The iron lance

TWELVE

Murdo recognized every twist in the muddy track rising from the harbour to the cathedral. Retracing his steps for the sixth time in as many weeks, each lump and puddle had the tediously familiar look of a much-detested chore. A chill rain splattered down over him as he slogged along beside his mother, the low grey sky making for a day as dismal as his mood. In five attempts they had yet to obtain an audience with the bishop; even the abbot was so overwhelmed by the imperative duties of his office that he could not fight free long enough to discuss their petition.

Still, Lady Niamh was determined to enlist the church's aid in regaining their estate. It was said, and widely believed, that King Magnus and his son, Prince Sigurd, were God-fearing men, baptized into the faith, and generous supporters of the church. Indeed, on two of their five visits the bishop could not attend his usual office of supplication because he was closeted with the young prince, who was receiving Christian catechism from the senior churchman himself.

'We will not leave,' Niamh vowed, for the fourth time since starting out, 'until we have spoken to Bishop Adalbert in the very flesh, and he has heard our petition.'

Murdo made no reply. It seemed to him an empty vow. Five times they had come, and five times failed. He saw no reason to think that this visit would be any different. The bishop, he decided, was avoiding them. This neither surprised nor dismayed him. He had long since relegated the church and its leaders to the perdition preserved for grasping clerics and their smarmy ilk who preyed on the credulous and gullible. His mother, he knew, was neither gullible nor credulous, and this was precisely why the churchmen refused to see her. What Murdo could not understand was why she insisted the bishop should be involved in this dispute.

The track rose sharply as it joined the path leading to the sanctuary entrance. The great doors were closed, but the smaller entry cut out of the right-hand panel was open. They entered the dim, shadowed vestibule and paused, allowing their eyes to grow accustomed to the murky interior. The tall pillars stretched up into the darkness above, their broad bases lit by pools of quivering candlelight. A few monks chanted away near the altar, their voices echoing from the cavernous vaults of the roof, making it seem as if moaning angels hovered far, far overhead like desultory doves.

On their previous visits, Lady Niamh had presented herself to the first monk who met them, and requested an audience with the bishop. On each occasion, the entreaty was duly channelled along lines of proper authority and they were politely conducted to the cloistered gallery outside the house where the bishop held consultation with those members of his flock seeking his advice on matters both temporal and spiritual. There they were asked to wait until the bishop could receive them.

Five times they had sat and waited, and five times they had departed without so much as a glimpse of the elusive churchman. The first three times, after a lengthy wait, a monk had come to inform them that the bishop's previous consultations had run overlong and that he begged to be pardoned but he would not be able to see them. They were, with all cordiality, invited to please come again next week; the bishop would certainly see them then. On their fourth visit, they were informed, after another long and tedious wait, that Bishop Adalbert had been suddenly called away on a matter of utmost urgency and that he would not return for several days. Then, last week, after waiting through most of the day, they had at last been forced to leave when the bells rang vespers and the cathedral was closed to visitors. No explanation was offered for the bishop's failure to see them.

With each disappointment, Murdo watched his mother's fortitude weaken a little more. It hurt him to see her losing her resolve, and he determined that he would not allow her dignity to be stolen, too. The waiting, he concluded, was meant to wear them down, to make them so grateful for their audience, should they finally receive it, that they would gladly accept whatever sop the bishop deigned to offer them.

Now, here they were, for the sixth time, and Murdo decided it would be the last.

As before, they were met by a monk who conducted them to the house door where they were asked to wait. The monk bade them sit and indicated the wooden bench, then turned, opened the door, and made to step inside. Murdo, however, moved in swiftly, seized the door and held it open. 'I think we have waited long enough,' he told the monk.

'Please! Please! This is a holy place. You cannot force-'

Murdo shoved the door wider. 'Coming, Mother?'

Niamh, overcoming her reluctance, joined her son. 'Yes, I think we have waited long enough,' she told the monk. To her son, she whispered, 'Be careful, Murdo,' and gave him a sharp warning glance as she passed.

They entered a long dark cell. A single narrow window high up in the wall allowed a little sunlight into the room; otherwise, the few candles scattered here and there provided the only light. Five or six clerics toiled at a large table beneath the window; they looked up as the visitors entered, but then resumed their work. To Murdo, the scratching of their quills sounded like rats scrabbling hi the dry husks in the barn; and there was something decidedly vermin-like about the brown-robed clerics and their bristly, half-shaven heads and narrow eyes held close to their work.

'Where is the bishop?' asked Murdo, his voice loud in the thick silence of the room. 'We want to see him now.'

The monk made no reply, but his eyes shifted towards one of the two doors at the farther end of the room. 'In there, is he?' asked Murdo, already moving towards the door. He lifted the latch and pushed it open even as the monk hurried to stop him. Stepping into the room, he saw a cleric sitting at a table piled high with loose scrolls. The man was hunched over his work, and looked up as Murdo walked quickly to the table.

'Ah, young Ranulfson-is it not?' Abbot Gerardus said, his voice flat, expressing neither surprise nor concern.

Murdo frowned. The smarmy abbot was the last person Murdo wanted to meet. 'We have come to see the bishop,' he told the abbot coldly. 'Where is he?'

'We?' the abbot asked, his smile thin and self-amused.

'My mother and I -' began Murdo, gesturing behind him as Lady Niamh entered the room, the ineffectual monk darting in behind her.

'I am sorry, abbot-they would not wait,’ the monk began, but the abbot silenced him.

'Never mind, Brother Gerald,' said the abbot, rising from his chair. 'They are here now; I will see them myself.'

'It is the bishop we have come to see,' Murdo repeated.

'That is not convenient,' the abbot said, turning to Murdo, his eyes hard. 'Perhaps if you had made proper application -

'We have been coming here for five weeks!' Murdo snapped. 'Each time we make proper application, and each time we wait and wait, and we go away without seeing anyone! This time, we will see the bishop. I do not care whether it is convenient or not!'

The abbot bristled. His eyes narrowed, and he glared at the young man before him, his mouth tight with unexpressed loathing.

'Abbot Gerardus,' Niamh said, stepping briskly forward, 'I will ask you to forgive my son's bad manners. He seems to have forgotten himself in his impatience.'

'Of course, Lady Niamh,' said the abbot, inclining his head in a modest bow, instantly the self-effacing cleric once more. 'I am your servant. How may I help you?'

'It is as my son has said: we have come to see the bishop, and in light of our previous attempts, I must insist we see him today.'

'Then I fear you will be disappointed yet again,' the abbot replied with a small gesture of helplessness-as if to say that the matter was in the hands of an authority much greater than his own. 'You see, the bishop has given instruction that he is not to be disturbed for any reason. Perhaps you will allow me to help you in his stead.'

'Show us where he is,' Murdo demanded. 'That will help us best.'

Laying a hand on her son's arm, Niamh said, 'Peace, Murdo. It may be that once we have explained our purpose, the abbot will intercede for us.' She turned to the abbot for confirmation of this assertion, but the abbot merely smiled wanly back.

Murdo wanted nothing more than to shove his fist into the abbot's smirking face, but refrained for his mother's sake, and for the sake of Hrafnbu.

'As you will know,' Lady Niamh began, moving a step nearer the table, 'the rule of the islands has passed from Jarls Erlend and Paul, to Prince Sigurd, son of Magnus, King of Norway.'

'Certainly,' Abbot Gerardus replied, 'we are only too aware of the upheaval this has caused. This is precisely the reason why you have found it so difficult to gain audience with the bishop these last weeks.'

'In consequence,' Niamh continued, 'our lands have been taken from us. Two of my servants were killed, and we have escaped with only our lives.'

The abbot pressed his mouth into a firm line. After a moment, he said, 'Most distressing, to be sure. Yet, I cannot see what you expect the church to do about it.'

Niamh stared at him in amazement. 'This injustice must be remedied as swiftly as possible,' she said. 'Our estate has been seized and given to one called Orin Broad-Foot, a nobleman said to be an advisor to Prince Sigurd. The bishop must intercede for us with the prince. He must demand the return of our lands-on pain of excommunication, if need be.'

'Would that we could wield such power as you imagine us to possess,' Abbot Gerardus said with a show of weary resignation. 'In truth, we have no such authority. The bishop would tell you the same.'

'Then let him tell us face to face,' growled Murdo.

'If only that were possible,' replied the abbot.

'Do you refuse to allow us an audience?' demanded Niamh.

'Alas, it is not within my sway to allow or refuse,' the churchman said. 'It is the bishop's command. We all must obey.'

'My husband is on pilgrimage,' Niamh said pointedly. 'He is fighting for the church-and you ask me to believe that the bishop, at whose insistence he took the cross, cannot now find the time to address a wicked violation of the peace which he himself upholds.'

'Again,' the abbot replied, 'you think us more powerful than we are. The church has no authority to compel the compliance with -'

The abbot broke off suddenly as the door behind him opened and all turned to see the bishop himself emerge from his audience chamber. 'It is well, abbot,' Adalbert said in a kindly voice. 'I heard voices and thought to interrupt my meditations if I might be of service.' He smiled benevolently and, turning to his visitors, said, 'Lady Niamh, it is so good to see you. Tell me now, daughter, how may I help you?'

While the abbot stood frowning, Niamh stepped to the bishop and quickly explained the theft of their land and the predicament forced upon them. Murdo watched in growing disbelief as the bishop, nodding in heartfelt sympathy replied, 'It is most distressing. Yes, most distressing. Believe me, I wish there was something we could do.'

'But you can intercede for us,' Niamh insisted. 'You are the sole authority of the church in Orkneyjar. There has been a dire mistake. On pain of excommunication, you can force them to relinquish the land they have stolen.'

The bishop, still sympathetic, replied, 'Lady, I cannot.' He seemed to reconsider his reply then; raising a finger, he asked, 'What was the name of the man who has assumed ownership of your estate?'

'He is one of Prince Sigurd's house carles-a nobleman called Orin.' Niamh glanced at Murdo for confirmation; he nodded curtly, suspicion swarming around him like wasps.

The bishop appeared to hesitate, as if drawn up short by the name. 'Lord Orin Broad-Foot?'

'The same, yes,' Niamh answered. 'Do you know him?'

'Alas,' sighed the bishop, 'would that you had said any name but that. Was I not holding audience with that man in this very room, Gerardus?'

'Indeed, yes, Bishop Adalbert,' replied the abbot, who seemed to Murdo to have become curiously complacent about the proceedings.

'Then you know that what I have said is true,' Lady Niamh declared.

'Dear lady,' rejoined the bishop, 'I have never doubted you for a moment.'

'Then you will help us.'

'I have already told you that I would if I could,' Adalbert maintained. 'But Lord Orin has followed his king's leading and has taken the cross.'

Murdo felt a sick dread stealing over him. He could feel the knife sliding into his gut, though he had not yet seen the blade.

'Indeed, he, like so many of our island sons, is to become a pilgrim,' the bishop continued. 'In view of the upcoming journey, he has availed himself of the pope's decree regarding the guardianship of the land.'

Niamh stared at the bishop. 'You mean…' She faltered, unable to make herself say the words.

'The Holy Church of Christ has pledged protection for the estate,' the bishop replied. 'The pertinent documents have been signed and are now on their way to Jorvik for safekeeping. So you see, it is too late.'

'When did this take place?' Niamh's voice had gone cold.

'Two days ago,' said the abbot, almost gloating with triumph.

'Two days!' shouted Murdo. 'Two days! Yet, you knew we had been here seeking audience every week for five weeks! You knew it and did nothing!'

'Calm yourself, son. Your anger is misplaced. As it happens, the assumption of Prince Sigurd has brought about many sudden and unexpected changes, as you can imagine. We have been kept busy from dawn to dusk merely to keep pace with the demands which, like your own, have arisen in the wake of the jarls' removal. I assure you, we knew nothing of your plight until you told us just now.'

'Hrafnbu is ours!' shouted Murdo; fists balled, he stepped towards the bishop. 'It is ours and you knew it!'

'Yes!' Adalbert snapped, anger flickering to life. 'And I tried to make your father see reason, but he refused. So be it. Now you must live with the consequence of his stupidity.' Glancing at Niamh, he quickly added, 'I am sorry to be so blunt, good lady, but there is nothing I can do.'

Abbot Gerardus moved to the bishop's side. 'If Lord Ranulf had not been so covetous of his rents, the estate would sooner have been under our control, and you would still have a home.'

Murdo gave a strangled cry and started for the abbot, who backed away swiftly.

'Murdo!' his mother shouted, her voice sharp as a slap. She drew him back, saying, 'Come away, son. We will not weary these churchmen further with our trifling grievance. They must have other sheep in their flock to look after-it seems it is the shearing season after all.'

'Lady Niamh,' protested the bishop, 'I fear you have taken my meaning amiss.'

'Have I?' she challenged tartly. 'Covetous of his rents… the estate under our control…' She paused, eyes ablaze. When she spoke again, her voice was low, barely audible. 'I believe I understood your meaning very well, proud priest.'

The bishop frowned. 'Please, you must be patient. No doubt the matter can be disentangled when the claimants have returned from pilgrimage to resume the governance of their estates.'

'What would you have us do until then?' demanded Niamh. 'Beg in the marketplace like paupers?'

'The convent is ever -' began the abbot.

But Niamh was no longer listening. 'Come away, Murdo. There is no justice for us here.'

She turned her back on the churchmen, and walked to the door. Murdo glared at the men with all the hate his soul could muster, and felt the awful impotence of frustrated rage. 'You will curse the day you slandered my father and sided against us,' he said, his voice trembling with fury. 'Hear me! Murdo Ranulfson makes this vow.'

'Come away, Murdo,' his mother called from the door. 'Do not waste your breath on them.'

Murdo, still glaring at the clerics, took a slow step backwards. 'You know well the worth of a vow made on holy ground. Mark me, and remember.'

The abbot made to speak, but the bishop waved him silent, and Murdo and his mother stepped into the anteroom. Murdo saw the table where the abbot had been sitting-two other monks now hovered over the document the abbot had been studying. Murdo strode to the table, snatched up the ink pot and dashed it over the parchment. Black ink splashed everywhere. The horrified monks shrieked, one threw his hands above his head, while the other began pawing at the ruined manuscript in a desperate effort to save it.

Murdo, allowing his anger full rein, raised his foot, put his boot against the table, and shoved with all his might. The sturdy thing tilted and slammed to the floor with a colossal crash, scattering documents and smashing the ink pot.

Other monks, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room, saw the overturned table, and flew at Murdo. He dodged aside, but one of them seized him by the arm, and the others fell on him.

'Remove him!' shouted the abbot from the doorway.

The monks hauled Murdo to his feet and dragged him away.

'Let him go!' cried Niamh, rushing to his aid.

One of the clerics, in his excitement, put out his hand and pushed her aside. Murdo saw her fall and, gripping his captors' arms tightly, swung both feet into the hapless cleric's face. His foot struck the man squarely on the chin. The man's head snapped back on his shoulders and he dropped like a felled tree. Meanwhile, the force of Murdo's kick unbalanced the monks who held him and they all collapsed in a heap on the floor, taking the boy with them.

'Get him out of here!' Abbot Gerardus shouted again, hoarse with rage.

The monks, still clasping their prisoner tightly, jerked him to his feet once more. The abbot stepped swiftly to where they struggled. 'You stupid, insolent little -' He drew back his hand to strike.

'Enough!' shouted the bishop. He stood in the doorway, his face livid, but his manner composed. 'Enough, I say. This is a house of God and you are behaving shamefully.' He thrust his hand towards the door. 'Lady Niamh, I must ask you to leave this place at once.'

'We are going,' Niamh said tersely. 'Come away, Murdo.'

Murdo shook off his captors' grip, and joined his mother. 'You call this a house of God,' Murdo spat, 'but I see only thieves and cowards.'

The monks started for him again, but Niamh took his arm and drew him quickly away. They hastily retraced their steps back through the cloisters and church, and did not stop again until they were standing in the muddy track outside the cathedral. 'Worse than vipers, the lot of them,' Murdo muttered, still shaking with anger.

'We will have our lands back, never fear,' Niamh assured him. 'When your father returns, we will -'

'What are we to do until then?' asked Murdo. 'What if they do not return until next summer-or even the summer after that? How long must we wait to reclaim what is ours?'

'We can stay at Cnoc Carrach. Ragnhild has offered -'

'You stay at Cnoc Carrach with Ragnhild,' Murdo told her harshly. 'I will not spend another day waiting-not while our home is held by thieves and greedy priests.'

Niamh regarded her son silently for a moment. 'What is in your mind, Murdo?'

'If we cannot take back what is ours until Lord Ranulf returns, then I will go and bring him back.'

'No,' Niamh told him firmly. 'Think what you are saying, son; you cannot go to the Holy Land.'

'Why not? Everyone else is going-even Orin Broad-Foot. Perhaps I will go with him!'

In truth, his thoughts had been scattered and confused. Yet, the moment he spoke the words, everything became clear and simple. Murdo knew what he would do.

Niamh saw the light of grim determination come up in his grey eyes, and recognized in the set of his jaw the stubborn resolve of Lord Ranulf himself. 'No, Murdo,' she repeated. Turning, she started down the track to the harbour where Peder was waiting with the boat. 'I will not hear it.'

She walked a dozen paces and, when Murdo made no attempt to follow, she turned back. 'Stop behaving like a child.'

'Fare well, Mother.'

'Murdo, listen to me.' She walked back to where he stood, and Murdo knew he had won his way. 'You cannot go-not like this. It is impossible.'

'I am going.'

'You must have provisions and money-you cannot simply go off as if it was a market fair. You must be prepared.'

Murdo said nothing, but gazed impassively at his mother.

'Please,' Niamh continued, 'come back to Cnoc Carrach at least, and we will make proper preparation for the journey.'

'Very well,' agreed Murdo at last. 'But when Orin Broad-Foot sets sail for Jerusalem, I will be on that boat.'