The Iron Lance (22 page)

Murdo could not let this assertion go unchallenged. “If it is as powerful as you say, why does it have to be guarded at all?”

Emlyn clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Tch! To even ask such a question shows how little you understand of the higher things. Still, I am not surprised. How could you know? For you have spent the whole of your young life in error and confusion. You, like all the rest, have been led astray, like those poor sheep wandering lost in the night.”

“Those were stolen,” Murdo pointed out.

“Yes,” agreed Emlyn absently, “I suppose they were. But they were lost just the same. Tell me, are the sheep to blame if their shepherds are lazy, ignorant, and deceitful? If the sheep could keep from wandering, there would be no need for shepherds.”

“And if sheep could fly,” suggested Murdo, “we would call them birds.”

“Scoff if you must,” Emlyn replied, “I expect no less. We of the Célé Dé have grown accustomed to mockery. Derision is the refuge of threatened ignorance, after all.”

Murdo, chastened by this rebuke, apologized for his outburst. “All this talk of sheep and shepherds—it seemed funny to me. Please, tell me about the True Path. Why do you call it that?”

“Because it
is
a path,” the fat cleric insisted, “a path of truth and understanding, leading back and back to the beginning—to the very first day when Our Lord called the Twelve to be his faithful servants. From that day, the teaching of Our Lord has
been passed from one servant to the next in a single, narrow, unbroken line of succession.

“As it is written: ‘O, my people, hear my teaching; listen to the words of my mouth. I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter hidden things, teachings from the creation of the world—what we have heard from our fathers.' And also: ‘When Jesu was alone, the Twelve asked him about the parables. The Lord told them, “The secret of the Kingdom of Heaven has been given to you. But to those on the outside everything is said in parables so that they may be ever seeing, but never perceiving, and ever hearing, but never understanding.”' Thus, it has been since the beginning. The path stretches back and back, unbroken to this day.”

“But what is this teaching?” asked Murdo; he was intrigued, but growing impatient with the monk's vague explanation. “It does not sound much different from what the bishop says back home.”

“That is where you are wrong. For, unlike so many of our dear brothers and sisters in the faith, we do not wander in error and confusion. Yet, the teaching can only be given to one who is willing to hear, and I do not think you are ready to receive it yet.” Murdo opened his mouth to protest, but Emlyn said, “Still, I will tell you something about it, and perhaps discernment will begin to grow. The darkness is greedy, as I have said, and it is insidious. Even in those first days it was seeking what it might devour, but the presence of Our Lord kept it at bay.

“When he ascended to Heaven to begin his eternal reign, the Great Darkness sought out the weak and unwary; those it would destroy, it first led astray. Thus, even as the faith itself began to blossom and grow, darkness sowed its own seeds of error and confusion as well. Many have been deceived, and many destroyed.

“Alas! The holy church, the great fortress of the faith, has
been breached, and all its bulwarks desecrated. Those who shelter within its walls—whether sheep or shepherds,” Emlyn cast a sidelong glance at Murdo, “leaders or followers, from the highest patriarch to the most lowly scribe—all have been tainted by the darkness, and all are bereft of the Holy Light. The eyes of their hearts have withered and they glimpse the truth but dimly if they even see it at all.

“Listen to me, I make no selfish boast. Do you think I rejoice in the certain destruction of my fellow churchmen? Do you think I could derive any pleasure from the sight of the multitudes these blind guides lead astray? The loss of dear friends and the waste of souls is more bitter to me than anything I know.

“Yet, not even for their sake could I give up that which has been entrusted to me—even if that were possible. We are Keepers of the Holy Light, and we serve Him, and Him alone, who makes the light to shine. For so long as we live, we hold to the Holy Light, and we protect it against the darkness until the Day of the Redeemer.”

The monk fell silent, and after a moment Murdo asked, “Why is it that you three are the only ones who know about all this?”

“Few, we may be,” the monk allowed, “but not
that
few. No, we are not the only ones; although, with each passing year there are fewer, it is true. But your question is a good one: why us and not someone else?

“I think God has chosen the Célé Dé to be the keepers, because we are different from all our brothers in certain respects. The sainted Padraic used to say that God chose the Celts to guard the True Path because we live on the edge of the world—far away from the pitiless intrigues of the east.

“I have often thought about it, and I believe Old Padraic was
right. The faith was first taught by Our Lord to the humble people of this world; poor folk—shepherds and farmers and potters and fishermen—were blessed of God to be first to hear and believe. Only much later was the faith taken up by the kings and princes of this world—the high and mighty, the governors and rulers of nations.

“So, when God began to look around for someone to be his Keepers and Guardians, his eye fell naturally upon the Celt—a race as much like those who first heard the faith as makes no difference: simple people who live close to the land and close to one another. Our homes are huts of mud and twig built in green and sheltered valleys, not great golden cities filled with hosts of strangers. Our lords are our own clansmen, men of our own tribe, not governors appointed by an emperor in a glittering palace far away. Our church is the simple expression of a naturally noble people, a folk who know nothing of religious philosophies, or ecclesiastical hierarchies, but feel in their hearts the joy of a song well sung, and the beauty of a mist-covered mountain in the pearl-like dawn of a new day.”

Murdo felt a thrill ripple through him as the cleric spoke these words—the sensation produced by the sudden recognition of a truth long suspected but never uttered aloud.

“Thus,” the priest continued, “the Good Lord saw to it that the blessed spark was passed to the Celt, and we have kept it burning ever since. For all, we are a crafty and a cunning race, and tenacious in the deep matters of the heart and soul. Though our mother church has not escaped the ravages of the Great Darkness, her youngest offspring—tucked out of sight on the edge of the world, and beset on every side by barbarian strife and troubles such as would make the very stones weep—the youngest of our Great Mother's unruly brood has grown strong in the service of the light. The rest of the church that bears Our
Lord's name may fall into disrepute and ruin, brought low by schemes and plots and scandals of every kind in the futile struggle for power and position, but we, the true Célé Dé, remain steadfast, holding still to the True Path.”

Emlyn paused, and after a moment sighed. “Ah, fy enaid,” he said, his voice sinking into the night. “I fear I have said too much.”

“Not at all,” Murdo assured him. “I begin to understand—I think. But what if you are wrong? What if there is no Holy Light, no True Path?”

“I, too, have wondered this,” the cleric replied thoughtfully. “I have pondered long and hard over it. And I think it comes down to this: if we are wrong in our belief, what is the worst? Well, at worst a handful of misguided monks have deluded themselves into thinking they had a special duty, nothing more.”

This reply did more to endear the rotund priest to Murdo than anything he had said, or could have said. He had never heard a cleric admit even the least shadow of doubt or uncertainty. Here was a monk who not only acknowledged it, but reckoned the likelihood in his thinking.

“But if we are
right
, what then?” continued Emlyn. “Then the future of the faith and the souls of mankind are in our hands—given to us for safekeeping. So you see, whether we are right or wrong, we dare not lay aside our charge.”

“I see,” Murdo replied. “But if no one will show us the True Path, how will anyone ever become ready to receive the teaching? And why must it remain secret?”

“We are neither high nor mighty in the eyes of the world, and that is both our blessing and our curse,” the monk declared. “Our weapons are the weapons of the weak: wit, stealth, and secrecy. These we possess in prodigious supply, and have
become proficient in their many uses. Make no mistake, our enemies are mighty and they are many—the Pope in Rome chief among them. For almost six hundred years, Rome has sought the death of the Célé Dé, yet we remain—a remnant only, it is true, but enough to ensure the continuation of our line. Secrecy is our protection, and we cling to it.”

Murdo thought about this for a moment, then asked, “If this secrecy is so important, why do you tell me?”

“I have told you only as much as I would tell anyone who asked and was willing to listen. It is the teaching itself that is secret, not the means or purpose.”

Murdo regarded the monk sadly. Whatever else they might be, the Célé Dé were madmen, obviously—roaming the wilderness reaches of the world with their shabby little secret, bending the ear of anyone idiot enough to give them a listening. He liked Emlyn, and felt sorry for him. Still, all this talk of paths and lights and secret teachings made him tetchy and impatient; and he regretted having become entangled in such a futile conversation. Also, he felt foolish for allowing the monk to beguile him into the hope, however fleetingly glimpsed, that there might be something in what he said, something important, something real, something worth giving his life to learn and protect.

Even as he framed the thought, he remembered his own shabby little secret—that he was no crusader at all. He had not taken the cross, and had no intention of fighting for the liberation of the Holy Land. He thought of this, and softened his harsh opinion somewhat. After all, if he regarded his own secret as too precious and dangerous to be told, he could at least appreciate how the monks must feel.

“Five weeks—six, perhaps—no more,” declared Count Raymond of Toulouse confidently. “The distances between cities are not great, and the way is well marked. We will be in Jerusalem long before summer.”

“But the guides say the roads are uncertain at best,” Hugh pointed out. “Also, the enemy may have destroyed the old provisioning places along the way. It may take longer than we anticipate.”

With the fresh conquest of Nicaea behind them, the lords had gathered around the board in Count Raymond's expansive tent to drink wine and study the map prepared for them in Rome at the pope's behest. Full of their good fortune, the noblemen stood clutching their cups and gazing at the unrolled goatskin with its thin meandering lines and spidery inscriptions.

From ancient times, there had always been but three ways across the great upland plateau of Anatolia. Each route offered the traveler particular benefits as well as challenges. With the coming of the Seljuq, however, the difficulties had swallowed any benefits. It was no longer a matter of passage, but of endurance, and even the most informed and enlightened pilgrim would have found it impossible to say which route offered the best hope of success, for the land had passed out of imperial
dominion more than a generation ago and no one knew the condition of the roads anymore. Nor could anyone say what the pilgrims might encounter on the way. And which of the old towns and settlements remained? Where would they find watering places? What was the enemy strength in the sprawling interior?

“The guides you trust so highly are spies,” Raymond hissed, his gaunt face hardening. “Spies in the employ of that craven coward of an emperor. He would see us fail so that he can claim the spoils for himself. Did you see how quickly he swooped upon surrendered Nicaea? He had it in his grip before the blood had dried in the streets.”

“There was no blood in the streets,” Stephen corrected mildly, “and in any event, we had already decided to give it to him so that we might press on in all haste. The season grows hotter by the day, and we must move quickly—the summer heat will kill us, if the enemy does not.”

“Bah!” cried Raymond. “Listen to your bleating! My lords,” he said sternly, “with our own eyes we have seen how easily the Saracens are defeated. If the Greeks were but half the soldiers we are, they would have driven them into the sea years ago.”

“The Saracens are a pestering irritation,” declared Baldwin into his cup, “nothing more.”

“Seljuqs,” Stephen reminded them. “They are not Saracens, but
Seljuqs
. There is a difference, I believe.”

“There is
no
difference,” growled Raymond.

“I agree,” put in Bohemond indifferently. “Stick them and they bleed; cut off their heads and they die.”

“They are infidel, and they will be exterminated like vermin.” Baldwin glanced around the board, gathering agreement for this sentiment. “We took Nicaea without breaking a sweat; the rest will fall to us likewise.”

“But if the guides say—” Hugh began again, desperate to have his concern taken seriously.

“Hang the guides!” roared Raymond, slamming his hand down on the board. “I am sick to the teeth hearing about them. These scheming Greeks are part of the emperor's deceitful designs. I warn you, Vermandois, trust them at your peril. The maps given us by the pope are more than adequate for the task at hand. We have only to keep to the old military road and we are assured swift passage to Jerusalem.”

Straightening to his full height, he placed his hands on his hips and glared around the table at his comrades. “On to Antioch, I say, and devil take the hindmost!”

The next day, the largest force assembled since the golden days of Rome's glory trundled off on the broken road. Moving in long columns, staggered to keep out of one another's dust, the crusaders looked their last upon the conquered city, and set their faces towards Jerusalem.

Nicaea had been their first real test, and they had come through it handsomely. The victory was no less sweet for the ease with which it had been accomplished. The outcome had been in doubt right up to the moment of surrender—owing chiefly to the fact that when the siege was begun, the crusaders' fighting force had not yet reached its full strength.

The last pilgrims to join—Duke Robert and his noble kinsmen, and their respective contingents of English, Norman, Scottish, and Flemish knights—had not reached their comrades until the eve of the fall of Nicaea. Like the others before them, they had taken the oath of allegiance in Constantinople, then crossed the Bosphorus in the emperor's ships and disembarked in Pelecanum where they made their way along the gulf to Nicomedia, the last city in Anatolia remaining to the empire. There they were joined by a regiment of Immortals which the
emperor had ordered to accompany the pilgrims. Eager to join the pilgrimage, the western lords pressed on to Nicaea, led by the Byzantine regiment, who were in turn led by their commander, the strategus Taticius.

Though they remained alert and wary of attack, they saw no sign of the enemy, and were thus able to travel at speed—owing to Taticius and their imperial guides, and the fact that the other crusaders had already passed through and chased any adversaries away. Even so, by the time the latecomers arrived, Nicaea had been under siege for almost a month. Chosen by Sultan Arslan to be his primary fortress, Nicaea sat like a gigantic boulder in the pilgrims' path. They could not advance until the city had been taken. However, situated on a lake and defended by high stone walls and stout, iron-bound gates, Nicaea easily resisted every attack by the crusaders, and appeared happy to go on doing so indefinitely.

As the latest pilgrims came within sight of the besieged city, however, a great cry went up from the enemy warriors massed atop the walls. The arriving crusaders assumed that it was the cowardly Seljuq giving in to their dismay at the sudden appearance of so great a force of excellent horsemen and infantry soldiers arriving fresh to the fight. They exulted in the revelation of fear their imposing presence was inspiring in their quaking adversary, until realizing that the cries were actually shouts of triumph raised for the return of Sultan Qilij Arslan, who was at that very moment sweeping down upon them from the north.

The sultan, they quickly discovered, had been on a raiding campaign and was away from Nicaea when the first Latins arrived. Upon seeing the crusaders encamped around the walls of his capital, Arslan determined to break through the besieging armies and liberate his people without delay. Duke Robert, assuming command of his troops, quickly marshalled the
knights and formed the battleline. Pulling the footmen back behind the line to offer support, he waited while the Seljuqs charged. Seeing that the invaders were adamant, and that their own force—a light raiding party only—had lost the small benefit of surprise, the sultan decided not to pursue the attack and broke off after a few half-hearted charges.

At first sight of the enemy retreat, the pilgrims gave chase and succeeded in cutting down a few stragglers before the sultan and his warband disappeared over the hills once more. Miraculously, the first skirmish with the infidel was won at the cost of only one Christian life—a hapless footman who had been struck by a wayward arrow that glanced off a knight's shield and struck him in the neck. The crusaders thanked God for his mercy and joined the siege.

Count Raymond, impatient with the resistance, and worried that the sultan would soon return with a greater force, had commanded siege towers to be constructed so that the crusaders could get men over the walls. They labored for three days and nights, raising timber frames and bulwarks, in a frantic effort to capture the city before Sultan Arslan reappeared.

The furious industry of the invaders alarmed the population of Nicaea. Each day they watched with growing dread as the towers neared completion. Having seen their sultan run off by these strange new Romans, and fearing the impending slaughter should they take the walls by force, the amir of Nicaea sent an envoy under cover of night to negotiate a peace settlement with the Byzantine commander. The envoy slipped out from the city by way of a water gate on the lake, returning the same way with an escort of imperial troops.

The next morning, when the crusaders rose to begin work on the siege towers, they saw the imperial banner flying above the gate. Raymond, furious over this betrayal, summoned
Taticius to his tent and demanded an explanation.

“They wished to surrender,” he said simply. “As the city formerly belonged to the basileus, they sought imperial protection. Naturally, I have taken the precaution of manning the garrison and relieving the enemy of their weapons.”

“This is treachery!” Raymond charged, leaping from his chair.

“In what way?” the strategus asked.

“The surrender belongs to
me
,” the count told him, striking himself on the chest. “The towers are nearly finished. We were ready to overrun the city. The victory was
mine
.”

The wily soldier regarded the tall, thin knight. “I do not understand your anger,” he replied. “I thought the object of our exercise was to obtain the surrender of the city, not its destruction. Diplomacy is better than bloodshed.” Tacitus paused, eyeing Raymond with undisguised contempt. “Perhaps it was the bloodshed you wanted.”

“Get out!” shrieked Raymond, slamming his hand down hard on the board. “Get out!”

The strategus bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and departed, leaving Raymond fuming at the ignominious way in which the surrender had been achieved and his glory stolen from him. His anger was quickly forgotten, however, once the assembled lords set about taking control of the city, and the problems began to multiply. For the noblemen could not agree how best to proceed, who should oversee the collection of the tribute, nor even how much the payment should be. Nor did they know what to do with Nicaea itself now that they had conquered it.

Clearly, the city would have to be protected from now on, lest it fall back into the hands of Sultan Arslan; since it had been his capital, he would certainly attempt to recover such a valuable and strategic asset. Also, one of his favorite wives and some of
his children were now captives of the crusaders, and the sultan would no doubt try to free them and revenge himself on those who had embarrassed and humiliated him.

Duke Godfrey argued for leaving a contingent of soldiers behind to man the garrison. “For the sake of those travelling on, the city must remain secure,” he argued. “We cannot allow the enemy to cut off our communication with Constantinople. Nor would I care to have these Saracen devils on our tails all the way to Jerusalem.”

Bishop Adhemar agreed. “God has granted us this first of many great victories as a sign of his favor, and of the high esteem in which he holds our holy enterprise. It would be disrespectful to throw away that which God has so freely given. The city must be claimed for the pope and the church.”

Bohemond and Tancred had other concerns. “The reconquest of the Holy Land is only begun,” Bohemond pointed out. “We will need every soldier in the days to come. The protection of this city would take far too many men, and I am loath to give up a single one.”

“Prince Bohemond is right,” declared Hugh of Vermandois. “It would be foolish to divide our forces now, so far away from Jerusalem.” The lords of Flanders and Normandy, along with various other noblemen, agreed, adding their voices to Hugh's.

There the thing rested. Clearly, the city required their continued presence to ensure that it remained securely in the crusader's possession. Just as clearly, no one wanted to remove able-bodied fighting men from the campaign when the main objective was still to be accomplished. Also, no one was willing to remain behind in any event, thereby allowing the others all the glory and plunder to be won in the battles to come. The stalemate persisted for a day and a night—until Count Stephen offered the suggestion that a messenger might be sent back to
Constantinople informing the emperor that Nicaea had been recaptured and returned to the empire.

“It might be,” Stephen proposed, “that the Byzantines can spare the troops to secure the city. If they agreed to occupy it, we could continue on our way.”

The idea was instantly accepted by one and all, and messengers were hastening back to Constantinople before the ink had dried on the parchment. The Latin lords then set about installing themselves in the city. Since the siege camps were already established, the troops remained outside the walls. The lords, however, desired better accommodation for their wives and families, so proceeded to confiscate the best houses in the city for themselves.

The emperor did not wait for the couriers to arrive, however, but set out the moment his spies assured him the city was on the point of surrender. Sailing swiftly south to a bay on the nearby coast, Alexius rode the short distance inland with two divisions of Opsikion and Anatolian troops to oversee the city's surrender. To the utter surprise of the crusaders, the emperor arrived while they were still trying to decide which of Nicaea's palaces they should plunder first.

As the Latin lords squabbled over who should take control of Nicaea's wealth, Taticius led his regiment of Immortals to the abandoned garrison and placed it under their authority. They then secured the gate, and welcomed the emperor's bodyguard. The soldiers took up positions along the city's central street to greet the emperor while the crusaders stood in flat-footed amazement as Alexius rode in triumph through the gates of the city.

The emperor assembled the pilgrims to commend them on their victory. “You have done well, my friends,” he said, his voice ringing expansively. “In capturing Nicaea, you have
returned a prized property to the empire, and removed Sultan Arslan's capital. Long has the Seljuq sultan plagued Constantinople, making his incessant attacks beneath the very gates of the empire. But no more. From this day the sultan has no home but his tent, and with God's help that, too, shall soon be taken from him.”