The Iron Lance (6 page)

“I have spoken to Guthorm Wry-Neck,” Lord Brusi was saying as Murdo drifted near, “and he said the ship will leave Kirkjuvágr the day after the Feast of Saint James, God willing.”

“That soon?” His father sounded surprised. “It cannot take so long to reach Lundein.”

Brusi only nodded. “That is what he said.”

“But the harvest will not be finished,” Ranulf pointed out.

“Aye,” Brusi agreed. “There is no help for it, I fear. We must reach Rouen by mid-August and no later if we are to travel with the king's men.”

“Yes, yes, I see that,” Lord Ranulf agreed. “Still, I had not thought we would be leaving so soon.”

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Bishop Adalbert, who called his guests to table—the women to tables on the right, and men to the left. In the eager, but not undignified, rush which ensued, Murdo found himself squeezed onto a bench between two merchantmen of more than ample girth. The one on his left eyed him disapprovingly—as if he feared that Murdo's presence might turn feast into fast; but the man on the right winked at him and smiled. “Going to Jerusalem are you, boy?”

“I am not, sir,” replied Murdo in a tone that dared his listener to pursue the matter further.

“Ah,” the merchant nodded sagely, and Murdo could not
tell whether he thought this a good thing or not. “I am Gundrun,” he said, “and I give you good greeting, young man.”

“God be good to you, sir,” replied Murdo; he gave his name, and pointed out his father and brothers sitting a few places further down the bench, and identified them to his listener.

The merchant on the left took this in with a heavy grunt, whereupon Gundurn said, “Do not mind him, Murdo Ranulfson; he is always out of temper—is that not so, Dufnas? Never more so than on a feast-day following mass.” The man on the left grunted again and turned his surly attention elsewhere.

A monk appeared just then, carrying a tall stack of round, flat loaves of bread. He passed along the bench, placing a loaf before each guest. “Here now,” said Gundrun, “the food arrives.”

Murdo looked at the solitary loaf, and searched the length of the board in vain for anything resembling a bowl or cup, but saw none anywhere and knew his worst fears confirmed: nothing but dry bread for him today, and not so much as a sip of water to wash it down. Unable to keep his disappointment to himself any longer, he shared his gloomy opinion with his stout companion.

But Gundrun only winked at him again, and said, “Have faith, my friend.”

As if in response to these hopeful words, there came a commotion across the square, and Murdo saw what he took to be a procession emerge from the cloisters. Pairs of monks—dozens of them, all carrying fully-laden trenchers between them—appeared on the green and proceeded at once to the tables, where they delivered their burdens and hastened away.

Almost before the starving Murdo could wonder whether a single platter would suffice for the entire table, two more appeared, and then two more, so that each trencher served a pair of guests either side of the board. While the monks scurried
after more platters, still other clerics delivered silver bowls of salt to the table, placing them within reach of the diners.

Murdo gaped at the mound of food before him. Rarely had he seen such a profusion of roast fowl: quail, doves, grouse, and pheasant. Nor was that all, for there were quartered ducks, and the smaller carcasses of larks and blackbirds, and, scattered throughout, the eggs of each of these birds.

The platter had no sooner touched the board than Murdo's hands were reaching for the nearest bird. His fist closed on the leg of a small duck and he pulled it from the pile, loosening a quail, which tumbled onto the table before him. Gundrun, beside him, and the two diners opposite, helped themselves as well, and a singular hush fell upon the green. Murdo finished the duck and, grease dripping from chin and fingers, started on the quail.

“Good tuck, boy, no?” exclaimed Gundrun tossing bones behind him, and Murdo, mouth too full to reply, nodded enthusiastically.

Murdo finished the quail and helped himself to a pheasant, tearing long strips of meat from the breast of the bird with his teeth. He was thus employed when two monks arrived at his place with a steaming cauldron. Murdo watched with interest as a third monk dipped a cannikin into the larger pot and proceeded to pour the contents onto the flat bread before him, before moving on to Gundrun, and so on down the bench.

Murdo stared at the pottage; it was a deep red color, which he had never seen in a stew before. “Mawmenny,” sighed Gundrun contentedly. Lowering his face to the meal, he sniffed expertly. “Ah, yes! Enchanting!”

Murdo had heard of the dish—said to be served in the halls of kings—but had never seen it. He put his head down and caught the mild, somewhat delicate scent of cherries. Dipping
the tip of his finger into the sauce, he found it produced an unexpected, though not unpleasant, warm tingle on his tongue together with the taste of beef and plums.

Following Gundrun's example, he took a lump of meat between his fingers and thumb and chewed thoughtfully, savoring the rich intermingling of unusual flavors. He then proceeded to devour the rest of the mawmenny without lifting his face from the board until he had finished each succulent morsel. He was only prevented from licking the now-empty bread trencher by the abrupt appearance of a monk who took it up and replaced it with a fresh one.

What a splendid feast! thought Murdo, looking down the board to see the next delicacy just arriving. He saw his father, deep in conversation with Lord Brusi, and his brothers stuffing their faces and laughing loudly with Brusi's sons. Across the yard at one of the women's tables, he thought he saw his mother leaning across to Lady Ragnhild. Just as he made to look away again, his eye shifted and he caught sight of Ragna, gazing directly at him, her expression at once shrewd and thoughtful. She was watching him and he had caught her; but she did not look away, nor did her expression change. She continued staring at him, until two monks carrying a cauldron passed between them and removed her from his sight—but not before Murdo had seen, for the second time that day, the secret smile playing on those sly lips.

Distracted and confused, Murdo addressed himself once more to his meal and his companions. Gundrun proved himself not only an amiable table companion, but a veritable fountain of knowledge. He had travelled widely; his trade took him throughout the north and into Gaul. Once, he had even made a pilgrimage to Rome. Thus, when Murdo asked him where Rouen might be, the older man replied, “Why, it is in Normandy, if I am not mistaken.”

“Who is king there?” wondered Murdo.

“That would be William Rufus, King of England,” Gundrun told him. “Are you thinking of joining the pilgrimage after all?”

“No,” Murdo confessed. “I heard my father talking about it. They are to go to Normandy and travel with the king's men.”

“Ah, no doubt you mean William's
son
, Duke Robert of Normandy,” corrected the merchant gently. “It seems he is to lead the Normans and English to Jerusalem—along with some others, of course. There are very many knights and men-at-arms travelling together, you see. At least, that is what I have heard.”

This brought a snarl of disapproval from Dufnas, sitting next to Murdo. Gundrun replied, “What is it to you, my friend, whether the Franks send a blind dog to lead the pilgrims to Jerusalem? You have no intention of going in any event.”

“Foolish waste,” Dufnas declared. Then, having found his voice, added, “I would not set foot in that God-forsaken land for all the gold in Rome.”

Thus delivering himself of this sentiment, Dufnas turned once more to his neglected meal; seizing a pheasant, he broke it in two between his fists—as if to show what he thought of the pilgrimage—and then bit deeply into the half in his right hand.

“Pay him no heed,” Gundrun advised. “He has been to Jerusalem.”

“Twice,” grumbled Dufnas.

“Twice,” confirmed his friend. “He was robbed by Saracens the last time, and he has never forgiven them.”

Murdo turned wondering eyes upon the moody merchantman. He did not appear a likely pilgrim; but then, Murdo had never known anyone who had been as far as Lundein, much less Rome or Jerusalem. “They say,” he ventured, “that the Holy Land is surrounded by a desert, and that the sand burns with a
fire that cannot be quenched. Is this so?”

Gundrun passed the question to Dufnas, saying, “Well, my friend, you heard him—what about the desert?”

“Aye,” he agreed between bites, “there is a desert right enough.”

“And does it burn?” persisted Murdo.

“Worse—it boils,” answered Dufnas, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “No one can cross it during the day. You must wait until the night when it freezes like ice.”

Murdo nodded, as if he had long suspected this to be the case. He tucked this nugget of information into his memory to bring out later and impress Torf and Skuli. He was about to ask Dufnas whether it was also true that the Saracens could take as many wives as they pleased, but the serving monks arrived with pitchers and beakers of wine just then, and everyone began filling their cups and drinking one another's health. Murdo joined in, and found that he liked wine, and the way it made him feel as if he were glowing inside.

All around the green, the feast took on a more convivial mood, as everyone awaited the appearance of the Saint John's bread, sweet little barley cakes taken with wine. When at last they arrived, the cakes brought gasps of delight from the celebrants, for, baked into each small round loaf was a silver coin. Murdo plucked the coin from his cake and cupped it in his palm. Though it was but a tiny coin, it was more money than he had ever held at once. He gazed at the coin and marvelled at the Bishop's generosity.

“The pilgrim's coin,” Gundrun told him. “It is to pay the gattage.”

“The what?”

“The tax which the gateman of Jerusalem demand of all pilgrims who enter the Holy City.”

“To carry it with you means that you will live to see the city of the Blessed Saviour.”

Dufnas grunted at this, and pressed his coin into Murdo's hand. “There,” he said, “now you can pay my tax, too, when you get there.”

Murdo thought to remind the disagreeable merchant that, in fact, he was not going to Jerusalem at all, but Dufnas was already draining his second beaker of wine and Murdo thought it best not to disturb him with such trifling matters. He tucked the coins into his belt, and turned his attention to the Saint John's bread and wine.

The wine, sweetened with honey and lightly spiced, quickly disappeared—most of it down Dufnas' gullet, it had to be said—so Murdo sipped his cautiously, fearing he would get no more. Yet, no sooner had the empty pitcher touched the board than it was refilled from one of the two tuns of wine the bishop had established at either end of the green. One glance at the broad oak vats supported on their iron stanchions, and Murdo drained his beaker and then thrust it out for Gundrun to refill.

“Thirsty, boy, eh?” he laughed. “Well done!”

Dufnas nudged him with an elbow and nodded his grudging approval. “We shall make a trencherman of you yet,” he declared.

There followed more barley cakes and spiced wine, and some time later a dish made from ground almonds, honey, eggs and milk all boiled together to produce a thick sweet confection which was eaten from bowls with spoons as if it were soup. Murdo had never tasted anything so sweet, and did not think he could finish his, until, following Dufnas' example, he alternated each spoonful with a healthy swig of wine, and found the combination produced a delectable flavor.

When Murdo at last looked up from his third bowlful, he was
astonished to find that the day was fading; shadows were stealing across the green. Many of the celebrants had left the board—some to stroll arm in arm around the cloisters, others to be received by the bishop before making their way home. He looked for Ragna and her family, but could not see them anywhere.

He was still searching when he heard someone call his name; he turned and saw Skuli motioning to him to come, and then saw his father and mother among those awaiting a word with Bishop Adalbert. Murdo reluctantly rose to join them.

“Leaving us so soon?” inquired Gundrun, placing his hand affectionately on Murdo's shoulder.

“Alas,” replied Murdo, “I must go, or get left behind.” He bade his dining companions farewell and thanked them for telling him about the Holy Land. Upon receiving their compliments, he turned and walked, on slightly wobbly legs, to where his father was just then stepping before the bishop.

Murdo arrived in time to hear the cleric say, “—so I have been informed. However, I had hoped, Lord Ranulf, that you might be persuaded to see the matter in a different light. It is a long journey and far from safe at the best of times. I am certain you would travel in better peace were your lands and possessions secure in our care.”

Ranulf smiled with genuine warmth. “Your concern shows much to your favor, bishop. Yet, the matter is settled. My lady wife is well able to look after the ordering of the farm. Indeed, she has been so accustomed these last twenty years.”

“Even the most accomplished overseers require help,” the bishop pointed out, nodding slightly toward the lady in question. Niamh smiled, but Murdo recognized the cat-like smile as that which usually preceded a stinging reply.

Before she drew breath, Lord Ranulf interposed swiftly, say
ing, “Of course, bishop, that is why my son Murdo is staying behind. He is a steady young man, and knows his work. Also, our tenants will continue to provide their share of labor.” The lord glanced approvingly at his lady. “I have given the matter a great deal of thought, as you can see,” he concluded. “And, I am certain you will agree that since Jarl Erlend is to remain in Orkneyjar, my short absence will occasion but little remark. Also, I would not like to cause anyone the slightest hardship. I know you will have care enough to look after all the lands which will be delivered to your keeping. I could not rest easy in the thought that my affairs had become a burden on anyone.”