The Iron Lance (42 page)

The porter blanched and looked to his fellow cleric for help. “You see how it is,” said Emlyn. “It will only take a moment, and no one will even know we are here.”

The gateman relented then. “God have mercy,” he muttered, and flapped his hand at them. “Go on…go on—and hurry!”

Keeping to the perimeter of the yard, they made their way through the confusion of soldiers. Off to one side, surrounded by a group of tall soldiers in gleaming armor, Murdo saw the abbot and the dark-featured man he had seen the night they came to the monastery. As he hurried by, the man looked up and stared directly at him, and Murdo knew he had been recognized. The man turned his attention once more to what the abbot was saying, and Murdo and Emlyn continued on to the small building behind the refectory and kitchens. Murdo ducked inside and fetched a torch from the box beside the door, lit it from the embers of one of the ovens, and then they both descended to the darkness of the catacombs below.

The air cooled wonderfully as they went down into the earth. Murdo stepped from the staired passageway and was met by the scent of dry mold and ancient dust. In the flickering light of the torch, he saw their footprints from their previous visit on the floor, and followed them through the first two galleries and the
next and into the one beyond—the unfinished gallery where they had laid the treasure.

Murdo saw his father's shield below one of the niches where they had hidden the treasure; he squatted down and, when he did not see anything, he thrust the torch inside. The shroud-wrapped, corpse-like bundles were still there, along with the sword and belt, and hauberk. He quickly checked the other niche as well, and saw that all was as they had left it. He realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief. “All is well,” he told Emlyn. “They are still there.”

“What did I tell you?” said the monk. “There is no place safer than the catacombs.”

“I will remember that,” Murdo replied, pulling the first of the bundles from the niche.

They worked quickly and quietly, dragging the bundles up from the catacombs and binding them with cords to the camel's saddle frame. Lastly, Murdo retrieved his father's sword, shield, and hauberk, and tied them on as well. Satisfied that his treasure was secure, Murdo led the camel back out into the yard again.

The commotion had abated somewhat, and they hastened along, unnoticed by any save the gatekeeper, who was greatly relieved to see them. He opened the gate as they approached. “Hurry! Hurry!” he said, beckoning them through.

Murdo paused a few paces outside the gate. “Do not stop!” said the gateman, rushing towards them. “Move on. No one knows you were here. Move on before they find out.”

Turning to Emlyn, Murdo whispered, “Talk to him. Keep him occupied for a moment.” He pushed the priest forward. “Make certain he looks the other way.”

Emlyn scurried forth. “Thank you, brother,” he said, taking hold of the gateman's arm and turning him around. “Truly, you have rendered us a divine service, and we are grateful for your
kindness.” He walked the gateman back towards the gate. “Never fear, you will not see us again.”

“It is not myself who had made this command, you understand,” said the worried cleric. “It is the emperor's envoy. We must do what he says, and—”

“I am certain of it,” said Emlyn, breaking in. “Rest assured, we bear no ill feelings.”

“On the contrary,” said Murdo, stepping up beside him, “I want the monastery to have this as a remembrance of our gratitude and thanks for your help.” With that, he placed a fine golden bowl into the astonished gateman's hands.

“What is this?” whined the porter. He gaped fearfully at the bowl as if a world of fresh trouble opened before him.

“A gift,” Murdo assured him. “I want you to take it to your abbot and tell him that this is my thanks for the brief use of the catacombs. Will you do that?”

“It will be in his hands before vespers,” replied the gateman, relieved to have the matter resolved.

“Then we will trouble you no more. Come, brother,” he said to Emlyn, “we are away.”

They left the gateman standing before his gate, clutching the golden bowl and gawking after them. They passed the church and started back down the hillside. Murdo looked out across the valley to the Holy City, now misty in the haze of a hot day's rosy twilight, and, for the first time since leaving home, felt as if he had finally, at long last, arrived.

They descended into the valley, passing beneath the city walls once more. Upon reaching the Jaffa road, Murdo looked for the last time at David's Tower, and then turned his face to the west and put Jerusalem at his back. “We will find a place to sleep beside the road,” Murdo said. “Are you hungry?”

“A little bread and wine would sit nicely with me,” Emlyn
said. “But I am content.”

“Maybe we can buy some bread and wine from a farmer,” Murdo suggested. “Or find some water at least.”

“If not, we will fast like true pilgrims—until we reach Jaffa,” Emlyn offered amiably.

After a while the road bent a little to the north, and they could see the fires of the crusader camps on the hillsides and in the valley along the northern walls of the city. The sky was almost dark now, and the first stars were glowing overhead. The path began to rise to its climb into the heights, before beginning its long descent to the sea. Once up from the valley floor, the air was cooler, and the light breeze felt good on their skin. Yes, and it felt good to be on the road, thought Murdo, to be going home.

“Most imprudent of you, Godfrey,” observed Baldwin, holding out his cup to be refilled. “How could you promise to forfeit the treasure to the emperor without knowing what it was you were being asked to surrender?”

“Would you rather have him take Jerusalem?” Godfrey, in a surly humor, glared at his brother and at the noblemen holding vigil with him. The day, begun with a towering victory, had ended in ripe disaster. In his first act as ruler of the Holy City he had succeeded in losing its most holy and sacred relic.

The lords of the West were angry at him, and baying for blood. Some of them were for refusing to honor the promise and declaring war with Byzantium instead. The fact that the empire's troops now outnumbered their own vastly diminished armies had not yet occurred to anyone.

Jerusalem had been won. The heady days following the city's fall were giving way to a season of sober reflection—for Godfrey, Defender of the Holy Sepulcher, if for no one else. In the short space between this day's glorious beginning, and its cruel, regretful end, Godfrey had pondered deeply over his unenviable position; his unhappy meditations had borne bitter fruit. The lords of the West had liberated the Holy City, but the cost had been ruinous. And now, with nearly all the crusaders returning home, he would be ruler of a city surrounded by hordes of crafty and relentless enemies—Turks and Saracens, to be sure, but also
Greek and Armenian Christians whose people had been slaughtered in the blood frenzy—all of whom knew the land and tolerated the unbearable heat far better than his own war-weary troops.

The sad truth, and Godfrey knew it well, was that the crusaders would very soon be in desperate want of imperial aid. Continual and close friendship with Alexius was the only way to guarantee that help remained forthcoming. Unless he thought of something now—this night!—tomorrow he must deliver Jerusalem's most valuable object to the emperor's envoy as a peace offering and sign of his reign's good will, and his recognition of Alexius' supremacy. The prospect made him squirm. Why, he would become the laughing-stock of the entire Christian world: the Lord of Jerusalem a mere vassal of the Greeks.

“Oh, cheer up, brother,” Baldwin said over the rim of his cup. “The night is young. We will yet think of something.”

“So you say,” Godfrey sneered. “Tomorrow you can ride back to Edessa and begin your reign in all pomp and glory. Meanwhile, I begin mine in shame and disgrace—and all because I must give the Holy Lance to the emperor!”

Baldwin, growing bored with his brother's rant, swigged down another mouthful of wine, and said, “Then give it to someone else. Give it to Bohemond. Better still, give it to Sultan Arslan. Ha!”

Godfrey stared at his younger brother. “You are an ass, Baldwin. Worse, you are a drunken ass. If that is the best you can suggest, go back to Edessa. I will face my humiliation alone.”

“Now, see here—” Baldwin made to rise, but found his legs were not as steady as he imagined them. He fell back in his chair. “I was only trying to help. If you cannot see that, then maybe you deserve your humil…miliation.” He called loudly to the
servingman standing by. “Wine, you sluggard. More wine!”

“You have had enough, brother,” Godfrey said. He put his cup down with a thump, and rose. “I am going to bed. You would do well to do the same.”

“Splendid,” muttered Baldwin. “The emperor claps his hands and you cry “Thunder!” Well, if it was my place, I would send the thing away. Let Alexius get it from someone else.”

Godfrey bade his inebriated brother and noblemen good night, left them to their cups, and went to his bed chamber. Dismissing his servant, he lay down on his bed, but found he could not rest. He rose, crossed to the window and pulled it open to allow some fresh air into the stuffy room. He looked out to see the moon was rising over the olive groves; the Jaffa road was a silver river trickling towards the city, and away to the north, low and dark on the ground, lay the camps of the crusaders. In a few days, the soldiers would be gone, and the abandoned camps but one more execrable memory in the long, turbulent existence of this ancient city.

Fool! he thought. Had he come this far, dared this much, only to become the butt of jokes and japes? Feeling the weight of his failure, Godfrey knelt at the window and began to pray. He remained long in this posture, and when he rose at last it was with a better heart. He would accept his indignity and shame as a chastisement from God's hand for the errors he had made on pilgrimage.

Thus resolved, he stretched himself once more on his bed. Night was far gone when sleep finally found him, and then it was an uneasy, fitful rest. He awoke to the croak of crows from the rooftops below his open window, and Baldwin's last words of the previous night tumbling restlessly in his mind:
Let Alexius get it from someone else!

For the first time since the council's disastrous conclusion, he
saw the palest glimmer of hope: if the Holy Lance must be relinquished, let it be surrendered by another. But who?

The answer burst upon him with all the force and urgency of a battle cry. As on the field of war numerous times, he felt the familiar stirring in his blood. In the space of a single heartbeat, the plan was arrayed before him. Any lingering gloom of doubt was banished by the fierce light of his certainty: there was only one person in all the world able to resist the demands of the emperor, and that was the pope. If anyone could protect the Sacred Lance for the crusaders it would be Pope Urban. Let Alexius get the relic from someone else: let him get it from the pope.

He came up from the bed like a lion rising to the attack, his mind filled with all the things he must do. Before anything else, he must delay the envoy. He must buy himself some time if his plan was to have even the slightest chance of succeeding.

Godfrey bolted from the bed chamber, calling, “Baldwin! Where is my brother?” He grabbed hold of a sleepy servant, and shouted. “Find my brother, and bring him to me. I want to see him at once.” He then charged off to the chapel for his morning prayers. He would send for the abbot as soon as he was finished, and put the plan in motion.

 

Murdo and Emlyn had spent a short, wakeful night beside the trail, moving on before dawn. As the sun crested the hills behind them, they looked down the road, descending in a series of long, gentle slopes all the way to the sea. A sprinkling of farms and fields lay before them and, as the sun threw their shadows before them, they started for the nearest of these, hoping to beg some water for the day, and perhaps a handful of fodder for the camel.

Emlyn was already drenched with sweat by the time they came into the dusty yard. There seemed to be no one around,
so they went to the well and dipped the dry leather bag down and down into the cool dark hole. At first, Murdo feared the well must be empty, but the bag came up half full of murky water—which he poured out into a nearby trough for the beast. He poured out another, dipped again, and offered Emlyn the first drink. The monk sniffed, then drank a few mouthfuls. “I have had worse,” he declared, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “It will keep us until we can get something better.”

“Even so, we need more waterskins,” replied Murdo, looking towards the mud-brick dwelling. Flies buzzed in the yard, but no other sound could be heard. “I wonder if the house is abandoned.”

“That we can soon discover,” said Emlyn, moving towards the building.

A dirty, ragged cloth hung across the doorway so Emlyn slapped the rounded timber post with the flat of his hand, calling out in a loud voice, “In the name of Christ, I bid thee, come and greet a weary pilgrim.” He waited, and called again. Receiving no answer, he turned to Murdo. “I think there is no one here.”

Tying the camel at the trough, Murdo crossed the yard in quick steps, while Emlyn pulled aside the rag at the door and looked in. “Empty,” he said as Murdo pushed in beside him.

Murdo scanned the single room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim interior. There was a small, low table, and a three-legged stool beside the door, and in the center of the room, a hearth. He put his hand to the ashes, but they were cold. There was no telling how long ago the inhabitants had deserted the place. Beside the hearth was an assortment of clay pots of various sizes, cracked and blackened from the fire. There was nothing else in the humble room; most likely the farmer and his family had taken anything of use or value with them.

“See here!” said Emlyn, pointing to a rough cloth bag hanging from a wooden peg on the far wall. He crossed to the bag, lifted it from the peg, and peered inside. “Praise God, for his faithful provision!”

“What is it?” asked Murdo impatiently. The empty house made him uneasy; he did not like it and wanted to be on his way once more.

“Grain,” answered the monk; he reached inside and brought out a fistful which he let slide back into the bag. “Enough for the camel, and for us, too, if we find nothing better.”

“Good,” said Murdo. “We will take some of these bowls, too, for water.” He collected the clay vessels, retraced his steps to the well, and began filling the pots. Meanwhile, Murdo tied the grain bag to the camel's saddle, and then retrieved the filled jars, replenished the water skin, and stowed everything among the treasure bundles as carefully as he could.

“We should be on our way,” said Murdo when he finished, “before it gets too hot.” He glanced at the sky, already white in the east with the heat of the day to come. “We will stop and rest later.”

They left the farmhouse and, somewhat refreshed, began the day's journey in earnest. The countryside was quiet; there were no people in the fields, nor did they discern any activity around the houses they passed, whether near or distant. Murdo seemed to recall having seen laborers and farmers, women and children, sheep and dogs and chickens, too, when he had passed this way before.

They walked all through the morning and, when the sun grew too hot, found an olive tree near to the road and rested in the shade. They drank from one of the bowls, and Emlyn fed the camel a few handfuls of the grain. Murdo was dozing lightly when he felt Emlyn's touch on his arm. “Listen! Someone is coming!”

The sound of horses moving on the road reached him in the same instant, and he came fully awake. The company was soon on them, and they huddled beneath the olive branches and watched the long double rank of soldiers gallop past.

“They are certainly in a hurry,” observed the monk.

“It is the emperor's envoy,” replied Murdo, looking at the distinctive armor. “They must have been getting ready to leave when we were at the abbey.”

The soldiers moved on and the silence descended upon them once again. They then stretched themselves beneath the tree and slept through the heat of the day, rousing themselves and moving on again as the sun drifted low in the west.

Emlyn chanted a verse in praise of light and warmth, and offered up a travelling prayer for the protection of wayfarers. When he finished, Murdo asked, “How did you come to serve King Magnus?”

“Well now,” said Emlyn, “that is one of our secrets.”

“Yet another secret?” scoffed Murdo. “It is a wonder you find anything to talk about at all.”

“The Célé Dé have become a secretive order, it is true,” allowed Emlyn. “Believe me, it was not always so. But now it is our best protection. This is why we chose King Magnus.”

“
You
chose
him
?” laughed Murdo derisively. “Then Magnus is like no king I ever knew.”

“We needed a protector and a benefactor,” the monk explained, ignoring Murdo's scorn. “We are few, and the power of the Anti-Christ is strong. It was either take up swords ourselves, or find someone who would shield and defend us. King Magnus was the strongest lord in the north, so—”

“Wait—what was that? Anti-Christ? What in God's name is that?”

“You would do well to speak that word softly,” Emlyn
warned. “The Célé Dé know that in every age a spirit of immense evil arises to work its wicked will on mankind. Very often this vile spirit seeks refuge in the Church itself, where its wickedness can work the greatest woe and destruction on the poor and needy spirits of this world; when this happens, we call it the Anti-Christ—the opposite Christ. Whatever Our Blessed Redeemer may be, the Anti-Christ is the opposite, the reverse.”

“So then, who is this Anti-Christ?”

“It is rarely a single person,” Emlyn replied. “Sometimes, perhaps. Most often it is more like a sickness, a plague which suddenly assails the Body of Christ and seeks to destroy it.”

“If that is so, then what good is a king, no matter how many swords and shields he has at his command?”

“Oh,” remarked Emlyn quickly, “do not misunderstand. Though the Anti-Christ might be a spirit, albeit of wickedness, the power he wields over those in his service is extraordinary. Make no mistake, in the last extremity the servants of the Anti-Christ must be fought with sword and spear.”

Murdo regarded the monk beside him—stocky legs stumping rhythmically, red face dripping with sweat. Once again, as so often happened when talking to the unassuming cleric, the discussion had abruptly taken an unexpected turn. He felt like the fisherman who sees his prize catch suddenly disappearing into unknown depths with a glinting flash of its silver sides. “Tell me about the True Path,” he said.

“I have told you all I can. If you would learn more, you must become a Célé Dé,” the monk replied.

“I will never become a monk,” Murdo said with a flat slash of his hand.

“Did I say anything about becoming a priest? Most of the Célé Dé are priests, it is true. Most, I say, but not all.”

This roused Murdo's interest; he asked what he would have
to do to become a Célé Dé. Emlyn answered, “Better to ask what would be required of you
after
joining our number.”