he was expecting to see a corpse, and instead found Torf sitting up and talking with me. After a brief word with Padraig, he came and sat down beside the sickbed. “It seems that God has blessed us with your company a little longer, my friend,” Emlyn said.

“It will not be God,” Torf replied, “but the devil himself who drags me under.”

“Never say it,” chided Emlyn, shaking his head gently. “You are not so far from God's blessing, my friend. Of that I am certain.”

Torf's lips curled in a vicious sneer. “Pah! I am not afraid. I did as I pleased, and I am ready to pay the ferryman what is owed. Get you gone, priest, I won't be shriven.”

“As you say,” allowed Emlyn, “but know that I will remain near and I will do whatever may be done to ease your passing.”

Torf frowned, and I thought he might send Emlyn away with a curse, so I spoke up quickly, saying, “My uncle was just about to tell me how the True Cross was cut into pieces.”

“Is this so?” wondered Emlyn.

“Indeed so,” answered Torf.

“Then what I have heard is true,” said the abbot, “the Holy Cross of Christ has been found.”

“Aye, they found it,” answered Torf, “and I was there.” I noticed the light come up in his eyes and he seemed to rise to his tale.

“Extraordinary!” murmured Emlyn softly.

“Godfrey it was who found the cross—in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Torf told us. “He had gone with his chaplain and some priests to pray. It was after the western lords had begun returning home, leaving only Godfrey, Baldwin, and Bohemond in the Holy Land to defend Jerusalem. Well, Bohemond had sailed for Constantinople with the emperor's envoy, bearing the Holy Lance into Greek captivity.
Baldwin was preparing to return to Edessa, and we were all eager to go with him, for he had said he would begin apportioning the land he had promised his noblemen.”

“Some of this I know,” mused Emlyn, nodding to himself.

“Aye, well, the night before we were to leave Jerusalem, word came to us that al-Afdal, the Vizier of Egypt, had landed ships at Ascalon, and that fifty thousand Saracens were marching for Jerusalem. Rather than allow them to put the city under siege, Godfrey decided to meet them on the road before they could raise help from the defeated Turks. Taken together, Godfrey's troops and Baldwin's amounted to fewer than seven thousand, and of those only five hundred were knights. The rest were footmen.

“Leaving Baldwin to prepare the troops for battle, Godfrey went to the church to pray a swift and certain victory for us despite the odds against us. While Godfrey was praying, one of the priests fell into a trance and had a vision. I cannot say how it happened, but the way I heard it was that a man in white appeared to him and showed him a curtain. This White Priest told the monk to pull aside the curtain and take up what he found there. When the priest awoke, however, the curtain was gone and he was staring at a whitewashed wall only.

“No doubt it would have ended there, except Godfrey came to hear of it, and said, ‘A wall is sometimes called a curtain.' So, he orders the wall to be taken down, and behold! There is the True Cross.”

“God be praised,” gasped Emlyn, clasping his hands reverently.

“It seems,” continued Torf, ignoring the abbot's outburst, “that when the Saracens first captured the city, those churches they did not destroy, they turned into mosqs. In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, they found the True Cross hanging above the altar, but even those heathen devils did not dare lay a hand on it, so they walled it up. They mixed a thick mortar and covered over the sacred relic, hiding it from view. Godfrey orders the mortar to be pulled down, and there it is: the True Cross is found. The king declares it to be a sign of
God's good pleasure, and orders everyone to kneel before the holy relic and pray for victory in the coming battle.

“This is difficult to do for the church is very small, and there are so many soldiers. So, he orders the cross to be brought out to us, and we all kneel down before it. Skuli and I find ourselves near the front ranks and we see the cross as the priests walk by; two priests, led by Godfrey's chaplain, hold it between them, and two more walk behind carrying censers of burning incense.

“I look up as it passes by, and I see what looks to be a long piece of rough timber, slightly bowed along its length. It is perhaps half a rod long, and thick as a man's thigh. I know it is the True Cross because it is blackened with age, and its surface has been smoothed by the countless hands that have reverenced it through the years.

“The prayers are said, and the monks are returning to the church; as they carry the cross away, someone behind cries out, ‘Let the cross go before us!' That is all it takes—at once everyone is up and shouting: ‘Let the cross go before us!'

“Godfrey hears this and calls for order to be restored. He says, ‘It has pleased God to deliver this most sacred relic into our hands as a sign of his good pleasure in the restoring of his Holy City. As we have kept faith with God, so God has kept faith with us. The enemies of Christ are even now marching against us,' cries Godfrey, his voice shaking with righteous rage. ‘I say this cross—this Black Rood—shall go before us into battle. From this day forth, it shall be the emblem of Jerusalem's defenders, so that those who raise sword against us shall know that Christ himself leads his holy army to victory against the enemies of our faith.'

“The monks begin chanting: ‘Rejoice, O nations, with God's people! For He will avenge the blood of his servants; He will take vengeance on his enemies, and make atonement for his land.' And that is how it began…” So saying, Torf slumped back, exhausted by the effort.

I stared at him in amazement that he should recall so much of what happened that day long ago. Brother Padraig, who had crept near to hear the tale, motioned to me to fill the
bowl again. I poured the ale, and held the bowl to the sick man's lips. Torf drank and revived somewhat.

“Rest now,” suggested Emlyn. “We will talk again when you are feeling better.”

A bitter smile twisted Torf-Einar's lips. “I will never feel better than I do now,” he whispered. “Anyway, there is little more to say. We rode out from Jerusalem the next day, and met the Arabs on the road from Ascalon two days later. They were not expecting us to attack, and had not yet formed a proper invasion force. Two knights carried the cross between them, and Godfrey led the charge. We fell upon al-Afdal's confused army and scattered them to the winds. We routed the infidel, and sent them flying back to their ships.”