The Iron Lance (16 page)

“It does not appear to be an organized assault, basileus,” the young general informed him. “Indeed, the main body of the force seems to be retreating.” He pointed to the river where the crusaders were moving along the southern bank. Across the waste ground, whole districts of the crusader tent city had been removed, and more were going. The pilgrim army was on the march.

“It may be they will try to establish siege points,” Dalassenus suggested. “Or, perhaps they think to ford the river upstream and attack the city from the east.”

“Across the river?” Alexius shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

“Nevertheless,” Dalassenus replied, “we could defeat the force at the gate before the others knew of the attack.”

Just then a strategus approached on the run. “The archers are ready, basileus,” he said. “They await your command.”

The emperor turned away from the gate and looked out over the site of the affray. A dull haze of smoke hung low over the market square where the conflict had broken out. The market—what was left of it—stood in disarray; the traders' ramshackle wooden stalls had been smashed, broken up, and the pieces scattered over the empty square; ruined produce and wasted merchandise had been trampled into the dust; there were walking
wounded hobbling, dazed, over the destruction, and two or three bodies still lay unattended, although several others had been collected in carts which were now hastening towards a nearby church.

“Shall I give the order to attack?”

“Send a few flights over their heads,” Alexius said. “Drive them away from the gate.” Turning to one of the excubitori behind him, he said, “We will need a horse, and one for the drungarius. Bring word when the Immortals have arrived.”

“Basileus?” wondered the drungarius. “The Immortals can take them with ease. There is no need to put yourself in danger. Allow me to send word when we have secured the Romans' surrender.”

“No, Dalassenus, I want the Romans to see me leading the charge so that they will know who demands their allegiance. We will defeat them in their own camp, and they will sign the oath of loyalty,” he said, placing the parchment into his kinsman's hands. Turning his eyes once more towards the river, he looked at the long lines of crusaders moving along the banks, shaking his head in bewilderment. “This is troublesome. I wish I knew what it meant.”

A few moments later, word came that the Immortals had arrived and were waiting at the gate below. Alexius and Dalassenus descended to join the élite scholae. Taking his place at the head of the troops, the emperor delivered final orders; then, turning to the wall, he signalled to the strategus, who gave the order to let fly the arrows. “Open the gates!” commanded Alexius. The gatemen began plying the winches and there came a groaning sound as the huge doors ground open slowly.

Accompanied by his commander and a hundred mounted Immortals, and seventy-five Varangi on foot, Alexius charged
into the fray. The pilgrims, having been forced away from the gate by the archers, were massed together at the end of the bridge over the dry ditch before the outer wall. The instant the gate was opened, they all surged forward, only to be thrown back upon themselves by the sudden appearance of the mounted soldiers.

As the horses thundered onto the bridge, the crusaders halted. Angry battle-cries turned instantly to screams of terror as the foreranks, squeezed by the multitude pressing in from behind, found themselves unable to escape. The fortunate few on the outer sides threw themselves off the bridge and into the ditch below to avoid the imperial lances. The rest were ridden down as the riders swept out into the chaotic mass of crusaders.

Alexius struck and struck again, using the butt of his spear as often as the blade. Even as the weapon rose and fell in his hand, he scanned the battleground for any sign that their attack would be met and matched by a sudden surge of knights. But he saw no sign of mounted resistance, and so carried the charge forward.

The pilgrims, disoriented and dismayed, fled in droves before the imperial assault. Although the emperor had given orders that his own troops were not to pursue opportunities for combat with individuals, the pilgrim ranks were in such disarray that the scholae could not help cutting them down as they ran. Even so, far more died in the crush, trampled to death by their own comrades desperate to flee the onrushing horses.

The imperial scholae cut a wide swathe through the scattering crusaders and proceeded swiftly towards the river, and the exposed flank of the crusader army as it moved along the bank. As they drew near, they were met by a body of defenders—perhaps a hundred hastily-ordered knights, and several hundred footmen—who formed a rough battle line between the
emperor's force and their own directly behind them. Poised to fight, yet waiting for the Byzantines to make the first move, they appeared irresolute and uncertain.

“Halt!” Alexius cried, pulling hard on the reins. His horse reared and plunged to a stop within a dozen paces of the front rank of knights. Instantly, his bodyguard reined up beside him while the Immortals ranged themselves in two long wings of double ranks on either side, forming an intimidating wall before the reluctant knights.

Staring down the length of his spear, Alexius brought its point to the throat of the foremost knight. “I am Alexius, Supreme Sovereign of the Holy Roman Empire. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” he asked, speaking in unadorned Latin so that there should be no mistaking his meaning.

“I understand,” replied the truculent soldier. The man's age and the scar on the side of his neck signified him to be a veteran of battle. Wisely, he made no move to raise his sword.

“Where are your lords?” Alexius demanded.

The pilgrim jerked his head sideways, indicating that they were up ahead, leading the march. “Go and find them,” the emperor ordered. “We will await them here.”

Seeing that the Greeks did not appear interested in offering battle, the knight nodded to the man beside him. The second warrior put spurs to his mount and rode quickly away. There followed a long, tense interval as the two opposing forces waited for the arrival of the crusader lords, eying one another across the short distance separating them.

All at once there came a commotion from the rearward ranks. A way parted and Alexius saw a number of riders making their way towards the front line. He waited until they had come within the sound of his voice, and then said, “So! Tell me, how
stood the fearsome merchants before your mighty swords? Did the children and their mothers offer stout resistance to your massed attack? The victory is yours—how well the glory sits upon your valiant shoulders!”

Duke Godfrey, a puzzled look on his face, drew himself up to speak, but Alexius continued, “Why do you repay the empire's generosity with treachery? Not even wild dogs bite the hand that feeds them.”

Alexius glowered at the assembled knights, who shifted uneasily, looking to their leaders to defend their honor against the emperor's inexplicable wrath. “Shame!” he cried. “The blood of the defenseless demands justice. We charge you to make reparation out of your own treasuries to the families of those you have slain.”

“Lord Emperor,” said Godfrey defensively, “I profess before God and all gathered here, I know nothing of what you speak.”

“Ignorance ill becomes you, lord,” Alexius replied tartly. “Heed then, we will enlighten you.” He then told the disgraced nobleman about the riot and attack on the marketplace, and demanded, “Where were you when your troops violated the peace and friendship between our peoples?”

“Our supplies have run out,” answered the duke, evading the question. “The people are hungry—they starve. They have had nothing but stale bread for weeks.”

“Fresh provisions await your people—as you well know,” the emperor told him. “It only requires your oath of fealty to secure all the food you need.” Having vented his anger, Alexius pressed on to secure his primary purpose. “This day,” he said, assuming a more conciliatory tone, “is the day appointed for the signing of the oath of loyalty. We will have your answer. What is it to be?”

Godfrey looked upon the imperial troops ranged before him,
and hesitated. There came a movement from the rear, and Baldwin burst suddenly into the front line. “This demand is an insult!” he shouted, thrusting himself forward. “I say we will
not
sign!”

Alexius gazed on him without expression. “Give us your pledge, or give us your life. The choice is yours, friend, but we will have one or the other before this day is run.”

“The Devil take your oath!” Baldwin said, drawing his blade. Several of the knights looking on shouted support for this sentiment. The air tingled with the sound of swords sliding from scabbards.

“Peace, Baldwin!” his brother roared. “Put up your sword. We will abide the emperor's request.” To Alexius, he said, “The attack on the marketplace was ill-judged. On my honor, those who led the raid will be punished.” His eyes shifted unhappily from Baldwin to several of the leading knights, who had gone very quiet. To the emperor he said, “We deeply regret the destruction and loss, and will make suitable reparation as you command.”

“We urge you to be generous,” Alexius told him. “For the measure you use for others will be used for you.”

“It will be done,” Godfrey replied. “Moreover, we stand ready to sign the pledge of loyalty at the time and place of your choosing.”

“So be it,” declared the emperor. “We will see it signed here and now.” He held out his hand to Dalassenus, who promptly delivered into the emperor's outstretched palm the parchment square, which Alexius unfolded. “Come here,” he commanded the brother lords; they dismounted and stood before him.

“Read it out,” instructed the emperor.

Reluctantly, Godfrey read out the oath, promising to keep faith with the emperor and recognizing his sovereign authority
in all matters pertaining to the governance of the empire and its citizens, and further, to return to imperial rule all lands or cities—and any concomitant treasures, relics, or holy objects—formerly belonging to the empire which might fall to the crusaders' advance.

Having read the oath, Godfrey owned the vow, whereupon Dalassenus produced a quill and a vial of red ink which he proffered to Godfrey.

Dour and unsmiling, the lord dipped the point of the quill into the vial and signed his name with a defiant flourish. Handing the document and quill to his brother, he said, “Affix your name beneath mine, dear brother, and let us remember we have come to fight the infidel, not to make war on friends.”

Baldwin sneered at the last word, but signed the document in scribbled haste and passed it contemptuously to the emperor, who looked at the signatures, and then delivered the document into the hands of the Grand Drungarius for safe-keeping.

“The promised food supplies will be delivered at once,” the emperor informed the lords. “In a few days' time we expect to receive Count Bohemond of Taranto, who will also sign the oath of loyalty. When that formality has been accomplished, we will meet together to lay plans for shipping your people, horses, and supplies across the Bosphorus.” He paused to allow the significance of his words to penetrate their understanding, and then said, “As your time in Constantinople grows short, we would have you enjoy something of the city's treasures and delights. Therefore, we have arranged for you and your men to visit the principal sights of the capital.”

“You are very kind, Lord Emperor,” Godfrey said, accepting the invitation by way of a peace offering. “We would enjoy nothing more.”

Baldwin frowned, but held his tongue for once.

“So that you should not come to grief in a city so large and unknown to you, we will provide an escort of our own bodyguard to serve as guides. Thus, you need have no fear of becoming lost, or falling into harm.”

“Again,” said Godfrey, “your thoughtfulness is laudable. We thank you, and will anticipate with all eagerness the council you propose.”

The lord made a small bow, whereupon the emperor bade them farewell, and detailed the Grand Drungarius, two strategi, and fifty Varangian guardsmen to see to the reparation settlement and conduct the lords and the noblemen of their company on a tour of the city. He then returned to Blachernae Palace to prepare to meet his old enemy's bellicose son, Bohemond of Taranto.

The settlement at Inbhir Ness was much larger than Murdo expected, and far more squalid. Tight clusters of low huts with high-peaked roofs of coarse thatch huddled close together over narrow footpaths that seamed through the town in every direction, like a bare earth web. Smoke from a multitude of hearth-fires hung over the place so that even in the bright sun, Inbhir Ness appeared dark and uninviting.

The river mouth itself was wide enough, but only a handful of small boats, and three or four ships, were moored along the muddy banks. Aside from a large monastery on the hill high above the firth, the place seemed old, derelict, and forlorn, which surprised Murdo. Even sleepy Kirkjuvágr boasted more bustle and commerce. When he mentioned this fact to Peder, the elder seaman simply told him to wait and see. They proceeded through a pinched and narrow channel, and into another, smaller firth, which continued inland a fair distance to the mouth of the Ness which formed a wide and shallow harbor so full of craft of various sizes that it took all Peder's skill to maneuver their own small boat to shore.

“Put in!” Murdo called from the prow. “Put in!”

“Aye,” Peder agreed. “We will—when I see a good place.”

The voyage had been good, the winds favorable and the seas calm. But after the better part of three days and two nights on the water, Murdo was in no mood to wait:
any
place would do.
“There! See it?” He pointed to a narrow berth between two stout, high-sided cogs. “Put in there!”

Peder eyed the place and frowned at the look of it, but did as he was told and nosed the boat towards the place. “Strike the sail,” he called, “and pick up the oars. Row us in.”

Murdo hopped to his chores and soon they were gliding into the space between the ships. No sooner had the keel bumped against the earthen bank, than Murdo leapt out onto dry land. Peder threw him a rope, which Murdo secured to a stump atop the raised-earth bank.

“You run on, Master Murdo, and see can you find Orin's ship,” the old seaman said, clambering onto dry land. “I shall keep with the boat.”

Murdo did not hesitate, but hurried off along the bank. He worked his way around the inlet, looking at the ships and trying to determine if this one or that might belong to Lord Orin. He eventually arrived at a wide place at the farthest end of the anchorage, a square of sorts, where the harbor and main settlement met. Here the wagons and carts of the provisioners called to deliver their goods, and here the sailors met to drink ale and talk.

An inn—the first Murdo had ever seen—fronted this muddy square: a low, dark, rambling house with a small mountain of wooden casks, kegs, and tuns stacked high outside the entrance. Upon reaching the inn, he paused and savored the toothsome aroma of roasting meat wafting out the wide and open door; the smell brought the water to his mouth and made his empty stomach squirm in anticipation. While he was yet surveying the square, a man in a leather apron emerged from the inn behind him and took up one of the kegs from the heap a few paces from where Murdo stood.

“I beg your pardon,” said Murdo, putting on his most polite
demeanor. The man glanced at him and started back into the inn. “I am looking for Orin Broad-Foot's ship. Can you tell me where it is?”

The fellow grunted at Murdo, but did not turn aside. “Am I the harbor master now?” he growled without looking back. “Get you gone!”

Rebuffed by the fellow's unaccountable rudeness, Murdo nevertheless seized upon the notion of searching out the harbor master. He continued his circumnavigation of the square, moving along the edge, watching all that passed before him, but failed to see anyone who might be called the master of the port and its disorderly commerce.

There were, he determined, a hundred or more men—many in clumps of three or four together, a fair few in larger groups, and the rest hastening about their errands alone; but, whether talking loudly and drinking freely, or pursuing their various chores, everyone seemed wholly preoccupied and oblivious to Murdo's presence as he walked here and there, apparently idly, but listening all the while to each group for the accents of speech that would tell him he had found the Norsemen.

Upon reaching the earthen bank once more—here built up and faced with timber to better accommodate the loading and unloading of larger ships—Murdo saw a group of seven big men talking loudly and drinking ale from a large stoup. Behind them, eight others were shifting a small mountain of bundles, bales, and wooden boxes from the bank to the deck of a sleek, low-hulled, longship. The high stern and prow swept up gracefully from the knife-sharp keel; the prow was carved with the head of a dragon with round staring eyes painted red, and long curved teeth painted white.

The men working and drinking were dressed in leather and homespun, and most wore their long hair tied and braided.
Murdo slowed to hear better, and the sing-song lilt of their voices confirmed what he already knew: Norsemen, without a doubt.

He paused for a moment to decide how best to approach them, and was still trying to work out what to say, when one of the group—a brawny bare-chested seaman with a thick braid over his shoulder, saw him. “You there!” the man growled. “You find something funny to look at maybe, hey?”

The man's accent was so thick that, though Murdo recognized the words, it took him a moment to work out what he meant. “Beg pardon?” he muttered.

“He deaf maybe,” suggested another of the group as they all turned to stare at him.

“Please,” said Murdo, plucking up his nerve and stepping forward. “I am looking for Lord Orin Broad-Foot's ship. Could you tell me if it is here?”

The men looked at one another, but appeared reluctant to reply. Murdo was about to ask again when a voice boomed out behind him. “Who is it that asks of Orin Broad-Foot?”

“I do, myself,” replied Murdo quickly.

He turned around to see who had addressed him, and saw a swarthy, bull-necked Norseman with arms as big as hams stuffed through a sleeveless tunic of undyed leather. His breecs were heavy sailcloth dyed the color of rust, the legs of which were rolled to the tops of his tall boots—made from boar's hide which still displayed the hair of the beast. A large purse hung from a wide belt made of the same stuff. His beard was long and dark and, like most seagoing men, he kept his hair out of his face by tying it back with a leather string. He wore a broad-linked chain of silver on his neck, and a fat gold ring on the first finger of his left hand.

The eyes that watched him were clear and keen beneath a
high smooth, sun-browned brow. Good straight teeth flashed white as the newcomer demanded, “What's your business with Broad-Foot?”

Wary of revealing too much, Murdo replied, “It is said Lord Orin is sailing for Jerusalem.”

“Aye, he goes with his king on pilgrimage.” The man regarded Murdo, looking him slowly up and down—as if placing a value on a beast of burden, and that value was not high. “What is it to you, boy?”

The man was blunt, Murdo decided, but not malicious. “I also am pledged to go to the Holy Land,” Murdo announced boldly. “I have come to ask a place in his boat. I know about ships, and I can work. Also, I have a little silver; I can pay my way, if need be.”

“Can you now!” the man said, his mood lightening somewhat.

“I would thank you kindly if you could tell me where I might find Lord Orin—or his ship, at least.”

The dark-haired man drew himself up full height. He was a big full-fleshed man, and his shoulders were wide and strong. “You come looking for Orin Broad-Foot, and you come to the right place,” he declared, “but you come too late. He sailed two days ago on the morning tide.”

Murdo's heart sank, and he felt bleak futility descending over him. He thanked the man, turned away, and began walking back to where Peder waited with the boat.

“Pilgrim!” the man called after him. “How much silver?”

Murdo turned, not certain he had heard correctly. “What?”

“You have silver,” the Norseman said. “How much?”

Murdo hesitated, uncertain what to answer. The seaman eyed him shrewdly, awaiting his reply. “Ten—ten marks.”

“Bah!” the man said, flapping a huge hand at him. “Go away, liar.”

“No, wait!” Murdo protested. “It is true—I have ten marks.”

“Let me see it,” the man demanded.

Murdo, against his better judgment, reached into his shirt and tugged out the little leather bag. He started to untie it, but the Norseman snatched the bag from his fingers. “Stop!” cried Murdo. “Give it back!”

“If there is ten marks in here,” the rough seaman told him, “you have nothing to fear. If there is more, or less, I keep the silver and cut out your tongue for a liar.”

Murdo, smouldering with rage, watched as the man opened the bag and poured the coins into his fist; he then counted them back into the bag one by one.

“Ten marks,” the Norseman confirmed.

“I am no liar,” Murdo told him. “Now, give it back.”

“I thought you wanted to go to Jerusalem,” the seaman said, bouncing the purse on his palm. “Ten marks pays your passage.”

Murdo, outraged at being robbed, and aghast at the audacity of the thief, sputtered in protest.

“Stay or go—the choice is yours, but it must be made quickly,” the Norseman told him. “
Skidbladnir
is ready, and the tide is on to turning.”

Murdo regarded the ship: a goodly-sized vessel of the kind the Norsemen excelled at building—sleek and low, easily maneuvered and fast; it could hold thirty fighting men. From where he stood, he could see that many of the rowing benches had been removed to accommodate the small mountain of cargo, and the tented platform behind the mast.

“I will go with you,” Murdo answered, making up his mind. “But I will give you five marks only.”

“Impossible,” replied the seaman. “Seven, or you stay behind.”

“Six,” countered Murdo confidently.

The Norseman hesitated, hefting the bag in his hand.

“The tide is running, and you are leaving,” Murdo pointed out. “It is the last silver you will see until Jerusalem.”

“You are not so stupid, I think,” the Norseman allowed, extending his hand. “Six marks it is.”

Murdo took the offered hand. “Three marks now, and three when we reach Jerusalem.”

“Done!” said the Norseman. He counted out three marks and tossed the bag to Murdo.

“I must fetch my belongings,” Murdo said. Tucking the purse quickly out of sight, he started off along the bank.

“Here now!” The seaman called him back. “If you are sailing on my ship, we can come to an understanding first.”

“Very well,” Murdo agreed.

“Hear me: I am King Magnus' man, and I am joining his fleet as soon as we quit this harbor. I will gladly cleave you crown to chin if you cause me trouble,” the seaman vowed, fondling the hilt of the very large knife in his belt. “But just you stay out of trouble, and you will find me a most agreeable companion.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “This is my pledge to you. What is your pledge to me?”

“You will never have cause to raise your voice to me, much less your blade,” Murdo told him solemnly. “I will cause you no trouble, and do as I am told. This I pledge you.”

“You'll do, boy!” The big man grinned suddenly, and Murdo saw that one of his lower front teeth was missing, and a fine, almost invisible scar creased his lip and chin, making his smile a wry, lop-sided, yet curiously compelling thing. Murdo smiled, too, in response, and felt his heart lift for the first time in many days.

“I am Jon Wing,” he said, clapping a huge hand to Murdo's back, “and I mean to watch you like Odin's eagle.”

“Though you watch me night and day, you will find nothing you do not expect to see,” Murdo told him. “I mean to make myself useful.”

“Be about it then,” Jon Wing said, and turned to the men on the bank and began calling commands. Turning back to Murdo he said, “Well? Get on, boy! The tide is flowing, and we are away with it.”

Murdo raced along the top of the earthen bank to rejoin Peder, who was sitting on a stump, braiding the ends of a length of rope. He hailed the old seaman, and hastened to explain. “The king has already sailed,” he said, “but one of his men is still in harbor. The ship is called
Skidbladnir
, and the master has agreed to take me.”

Peder nodded. “A good name for a ship. When do you sail?”

“On the tide,” Murdo answered.

“Then farewell it is,” Peder replied, rising from the stump. Descending the bank and climbing into the boat, he stooped and hefted up the bundle Murdo had left behind. “Here now,” he said, passing the bundle to Murdo over the side. “As the tide is running, I will be going myself. Give us a push, Master Murdo, and I am away.”

Murdo untied the rope from the stump, coiled it quickly, and tossed it into the boat. Then, he put his shoulder to the prow and shoved the boat away as Peder settled himself at the oars. Murdo called farewell, and watched the old seaman work the oars, turning the boat with deft, efficient strokes.

“Tell my mother the journey is well begun,” Murdo called. “Take care of her, Peder. See she does not worry overmuch.”

“Oh, aye,” vowed the old helmsman. “Never fear. Just you keep a sharp weather eye, lad.”

“That I will,” answered Murdo, not wanting to take his eyes off Peder or the boat until both were out of sight. A long, rising
whistle from the direction of Jon Wing's ship called him away, however, and Murdo took up his bundle and ran to secure his place aboard the waiting ship. Four rowers, long oars in hand, pushed the craft away from the bank as Murdo clambered over the rail.

He found a place among the rowers, took up an oar from the holder, and settled himself on his bench. He fell into the easy rhythm of rowing and watched the settlement of Inbhir Ness slip slowly away as the ship moved out onto the estuary.