The iron lance

FORTY-FOUR

From their high vantage they watched as the movement on the plain gradually ceased, whereupon the greater mass separated itself from the lesser, and moved off, skirting the city and disappearing up the coast. Murdo stood slowly. 'It is over. The Turks have gone.'

They then started down the hill track once more. By the time they reached the plain, the battlefield had been invaded for a second time-by a host of people from Jaffa, many of whom were yet streaming out of the city and onto the plain. Murdo and the monk hurried to meet them, proceeding to the edge of the battleground where the first corpses they encountered were those of crusader knights, struck down by Seljuq arrows. There were more horses than men, and several of the animals were still alive, thrashing in agony on the ground as they hurried by.

Closer to the centre of the fighting, the corpses became more numerous. They came upon the body of a knight who had fallen beneath his mount. The horse still lay upon its rider, whose arm extended from beneath the animal's neck, the hand still clutching the sword. Murdo paused and regarded the unfortunate, then looked at the waterskin on the horse's saddle.

'He has no further use for it,' Emlyn said, 'and is past caring in any event.'

Murdo nodded, stooped quickly and untied the strap holding the skin; he removed the stopper and put the skin to his mouth. The water slid over his parched tongue and down his throat in a cool deluge. He drank down great greedy gulps, pulling the waterskin away reluctantly and passing it to Emlyn with a gasp of relief.

They shared the water between them until the skin was empty, whereupon Emlyn replaced it. He made the sign of the cross over the fallen warrior, and offered a death blessing. The water revived them wonderfully well, and they moved on towards the centre of the field where the battle had been most fierce. The dead became more numerous, the parched ground beneath them black with spilled blood. Though they looked, they could see no wounded. Most of the soldiers had suffered both arrow wounds and sword cuts. 'Felled by arrows and finished with the sword,' Murdo observed grimly. 'The enemy showed no mercy.'

'It is because of Jerusalem,' remarked Emlyn. He stood gazing sadly upon the slaughter, his round shoulders bending under the weight of a terrible vision. 'Now begins the season of revenge, when Death reigns, and evil is loosed upon the world.'

At these words, Murdo saw again the ghastly carnage unleashed upon the Holy City in a veritable storm of hate and greed and butchery. He saw himself wandering through the blood-rich desolation, fearful, lost, and alone, while high above him, sailing through the smoke-filled air with leathery wings outstretched, laughing with wicked glee, the Ancient Enemy rejoiced in the slaughter and chaos.

Murdo looked around him and saw the same grisly destruction, and heard the same demonic laughter streaking through the empty heights. What was begun in Jerusalem will last a thousand years, he thought; of war and revenge there will be no end. These dead, still warm upon the blood-soaked earth, are but the first of a blighted race whose population will grow more numerous than the stars.

Somewhere, thought Murdo, there must be a refuge, a haven from the storm of death and destruction. Somewhere there must be a place of peace and prosperity-if only to remind men that such qualities could still exist this side of heaven.

Build me a kingdom, Saint Andrew had said. Establish a realm where my sheep may safely graze, and make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.

As Murdo stood gazing upon the field of death, the words of the ghostly monk quickened in his heart: All you possess was given to you for a purpose. I ask you again, said the voice from the catacombs, will you serve me?

At the time, he had pledged to do what he could. Now, looking upon the wanton, senseless waste of life in the ignorant service of rapacious, power-mad avarice and ambition, he knew, knew beyond all doubt, what he was being asked to do.

I will do what I can, he had vowed, at the time. No, he decided, I will do more. I will build that haven from the storms of death and destruction. I will build a kingdom where the Holy Light shines as a beacon flame in the darkness of that terrible night.

At Emlyn's touch, Murdo came to himself with a start. 'What were you saying? It sounded like Sanctus Clarus-are you well, Murdo?'

The young man nodded.

'We should see if there is anything we can do,' the monk said, moving on. Murdo followed, leading the camel, his heart and mind churning with the certainty that he had been called to this place and this moment.

Picking their way among the bodies, they came at last to the place where the crusaders had made their stand. Here, the corpses were heaped one upon another on the ground, and there were few horses. The unhorsed knights had been no match for the mounted Seljuqs. Arrows bristled from every corpse; most had been struck many times.

Here also, the people of Jaffa had begun their work. A number of them were removing the harnesses and saddles from the horses, and others were skinning the animals and butchering them where they lay. Their red, raw carcasses glistened in the harsh light, and the rank smell of their entrails mingled with the sweet stink of blood already thick in the air. A little apart, other groups of townsfolk were separating the crusaders from the Turks-flinging the Seljuqs onto a heap, and dragging the Christians off to be placed in long ranks on the ground, where other men and women were moving along the rows, stripping the dead knights of valuables, weapons, and any useful items of clothing.

These articles were then taken to waiting wagons where they were loaded under the watchful eye of a man in a tall black hat with a staff in his hand. He was standing before a small heap of objects on the ground.

As this man appeared to be giving orders to the others, they went over to him to learn what they could of the battle. Emlyn greeted the fellow politely, and he turned his face towards them, frowning. 'What do you want?' he asked, eyeing the camel suspiciously.

'We saw the battle,' Emlyn said. 'We were on our way to Jaffa and saw-

Black Hat turned away and shouted at a fellow standing in one of the wagons. 'Only the weapons in that one!' he cried. 'How many times must I tell you?'

Turning back to the priest, he said, 'It was not much of a battle. The Turks were waiting for them.' Indicating the pile of valuables at his feet, he said, 'Have you anything to sell?'

'We saw smoke,' said Murdo. 'Was the city attacked?'

'Aye, they tried to burn the gates,' the merchant told them. 'Third time this month. But we put the fire out.' He shouted at his helper in the wagon again, then said, 'If you are going to stand here, you might as well make yourself useful. I pay good silver for their belongings.'

'What about the wounded?' asked Emlyn looking around.

The merchant shrugged. 'If you find any, you can give them last rites.'

There came a clatter of steel from the nearby wagon. 'Careful with those!' the merchant roared. 'Can I sell broken blades?'

A woman came up to the black hatted merchant; she was holding a belt with a silver buckle-a knight's sword belt. The man took the belt, looked at it, and threw it down on the heap in front of him. Reaching into a purse at his side, he drew out a fistful of coins and counted a few of them onto the woman's palm. She bowed her head and scurried away, returning eagerly to her work.

Murdo and Emlyn moved among the fallen, searching for any who might yet be saved. They had not gone far when they heard a soft, moaning sigh. 'Over there!' said Emlyn, hurrying towards the sound, calling encouragement as he went. Murdo quickly tied the camel to the pommel of a dead horse's saddle, and removed the waterskin hanging there; he joined the priest as he knelt beside a knight with an arrow in his chest and another in his thigh.

The wounded man struggled up onto an elbow as Murdo handed the priest the waterskin. 'Turks…' he gasped as the priest knelt over him.

'Rest easy, friend,' Emlyn said gently. He drew the stopper and offered the skin. 'Drink a little. We will help you.'

The knight, a fair-haired young Norman, grasped the skin clumsily and tipped it to his mouth. He drank, the water spilling from his mouth and down his neck to mingle with the blood oozing from the wound in his chest. He drank too fast and choked; water gushed from his mouth and he fell back.

The monk quickly retrieved the waterskin, replaced the stopper, and said, 'We must remove these arrows. Murdo, give me your knife.'

'The Seljuqs attacked us… They took it…' said the knight. Seizing Emlyn by the mantle, he jerked the monk forward. 'They were waiting for us -' He grimaced, gritting his teeth against the pain. 'Tell Godfrey the lance is gone…'

Murdo reached into his siarc and brought out the slender knife Ragna had given him. The knight, his face twisted in his agony, reached his hand towards Murdo. 'Tell Godfrey… they took it!'

'Peace,' soothed Emlyn. 'Be still. We will soon have those wounds bandaged.'

Before Murdo could ask what he meant, the knight closed his eyes and passed from consciousness. Emlyn lowered his face to the wounded man's, and then sat back. 'He sleeps.' Turning worried eyes to Murdo, he said, 'It will be dark soon. We must work quickly.'

Using the knife, the monk carefully sliced through the soldier's siarc to expose the wound. The arrow had entered at the top of his chest, below the bones of his left shoulder. 'This one was fortunate,' Emlyn observed.

Taking up the waterskin, the monk dashed water over the wound to wash away the blood. Then, holding the blade gingerly in his fingers, he carefully pressed it into the wound beside the arrow. The knight groaned, but did not wake.

'Grasp the arrow firmly,' he directed. Murdo did as he was told, and the monk said, 'Now, on my command, I want you to pull upwards on the shaft. Ready?'

Murdo gripped the arrow in both hands. 'Yes.'

'Pull.'

Murdo gave an upwards tug and Emlyn, pressing down on the shoulder with his free hand, twisted the knife blade at the same instant, and the arrow came free. The knight jerked his arm, and then lay still.

'That was well done,' breathed Murdo, tossing the arrow aside.

The monk handed him the knife. 'Cut strips from his mantle to bind him,' he said, dashing more water over the wound. Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he took out a small bag and withdrew a pinch of yellowish stuff which he sprinkled over the shoulder, before binding it with the strips which Murdo handed him.

That done, Emlyn turned his attention to the wound in the knight's thigh, repeating the procedure with a deft efficiency which caused Murdo to marvel anew. Twice in this eventful day he had been surprised by the monk; he wondered what else the priest could do that he did not know about.

They were just finishing tying up the leg wound when the sound of horses reached them from the hills east of the plain. Murdo turned towards the sound, expecting to see the Seljuq horde sweeping down upon them. Instead, galloping towards them in the yellow afterglow of the setting sun, he saw two long columns of knights.

'Who are they? Can you see?' asked Emlyn, rising to stand beside him. 'The banners-can you see them?'

'Black and yellow, I think,' replied Murdo.

'The yellow and black-that is Prince Bohemond,' said Emlyn.

The crusaders skirted the battlefield and came on to where their comrades had made their final stand. They reined up along the fallen front line, whereupon many of the knights dismounted and began moving quickly among their dead comrades. Their leaders, meanwhile, rode on to where Black Hat stood directing the scavengers.

'Stay with him,' Murdo told the monk. 'I want to hear what they are saying.'

'Greetings, friends,' called a tall, broad-shouldered man to the Jaffa merchant as Murdo edged near. The knight's freshly burnished helm and hauberk glimmered golden in the fading light. His long fair hair curled from beneath his helm, and his arms bulged with knotted muscle as he struggled to hold his mount still. From the man's easy authority, Murdo knew it must be Bohemond himself who addressed them.

'I see no surviving warriors of Lord Godfrey's war band.' He regarded the small gathering with grave dark eyes. 'I pray you, tell me I am wrong.'

The Jaffa merchant took it upon himself to answer for everyone. 'Alas, lord,' he replied, 'you are too right. The Turks were waiting in ambush. Their victory was complete; there are no survivors.'

'If you saw the ambush,' said the man with Bohemond, speaking up, 'I wonder that you did not send soldiers from the town to aid in the fight.'

'They set fire to the gate,' the merchant countered. 'What could we do?'

'Has the city no other gates?' demanded the knight angrily.

Bohemond held up his hand for silence. 'Desist, Bayard. The deed is done.' He gestured towards the wagon into which the weapons were being loaded. 'Go and see what they have found.' The knight rode to the wagon, and while he began questioning the townsfolk working there, the count turned once more to the merchant. 'These men were coming from Jerusalem. Am I to assume they did not reach the city?'

'No, my lord, they did not,' Black Hat confirmed. 'Unfortunately, they were attacked before they could reach the safety of the walls.'

The Prince of Taranto nodded and looked around. He saw Murdo standing nearby, and said, 'You there. Is that the way you saw it?' The question held neither suspicion, nor judgement. Bohemond gazed mildly at the young man before him, his handsome face ruddy in the dying light.

'We saw it only from a distance,' Murdo answered, pointing to the hills away to the east. 'By the time we arrived here, the battle was over. But there is -' he began, intending to tell the prince about the lone surviving knight they had found.

Before he could say more, the nobleman Bayard returned from his inspection of the wagons. 'It is not among the weapons,' he called, reining in his horse. 'I say the Turks have taken it. They cannot have gone far. We can catch them.'

Bohemond turned his attention to those searching among the dead. He called to the warriors, and asked, 'Have you found it?'

'No, lord,' shouted the nearest soldier; the others answered likewise.

'Return to your mounts,' Bohemond commanded. 'Come, Bayard, we will discover where the accursed Seljuqs have gone.' He thanked the merchant and townspeople for the help, turned his horse, and rode away. Within moments the battle host was streaming after him; they passed by the walls of the city and headed south along the coast.

Murdo returned to where Emlyn was waiting. He had spread a cloak over the wounded soldier, and was sitting beside him, praying. He looked up at Murdo's approach. 'What did you learn?'

'You were right-it was Bohemond,' the young man confirmed. 'They are looking for something. They said the ambushed troops belonged to Godfrey, and that…' Murdo paused and gazed at the wounded soldier. 'I know what it is.'

'Well?' asked the monk.

'He said it,' Murdo replied, indicating the unconscious knight. 'He said, "Tell Godfrey the lance is gone." He meant the Holy Lance.'

'They have lost the Holy Lance,' Emlyn said, his voice growing suddenly bitter. 'These ignorant, foolish men! Blind and stupid, every one-from king to footman, not a brain among them. Cast them all into the pit and be done with it, O God!'

Once, such an outburst from the gentle monk would have alarmed Murdo, but not now. He knew exactly what the monk was feeling; he felt the same way himself.

Sinking to his knees, Emlyn raised clenched fists in the air. 'They have made of your great name a curse, O Lord,' he cried, 'and their deeds are blasphemy in your sight. Who will restore your honour, Great King? Who will overthrow the wickedness of the mighty?'

Murdo heard these words, felt his heart stirred to anger within him, and answered, 'I will.'

Emlyn, hands still raised, looked at his young friend. 'Murdo?' Seeing the light of a strange and powerful determination in the young man's eyes, he said, 'You have seen the vision, too.'

'I have,' confirmed Murdo. 'A curse and a blasphemy, you said -you were told to rescue the sacred relic from those who -

– from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy, yes, but-' the monk began.

'I am going after it,' Murdo said, his confidence growing by the moment. 'It is not right that they should use that holy relic as a trinket to be bartered for position and power. One way or another, I will bring it back.'

The priest rose quickly and stood before him. 'Hear me, Murdo: once in every life the choice is given,' Emlyn said quietly, his voice taking on the tone he used when telling the stories that moved Murdo's heart, 'to follow the True Path, or to turn aside. Your time has come, Murdo, and here is where it begins. You may lose everything you have worked for-you may even lose your life; but once you have begun, you can never turn back. Do you understand?'

Murdo accepted this with a nod. In that instant, he saw the path stretching out before him; he had taken the first step of a journey that would take a lifetime to complete. And for once in his life, he felt truly free. 'I am going,' he said again.

'Give me your sword,' Emlyn said. 'Men are forever taking up swords in spiritual battles. They forget who upholds them and delivers them; they trust instead to their own strength, and they fail. I do not want that to happen to you.'

Murdo hesitated.

'Look around you,' the monk instructed, indicating the corpses spread out upon the field. 'Godfrey's best warriors could not avail; why believe one more blade will make any difference?' He held out his hand for the weapon. 'It is not by might or skill at arms that this battle will be won, but by faith and the will of God.'

Unbuckling the sword belt, Murdo handed the blade to Emlyn. 'You are right,' he agreed. 'Besides, it would only slow me down.'

'May God bless you, Murdo, and send a flight of angels to surround you and guide you safely home once more.'

Murdo thanked the monk, embraced him, and said, 'Once you get inside the walls, go to the harbour. Find Jon Wing's ship and wait for me there. I will join you as soon as I can.'

Murdo drank some water then, and quickly refilled the waterskin from the contents of others he retrieved from among the belongings of the dead nearby. Meanwhile, Emlyn pawed around in the pouch behind the wounded knight's saddle, and brought out a chunk of dried meat and a bit of hard bread. Taking a cloak from behind the saddle of another dead knight, he returned to Murdo. 'You will need this tonight, I think,' the priest said, handing him the cloak. 'And take this bread and meat.'

Murdo slung the waterskin over his shoulder, and drew on the cloak. 'I will return as soon as I can,' he promised, accepting the small hard loaf and scrag of meat the monk offered. He glanced up at the sky and saw the stars already shining over the hills to the east. 'It will be a clear night and a good moon. I will be able to see the way. You should hurry, too, before the gates are closed for the night.'

He started off, making for the trail Bohemond and his war band had followed. 'Fear nothing,' Emlyn called after him. 'God himself goes with you.'

'See you do not lose the camel,' Murdo called back, lifting his hand in farewell. Then, turning his gaze quickly to the south, he saw the broad backs of low hills; he could make out their smooth slopes in the twilight. These were the leading edges of the grassy dunes which ran along the coast south of the city. It was from there that the Seljuqs had sprung their attack, and that was where he had seen them disappear. Somewhere among these dunes, thought Murdo, he would find the Holy Lance.