The Iron Lance (7 page)

So saying, the lord bade the bishop good day; Lady Niamh added her farewell and thanks for a magnificent feast worthy of the namesake saint. Bishop Adalbert delivered a benediction of parting, and, even as they turned to leave, added that should anything occur to change his mind, the lord would find him ready and willing to shoulder the responsibility of looking after his lands.

Torf and Skuli made their farewells, Murdo muttered his regards, and then they were escorted once more through the cathedral and outside the church wall. They made their way to the bay below the low church hill and boarded the boat for the homeward voyage. The wind was light, but steady out of the northeast and the seas calm; the sailing would be pleasant, and they would be home in no time at all.

Ranulf woke Peder, his boatman, who was asleep on the tiller bench, and ordered Torf and Skuli to ready the sail, while he and Murdo untied the boat and, taking up two long oars, pushed away from the quay. Then all four men rowed until, once clear of the other boats, they could turn around, whereupon Ranulf gave the command to raise the sail. The heavy fabric shook itself and puffed out nicely, and the small ship glided from the wide,
shallow bay and proceeded on an easterly course to clear the headland, before turning south and coasting home.

Once past the headland, there was nothing for Murdo to do, so he propped himself up on the rail and watched the low hills and cliffs, the dark rocks glowing red and purple in the westering sun. Murdo settled to bask in the warm, long-lingering sunset. Perched on the rail, he could not help thinking that, all in all, it was a splendid end to a fine day.

He looked at his father, who had taken the tiller from Peder, and watched as Ranulf expertly guided the boat, eyes scanning the familiar coastal waters, his face ruddy in the red-gold light, his fine blue cloak slung back over his shoulders so that his strong arms might move more freely.

At that moment, it occurred to Murdo that he wanted nothing else in all the world but to be that very man, to one day assume the lordship of Dýrness and the protection of his family's lands. He looked across at his mother, serene and beautiful as she sat on her cushioned bench beside the tiller. One day, thought Murdo, he would also have a beautiful wife. He savored the word inwardly—
wife
—and was not surprised when it conjured Ragna's face. She was, after all, the only person worthy of the thought.

He held her image in his mind and watched the pale silver crescent of the moon rising, as if out of the very sea, to begin its silent journey toward morning. The sky was filled with stars by the time they reached Hrafnbú Bay, and Murdo was asleep in the bottom of the boat. He woke when the hull ran aground on the pebbled shore of their gjá, the ravine-like bay carved deep into the high rock cliffs upon which their farmland lay. He roused himself, slipped over the side, and helped Peder and his brothers make the boat secure.

They then waded to shore, where they were met by Jötun
and Balder. The two wolfhounds bounded along the strand, barking eagerly and splashing everyone. Ranulf greeted them, cuffed them both affectionately around the ears, and sent them racing back toward the house to announce their master's return.

The very next day, the manor began preparations for the pilgrims' departure. As the days went by, Murdo watched with increasing jealousy as his brothers and cousin assumed the manner of worldly-wise men who could not be bothered with the commonplace chores of the farm. They ordered the servingmen like they were kings delivering edicts of life-or-death import to uncomprehending slaves; they swaggered about like battlechiefs of vast renown, and remained aloof from all former labors. It was as if the impending pilgrimage had absolved them not only of sin, but of work, duty, and common decency, too. Murdo ground his teeth until his jaws ached, but kept his resentment to himself.

Then, before the next full moon shone over Orkney's smooth hills, the pilgrims were gone.

“Basileus Alexius wishes me to express his gratitude for your efforts on behalf of the empire,” Dalassenus said, placing the gift chalice on the table beside the throne. “He sends me with this letter”—withdrawing the parchment square from the leather pouch at his belt, the young commander offered it to the cleric—“along with his regrets that he could not come to Rome to discuss his concerns in person. However, matters have arisen since I was last with you which prevent the emperor from leaving the capital at this time.”

“Be assured I am only too aware of the burdens and difficulties besetting those in authority,” the pope replied, accepting the folded parchment and placing it in his lap. He sat back, placidly regarding the man before him; thick muscled and compact, his dark curly hair and large dark eyes gave him the strong, virile semblance of a young bull.

“Please tell our dear brother that I have caused prayers to be said in order that he may prevail in every way against the devil's wiles. Tell him, too, that I hope for the day when he and I can sit down together and discuss our common affairs. Still, I am pleased to welcome his emissary. After our last meeting, I have often had cause to praise your sagacity and tact, drungarius. The emperor is fortunate indeed to have such an envoy.” He watched as the immaculate Dalassenus bowed with perfect courtesy—neither too shallow, which would be a slight, nor too
deep, which would be servile. “Agreeable though your presence undoubtedly is, I am intrigued to know why I am favored to receive your attentions so soon upon the heels of your last visit.”

“Your Holiness flatters me,” Dalassenus answered smoothly. “Perhaps you will permit me to say that the basileus has sent his kinsman and servant so that you may know the high regard he has placed on your counsel, and the eagerness with which he awaits your reply.”

Urban regarded the emperor's letter, bound with ribands of gold and sealed in purple. Could it be that now, at long last, his adversary was accepting the peace he had labored so diligently to achieve? Healing the generations-old fracture had been one of the chief aims of his papal tenure and, if he understood Dalassenus correctly, that selfsame reconciliation was now delivered into his grasp.

Dalassenus continued, “Also, the basileus would have it known that, after a lengthy investigation into the matter, it has at last come to light that the name of the Patriarch of Rome had been omitted from the diptych not by any canonical decision but, as it were, from carelessness. Rest assured this highly unfortunate oversight has been corrected.”

The pope moved to secure the peace at once. “I rejoice to hear it,” Urban replied, smiling benignly at his guest. “Tonight we will dine together you and I, and discuss the preparations for a celebration to mark the resumption of friendly relations between Rome and Byzantium.”

“Nothing would please me more, Bishop Urban. Unfortunately, my stay must be brief; Basileus Alexius expects my imminent return.”

“Then tell me your errand, my friend,” the pope said, “and I will do my best to accommodate you however I may.”

“It is simply this,” Dalassenus replied and, using every grain
of discretion at his command, inquired whether the pope had seen fit to reply to the emperor's request for troops to help restore the themes for the coming campaign to recover the imperial territories lost to the Arabs.

“As to the matter of the emperor's enquiry,” Urban answered happily, “you may tell our brother and friend, that I did indeed take his entreaty to heart. What is more, I wasted not a moment, but acted on it without delay. You see, I myself have but recently returned from the field of battle, so to speak.”

The pope went on to describe what he called his inspiration in convening a council of bishops to discuss the need for aiding the empire, and to decide what form this aid might take. “I am pleased to relate that the council has seen the wisdom of protecting the cradle of our salvation from heathen predation. Moreover, I have sent letters to all the bishops under my authority to preach Crusade.”

“Crusade?” Dalassenus had never heard the word before, but knew his worst fears confirmed.

“It is to be a pilgrimage like no other,” the pope explained. “I have called upon the lords of the West to raise up an army of holy warriors to defend the Holy Land.”

“Then it is true,” the young commander confirmed. “You are sending an army into Byzantium.”

Allowing himself a smile of quiet satisfaction, the Bishop of Rome answered, “The idea was not original, I assure you. Confidentially, far too many of our noblemen are preoccupied with petty wars among themselves. Think you it pleases God to see his children wasting life and substance fighting each other when godless heathen occupy the Holy City, and stain the very stones where Jesu walked with the blood of the righteous? It is nothing less than an abomination.”

“Of course, Lord Bishop,” agreed Dalassenus quickly, “but—”

“This I have preached, and the call has been answered. God be praised! Even now the lords of the West, mighty men of faith one and all, are raising armies to march against the infidel. I only wish that I could lead them myself,” he sighed, then pressed on with enthusiasm: “Still, may it please God, I have delegated the task to one of my bishops—Adhemar of Le Puy enjoys my full authority so far as the disposition of the pilgrimage is concerned.”

“Bishop Adhemar,” the drungarius repeated dully.

“Do you know him?”

“Alas, no.”

“A wonderful man—solid of faith and rich in good works, a saint unflagging in zeal and courage.”

“Be that as it may,” Dalassenus said, “it appears your intentions have been anticipated somewhat.” He then told the pope about Peter the Hermit and his pilgrim horde, and their unruly excursion through imperial lands.

Bishop Urban shook his head sadly. “It is unfortunate, I agree, but I do not see how it can be prevented. God calls who he will. Are we to judge who may take the cross, and who must refrain? It is the instrument of salvation for many, and no earthly power has the right to deny it.”

“When will these—” Dalassenus hesitated. To avoid needless antagonism, he said, “These
crusaders
—they will pass through Constantinople, no doubt? In that event, it would be useful to know how many we might expect to receive.”

The pope's eyes went wide at the question. “I have no idea! It is God's will, my friend. He alone knows the number. Yet, I can tell you the call was most enthusiastically received.”

“When might we expect them?”

“I have decreed that those wishing to follow Bishop Adhemar on pilgrimage must be ready to depart no later than
August of this year. God willing, you may expect their arrival by the Christ Mass, if not before.”

“The emperor will be delighted to hear it,” the young commander replied, trying not to let dismay color his tone.

“Good,” the pope answered. “So be it.”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I must make arrangements for my departure.”

“Such devotion to duty is laudable, Drungarius Dalassenus. But must you leave Rome so soon? I had hoped you would dine with us here in the palace. These are exciting times, and there is much to discuss.”

“I am sorry. As much as I might wish otherwise, I am compelled to rejoin the basileus as soon as possible.”

“As you will.” Urban, Patriarch of Rome, extended his hand for the kiss, and the young commander brushed the papal ring with his lips. “Farewell, my son. Greet the emperor in my name, and tell him he is remembered daily in prayer, as are all our brothers in the east.”

“Thank you, I will indeed tell him,” Dalassenus answered. “Fare well, Bishop Urban.”

The young commander turned on his heel and departed the audience room. Urban sat for a long time, contemplating the incredible event which had just taken place. Then, when he had set the thing properly in his mind, he called his abbot to him and, giving him the emperor's letter, commanded him to read it aloud. The priest broke the seal, unfolded the heavy parchment square and, in a high, thin, reedy voice, began to read.

“Slowly, Brother Marcus,” the pope chided, “slowly—and in Latin, please. My Greek has never been more than adequate. Begin again, my friend, if you please.”

As the abbot began once more, Pope Urban leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes.
Yes, he thought, the long hoped-for reconciliation had come; what is more, thanks to the tremendous response to his call to Crusade, it was now proceeding more swiftly than he would have dared dream possible.

Harvest time sped by Murdo in a dull blur of sweat and fatigue. Day after day, he dragged his aching body out of bed at first light, pulled on his clothes, and was in the fields by dawn, where he labored until long into the radiant northern twilight, pausing only to break fast at midday, and then again for supper. He took his meals in the field with the vassals and, like his father, worked elbow to elbow with them, never allowing himself even so much as a swallow of water unless he could offer them the same.

By the time the last sheaf of grain had been gathered and the last lonely kernel gleaned, Murdo knew deep in every bone and sinew that he had never worked so hard, nor accomplished so much. The fact that the final three rows were harvested under black, threatening skies with the rumble of thunder in the distance only increased his sense of triumph. When the last wagon trundled into the yard and the oxen were led to the barn, he stood and gazed proudly at the great stacks of yellow grain, marveling at the achievement. When his mother came and put her arm around his shoulder in a gentle hug, Murdo could not have been more delighted if heaps of gold had been mined and stored away.

“You have done well, Murdo,” his mother told him. “I cannot remember a richer harvest. Your father could not have done better, and he would tell you the same if he were here.”

“The weather remained dry, and that helped,” he replied
sagely. Casting an eye toward the dark clouds overhead, he added, “I feared the storm would take the last, but it can rain from now until Yuletide and I will not breathe a word of complaint.”

“A harvest like this deserves a feast,” Niamh suggested. “Tomorrow we will celebrate. Tell the tenants and vassals, and then choose a pig—oh, and one of the yearling calves, too. We will make it a fine harvest celebration.”

As his mother hurried off to begin ordering the preparations, Murdo stood for a time admiring his handiwork. Then, adopting the manner of the absent lord himself, he strode into the barn where the workers were placing the last sheaves onto the stack, and began praising the men for their diligence and hard work. “Tomorrow will be a feast-day at Hrafnbú farm,” he told them, and bade them bring wives, children and their old ones to help observe the festivities properly. Leaving the others to finish in the barn, Murdo and Fossi went to the cattle pens to choose the calf and pig for the feast.

Fossi was the family's oldest and most trusted servingman. Though his hair had grown gray in the service of Lord Ranulf's father, he still moved with the spry step of a man twenty years younger; his eye was as clear and his hand as steady as Murdo's. Never one to speak two words where one would do, that one word was worth ten of anyone else's. Old Fossi could be relied on to say what he thought without regard to rank or favor.

“What think you, Fossi?” asked Murdo as they leaned on the enclosure fence.

“The gathering-in?”

“Yes. How do you mark it?”

“I marks it right fair.”

They stood a little in silence before Murdo coaxed some more out of him. “I am thinking it is better than last year,” Murdo suggested.

“Oh, aye,” agreed Fossi.

“We shall have enough to plant the new field, I think,” Murdo ventured. Lord Ranulf had cleared a patch of ground to the south of the present barley field earlier in the summer, and it was Murdo's plan to sow it in the spring as his father intended.

“Aye,” Fossi concurred, “we will.”

Satisfied with this, Murdo chose a fine, fat calf from among the yearlings, and one of the pigs. “Mind you do not take Red William by mistake,” Murdo warned. “He is for the Yule board.”

Fossi frowned and regarded Murdo with dark disapproval for impugning his abilities, but said nothing. Leaving Fossi to oversee the butchering, Murdo walked back to the house, tired in every muscle, but glowing with a contentment he would have envied in anyone else. The first drops of rain splashed into the dust at his feet as he reached the yard; he paused and stood as the rain pattered down around him, feeling the cool splashes on his upturned face.

“
Come winds and rain and winter cold
,” he hummed to himself, reciting the words to the song. “
my hearth is warm and my house is dry, and I shall not stir until the sun does rise on blessed Easter morning
.”

The good weather held long enough for the folk of Hrafnbú to enjoy their feast the next day, but after that a gale broke in full across the isles. The golden autumn dissolved in a rainy haze that did not lift, giving way instead to cold, gray days of rain and snow. Winter came early and stayed long, but the great house and its inhabitants remained in good spirits, passing a fine, if somewhat subdued, Yuletide with guests from the neighboring farms.

Murdo reluctantly returned to his wintertime pursuit of Latin, and made steady progress in both reading and speech.
His natal day passed uneventfully and unmarked, save for his mother's thoughtful present of one of Lord Ranulf's best hunting spears—one which Murdo had secretly coveted for some time. True, it was not the sword taking he would have wished, but it would have to do until his father returned. He prized the spear, and alternated his Latin with hunting from then on.

Following the turn of the year, he and his mother, along with some of the neighbors, rode to the church at Saint Mary's for the Feast of the Virgin. They stayed seven nights at Borgvík, the estate of Jarl Erlend's younger sister, Cecilia, and her family. There were many young people, but no one Murdo's age, and while the older people made vague attempts to include him in their conversations, all the talk of fishing and farming soon grew wearisome and he decided to play games with the children instead.

Upon their return to the bú, Murdo began the task of repairing the tools and equipment for the spring planting. Besides that, there was the lambing to think about, but mostly the days remained uncluttered and he had time to himself. He occupied himself with riding the estate, often taking the spear and, with two or three of the tenants' sons, trying his hand at hunting for the table. The woods at the end of the valley yielded a young stag, and though they often saw wild pigs, they were never able to get close enough to one for a good cast.

Often on these excursions Murdo pretended he was on pilgrimage fighting Saracens. With every throw and thrust of the spear, he struck a decisive blow for Christendom. From time to time, he wondered about his father and brothers. He had no idea how far distant Jerusalem might be, but he thought they must soon be returning. How long could it take to liberate the Holy Land from the slack grasp of a few vexatious Arabs?

According to common opinion, the pilgrims would make short work of it so that they could return to the comforts of home as soon as possible. Murdo decided that his father and brothers would be back well before the next harvest, and he would not have to undertake that chore alone.

Thus the months passed, and winter grudgingly receded. The days grew longer and warmer, and the rains less fierce. As spring firmed its hold on the land, Murdo frequently found himself weighing the possibility of paying a visit to Lord Brusi's estate to see how Lady Ragnhild and her daughter were bearing the lord's absence. Try as he might, however, he could find neither a convenient nor convincing excuse to go to Hrolfsey. Sailing from one island to another was not difficult, but it was not a thing one did casually, and it was not in the way of a simple day's outing. His mother would have to know, and he had no satisfactory means of explaining his sudden interest in the welfare of the Hrolfsey farming estates.

He decided instead to make certain he and his mother attended the Eastertide ceremonies at the cathedral—in the hope that Lady Ragnhild would do the same. It took him several days to work up his courage to broach the subject with her, and then several more to find just the right opportunity to introduce it naturally into the conversation so that she would not suspect him of plotting anything. His chance came one night when, after their supper, he and Lady Niamh were sitting in their chairs before the hearth. His mother was mending a siarc, and he was stropping a knife on a length of leather when his mother said, “We will soon begin our Lenten observances.”

“Is Eastertide so near?” he wondered, assuming an air of astonishment. “I suppose it must be. What with the planting and all, I had completely forgotten.”

This statement, uttered with innocent sincerity, caused his
mother to look up from her needle to regard him curiously. Murdo continued stropping the knife, aware of her glance, but betraying no sign. After a moment, Lady Niamh resumed her sewing. “We must give a thought to Eastertide preparations,” she said.

“Did we go to the cathedral last year?” Murdo asked. “I have forgotten.”

“Oh, Murdo, of course we did,” his mother informed him with quiet exasperation. “You forget because it is beneath your regard to remember. You have so little heart for the church, I wonder you go at all, Murdo.”

I would
not
go, he thought to himself, if I was not forever pestered into going. Adopting a suitably contrite tone, he admitted, “It is not often uppermost in my thoughts, it is true. But I did enjoy the Saint John's feast, and I would be happy to hear Easter Mass at the cathedral—if that is what you wish.”

Oh, that was well done. He had deftly turned the entire affair into a matter of pleasing his mother. Murdo commended himself on his shrewdness and aplomb.

His exultation was short-lived, however, for his mother downed her needlework to stare at him—as if unable to determine whether it was indeed her son sitting beside her, or a sly impostor. “As it happens,” she said, “I have already made other plans. We are to spend Eastertide elsewhere.”

Murdo felt his heart sink. After all his cunning and careful planning, he was not to go to the cathedral at all. In desperation he said, “Yet the cathedral is a splendid sight on Easter—what with all the gold and finery. Could we not hear the mass, at least, before chasing off somewhere else? I do so like it there.”

Lady Niamh frowned and shook her head. “You are a wonder. I had no idea you held such strong opinions on the matter.” She paused, considering what to do. After a moment, she said,
“Honestly, I wish you had spoken sooner, Murdo. Lady Ragnhild has invited us to join them, and I have accepted. I do not see how I can tell her that we will not come after all—they will have made many preparations for us.” She paused again. “But, if you are determined, we might—”

“Lady Ragnhild—wife of Lord Brusi…” Murdo interrupted quickly.

“Yes, the same—and if you tell me you cannot remember
them,
Murdo, I will thump you with a broom.”

“I remember them right well,” Murdo replied truthfully. “But I do not recall seeing a messenger hereabouts.”

“Messenger? Whatever do you mean? There was never any messenger.”

“Then how—?”

His mother regarded him with frank exasperation and clucked her tongue. “Ragnhild herself invited us at the Feast of Saint John. She knew we would be alone—as she would be herself—with the menfolk gone on pilgrimage. I told her we would be honored and delighted to observe the holy days with them.”

Murdo, adopting a philosophical air, replied, “Well, I am never one to disappoint a body. In light of all the preparations the good lady will have made on our behalf, it would ill behove us to spurn an invitation already accepted. I fear we shall have to make the best of it.” He sighed heavily to show that, though his sentiments were firmly elsewhere, he was nevertheless capable of sacrificing his own happiness for that of others.

“The things you say, Murdo,” Niamh said, shaking her head slowly. “One would almost believe you had another purpose in mind.”

“My only wish is to please you, Mother,” Murdo replied, trying to sound hurt and dignified at the same time. “Is that wrong?”

Lady Niamh rolled a skeptical eye at him and took up her needlework once more. Murdo turned his attention to the knife in his hand with what he considered an attitude of silent forbearance, all the time hoping against hope that his mother would overlook his ill-timed insistence on attending mass in Kirkjuvágr, now the last place he wanted to go.

“Then it is settled,” Niamh mused after a time. “We shall go to Cnoc Carrach as we have planned.” She paused, thinking of the impending visit. “It will be good to spend a few days with Ragnhild again; it's a long time since we stayed with one another.”

Murdo, feeling he had said more than enough, wisely kept his mouth shut, as if accepting his mother's final decree. That night he lay awake imagining what he would say to Ragna when he saw her, and wondering whether some sort of gift might be required for the occasion. He determined to give the matter serious consideration, and fell asleep dreaming of her pleasantly surprised reaction to his affection and generosity.

In the days to follow, it took all of Murdo's cunning to appear indifferent to the impending visit. He contrived to help Peder ready the boat; after wintering on the shore, there was always a deal of work to get the craft seaworthy once more, and the old sailor was most exacting about how the various chores were done. Peder had collected a supply of pitch to be mixed together with a little wool, the compound to be pressed into the seams and any cracks which had opened during the cold months. Then, the hull would be scraped with pumice stone and a fresh layer of pitch applied. Also, during the long winter, Peder fashioned lengths of rope from twisted hemp; these would have to be stretched and soaked, stretched and soaked again, and then spliced together to make good stout seaworthy lines—an arduous process, but, as Peder never tired of pointing
out, at sea a man's life hung by each and every strand of seaman's thread.

Save for the smell of hot pitch, Murdo did not mind the work. He preferred the sailing to farming anyway, and Peder's rambling talk took his mind off the aching anticipation of seeing Ragna again. The thought tormented him like an inflamed itch, and he could not wait for the day. Easter had gradually assumed a towering significance for Murdo, and he began to fear he would not live to see it. The incomparable day hung over him like doom itself, and he even considered praying that God would allow him the blessing of beholding the lovely Ragna once more. If I can but see her dressed in her Easter finery before I die, he thought, I can depart this world a contented soul. And if, by some miracle, he was granted the favor of a kiss, he would meet judgment day a happy, happy man.