The Iron Lance, Page 3

  Murdo liked the hall and the solid stone house, and bristled at the way in which the abbot dismissed his surroundings with an indifferent glance. Ranulf failed to notice the snub, however, as he poured the monks’ cups with his own hand. When the bowls were filled, he raised his, saying, “Health and long life. Take your ease and be welcome in my house.” The holy men nodded in silence, and they all drank.

  “Lord Ranulf,” remarked the abbot, lowering the cup at last, “this is a rare pleasure for me, I assure you. I have long had it in mind to visit you, and I rejoice that the jarl’s decision has provided this felicitous opportunity.”

  “You honor me with your company, Abbot Gerardus,” replied Ranulf, reaching forward to refill the cups. He emptied the jar and made to replace it on the board but, seeing Murdo, gestured to his son. “Here now, Murdo, fill the jar.”

  Murdo leapt to the task so that he would not miss a single word. He dashed from the hall and into the kitchen to the vat in the corner, lifted the wooden cover and plunged the jar into the cool brown ale, pulled it up, and was away again before the cover slammed down. He brought the jar still dripping to the board and placed it beside his father.

  “It is as I expected,” Ranulf was saying. Murdo noticed the frown was back on his father’s face. “Yet, I had hoped he would change his mind.”

  “No doubt Jarl Erlend has many pressing concerns,” the abbot remarked judiciously.

  “Nay,” replied Ranulf scornfully, “the concerns of the Holy Church are the concerns of all good Christian men. What temporal duty can claim greater obligation?”

  “Both the bishop and I agree, of course,” Abbot Gerardus said. “And that is why we have interceded with the jarl—sadly, to no avail.” He allowed this sorrow to be duly felt, before brightening once more. “Still, I am pleased to tell you that he has at least seen the wisdom of our appeal and allowed his decision to be moderated somewhat.” The abbot paused to indulge a smugly satisfied smile. “When the interests of the church are at issue, I think you will find us most formidable adversaries.”

  “I am certain of it,” answered Ranulf quickly, impatient to learn the answer he had been waiting for over two months to hear.

  But the abbot was enjoying his diplomatic mission and would not be hurried. “Of course, the jarl is a difficult man at best, and never easy to persuade. Truly, if it were not for the bishop’s friendship with King Magnus, I do not believe—” he paused again. “Ah, well, all that is done now, and I am pleased to tell you we have secured that which we sought—at least in part, as I say.”

  “Yes?” coaxed Ranulf, leaning forward slightly.

  Abbot Gerardus lifted his head as if he were delivering a benediction. “Although Jarl Erlend remains firm in his decision, he has given his vow that he will neither hinder nor reprove any nobleman who chooses to follow the crusade.”

  “Good!” cried Ranulf, slapping the board with his hand.

  “God be praised,” the monks murmured, nodding contentedly.

  “Indeed,” continued the abbot, “each of the jarl’s vassals is free to obey his own conviction in the matter.”

  There was a movement beside the lord as his wife stepped beside him. Alone of those present, her expression was dour. Ranulf, oblivious to her disapproval and giddy with the prospect before him, took her hand into his. The abbot looked away primly.

  “Naturally,” intoned the abbot after a moment, “the jarl wishes it to be known that, inasmuch as he is not taking the cross himself, he will not be extending any material assistance to those who choose to go.”

  “Nothing?” asked Ranulf, the smile fading from his face.

  The abbot gave a slight shake of his head. Murdo could see how much the gray-robed cleric relished his position as emissary, and hated him the more. Self-important meddler, thought Murdo, and entertained himself with the vision of the abbot’s backside covered in ripe, red boils.

  “You see how it is,” Abbot Gerardus replied. “The jarl has many claims on his properties and substance. It is enough that he will be deprived of the rightful tribute of his noblemen. Certainly, he cannot be expected to provide supplies and provisions for all.”

  “But—” began Ranulf. His protest was stifled by the imperious abbot’s upraised palm.

  “It is the view of the church that those who follow the crusade are pilgrims and as such must meet the cost of the pilgrimage out of their own resources.” He looked around the room, as if assessing the value of its appointments. “If one finds oneself unable to meet the cost, then perhaps one is unwise in pursuing the journey.”

  “The tribute will be forgiven?” wondered Ranulf.

  “Of course.”

  “For the duration of the crusade?”

  The abbot nodded. “All tithes and taxes, too, yes—that is, until the pilgrim returns.”

  Ranulf rubbed his chin, reckoning his savings.

  “I would not like to think the love of mammon stood between any man and his sacred duty,” Abbot Gerardus continued. “The spiritual rewards are not inconsiderable. As you know, all pilgrims will enjoy complete absolution for all sins committed while on crusade, and should death befall anyone who takes the cross, his soul is assured swift admission into paradise.”

  “That much I have heard,” Ranulf replied.

  Lady Niamh, grim and silent, stood with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Murdo knew the look, and rightly feared it.

  The three young men entered the hall just then, eager to hear the abbot’s news. They approached the board and Ranulf beckoned them close. “We have our answer,” the lord informed his sons and nephew. “Jarl Erlend will allow the crusade, but we cannot look to him for aid.”

  “We can go?” asked Torf, glancing from his father to the abbot and back again.

  “Aye, that we can,” Lord Ranulf answered.

  “Then I take the cross!” declared Torf, thrusting forward.

  “Torf-Einar!” exclaimed Lady Niamh. “It is not for you to say.”

  “I take the cross!” Skuli echoed, ignoring his mother.

  Not to be outdone, Paul pushed forward. “In the name of Christ, I take the cross!”

  Ranulf stood, gazing resolutely at his wife. “Tell Bishop Adalbert that Lord Ranulf of Dýrness and his sons will come before him to take the cross on the Saint John’s Sabbath.”

  Murdo heard this and his heart beat faster. Did his father mean to include him, too? Perhaps the lord had changed his mind, and he would be included after all. He held his breath.

  The young abbot nodded. “Trust that I will tell him. Of course, you will wish to place your lands under the protection of the church during your pilgrimage.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Ranulf replied easily. “Lady Niamh will remain in authority here. My son, Murdo, will be here to help her, of course, and as the jarl is to stay in Orkneyjar, we have nothing to fear.”

  Murdo’s face fell as the hope, so quickly kindled, died to ashes in his heart.

  “That is your privilege, of course, Lord Ranulf,” remarked the abbot. “But I advise you to pray and seek God’s guidance in this matter. You can deliver your decision to the bishop on the Sabbath.”

  “There is no need,” Ranulf assured him. “I have made my decision, and I will not be changing it now.”

  “Very well.” With that, the abbot rose, and Murdo received the distinct impression that, having made a dreadful blunder, they were all being abruptly dismissed.

  Heads erect, hands folded before them, Abbot Gerardus and his brother monks left the hall, retracing their steps to the yard. The lord bade his sons to fetch the clerics’ horses, and Murdo used the opportunity to loosen the cinch strap on the abbot’s saddle—not enough so that the churchman should fall, but enough to make the saddle sway uneasily from side to side.

  Back in the yard once more, the abbot accepted the reins from Murdo’s hand and, without so much as a word of thanks, swung himself onto his mount. “Pax vobiscum,” he intoned
sourly.

  “Pax vobiscum,” answered Ranulf, whereupon the abbot wheeled his horse and rode from the yard, followed by his three silent companions.

  After supper the Lord of Dýrness and his lady wife exchanged sharp words. Late into the night their voices could be heard beyond the thick walls of their chamber. The servingmen had vanished just after clearing the supper board, lest they come foul of their lord’s displeasure, and none were to be found anywhere. Murdo, sitting alone at the hearth, could not hear what they said, but the meaning was clear enough. Even the lord’s gray wolfhound remained curled in a corner of the hearth, jowls resting on his great paws.

  “What ails you, Jötun?” muttered Murdo, flicking a peat clod at the dog. “It’s me that has been forsaken.”

  Murdo did not go to his bed that night; he was discouraged enough already without listening to the smug chatter of his brothers and cousin. Instead, he stalked the hill behind the house cursing his luck and railing against his untimely birth. He demanded of the heavens to know why he had been born last, but neither the stars, nor the pale half moon deigned to answer. They never did.

  TWO

  “Your horse has been saddled, basileus,” announced Nicetas. From his camp chair in the center of the tent, Alexius Comnenus, Emperor of All Christendom, God’s Co-Regent on Earth, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Army, rose and lifted his arms. Two young armor-bearers darted forward, one of them clutching the imperial sword, and the other the wide silver belt.

  Together the two buckled the sword and then backed silently away while old Gerontius, Magister of the Chamber, shuffled forward holding the emperor’s golden circlet on a small cushion of purple silk. Alexius lifted the circlet and placed it on his head, and then turned to his aging servant. “Are we ready, Gerontius?”

  “The basileus is ready,” replied Gerontius with a bow.

  “Come then, Nicetas,” said the emperor, stepping quickly to the door. “We would not have the enemy believe we are cowering in our tent. We shall let them see us at the head of our troops, and they shall know Alexius fears nothing.”

  The two men emerged from the imperial tent, and the emperor stepped onto the mounting block where his favorite stallion waited. Alexius raised his foot to the stirrup and swung easily into the saddle; he took up the reins and, with Nicetas, Captain of the Excubitori, the palace guard, mounted beside him, made his way slowly through the camp to the chorused shouts of acclaim from rank upon rank of soldiers.

  “Listen to them, Nicetas. They are eager for the fight,” Alexius observed. “That is good. We will whet their appetite a little more, so that tomorrow they will feast without restraint.”

  “The blood of the enemy will be a rich sacrifice for God and his Holy Church,” the captain of the guard replied. “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Upon reaching the edge of the camp, the two rode on, following a trail which led to a nearby hill where three men on horseback waited. “Hail and welcome, basileus!” called the foremost of them, riding forward to greet his sovereign with a kiss. The other two offered the imperial salute and waited to be addressed.

  “What have you to show us, Dalassenus?” the emperor asked. He rubbed his hands in anticipation, and regarded his kinsman fondly.

  “This way, if you will, basileus,” replied Dalassenus, Grand Drungarius, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Fleet. The family resemblance was strong in the young commander: thick black curly hair and keen black eyes beneath even brows, he was short-limbed and muscular like all the Comneni men, and swarthy-skinned like his cousin; he differed only in that where his kinsmen displayed the Greek half of their heritage, his own features tended more towards the Syrian.

  Reining in beside Alexius, he led the emperor up a winding rocky path towards the crest of the hill. The two rode together side by side, easy in one another’s company. They had fought alongside one another many times, and both knew and respected the other’s skill and courage.

  As the emperor and his entourage gained the top of the hill called Levunium, the light from the setting sun struck them full like the blaze from victory fire. The sky, aglow with flaming reds and golds, shone with a brilliance exceeded only by the sun itself. The men, blinded for a few moments, shielded their eyes with their hands until they could see once more, and then looked down into the dusky valley below.

  The extreme desperation of their predicament became apparent only gradually as they beheld the dark, spreading blotch rippling north and south from one promontory to the other, and stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see—like a vast black river whose waters were slowly filling the Maritsa valley with the flood of a vile and filthy sea.

  Alexius stood in awe-stricken silence, gazing into the valley at the assembled enemy: Pechenegs and Bogomils in numbers beyond counting, tribe upon tribe, whole barbarian nations rising to the slaughter of the empire. Nor were these the greatest enemy bawling for the blood of Byzantium. They were merely the last in a long, long train of barbarian hordes seeking to enrich and aggrandize themselves through the plunder of the empire’s legendary wealth.

  Alexius, the light of the dying sun in his eyes, took in the unholy sight before him, and remembered all the other times he had gazed upon the enemy before a battle. In the last thirteen years he had faced Slavs and Goths and Huns, Bulgars and Magyars, Gepids and Uzz and Avars—all howling down across the windswept steppelands of the North; and in the south the wily, implacable Arabs: first the Saracens, and now the Seljuqs, a sturdy and energetic warrior race from the arid wastes of the East.

  God in heaven, he thought, there are so many! Where does it end? Forcing down his dismay, he declared, “The greater the enemy, the greater the victory. God be praised.” After a moment, he turned to his kinsman and asked, “How many Cuman have pledged to fight for us?”

  “Thirty thousand, basileus,” replied Dalassenus. “They are camped just over there.” He indicated a series of rough hills, behind which a pall of smoke was gathering. “Does the emperor wish to go to them?”

  Alexius shook his head slowly. “No.” He squared his shoulders and straightened his back. “We have seen enough barbarians—they hold no fascination for us. We would rather speak to our soldiers. It is time to kindle the flame of courage so that it will burn brightly in the fight.”

  He reined aside and departed the hilltop, returned to the Byzantine camp and commanded Nicetas to assemble the themes and scholae. While the soldiers were summoned, the emperor waited in his tent, kneeling before his chair, hands clasped tightly in prayer.

  When Alexius emerged from his tent once more, the sun had set, and two stars gleamed in a sky the color of the amethysts in his swordbelt. A raised platform had been erected beside the tent so that he might address his troops and, with the coming of night, torches had been lit and placed at each corner of the platform. Preceded by an excubitor bearing the vexillum, the ancient war standard of the Roman Legions, Alexius mounted the steps and walked to the edge of the platform to look out upon the assembled might of Byzantium—a force much reduced from its former size, but potent still.

  The last of the ancient and honorable themes stood in ranks before him, their separate regiments marked out by the color of their cloaks and tunics: the red of Thrace, the deep blue of Opsikion, the green of Bithynia, the gold of Phrygia, and the black of the Hetairi. Rank on rank, upraised spears gleaming in the dusky twilight, they stood, fifty thousand strong, the last remnant of the finest soldiers the world had ever seen: the Immortals. Alexius’ heart swelled with pride to see them.

  “Tomorrow we fight for the Glory of God and the welfare of the empire,” the emperor declared. “Tomorrow we fight. But tonight, my brave companions—tonight, above all nights, we pray!”

  Alexius paced the edge of the platform, his golden breastplate glimmering like water in the torchlight. How many times had he addressed his troops in just this way, he wondered. How many more times must he exhort men to lay down their lives for the empire? When would it en
d? Great God, there must be an end.

  “We pray, my friends, for victory over the enemy. We pray for strength, and courage, and endurance. We pray God’s protection over us, and his deliverance in the heat and hate of battle.” So saying, Alexius, Elect of Heaven, Equal of the Apostles, fell on his knees and fifty thousand of the finest warriors the world had ever seen knelt with him.

  Raising his hands to heaven, the emperor sent heartfelt words of supplication and entreaty winging to the throne of God. His voice rang out in the twilight stillness with all the passion of a commander who knows his troops woefully outnumbered and must trust their courage to sway the scales of war.

  When at last the emperor finished, night had descended upon the camp. Alexius opened his eyes and stood to gaze in amazement at a most miraculous sight; it was as if the stars above had fallen to earth, and the plain before him now sparkled with all the glory of heaven itself. Each and every soldier had a lighted wax taper affixed to the blade of his spear—fifty thousand earthstars shining with bright-flecked rays, illuminating the camp with a clear and holy light.

  The glow from that light sustained Alexius through the long, restless night, and was with him still when he rode out at the head of his troops before dawn. The imperial cavalry crossed the Maritsa a few miles upstream of the encamped enemy, formed the battalions, and waited for daybreak. They attacked from the east, with the light of the rising sun at their backs. To the sleep-sotted barbarians, it seemed as if the warhost of heaven was streaming down upon them from out of the sun.

  Alexius struck the confused mass at the center of the Pecheneg and Bogomil horde. It was a swift, sharp thrust into the belly of the beast, and he was away again before the barbarian battlehorns had sounded the call to arms. Having roused and enraged the enemy, he fell back—just out of reach of their slings and spears—and waited for them to make their counter attack.