The Iron Lance (48 page)

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.

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.”

Murdo darted off on the run. Jon Wing followed at a slight distance, the spear ready in his hand. Upon reaching the squat building behind the house, Murdo started for the door. Jon's shout brought him up short. “Wait!”

Murdo hesitated, his hand reaching for the door.

“Come out!” called Jon Wing sharply. “No harm will come to you if you show yourself now.”

Silence. Nothing moved. Murdo started forward again, but Jon shook his head. Instead, he called, “We are not robbers, or raiders. We only wish to speak to you. Come out and answer our questions, and then we will be on our way.” He paused. “But if I must come in after you, it will be with a spear in my hand.”

In a moment, the door cracked open, and a small, wrinkled face appeared in the narrow gap. “Please, we want no trouble,” said a shaky voice. “We are afraid. Go away. I have a dog with me, so do not try to rob us.”

“Come out where we can see you,” commanded Jon Wing in his seaman's voice. “If you do as we say, and do it quickly, there will be no trouble. We have not come to rob anyone.”

The door swung a little wider and a small, white-haired old woman stepped out quickly; she was slightly hunched, and wizened, and Murdo was certain he had never set eyes on her before. A big gray dog pushed out beside her and stood looking warily at the newcomers.

“Jötun!” said Murdo. “Come, Jötun.”

The dog cocked his head to one side, but remained steadfastly beside the old woman. Murdo realized the dog no longer recognized him. Everything was changed, he thought, including himself.

“That is better,” said Jon Wing to the woman, resting his spear. “Now then, old mother, who else is with you?”

“No one,” she said, “just my Jarn—and the dog here.”

“Where is Jarn?” asked the sea lord. “We did not see him. Where is he?”

Pointing vaguely towards the fields, she replied, “With the cows, I suppose. He was tending the cows.”

“We saw no cows,” said Jon mildly.

“Where is everyone?” demanded Murdo, starting forward, his fists clenched. “The people who live here—where have they gone? Where is Ragna?” The old woman's eyes grew wide, she whirled on her heels, and scuttled back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

“Perhaps it would be best if just one of us asked the questions,” Jon proposed.

“You were asking about cows!” Murdo blurted angrily. “What do we care about cows? Ask her what happened here—where is everyone?”

“Calm yourself,” soothed Jon. “We will not leave until we have heard all there is to tell.” A voice called out from the yard just then. “There now, Brother Emlyn has arrived. You go and bring him here while I coax the old one into giving us something to eat.” Murdo stared at the door. “Go fetch the priest, Murdo.”

Murdo moved off reluctantly, and Jon turned his attention to persuading the old woman to come out once more. By the time Murdo returned, the Norseman was sitting on a stump beside the kitchen door with half a loaf of buttered black bread in his hand. “She makes good bread,” he said, chewing contentedly. He passed the loaf to Murdo, who tore off a chunk and passed the remaining portion to Emlyn.

“Is there any ale?” wondered the monk.

The old woman appeared just then with a dripping jar in her hand. “Bless you, good woman!” exclaimed Emlyn, rushing to relieve her of the burden. He raised the jar to his lips and drank deeply, then passed the jar to Murdo, proclaiming the brew divine, and its maker a very angel. This pleased the old woman, who chuckled to herself. “It is the best beer I have tasted in many months,” he told her. “Your good husband is certainly a very fortunate man to have you to cook. But is it only yourselves you have to feed?”

“I was just about telling this one here that my Jarn and me are all that's left. Everyone is gone—the lord and lady, the vassals, too—all of them gone.”

“Where did they go?” asked Murdo impatiently.

The old woman eyed him suspiciously. “Do I know?” she snapped. “No, I do not! I was never told. We were brought here to keep the cows for the bishop—”

“The bishop!”

“Aye, Bishop Adalbert,” answered the woman. “Is there another hereabouts?”

“But why—” began Murdo. The old woman drew back.

Jon Wing reached out with the jar and shoved it into Murdo's hands. “Fill the jug, Murdo, and stop pestering the good wife.” Murdo took the jar and disappeared into the kitchen. “My young friend is anxious about his mother,” Jon explained. “We have been on crusade with King Magnus, you see.”