Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance

BOOK I

January 6, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland

My name is of no importance.

It is enough to know that three nights ago I obtained to the Seventh Degree

Initiation. Perforce, and I am now a member of the Inner Temple, and therefore

privy to the secrets I am about to reveal.

Do not think for a moment that I intend to betray the trust which has been

placed in me. I would gladly die before endangering the Brotherhood or its

work. As it happens, much of what I shall set forth is already known; at

least, any reasonably intelligent reader with an ounce of curiosity and a

half-decent library can obtain it with patience and perseverance. The rest,

however, is beyond all recovery, save by the methods which have been employed

on my behalf. Those methods, like the knowledge so derived, is arcane beyond

belief.

Indeed, were I not now among the chosen few, I would not believe it myself,

nor would I be writing this at all. As to that, I have put it off long enough.

The time has come to order the confusion of my thoughts and the extraordinary,

nay fantastic, experiences of the last days. Perhaps in the writing I will

begin to reassure myself that I am not insane. The events which I shall tell

did happen, believe me.

I begin.

The summons came as it usually does - a single rap on the door of my study,

and a note bearing neither seal nor signature, nor any message save the

solitary word: Tonight.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day disengaging myself from my

various commitments and, at the appropriate time, made my way to the appointed

place of rendezvous. Forgive me if I do not divulge the location of our

meeting place. Suffice to say that it is a simple church no great distance

from the city, easily reached by hansom cab. As always, I paid the driver for

his trouble, delivered instructions for his return, and proceeded the last two

or so miles on foot. Like my fellows, I vary the route each time, as well as

the driver, so as not to arouse undue interest or suspicion.

Although the church appears nondescript - all sombre grey stone and suitably

traditional appointments - T assure you it is quite ancient, and anything but

traditional. Upon entering, I paused to pray in one of the chapel pews before

retrieving my grey robe from the rack in the vestry, and making my way down

the hidden steps behind the altar to the crypt where our more intimate

convocations take place.

The lower room smells faintly of dust and dry decay. It is dark. We rely on

candlelight alone, and that sparingly. I am not afraid; I have participated in

many such gatherings of the Brotherhood for several years now, and am well

acquainted with the various forms and functions of our group. Ordinarily, I am

one of the first to arrive. Tonight, however, I can sense the others waiting

for me as I stoop nearly double to enter the inner room. I make some small

excuse for being late, but am reassured by Genotti (I should state here that

all names encountered in this narrative have been altered to protect the

anonymity of the members of the Brotherhood) - who tells me that I am not

late, but that tonight's meeting is a special affair.

'We began our colloquy last night,' Genotti tells me. 'You were not required

until this moment.'

'I see.'

Another voice speaks. 'You have been a faithful member of the Council of

Brothers for six years, I believe.' It is Evans, our number two, or Second

Principal. 'In that time, we have watched you ceaselessly for any hint or sign

of impropriety, however small.'

'I hope I have not disappointed you.'

'On the contrary. You have impressed us greatly. Our admiration has only

increased.'

A third voice speaks from the darkness. 'Many have been called to the

Brotherhood before you.' It is Kutch; his Austrian accent is all his own.

'However, no one has proven worthy of higher honour .. . until now.'

At his use of the word 'honour', my senses prick. That word was used only once

before on such an occasion - the night I was asked to join the Brotherhood.

'I was not aware any higher honour existed,' I reply.

'Martyrdom was an honour,' Zaccaria informs me calmly, (to those who embraced

it.'

'Am I to be a martyr?'

It is De Cardou who answers. 'We are «// martyrs, my friend. It is only the

cause which distinguishes one from another.'

I do not know what to say to this, so the silence stretches long. I have the

sense that they are watching me, that they can see me in the dark even though

I cannot see them.

It is Pemberton who speaks at last. This surprises me, for I expected one of

the others - Evans, perhaps, or De Cardou. But, no, I know now that the

unassuming Pemberton is our superior, our First Principal. 'If you would

suffer martyrdom, as we have suffered it before you,' he says gently, 'you

have but to step forward.'

I do so, and without a moment's hesitation. I have seen enough of the

Brotherhood and its works to trust these men implicitly. I need no second

invitation, and in any event I would not have received one. Thus, I accept,

stepping forward the prescribed single step; and thus, the initiation begins.

At once I am seized by two members of the Inner Temple, one on either side;

they stretch out my arms horizontally, while a third fastens a thick, padded

band around my waist. I am led forward to a small table which has been set up

in the centre of the crypt.

A solitary candle is lit, and in its glow I see that the table is covered with

a spotless white cloth upon which a selection of objects has been assembled: a

silver bowl of liquid, a white clay pipe of the kind used to smoke tobacco, a

communion chalice, a golden plate containing something which looks like dried

figs, a folded black cloth of a material which I assume to be silk, or satin,

and lastly, a crude wooden cross set on a pedestal of gold.

I am brought to stand before the table, and my six initiators take their

places on the other side, opposite me; they have covered their heads with

their cowls so I may not see their faces. It does not matter, I know their

voices like I know my own. Even so, the effect is unsettling.

'Seeker, stretch forth your hands.' The command is delivered by Pemberton, and

I do as I am told. He picks up the silver bowl and places it on my palms.

'Take and drink.'

I raise the bowl to my lips and sip the liquid. It is sweet, tasting vaguely

herbal, like a mixture of roses and anise; yet, there is strength in it, too.

I feel the burn in my throat as I swallow. I lower the bowl and it is removed

from me, only to be offered once more. 'Seeker, take and drink.'

I drink again, and feel an uncanny warmth spreading through my gullet and

stomach. I lower the bowl once more, and once more I am instructed to drink.

The strange warmth is filling me from the inside out, spreading from the pit

of my stomach to my limbs.

After the third drink of the heady potion, I am allowed to replace the bowl,

whereupon the cross is raised and offered to me. 'Seeker,' it is De Cardou,

'venerate the cross.'

At this, the cross is elevated and placed before my face for me to kiss. This

I do, and the cross is replaced. De Cardou takes up the clay pipe and turns

away. When he turns back, the pipe is lit and smoking - although this happens

so quickly I do not see how he could have struck a match, let alone lit the

pipe. 'Seeker, imbibe the Incense of Heaven.'

I take the end of the pipe into my mouth and draw upon it. The smoke is

fragrant and fills my mouth. I blow it out, and draw again on the wonderful

fragrance. After the third such puff, the pipe is, like the bowl, withdrawn

and replaced on the table.

Genotti speaks next. 'Seeker,' he says in his soft Italian tones, raising the

golden plate, 'take and eat.'

I choose one of the shrivelled brown objects from the offered plate. I put it

into my mouth and chew. The flesh is soft and somewhat leathery - like that of

dried fruit - but the taste is acrid, bitter. Tears start to my eyes, and I am

overwhelmed by a desire to spit out this strange substance. The bitterness is

so intense it seems to burn, and then to numb my mouth. My tongue loses all

sensation, becoming an unfeeling lump of useless tissue which, unaccountably,

seems to swell in my mouth. I fear I will choke. I cannot breathe.

Gasping, gagging, somehow I keep chewing the awful stuff, and am at last able

to swallow it down. A new fear overtakes me: I will be made to eat from the

plate again . . . but no, Genotti replaces the plate, and takes up the

chalice. This is offered without a word, and I accept. I drink; it seems to be

a cordial of some kind. I can detect no particular aroma or taste, but

instantly feel my tongue and teeth and lips and the soft tissues of my throat

begin to throb with a tingling sensation. I know not whether this comes from

the dried fruit I have ingested, or from the cordial, but the tingling does

not abate.

I am suddenly taken with a curious desire to laugh. I feel as if a bubble is

rising inside me, growing larger as it ascends, and that I must give birth to

this bubble with a gale of laughter, otherwise I will burst. It is all I can

do to keep from laughing out loud.

'Seeker,' says Genotti once more, 'imbibe the Incense of Heaven.'

The smoke calms me, and though my mouth still tingles I am no longer afflicted

by the mad desire to laugh. Evans speaks next. 'Seeker, answer me: how sees a

child of God?' he asks, his Welsh lilt falling easily on the ear.

'With the eyes of faith,' I reply. The question is a standard query posed to

initiates at every degree.

'Then open your eyes, Seeker, and you shall see,' Evans commands. He takes up

the folded cloth of black silk and, stepping around the table, raises the

cloth to my face. He quickly binds my eyes, and, blindfolded, I am led by my

right hand to another part of the room and made to lie down on my back on the

floor.

I compose myself for whatever will happen next, and I hear a low scraping

sound, like chalk dragging slowly across a blackboard. This goes on for a

time, and then I feel cold air on the left side of my face - as if a door has

opened to the draught. At the same time, ropes are attached to either side of

the padded band around my waist, and then I am securely tied. The others are

standing around me now, towering over me.

Suddenly, my feet are grasped and I am spun like a terrapin on my back. When

my feet are released once more, I feel that there is nothing beneath them - my

feet dangle over open space. I am allowed no time to reflect on this, for at

almost the same instant I am gently pulled forward, allowing my feet, ankles,

and legs to slide down into emptiness. My arms are taken up, the ropes pulled

taut, and I feel myself slipping into the hole which has been opened in the

floor.

Slowly, I descend into the void, dangling at the end of my ropes like a

puppet.

The chamber into which I am lowered is immense. I cannot say how I know this -

perhaps the size is suggested by the chill of the air and the sound of my

breathing echoing back from unseen walls. My eyes are bound; I see nothing.

Down and down I go.

At last, my feet touch solid ground once more; I gather my legs under me and

stand. I cannot tell how far I have descended. The voice falling down to me

from directly overhead reaches me as an echo merely: 'Seeker . . .' it is

Pemberton, 'with the eyes of faith, I bid you seek . . . and may you truly

find.'

At this, the ropes go slack as they are thrown in after me. This puppet's

strings have been cut, as it were, and it is for me to find my own way, to

seek. But what . . . what am I seeking? What am I meant to find? None of my

previous experiences with the Brotherhood have prepared me for this test. I

will stand or fall by my own efforts.

As I am a seeker, I decide, I will do as I am told. Although the object of my

search remains a mystery, I will have faith enough to believe that I shall

recognize the prize when I find it.

Thus resolved, I take my first faltering steps into the cave - for that is how

I think of it, an immense subterranean cavern, a vast hollow chamber of stone

deep under the earth. I take three steps into the clinging darkness, and I

stop. I am no longer steady on my feet. I feel light-headed, as if I am

floating.

Nevertheless, I take a deep breath and proceed.

I turn slowly, first left, then right. I seem to feel the faintest breath of

air on my cheek when I face the right, and so I decide to pursue the search in

this direction. It is a whim, nothing more, but it is rewarded by the fact

that after a dozen or so measured paces, I reach a step.

I stoop and feel the edge of the step with my hands; it rises to others behind

it. I mount the first three, then three more, then another, and I am arrived

upon a platform, which I take to be cut into the cavern wall.

I speak a word and judge by the reverberation of the sound that I have entered

a smaller chamber, open to the larger - a vestibule of sorts. Stretching my

hands before me like a blind man - truly, I am a blind man - I shuffle forward

to explore the chamber to which I have ascended.

My head is spinning now. I have passed giddy and am actually growing dizzy. My

senses remain acute. I feel as if I am glowing in the dark, giving off sparks.

My hearing is sharp, but there is nothing to hear, save my own breathing.

Since I have not been instructed otherwise, I decide to remove the blindfold.

As expected, there is no light. The subterranean darkness is complete. It

covers me like a second skin, so close as to be part of me. Though I am blind

still, my senses are alive and tingling with anticipation - or, more probably,

the strange substances I have imbibed are beginning to work in me somehow. I

feel as if I am flying.

I continue with my inspection. The walls of the vestibule, I discover, are

rounded and smooth, cut, as I have surmised, into the walls of the cave. There

is no impediment to my movement as I work my way around what I perceive to be

the back wall of the vestibule, feeling with my hands. And then . . .

I brush the edge of the opening with my fingers. I feel the curved lip of a

ledge, and quickly trace the opening in the wall with my hands. It is a niche,

wider than it is high, and with a slightly projecting shelf. I reach in. It is

not deep. I feel the back of the niche, and then begin running my fingers

along the shelf.

My fingertips brush something cold and hard.

The object has been placed in the niche precisely. Indeed, I presume the niche

and shelf have been constructed especial to hold the object it contains. Could

this be what I was meant to find?

I continue my investigation of the object. It is long and thin, with a

hardness and coldness that can only be metal. I take it into my hand and

carefully remove it from its resting place, holding it lengthwise across my

palms to judge its heft. From the weight, I suspect bronze, or iron; and from

the length and shape, I imagine a rake handle. But no, it is too thin - the

circumference is too small for any common tool or implement of that sort - and

it is too heavy. The surface is rough, pitted, and without marking or

ornamentation that I can discern.

Running my hand along the length of the metal rod, I perceive that it is not

entirely straight - the metal bows and turns slightly as it gradually thickens

towards its blunt, rounded end. I turn my attention to the opposite end, and

find that the cylindrical shaft thins as it nears what I imagine to be the

top, its roundness squared beneath a short, triangular-shaped head. There are

three - what shall I call them? protrusions? - on the head: small vanes, if

you will. These vanes are thin, and . . .

As I stand puzzling over the nature of the object I have found, I hear the

whoosh of air, great volumes of air moving, yet I feel not the slightest

movement on my skin. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

All at once, it seems as if the floor beneath me is tilting. I reel forwards,

clutching the metal rod. With my free hand, I grab for the edge of the niche,

miss, and lurch awkwardly into the wall. The cavern is booming now, and I

realize the sound is in my head - it is the rush of blood through my ears.

Bracing myself against the wall, I try to turn, but find I can no longer

stand.

I am panting like a dog. My breath comes in quick bursts and gasps, as if I

have run ten miles. Sweat is pouring from my face. I hold to the wall, leaning

against it, afraid to move lest I fall from the raised vestibule to the floor.

Instead, keeping my back to the wall, I slide down slowly into a sitting

position, clutching the metal rod, and gulping air like a fish caught on dry

land.

The floor beneath me trembles; I feel the vibration seeping up through the

stone floor and into my bones. My mouth is dry and tastes of sour milk. The

sweat is pouring from me now. I press my head back against the solid rock and

feel my poor heart thumping away wildly in my chest.

This is how I will die, I think.

There are dancing spots before my eyes - like fireflies, these errant beams

glint and fade, appearing and reappearing in the vast emptiness of the cavern.

Unlike fireflies, however, they are swarming, growing larger, gathering more

substance. I see colours: bold, vibrant, shocking in their intensity. The

light is growing stronger, coalescing into spheres.

It must be the last eruption of a dying brain, but no ... I can see some of

the cavern chamber illuminated in the light of the ever-shifting spheres. One

of them drifts close to me, shedding a gentle glow of light over me. What is

more, I can see something moving inside the sphere: the dim shapes of human

figures.

The images inside the sphere are shifting, changing, filling my vision. It is

all I can see now, and the light is growing stronger. Without warning the

vision breaks over me. A sudden burst of light, and all at once, the cavern is

ablaze with sparkling images. They fly past my dazzled eyes in a flurry of

beams, a veritable blizzard of brilliance, each image a burning spark striking

deep into the soft tissue of my brain. Each blazing particle is part of a

greater whole, merging and coalescing as they accumulate in my mind.

Individual fragments are swallowed in the gradually emerging whole, and I

begin to see - not broken images now, but a portrait entire. With the

crystalline clarity of a dream, I see it all. More, I behold. I have become

part of the dream, living it even as it is played out in my mind.

Still, the dazzling fragments, these scintillating shards of dream, fly at me,

piercing my senses, embedding themselves deep in my perception. I am

defenceless before the onslaught. I can but gape and surrender to the dizzying

torrent. But there is so much! The scenes cascade into my consciousness, and I

am a man drowning in the onrushing flood.

I can derive no sense or understanding of what I see; the dream is too vast,

too chaotic, too wild. It is all I can do to take it in. Yet, there is meaning

here. I feel it. This dream is no hollow hallucination, the shadow-play of a

drugged and fevered brain. Indeed, irresistibly, I am impressed with a grave

and terrible certainty that the tilings I am seeing, however bizarre and

chaotic they may seem, actually happened. The dream is authentic. It happened.

Oddly, it is this awful certainty which overwhelms me in the end. I cannot

endure the frenzied onslaught, and I fall back. A man drunk on an impossibly

rich and heady elixir, I slump against the wall, blind and insensate. Resting

the metal rod across my lap, I press the heels of my hands to my poor eyes.

Instantly, the images cease. Upon releasing the rod, I have broken contact

with the source of the dream, and am myself released to the blessed, soothing

darkness of the cavern.

Oh, but it is a darkness lit by the flickering light of a strange and glorious

magic. The dream is alive in me. Slowly, slowly, with ignorant, faltering

steps I begin the first feeble attempt to impose some small order on the

irreducible chaos of the thoughts and images whirling inside my mind.

Great God, I am lost!

The cry is scarcely uttered when the answer is revealed. There is a thread ...

a thread. Seize it, hold it, follow it, and it will lead through the twisted

labyrinth of madness to sweet reason.

Carefully, carefully, I take up the thread.

ONE

Murdo raced down the long slope, his bare feet striking the soft turf so that

the only sound to be heard was the hiss and swash of his legs through the

coarse green bracken. Far behind him, a rider appeared on the crest of the

hill and was quickly joined by two more. Murdo knew they were there; he had

anticipated this moment of discovery, and the instant the hunters appeared he

dived headlong to the ground to vanish among the quivering fronds where he

continued his flight, scrambling forward on knees and elbows, first one way

and then another.

The riders spurred their mounts and flew down the hillside, the blades of

their spears gleaming in the early light. All three shouted as they came,

voicing the ancient battlecry of the clan: 'Dubh a dearg!'

Murdo heard the shouts _ and froze fast, pressing himself to the damp earth.

He felt the dew seeping through his siarc and breecs, and smelled the sharp

tang of the bracken. The sky showed bright blue through leafy gaps above him

and, heart pounding, he watched the empty air for the first glimpse of

discovery.

The horses raced swiftly nearer, their hooves drumming fast and loud, and

flinging the soft turf high over their broad backs. Murdo, flat beneath the

bracken, every sense alert and twitching, listened to the swift-running horses

and judged their distance. He also heard the liquid gurgle of a hidden burn a

short distance ahead, lower down the slope.

Upon reaching the place where the youth had disappeared, the riders halted and

began hacking into the dense brake with the butts of their spears. 'Out! Out!'

they shouted. 'We have you! Declare and surrender!'

Murdo, ignoring the calls, lay still as death and tried to calm the rapid

beating of his heart so the hunters would not hear him. They were very near.

He held his breath and watched the patch of sky for sight or shadow of his

pursuers.

The riders wheeled their mounts this way and that, spear shafts slashing at

the fronds, their cries growing more irritated with each futile pass. 'Come

out!' shouted the largest of the riders, a raw-boned, fair-haired young man

named Torf. 'You cannot escape! Come out, damn you!'

'Give up!' shouted one of the others. Murdo recognized the voice; it belonged

to a thick-shouldered bull of a youth named Skuli. 'Give up and face your

punishment!'

'Surrender, you sneaking little weasel,' cried the last of the three. It was

the dark-haired one called Paul. 'Surrender now and save yourself a hiding!'

Murdo knew his pursuers and knew them well. Two of them were his brothers, and

the third was a cousin he had met for the first time only ten days ago. Even

so, he had no intention of giving up; he knew, despite Paul's vague assurance,

they would beat him anyway.

Instead, amidst the shouts and the brushy whack of the spears, Murdo calmly

put two fingers beneath his belt and withdrew a tightly-wound skein of wool

and deftly tied one end of the thread to the long bracken stem beside his

head. Then, with the most subtle of movements, he began to crawl again, paying

out the thread as he went.

Slowly, slowly, and with the icy cunning of a serpent, he moved, pausing to

unwind more string and then slithering forward again, head low under the

pungent green fronds, forcing himself to remain calm. To hurry now would mean

certain disaster.

'We know you are here!' shouted Torf. 'We saw you. Stand and declare, coward!

Hear me? You are a very coward, Murdo!'

'Surrender,' cried Paul, dangerously near. 'We will let you go free.'

'Give up, Stick!' added Skuli. 'You are caught!'

Murdo kept silent - and even when Paul's spear swept only a hair's breadth

from his head, he did not break and run, but hunkered down and waited for the

horse to move on. Reaching to the end of his thread ball, he lay still, trying

to determine where and how far away were each of his pursuers. Satisfied that

they were all at least ten or more paces away, he took a deep breath, pulled

the woollen thread taut ... and then gave a quick, sharp tug.

He waited, and jerked the string hard once more.

'There!' shouted Skuli. The other two whooped in triumph, wheeling their

mounts and making for the place.

But Murdo had already released the thread and was slithering down the hill as

fast as he could go. He reached the bank of the burn and risked a furtive look

back at the riders: all three stood poised in the saddle with spears at the

ready, shouting into the bracken for him to surrender.

Smiling, Murdo eased over the edge of the bank and lowered himself into the

burn. The water was shallow, and cold on his bare feet, but he gritted his

teeth and hastened on. While the riders demanded his surrender, Murdo made his

escape along the low stream bed.

It was Niamh who finally caught him; he was sliding quietly around the corner

of the barn, hoping to slip into the yard unobserved. 'Murdo! There you are,'

she scolded, 'I have been looking for you.'

'My lady,' Murdo said, snapping himself straight. He turned to see her flying

towards him, green skirts bunched in her fists, dark eyes flashing.

'A fine my ladyl Look at you!' she said, exasperation making her sharp. 'Wet

to the bone and muddy with it.' She seized him by the arm and pulled him

roughly towards her. A head or more taller than the slender woman, he

nevertheless delivered himself to her reproof. 'You have been at that cursed

game again!'

'I am sorry, mam,' he replied, his man-voice breaking through the boyish

apology. 'It's the last time, and-'

'Hare and hunter - at your age, Murdo!' she snapped, then looked at him and

softened. 'Ah, my heart,' she sighed and released his arm. 'You should never

let them treat you like that. It is neither meet nor fitting for any lord's

son.'

'But they could not catch me,' Murdo protested. 'They never do.'

'The abbot is here,' Niamh said, tugging his damp, dirty siarc and brushing at

it with her hands.

'I know. I saw the horses.'

'He will think you one of the servingmen, and who is to blame but yourself?'

'What of that?' Murdo replied sourly. 'It's never me that's going.'

'How should you be going? For all it is only ten and four you are.'

'Ten and five - in five months,' Murdo protested. 'Besides, I am taller than

Paul, and stronger.' But his mother was already moving away. He stepped

quickly beside her. 'Why is the abbot here?'

'Can you not guess?'

'It's the gathering,' Murdo answered.

'It is that.'

'When?'

'Ask the abbot,' replied Niamh. 'It's him you are greeting soon enough.'

They proceeded across the yard - a flat expanse of hard-packed earth enclosed

on three sides by the barn and storehouses, and on the fourth by the great

grey stone manor house itself. In all, Hrafnbu was as fine a manor farm as any

in Orkney; the estate, or bu, had been in Murdo's family for five generations,

and it was the best place Murdo knew.

Seven horses waited in the yard - the four clerics' and those of Torf, Skuli,

and Paul, who had reached the bu well before Murdo, but just after the abbot.

Lord Ranulf, flanked by his sons and nephew, stood in the centre of the yard,

deep in conversation with the abbot and his monks.

Ignoring the clerics, Murdo's eyes went first to his father. The Lord of

Hrafnbu towered above those around him. He was a big man, with large, strong

hands - one of which gripped his elbow while the other stroked his heavy brown

beard. Open-faced and naturally amiable, he was frowning now, his friendly

dark eyes narrowed in a look which Murdo knew to betoken trouble.

His expression changed instantly when the lord glanced up at the approach of

Murdo and his mother. 'Abbot Gerardus, my wife and last-born son.' Ranulf held

out his hand, which his wife accepted with a minute bow.

'Lady Niamh,' the abbot said, inclining his head respectfully. 'God save you,

my lady. I greet you in the name of Our Redeemer. I trust you are well.'

A gurry-mouthed Saecsen, thought Murdo darkly, stiffening at the abbot's

accent. They hold themselves so superior and cannot even speak a proper word.

The young abbot's eyes swung easily to Murdo and, finding little enough to

interest him, flicked away again. Murdo vowed vengeance for the slight.

'Good abbot,' said Lady Niamh, 'my husband would keep you talking the whole

day long, but I will not. I am certain that whatever you have to say will be

better spoken over the welcome cup. Come, you have ridden a fair distance

already and the day is yet new.'

Murdo squirmed uncomfortably as his mother slipped easily into the speech and

manner of the hated foreigner. Why did she always have to do that?

'You are most kind, my lady,' replied the abbot imperiously. 'I assure you my

fellow priests and I would be delighted to attend you.'

'This way, friends,' said the lord, indicating the house with an expansive

gesture. 'We will discuss our business over our cups.'

Lord Ranulf and the abbot started off, and Torf, Skuli, and Paul made to

follow. 'See to the horses, you three,' Ranulf called over his shoulder,

halting them in midstep. 'And give our friends' animals a good measure as

well.'

The young men stared after the lord, suddenly chagrined at being left out of

the discussion. Murdo allowed himself a smile of wicked glee at their dismay.

Torf saw the smile and started for him, fists clenched, but Paul seized the

older youth's arm and pulled him back, saying, 'If we hurry, we can still join

them before the cup is dry.'

Torf growled and, turning on his heel, darted after the others. As the horses

were led away, Murdo fell into place behind the trailing monks and the

procession crossed the yard and entered the house. The monks were brought into

the hall and given places at the lord's board.

Unlike Jarl Erlend's palace in Orphir, Ranulf's manor was very much the house

of a working farmer, whose estate, though extensive, required constant

vigilance and exacting care in order to produce even the modest wealth the

lord and his vassals enjoyed. There were no golden bowls, no silver ornaments

for visiting clerics, no gifts of coin for the church; the hall was not full

of warriors with gleaming tores and armbands awaiting the next raid, the next

battle. Indeed, the master of Hrafhbu kept no fighting men, and at Yuletide

and other holy days, his own family and friends more than filled the

low-beamed hall; if any more visitors came, extra boards and trestles were set

up in the yard. Still and all, Ranulf's ale was good and dark and sweet, and

the fire at his wide hearth was as warm as any king's.

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 honour 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

grey-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 Dyrness 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 Dyrness 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 grey wolfhound remained

curled in a corner of the hearth, jowls resting on his great paws.

Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance

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