The iron lance

FORTY-TWO

'Most imprudent of you, Godfrey,' observed Baldwin, holding out his cup to be refilled. 'How could you promise to forfeit the treasure to the emperor without knowing what it was you were being asked to surrender?'

'Would you rather have him take Jerusalem?' Godfrey, in a surly humour, glared at his brother and at the noblemen holding vigil with him. The day, begun with a towering victory, had ended in ripe disaster. In his first act as ruler of the Holy City he had succeeded in losing its most holy and sacred relic.

The lords of the West were angry at him, and baying for blood. Some of them were for refusing to honour the promise and declaring war with Byzantium instead. The fact that the empire's troops now outnumbered their own vastly diminished armies had not yet occurred to anyone.

Jerusalem had been won. The heady days following the city's fall were giving way to a season of sober reflection-for Godfrey, Defender of the Holy Sepulchre, if for no one else. In the short space between this day's glorious beginning, and its cruel, regretful end, Godfrey had pondered deeply over his unenviable position; his unhappy meditations had borne bitter fruit. The lords of the West had liberated the Holy City, but the cost had been ruinous. And now, with nearly all the crusaders returning home, he would be ruler of a city surrounded by hordes of crafty and relentless enemies -Turks and Saracens, to be sure, but also Greek and Armenian Christians whose people had been slaughtered in the blood frenzy-all of whom knew the land and tolerated the unbearable heat far better than his own war-weary troops.

The sad truth, and Godfrey knew it well, was that the crusaders would very soon be in desperate want of imperial aid. Continual and close friendship with Alexius was the only way to guarantee that help remained forthcoming. Unless he thought of something now-this night!-tomorrow he must deliver Jerusalem's most valuable object to the emperor's envoy as a peace offering and sign of his reign's good will, and his recognition of Alexius' supremacy. The prospect made him squirm. Why, he would become the laughing-stock of the entire Christian world: the Lord of Jerusalem a mere vassal of the Greeks.

'Oh, cheer up, brother,' Baldwin said over the rim of his cup. 'The night is young. We will yet think of something.'

'So you say,' Godfrey sneered. 'Tomorrow you can ride back to Edessa and begin your reign in all pomp and glory. Meanwhile, I begin mine in shame and disgrace-and all because I must give the Holy Lance to the emperor!'

Baldwin, growing bored with his brother's rant, swigged down another mouthful of wine, and said, 'Then give it to someone else. Give it to Bohemond. Better still, give it to Sultan Arslan. Ha!'

Godfrey stared at his younger brother. 'You are an ass, Baldwin. Worse, you are a drunken ass. If that is the best you can suggest, go back to Edessa. I will face my humiliation alone.'

'Now, see here -' Baldwin made to rise, but found his legs were not as steady as he imagined them. He fell back in his chair. 'I was only trying to help. If you cannot see that, then maybe you deserve your humil…miliation.' He called loudly to the servingman standing by. 'Wine, you sluggard. More wine!'

'You have had enough, brother,' Godfrey said. He put his cup down with a thump, and rose. 'I am going to bed. You would do well to do the same.'

'Splendid,' muttered Baldwin. 'The emperor claps his hands and you cry "Thunder!". Well, if it was my place, I would send the thing away. Let Alexius get it from someone else.'

Godfrey bade his inebriated brother and noblemen good night, left them to their cups, and went to his bed chamber. Dismissing his servant, he lay down on his bed, but found he could not rest. He rose, crossed to the window and pulled it open to allow some fresh air into the stuffy room. He looked out to see the moon was rising over the olive groves; the Jaffa road was a silver river trickling towards the city, and away to the north, low and dark on the ground, lay the camps of the crusaders. In a few days, the soldiers would be gone, and the abandoned camps but one more execrable memory in the long, turbulent existence of this ancient city.

Fool! he thought. Had he come this far, dared this much, only to become the butt of jokes and japes? Feeling the weight of his failure, Godfrey knelt at the window and began to pray. He remained long in this posture, and when he rose at last it was with a better heart. He would accept his indignity and shame as a chastisement from God's hand for the errors he had made on pilgrimage.

Thus resolved, he stretched himself once more on his bed. Night was far gone when sleep finally found him, and then it was an uneasy, fitful rest. He awoke to the croak of crows from the rooftops below his open window, and Baldwin's last words of the previous night tumbling restlessly in his mind: Let Alexius get it from someone else!

For the first time since the council's disastrous conclusion, he saw the palest glimmer of hope: if the Holy Lance must be relinquished, let it be surrendered by another. But who?

The answer burst upon him with all the force and urgency of a battlecry. As on the field of war numerous times, he felt the familiar stirring in his blood. In the space of a single heartbeat, the plan was arrayed before him. Any lingering gloom of doubt was banished by the fierce light of his certainty: there was only one person in all the world able to resist the demands of the emperor, and that was the pope. If anyone could protect the Sacred Lance for the crusaders it would be Pope Urban. Let Alexius get the relic from someone else: let him get it from the pope.

He came up from the bed like a lion rising to the attack, his mind filled with all the things he must do. Before anything else, he must delay the envoy. He must buy himself some time if his plan was to have even the slightest chance of succeeding.

Godfrey bolted from the bed chamber, calling, 'Baldwin! Where is my brother?' He grabbed hold of a sleepy servant, and shouted. 'Find my brother, and bring him to me. I want to see him at once.' He then charged off to the chapel for his morning prayers. He would send for the abbot as soon as he was finished, and put the plan in motion.

Murdo and Emlyn had spent a short, wakeful night beside the trail, moving on before dawn. As the sun crested the hills behind them, they looked down the road, descending in a series of long, gentle slopes all the way to the sea. A sprinkling of farms and fields lay before them and, as the sun threw their shadows before them, they started for the nearest of these, hoping to beg some water for the day, and perhaps a handful of fodder for the camel.

Emlyn was already drenched with sweat by the time they came into the dusty yard. There seemed to be no one around, so they went to the well and dipped the dry leather bag down and down into the cool dark hole. At first, Murdo feared the well must be empty, but the bag came up half full of murky water-which he poured out into a nearby trough for the beast. He poured out another, dipped again, and offered Emlyn the first drink. The monk sniffed, then drank a few mouthfuls. 'I have had worse,' he declared, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 'It will keep us until we can get something better.'

'Even so, we need more waterskins,' replied Murdo, looking towards the mud-brick dwelling. Flies buzzed in the yard, but no other sound could be heard. 'I wonder if the house is abandoned.'

'That we can soon discover,’ said Emlyn, moving towards the building.

A dirty, ragged cloth hung across the doorway so Emlyn slapped the rounded timber post with the flat of his hand, calling out in a loud voice, 'In the name of Christ, I bid thee, come and greet a weary pilgrim.' He waited, and called again. Receiving no answer, he turned to Murdo. 'I think there is no one here.'

Tying the camel at the trough, Murdo crossed the yard in quick steps, while Emlyn pulled aside the rag at the door and looked in. 'Empty,' he said as Murdo pushed in beside him.

Murdo scanned the single room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim interior. There was a small, low table, and a three-legged stool beside the door, and in the centre of the room, a hearth. He put his hand to the ashes, but they were cold. There was no telling how long ago the inhabitants had deserted the place. Beside the hearth was an assortment of clay pots of various sizes, cracked and blackened from the fire. There was nothing else in the humble room; most likely the farmer and his family had taken anything of use or value with them.

'See here!' said Emlyn, pointing to a rough cloth bag hanging from a wooden peg on the far wall. He crossed to the bag, lifted it from the peg, and peered inside. 'Praise God, for his faithful provision!'

'What is it?' asked Murdo impatiently. The empty house made him uneasy, he did not like it and wanted to be on his way once more.

'Grain,' answered the monk; he reached inside and brought out a fistful which he let slide back into the bag. 'Enough for the camel, and for us, too, if we find nothing better.'

'Good,' said Murdo. 'We will take some of these bowls, too, for water.' He collected the clay vessels, retraced his steps to the well, and began filling the pots. Meanwhile, Murdo tied the grain bag to the camel's saddle, and then retrieved the filled jars, replenished the waterskin, and stowed everything among the treasure bundles as carefully as he could.

'We should be on our way,' said Murdo when he finished, 'before it gets too hot.' He glanced at the sky, already white in the east with the heat of the day to come. 'We will stop and rest later.'

They left the farmhouse and, somewhat refreshed, began the day's journey in earnest. The countryside was quiet; there were no people in the fields, nor did they discern any activity around the houses they passed, whether near or distant. Murdo seemed to recall having seen labourers and farmers, women and children, sheep and dogs and chickens, too, when he had passed this way before.

They walked all through the morning and, when the sun grew too hot, found an olive tree near to the road and rested in the shade. They drank from one of the bowls, and Emlyn fed the camel a few handfuls of the grain. Murdo was dozing lightly when he felt Emlyn's touch on his arm. 'Listen! Someone is coming!'

The sound of horses moving on the road reached him in the same instant, and he came fully awake. The company was soon on them, and they huddled beneath the olive branches and watched the long double rank of soldiers gallop past.

'They are certainly in a hurry,' observed the monk.

'It is the emperor's envoy,' replied Murdo, looking at the distinctive armour. 'They must have been getting ready to leave when we were at the abbey.'

The soldiers moved on and the silence descended upon them once again. They then stretched themselves beneath the tree and slept through the heat of the day, rousing themselves and moving on again as the sun drifted low in the west.

Emlyn chanted a verse in praise of light and warmth, and offered up a travelling prayer for the protection of wayfarers. When he finished, Murdo asked, 'How did you come to serve King Magnus?'

'Well now,' said Emlyn, 'that is one of our secrets.'

'Yet another secret?' scoffed Murdo. 'It is a wonder you find anything to talk about at all.'

'The Cele De have become a secretive order, it is true,' allowed Emlyn. 'Believe me, it was not always so. But now it is our best protection. This is why we chose King Magnus.'

'You chose him!’ laughed Murdo derisively. 'Then Magnus is like no king I ever knew.'

'We needed a protector and a benefactor,' the monk explained, ignoring Murdo's scorn. 'We are few, and the power of the Anti-Christ is strong. It was either take up swords ourselves, or find someone who would shield and defend us. King Magnus was the strongest lord in the north, so -'

'Wait – what was that? Anti-Christ? What in God's name is that?'

'You would do well to speak that word softly,' Emlyn warned. 'The Cele De know that in every age a spirit of immense evil arises to work its wicked will on mankind. Very often this vile spirit seeks refuge in the Church itself, where its wickedness can work the greatest woe and destruction on the poor and needy spirits of this world; when this happens, we call it the Anti-Christ-the opposite Christ. Whatever Our Blessed Redeemer may be, the Anti-Christ is the opposite, the reverse.'

'So then, who is this Anti-Christ?'

'It is rarely a single person,' Emlyn replied. 'Sometimes, perhaps. Most often it is more like a sickness, a plague which suddenly assails the Body of Christ and seeks to destroy it.'

'If that is so, then what good is a king, no matter how many swords and shields he has at his command?'

'Oh,' remarked Emlyn quickly, 'do not misunderstand. Though the Anti-Christ might be a spirit, albeit of wickedness, the power he wields over those in his service is extraordinary. Make no mistake, in the last extremity the servants of the Anti-Christ must be fought with sword and spear.'

Murdo regarded the monk beside him-stocky legs stumping rhythmically, red face dripping with sweat. Once again, as so often happened when talking to the unassuming cleric, the discussion had abruptly taken an unexpected turn. He felt like the fisherman who sees his prize catch suddenly disappearing into unknown depths with a glinting flash of its silver sides. 'Tell me about the True Path,' he said.

'I have told you all I can. If you would learn more, you must become a Cele De,' the monk replied.

'I will never become a monk,' Murdo said with a flat slash of his hand.

'Did I say anything about becoming a priest? Most of the Cele De are priests, it is true. Most, I say, but not all.'

This roused Murdo's interest; he asked what he would have to do to become a Cele De. Emlyn answered, 'Better to ask what would be required of you after joining our number.'

'Does that mean you will not tell me?'

'It means,' replied the monk, 'that you would do well to count the cost of following the True Path.'

'How can I count the cost,' complained Murdo, 'if no one will ever tell me what it is? Who are the Cele De anyway, that you treat everyone with such suspicion?'

Emlyn sighed wearily, as if a sleeping dog had woken to snap at him once more. 'Ever since King Oswy-that poor benighted man, weak-minded and easily led by his pernicious wife and that grasping Saxon bishop – we have been made to suffer Rome's insults. The Cele De, longer in the land than any Saxon, have everywhere been hounded by the pope's noxious minions and driven to the wastes and wilderness.' The priest's hands clenched at the ends of his arms.

'We, who established the church among the pagan folk from the first, are reviled and rebuked by those who received salvation from our hands,' Emlyn continued, his voice rising steadily. 'We, who should sit at the banquet table with our noble brethren, are forced to stand in the yard with the lepers and malefactors! Almighty Rome gluts itself on the rich food of power in the realm of kings, yet our modest portion is denied. Having brought light and life to those who long dwelt in darkness and death, we are made wanderers and outcasts in the very lands that once rejoiced to speak our names.'

Murdo stared at the monk. He knew that there was some contention between Rome and the Cele De, but never had he heard any of the brothers complain so forcefully. 'So that is why you chose King Magnus to be your protector,' mused Murdo, thinking about what he had been told earlier.

As Emlyn drew breath to reply there came a distant rumble like the sound of a storm far away. Both he and Murdo turned instinctively to look behind them on the road. In a moment the sound came again, a little louder this time.

'More soldiers, I expect,' surmised Emlyn. 'It seems we will never be lonely on this road.'

The drumming of the hooves, rolling relentlessly towards them, sounded ominous. 'They are coming this way fast,' Murdo said. 'And there are more of them.'

'Perhaps we will have some company on the way.'

'No,' Murdo countered, swiftly scanning the land around for a place to hide. 'Get off the road.' Further on, the road passed through the remnant of a cedar and pine forest, but they would never make it. The last farm was too far back to be seen now, and there were no others ahead. Save for rocks of various sizes, and the occasional lonely olive tree and thorn bush, the land around them was barren.

'Over there -' Murdo pointed to a thorn bush growing from a little heap of rocks; together the bush and pile protruded above the surrounding landscape. Perhaps if they could get the camel to kneel, they might have a chance of hiding there.

Taking hold of the animal's harness, Murdo urged the beast off the dusty track towards the rock pile. They had just left the path, however, when, with a jerk of its head the camel stopped. Murdo pulled on the harness, but the beast refused.

'They are coming!' shouted Emlyn. 'I can see them!'

Murdo whirled to look behind them. The riders could be seen now as they came up over the hill, but they were still too far away to be counted; there might be six or sixteen, he could not tell.

'Help me!' Murdo called, pulling hard on the rope rein. Emlyn dashed to the grain bag and dug in his hands. Then, holding his hands before the camel, he succeeded in coaxing the beast forward a few more steps. But precious moments had been lost; the riders were now much closer.

There were not six or sixteen-there were more than sixty-and they were neither crusaders, nor Immortals. Murdo glimpsed the white-turbaned heads of the riders and his heart quailed. 'Turks!'

The rock pile stood little more than a few dozen paces, but already it was too late. For although he and Emlyn might reach it in time to get themselves out of sight, the foul beast never would.

'Leave it!' said Emlyn.

'No!' shouted Murdo defiantly. 'They will have to kill me to get their hands on my treasure.'

'They will do just that, and think nothing of it.' The monk tugged on his arm. 'Come away, Murdo.'

'No!' Murdo darted to the camel's side and reached for his father's sword. 'Hide behind the rocks. I will hold them off-'

'Murdo, stop!' said Emlyn, his voice taking on a note of authority Murdo had never heard him use before. 'Think! It is not worth your life, son.'

'It is my life!' spat Murdo. 'You cannot know what it means.' He drew the sword, and then unloosed the shield.

Emlyn stepped beside him and gripped him hard by the arm. 'No, Murdo,' he told him. 'Do not imagine that you will defeat them. Put aside the sword.'

'This is our only protection,' Murdo said, quickly strapping the sword belt around his waist.

'Listen to me closely; there is not much time. I can protect you,' the cleric said. 'I can protect us both, but there can be no weapons.'

This was said simply, but with such confidence that Murdo felt his conviction wavering. He gripped the sword hilt in his hand, feeling the comforting heft of the blade. He glanced again at the onrushing Turks; there were over a hundred, and still more appearing over the hill.

'You have trusted me in small things; will you trust me in this?' asked Emlyn. 'Will you do what I ask of you?'

Still watching the enemy's approach, Murdo reckoned that, at best, he would only be able to strike three or four times with the sword before the enemy drove him down with their spears.

'What must I do?' asked Murdo.

'Stand next to me,' Emlyn instructed, 'and take hold of my mantle.'

Although it made no sense, Murdo did as he was told. 'Now give me the sword,' the monk directed.

Murdo hesitated.

'Hear me, Murdo: we do not need it. You must trust me now.'

Emlyn took the sword in both hands, closed his eyes and spoke a few prayer-like words, then began scratching the rough outline of a circle in the hard-baked, rocky dirt. Murdo watched as the Turks raced nearer. The monk completed the circle, joining the ends so that it now enclosed them; he then drew back his arm and let the sword fly. It spun once in the air and landed with a dull thud in the dust a few dozen paces away.

'What are you doing? They are almost here!' he said, unable to keep the fear from edging into his voice.

'This is the cairn,' said the monk. 'It is a powerful symbol.'

'Symbol!' Murdo almost shrieked. He knew better than to trust a priest. Why had he given Emlyn the sword?

'It represents the all-encompassing presence and protection of God. Now do not let go of my mantle, and do not step across the circle – understand?'

Murdo nodded.

'Our Lord Christ said that wherever two or three are gathered in his name, he would be with them.' Closing his eyes, he raised his hands, palm outward, and began to chant.

The Seljuqs were almost upon them now. Murdo could see the foam gleaming on the horses' sides, and the dark, unfriendly eyes of the riders. It took all his courage, but Murdo closed his eyes, too, and listened as Brother Emlyn said, 'In the holy name of Jesu, I invoke the powerful protection of the Three to encompass me even now. I stand within the circle of the Great King's might, and place my life, my spirit, my soul in his loving care. Dearest Lord and Saviour, be to me the Swift Sure Hand of deliverance in danger. While enemies gather round about me, hide me in the hollow of your hand.'

The invocation finished, the two opened their eyes as the foe thundered past; the horses' hooves cast up clouds of grey dust as the riders hurtled by only a short spear's thrust away. The horses, nostrils wide, legs stretching and gathering, raced on as their riders, faces dark beneath white turbans, stared straight ahead, looking neither right nor left.

On and on they came, and Murdo and the priest, absolutely still inside their protecting ring, stood and watched. Murdo held tight to Emlyn's mantle, feeling that any moment one of the riders would see them and attack. But the Turks streamed by without so much as a sideways glance.

Finally, as the last of the enemy warriors flew past, Murdo released his grip on the priest's garment and turned to look for the camel. He glanced around quickly, disbelief turning quickly to alarm. He couldn't see the camel anywhere; the vile creature had vanished.

'The camel is gone.' Murdo's head swivelled this way and that, trying to locate the beast.

'Stand still,' hissed the monk, taking hold of Murdo's arm to hold him in place.

Even as he spoke, another band of Seljuq warriors appeared on the road. Murdo turned to look, and the movement must have been seen, for suddenly a group of enemy warriors swerved from the main body, left the road, and reined to a halt before them. The foremost Seljuq spoke a quick word and twenty spears swung level.