The iron lance

THIRTY-EIGHT

Bohemond, Prince of Taranto and Count of Antioch, arrived in Jerusalem with two hundred knights. He wasted not a moment, but established himself in the palace recently vacated by the commander of Amir Iftikhar's bodyguard. The high-walled house, with its numerous columns and floors of polished stone, was swiftly converted to an armoury and stables. The generous courtyard and gardens were given to the prince's horses which were allowed to drink from the white marble fountains.

King Magnus quickly joined his avowed lord in the palace, and the two began scheming how best to get their hands on a healthy share of the city's newly liberated wealth. Towards this end, Bohemond let it be known through various subtle means that he would be inclined to support the claim to kingship of any noble who supported his claim to plunder.

The lords and noblemen whose sweat and labour had secured the Holy City were not pleased with the late-comer's demands, and resisted all attempts to persuade them otherwise. There were harsh words and hard feelings on each side, and rising tension among the lords as they anticipated the next day's council.

Murdo and the monks came to hear of this when they returned to the king's war band. It had taken most of the day following their midnight visit to the monastery of Saint Mary outside the walls to find their comrades; the place where they had been camped was vacant, and no one in the area had paid any attention to the movements of the long-haired Norsemen. Despite Murdo's aversion to returning to the city, they had no choice but to continue the search inside Jerusalem.

The streets along which they passed were eerily silent, the houses vacant and, for the most part, quiet-except where looters still worked: furniture, clothing, and valuables of the dead were often hurled from the upper windows into the street below, to be more easily collected and carted off. The Temple Mount had been turned into a huge repository for the treasure hoard prior to its division and distribution.

Dark stains still marked the paving stones, and the stench and clouds of flies were formidable, but the number of corpses to be found lying untended in alleyways and courtyards was not so many as Murdo had feared. In all, they encountered only five wagons piled with bodies, each making its slow way to the bone fires; the disposal of Jerusalem's dead had been accomplished with remarkable efficiency.

They came upon a procession of monks who had already commenced the reconsecration of several of the city's smaller chapels and churches which had fallen into disuse under the Muhammedan occupation. Upon inquiring of the bishop, they learned of Bohemond’s arrival and his seizure of Iftikhar's commander's palace. 'Find Bohemond,' Ronan declared, 'and there we shall find our king and companions.'

A short time later, they arrived at the palace of Jerusalem's former warlord – a handsome and imposing edifice, which the other crusader lords deemed unsuitable, owing to its former association with the Muhammedan infidel. Bohemond had no such scruples; his brief residence in Antioch had given him a taste for Arabian opulence. Murdo and the monks found the Norsemen firmly ensconced in the apartments lately occupied by Amir Iftikhar's physician and his retinue of advisors.

Murdo, tired from the previous night's activities, found himself a quiet corner and promptly went to sleep. He was roused some time later when King Magnus returned to the palace with Bohemond. While the king dined with his liege lord and benefactor, his house carles sat at meat in the hastily-altered hall, discussing the day's inconclusive events.

'Mark me: it will come to blows. The kingship will only be settled by combat.' Lord Orin took another swallow of wine from his cup.

'Hey-hey,' agreed Jon Wing. 'But it is not Bohemond's fault that he was not here. It is a long way from Antioch to Jerusalem. If the siege had lasted longer, he would have been first through the gate, I think.'

This sentiment was greeted by a general growl of approval from all those looking on and listening. More than one cup was lofted to drink the prince's singular courage.

'It is not his bravery they are doubting,' pointed out Magnus' pilot, a man named Sven Horse-Rope. 'Rather, it is his right to share in plunder he did not help to win. If it was my place, I do not know that I would be so quick to divide my treasure with him.'

The Norsemen rejected this line of reasoning with loud grunts of protest – not because it was wrong, but because, if followed rigorously, it would deny them their own share of what they reckoned was an immense fortune. King Magnus, in siding with Bohemond, had bound himself to the rise and fall of the prince's fortunes. They had gained but little for themselves out of the fall of Jerusalem, and were hungry for more. For better or worse, Prince Bohemond promised to be the most likely source for gaining a portion of the vast hoard of Jerusalem's wealth to be carved up among the western lords.

'The fighting lasted but a day;' Torf Bent-Nose pointed out, 'many of Count Raymond's men did not lift a blade, either. Yet, they still claim a full portion. Also, we have collected as much plunder as anyone else -'

'And as many bodies!' grumbled Sven, frowning at the stink, still fresh in his memory. This sentiment was shared by one and all around the board.

'This fact should be put to the lords at the council tomorrow, I think,' said Torf, to which everyone heartily concurred.

The next day's discussions were followed with keen attention by the king and his mercenary vassals. Each feint and counter-thrust in the subtle struggle of swagger and bluff was duly noted and reported that night in the hall over cups of raw Palestinian wine. Murdo, too, listened to all the talk, although it failed to ignite in him the same fiery itch that inflamed the others. He already possessed a fortune in plunder and, as he was not interested in the crusade or its leaders, cared nothing for their interminable squabbles over position and power. He viewed them all with the same weary indifference-save one: Baldwin. Whenever that name was mentioned, Murdo drew near to hear.

His brothers were with Lord Baldwin, he knew, and he was anxious to join them as soon as possible. To this end, he listened to all that was said, and learned that Lord Baldwin was brother to Duke Godfrey of Bouillon. Godfrey, it seemed, was a truly pious man and a fierce warrior-the same who had gained and held the wall during the first assault of the recent battle, and his fearless action did more than any other to bring about the fall of Jerusalem.

Younger brother Baldwin's esteem had slipped considerably lower, because he had not fulfilled his crusade vows, preferring instead to assume the rule of Edessa, a city a few days' march to the north. Murdo spent much of the next day pondering how he might undertake the journey to find his brothers, when word arrived at the palace that Baldwin and his war band had arrived at Jerusalem and were encamped on the Mount of Olives. He wasted no time finding Emlyn to tell him.

'My brothers are here,' he said, 'I am going to find them.'

'It will be dark soon,' the priest pointed out. 'Perhaps you should seek them tomorrow.'

Murdo would not contemplate even the slightest delay. 'I am going now,' he insisted. 'If I hurry, I can be there before nightfall.'

'I will accompany you,' Emlyn said. 'Only give me time enough to take our leave of the king.'

The monk hurried away, returning a short while later with a staff for himself, a spear for Murdo, and a waterskin to share between them. Leaving the palace, they entered the street outside the amir's residence, and hurried down through the city to the Jaffa Gate. Owing to the lateness of their start, Emlyn thought it best to find their way to the Mount of Olives outside the walls, rather than try to navigate the tangle of unfamiliar streets in the dark. So, they departed by the western gate and, once outside the walls, struck off onto the road which encompassed the city. This track was continually joined and divided by other roads which led off to various settlements and cities-Hebron, Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Damascus, and others-and was ringed by clusters of little farms, each with its tiny patch of green behind low white walls, or dense hedges of thorn and cactus.

The heat of the day was slowly releasing its hold on the land, though the sky was still flame-coloured in the west. The air was warm and still, and held an arid, woody scent which seemed to emanate from the small dusty shrubs all around. The road was nearly deserted; they met only the occasional farmer or labourer, and these, seeing Murdo's spear, recognized the couple as Franks, giving them a wide and wary berth. They walked along, keeping the city wall on their left hand, their eyes on the olive-planted hills rising before them. The hills were dull purple in the evening light, and the gnarled trunks of the olives pale blue, their leaves black.

They walked along in silence for a time, and Murdo found himself thinking about all that had taken place in the last two days. He thought about their midnight flight to the monastery, and his vision of Saint Andrew in the catacombs. Build me a kingdom, brother, the apparition had said. I will do what I can, he had promised. His cheeks burned with shame as the weight of his unworthiness descended over him-like a mountain shifting and settling full upon his soul.

In a little while they came to the place where they had met the soldiers two nights before, and Murdo asked, 'Is it true what you told those men the other night?' he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

'About the pope's decree of absolution?' Emlyn gave him a sideways glance. 'Well,' he sighed, 'it is how I feel. No doubt our Latin brothers would have a different view, but those soldiers last night did not know we were not of the same order as the rest. Men like that are rarely eager for spiritual counsel; the guilty are reluctant sheep at best, I find.'

'Is it that you do not agree with the pope's decree?'

'You and I are friends, so I will speak freely,' Emlyn replied. He paused, gazing at the twilight sky; when he spoke again, his voice was thick with condemnation. 'The pope is a fool if he believes sin and forgiveness are commodities to be bartered in the marketplace of men's souls. The sins committed here will corrode the spirit just as surely as any others, and the lack of confession will haunt the heart through all eternity.'

These words produced a peculiar sensation in Murdo; he heard in them the ring of truth, and felt himself moved to confess his part in the wickedness perpetrated on that evil day. He saw again the smoke-dark sky and the leering faces of the soldiers, the blood sluicing red and hot from the wounds, the small mutilated bodies in the street. He could feel the suffocating oppression and revulsion of all he had witnessed that day, and knew it was not a burden he cared to shoulder the rest of his life.

'I am as guilty as anyone,' Murdo declared, his voice low.

'Yes?' Emlyn's voice was gently probing.

'I have done wrong,' he said and, with halting words, described the carnage and destruction he had seen in the Holy City – the burned temples filled with blackened corpses, the streets filled with bodies and flowing with blood, the poor drowned child, the insane slaughter of defenceless people. He told how he had come upon three soldiers chasing a woman and her babies, and how, after killing the woman and her children, the crusaders had turned on him. 'They would have killed me, too, but they were careless, and I was quicker. I killed the leader and the others ran away.' He then described how he had stripped off the mantle of the dead crusader and put it on himself. 'I was afraid,' he concluded. 'I wanted only to get away from there – from that. On my life, I did not mean to kill him. But he attacked, and he was so sloven, so thoughtless… the spear was in before I knew it. In truth, I might have avoided killing him, but I did not care. He died in the street, and I was afraid the others would come back. I took his cross so I would not be attacked again.'

'I see,' replied Emlyn after a moment's thought. 'You killed only to save yourself. You acted out of fear, perhaps, but no more. Had the soldiers given you another choice, you might have acted differently, yes?'

Murdo nodded.

'There is little sin in this, if any,' the priest told him. 'You acted merely to preserve your own life. There is no condemnation in that.'

'I did not care!' Murdo countered miserably. 'If I had acted sooner, the woman and her children might have lived. I stood there and watched and did nothing to help them. I was afraid!'

'Fear is ever the great failing of Adam's race, to be sure,' the monk replied. 'While it is true that fear sometimes leads us into sin, it is rarely a sin in itself.'

'I knew what I was doing,' Murdo countered. 'That is why I took the killer's cross for myself. That woman died trying to protect her children, but when the blades turned on me, I was a coward. I should have died defending her-instead, I stole another man's cloak so I could escape.'

'I am beginning to understand,' replied Emlyn. 'Perhaps, as you insist, you might have saved that poor woman and her babies. If nothing else, you feel you should have resisted deceit. You should have refused to allow wickedness and iniquity to outwit and overpower you. Yes?'

'It is true,' confirmed Murdo, feeling worse by the moment.

'You are a man of high integrity, my friend,' Emlyn observed. 'You demand it of yourself no less than of all those around you.' At Murdo's cautious look, he said, 'This is true as well-I know, otherwise you would not feel these things so deeply. You believe that you should have remained faithful to the truth that was in you, rather than relinquish your honour to the great lie all around you. These things you did not do, and for these things you stand condemned-in your own heart, at least.'

Murdo, in full agreement with the priest's impeccable judgement, felt his failure anew. Misery descended over him in thick, black waves. His throat tightened and he could not speak.

'Listen to me now, Murdo. I am a priest, and I am your friend,' Emlyn declared. 'And I will do what any friend might do: I will raise you from the pit into which you have fallen. And I will do what only a priest can do: I will redeem you and set your feet on the True Path once more, and guide you towards the Holy Light.'

'Please,' he begged, hope rising in him again. Only a heartbeat ago he had glimpsed himself so lost and utterly bereft of virtue, it did not seem possible that he could be redeemed. 'Tell me what I must do, and I will do it. Shrive me, Emlyn.'

'Very well,' agreed the monk. He halted and, taking Murdo's arm, turned him around. 'Kneel down and bow your head.'

The road was empty; there was no one around. Murdo did as he was told, bowing his head and folding his arms across his chest. Emlyn, placing a hand on his shoulder, began to pray, interceding on Murdo's behalf and begging forgiveness for him. He then said, 'Murdo, do you renounce evil?'

'I renounce evil,' answered Murdo with conviction.

'Do you cling to Christ?'

'I cling to Christ.'

'Do you repent of your sins?'

'I do repent of my sins.' In that instant, he ached to be rid of them and make a clean start.

'God save you, Murdo,' said Emlyn. Then, placing his hands on Murdo's head, he spoke a rune of blessing over him, saying,

'May the Great King, and Jesu, his Holy Son,

and the Spirit of All Healing,

Be shielding thee, be upholding thee, be abiding thee,

Be clearing thy path and going before thee,

On hill, in hollow, over plain,

Each step through the stormy world thou takest.'

The priest then clapped his hands and said, 'Rise, Murdo Ranulf-son, and rejoice! Your sins are forgiven, and remembered no more. You may resume life's journey with a pure and unblemished soul.'

As Murdo climbed to his feet once more, he did feel the burden roll away from him. There was a lightness in himself he had forgotten; he felt calm and reassured and, for the first time in a very long time, at peace with himself.

He looked with astonished eyes at the round-shouldered monk before him. 'How did you do that?' Murdo asked, astounded at the suddenness and intensity of the feeling.

Emlyn regarded him curiously. 'I suspect you have never been properly shrift before. Oh, it is a splendid feeling, is it not?'

Murdo agreed with all his heart. Certainly, nothing any other priest had ever said or done had ever produced such a remarkable and profound effect on him. It occurred to Murdo that perhaps for the first time in his life he had, however fleetingly, brushed against true holiness, and the result was wondrous. His spirit fairly bubbled inside him like a fountain overflowing a too-narrow container. He felt as if he could lift mountains with a single word, as if he could reach out and pluck the rising moon from the sky and hold it in the palm of his hand, as if he had but to stamp his foot to send whole legions of the Enemy fleeing back to their darksome dens.

They continued on then, but Murdo, no longer content to walk, wanted to run. He wanted to fly!

'Come along, Emlyn!' he cried, dashing a few steps ahead. 'My brothers are waiting! Hurry! We are soon there! Hurry!'

'I am hurrying,' the cleric insisted, lumbering into a stiff-legged trot. 'Patience is also a virtue, you know.'

They proceeded along the road through the valley beneath Jerusalem's high walls. When the path began to rise towards the hills, Murdo was persuaded to take a slower pace. 'If you did not believe in the pope's decree for the crusade, why did you come to Jerusalem?' he asked, falling into step beside his friend once more. 'If not for the crusade, why did you undertake the pilgrimage?'

'There are as many reasons for pilgrimage as there are paths and pilgrims,' answered Emlyn.

Murdo was not to be put off. 'What was your reason?'

Emlyn pursed his lips. 'We were…" he hesitated, 'commanded to come to Jerusalem.'

'By King Magnus,' Murdo assumed aloud. 'I remember.'

'No,' Emlyn answered. 'We were commanded in a vision. King Magnus' appeal came later.'

Murdo looked sideways at the monk to see if he had heard him correctly. 'What sort of vision was it?'

'A very ordinary sort, I believe,' the cleric said. 'We were commanded to come and wait upon God to tell us what to do.'

'Well?' demanded Murdo. 'Has God told you?'

'He has,' answered Emlyn. 'What we learned in Antioch confirmed our calling beyond all doubt.' When he appeared inclined to let the matter rest there, Murdo grew impatient with his reluctance.

'You said you were my friend,' Murdo reminded him. 'I have entrusted you with the shriving of my soul. I will not betray your secret.'

'We were commanded to rescue the lance.'

The reply was so far from what Murdo expected, it caught him out of step. 'The Holy Lance?' he said, as if there might be some other.

'To be sure,' answered the monk. 'We have been told to rescue the sacred relic from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy.'

'Who told you to do this?' inquired Murdo, already sensing the reply before it came.

'Saint Andrew,' Emlyn said, and explained that Ronan was the only one who had seen the saint. 'In a vision, as I say. Fionn and I trust Ronan's judgement in these matters. Brother Ronan is a most holy and devout man.'

'I do not doubt it,' Murdo replied, his heart burning within him. Should he tell Emlyn about his own encounter with the mysterious saint?

Before he could work up the courage to say anything, the monk sang out, 'There! On the hillside! I see Baldwin's camp.'