The Iron Lance (5 page)

None of this mattered to Murdo; he had never considered these flaws to mar her beauty. To him, she was good and kind and smart, and far, far better than her brothers, or his own. Those few and infrequent times when they were together, he always came away with a craving for more—as if a feast had been spread before him and he had received but a single taste.

He looked at her now, dressed in a gown of pale green, with a yellow mantle, and he thought she had never looked so womanly. His heart quickened. He drank in the sight of her, and felt a quiver of joy leap up within him; and the ruin of the day receded.

Then he remembered he was not alone. Murdo's gaze shifted quickly to where Torf, Skuli, and Paul stood, as yet unaware that they were about to be joined by the Maddardson tribe. Good, he thought, and breathed easier; they had not seen her.

Then Torf looked up, saw the approaching clan, and nudged Skuli; Paul turned his gaze to where the others were looking, and Murdo watched beastly grins appear on all three faces. Skuli made a crude gesture with his thumb and fingers, and then all three sniggered obscenely. Murdo, embarrassed beyond words, wished the ground would open and swallow them whole.

For her part, Ragna gazed steadily and placidly ahead, her clear hazel eyes untroubled beneath the delicate arches of her fine brows, her lips neither smiling nor frowning, her elegant features impassive to all that occurred around her. Indeed, it seemed to Murdo that though their feet touched the common turf, Ragna walked in flowered fields far beyond the cathedral's cloistered walls. Obviously, the dull proceedings around her
were unworthy of her regard. And why not? Ragna was finer than any mere princess, after all.

Lord Brusi and Lady Ragnhild greeted his parents, and the Lord of Hrolfsey presented his sons to the Lord and Lady of Dýrness. Murdo could not help noticing that the men, lord and sons alike, clutched white cloth crosses. Torf and the others noticed, too, and joined their friends in noisy exultation of their high honor while both lords beamed proudly over their respective broods and pronounced upon the certain success of the pilgrimage. The ladies, meanwhile, exchanged more solemn words; Niamh led Ragnhild aside and the two stood head-to-head, clutching one another's hands and talking earnestly.

Murdo, unable to hear what they said, turned and found himself unexpectedly alone with Ragna. The shock made his poor empty stomach squirm and his hands grew moist.

“Greetings, Master Murdo,” she said, and, oh! her voice was like burned honey, all liquid sweetness and smoke.

Even if she were not a very vision in Murdo's eyes, he would still have found her ravishing for the sound of her voice alone. She had only to speak a single word and the rich, low, luscious tone sparked fire in his deepest heart. If to other ears Ragna's speech seemed a little too hoarse, perhaps, and lacking the natural mellifluence of a well-born maiden, Murdo considered that where other girls twittered, Ragna purred.

“It is a pleasant day, is it not?” Ragna inquired innocently. She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes and Murdo felt the blood rush to his face. His throat tightened, and he could not breathe.

Murdo opened his mouth to reply…only to discover he had misplaced the power of speech and was completely mute.

“I believe we are to observe the feast together,” she continued, unaware of his affliction. “Or, so it would appear.”

“Very pleasant, indeed, Mistress Ragna.” The response surprised Murdo, who did not recognize the utterance as his own.

She regarded him demurely, and seemed to be expecting him to say something more. “I have always liked Saint John,” he blurted, and instantly wished he had never been born.

“I like him, too,” Ragna laughed, and the sound drew the sting from his stupidity.

“The feast, I mean,” Murdo hastily corrected. “It is my favorite feast-day—apart from the Christ Mass, I mean.”
Fool
! he shrieked inwardly.
I mean—I mean…Is that all you can say? Idiot!

“Oh, indeed,” agreed Ragna happily, “the Feast of Christ is by far the best. But I like Eastertide, too.”

There followed an awkward silence as Murdo struggled desperately to think of something else to say. Ragna rescued him. “I see you do not carry a cross.”

Murdo gazed down at his empty hands in remorse. He shook his head. “My brothers are going,” he admitted woodenly. “I am to stay behind to help look after the bú.”

Although he expected Ragna to spurn him, now that the awful truth was known, his confession produced a wonderful result. The young woman hesitated, glanced left and right quickly, and leaned forward, boldly placing one long-fingered hand on his sleeve. The skin of his arm burned beneath her touch. “Good! I am glad of it,” she whispered, adding a nod for emphasis.

Murdo did not know which astonished him more, her hand on his arm, or the conspiratorial glee with which she imparted her extraordinary assertion.

“Good?” wondered Murdo, his head spinning.

Ragna fixed him with a clear and steady eye. “It is not a pilgrimage, but a
war
.” She said the word as if it were the worst
thing she knew. “That is what my mother says, and it is the truth.”

Murdo stared, unable to think what to say.
Of course it is a war!
he thought. There would be no point in going otherwise. But to speak that sentiment aloud would immediately place him outside the balmy warmth of Ragna's confidence and, having just acquired it, he was loath to abandon it so quickly. “It is that,” he muttered vaguely, which satisfied her.

“My mother and I are staying, too,” Ragna informed him proudly. “Perhaps we shall see one another again soon.”

Before he could reply, Lady Ragnhild noticed them talking and called her daughter to her. Without another word, Ragna spun on her heel and rejoined the women—but Murdo thought he saw her smile at him as she turned away.

“A disaster of undeniable magnitude,” groaned Alexius.

“Certainly unforeseen, basileus,” offered Nicetas helpfully.

The emperor shook his head, venting another groan of mingled anger and despair. He stood with a small retinue of advisors—the sacrii consistori, and the commander of the palace guard—on the wall above the Golden Gate, looking out upon the dark ungainly flood creeping toward the city from the west with a strange, almost dreamlike lethargy.

For three days Constantinople had been receiving reports—often contradictory—regarding the size and direction of this slow-moving invasion, and now, for the first time, the invader could be seen. Ignoring the road for the most part, they simply sprawled across the plain in ragged clots and clumps, rolling recklessly over the land in an untidy mass.

At the sound of hurried footsteps, the emperor turned. “Well, Dalassenus, what have you discovered?”

“They are indeed Franks, basileus,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “But they are peasants.”

“Peasants!”

“For the most part, basileus,” Dalassenus continued. “There are but a handful of soldiers among them. Nevertheless, they insist they are coming at the Patriarch's behest, and what is more, they are on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“Indeed?” Alexius turned his eyes once more toward the
straggling flood. “Pilgrims!” he shook his head in dismay. “We cannot possibly protect them. Do they know that, Dalassenus?”

“They say they do not require our aid in any way,” the commander answered. “They say God Almighty protects them.”

“Extraordinary,” sighed the emperor, shaking his head again. The dust from the feet of this rag-tag invasion rose into the clear summer sky. The day would be hot; no doubt the pilgrims would welcome water before they reached the city walls. Alexius, already calculating how best to fend off the swarm, began arranging the distribution of water.

“There is more, basileus,” said the drungarius, breaking into the emperor's thoughts.

“Tell us, Dalassenus, what else?”

“They are led by a priest named Peter, who believes they have been commanded by the Patriarch of Rome to liberate Jerusalem from the rule of the infidel. It is their intention to do so.”

This pronouncement brought a laugh from Nicetas and some of the others on the wall. “Liberate Jerusalem!” scoffed one of the advisors. “Are they insane, these peasants?”

“They say Bishop Urban has called for every Christian to take the cross and go on pilgrimage to fight the Saracens.”

“The Saracens?” wondered Nicetas. “We have not been troubled by the Saracens for more than thirty years.”

“Fifty years,” suggested another of his advisors.

Alexius had heard enough. “Nicetas, find this Peter and bring him to us. We would speak to him and learn his true intentions.” The commander of the excubitori made a salute and departed on the run. The emperor, taking one last look at the slow-approaching horde, shook his head in disbelief, then hurried off to await the arrival of his unwelcome guest.

He did not have long to wait, for he had just finished don
ning his robes of state when word of Nicetas' return reached him. Moving from the inner chamber to the audience room, he mounted the dais and took his place on the throne, the Holy Scriptures beside him on a purple cushion; Grand Drungarius Dalassenus, together with the emperor's usual assortment of court officials and advisors, stood behind the dais, solemn and mirthless, exuding a somber gravity befitting the seriousness of the extremity facing the empire.

Taking his place quickly, Alexius, nodding to the magister officiorum, said, “Bring him.”

A moment later the magister struck the white marble floor with his rod of office, and the great gilded doors of the Salamos Hall swung open. In marched Nicetas, followed by four of the imperial guard—one at each corner—leading a large, thick-set shambling man, tonsured and barefoot, and dressed in the dun-colored hooded cloak and ankle-length mantle of a rural Roman cleric.

Excubitor Nicetas, sweating from his ride in the heat of the day, advanced quickly to the foot of the throne, prostrated himself, and rose at his sovereign's command to say, “Lord Basileus, I give you Peter of Amiens.”

The rustic priest, suitably awed by the wealth of his surroundings, gazed with wonder at the exalted being on the throne before him. Upon hearing his name, he pitched forward onto his face and seized the emperor by the foot, which he kissed respectfully, saying, “Hail, Sovereign Lord, your willing servant salutes you.”

“Rise, and stand on your feet,” said Alexius sternly. The man rose, shaking his clothes back in the same motion; with his tattered cloak and filthy mantle he looked like a vagrant bird which, having bathed in the dust, now settled its bedraggled feathers.

“They tell us you are the leader of these pilgrim peasants,” the emperor said. “Is this true?”

“By no means, Lord Emperor,” replied Peter. “I am but a poor hermit granted by God and His Holiness Pope Urban the divine favor of going on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“You know, of course, that martyrdom awaits you,” Alexius informed him, “should you be so fortunate as to reach Jerusalem.”

At this the hermit priest drew himself up to full height. “Lord and Emperor, it is our very great privilege to wrest the lands of our Saviour from the evil infidel. With Almighty God as our protector, this we will do.”

“The Arabs will oppose you,” the emperor stated, watching the man before him. “How do you plan to win Jerusalem?”

“If necessary,” the hermit replied, “we will fight.”

“It will most certainly become necessary—of that we can assure you,” Alexius said, feeling his anger stir within. “The Arabs are fearless in battle, and their resolve is legendary. Where are your weapons? Where are your supplies? Have you any siege engines? Have you the tools to make bridges, dig wells, scale walls?”

“What we need,” answered the cleric placidly, “the Good Lord provides.”

“And has the Good Lord provided any soldiers for your army?”

“He has, Lord Emperor,” answered Peter, shaking back his cloak once more. There was more than a touch of self-righteous defiance in his stance and tone.

“How many?”

“We have eight knights with us. They are led by the most devout Walter Sansavoir of Poissy.”

“Eight,” repeated Alexius. “Did you hear that, Nicetas? They
have eight mounted soldiers.” Turning once more to the priest, he asked, “Do you know how many warriors Sultan Arslan commands?”

Peter, uncertain, hesitated.

“Too late you show a little wisdom, my friend,” the emperor said. “Very well, I will tell you, shall I? The sultan has forty thousand in his private bodyguard alone. Forty thousand mounted warriors against your eight.”

“We are sixty thousand strong,” Peter proclaimed proudly. “We are God's own army.”

“
We
command God's own army, priest!” cried Alexius, unable to control his anger any longer. “
You
are a rabble!”

The emperor's shout echoed in the hall like the crack of thunder. He leapt from his chair and stood towering over the unfortunate priest. “What is more, you are a wayward and undisciplined rabble. We have heard how you have plundered your way through Dalmatia and Moesia, looting towns and settlements to provide yourselves with food and supplies.” He turned his head to the Captain of the Excubitori. “We are not at war with Dalmatia and Moesia, are we, Nicetas?” he inquired with mock innocence.

“No, basileus,” the commander replied, “the people there are citizens of the empire.”

“You see!” cried Alexius. “You have attacked dutiful citizens whose only fault lay in the fact that they happened to live in the path of your thieving mob.”

“They were Jews,” Peter pointed out smugly. “We have vowed before the Throne of Christ to rid the world of all God's enemies.”

“Your vow was ill-spoken, priest. You have neither right nor authority to swear such a thing. You are above yourself, and we will not suffer these transgressions lightly,” Alexius declared,
glaring hard at the ignorant cleric. After a moment, he appeared to soften. “Nevertheless, despite your flagrant and lamentable trespasses, we will make a bargain with you. In exchange for peace while within imperial borders, we will give you food and water while you are here in Constantinople; further, we will arrange safe conduct for you back the way you came.”

“With all respect, Emperor and Lord,” the hermit replied, “that I cannot do, for we are sworn to liberate Jerusalem at all costs.”

“Then you must be prepared to pay that cost with your lives,” Alexius declared. “For truly, you will not escape with less.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the arms of his throne. “Is there nothing we can say to persuade you to turn back?”

The rustic priest made no reply.

“Very well,” conceded Alexius, “we will see you safely across the Bosphorus, at least. And may God have mercy on you all.”

Humbled at last, the tattered hermit bowed and accepted his lord's generosity with simple thanks.

“Here me, Peter of Amiens,” Alexius warned, “you proceed at your peril. Take our advice and turn back. Without protection and supplies, your pilgrimage will fail.”

“As God wills,” he replied stiffly. “We look to the Almighty for our aid and protection.”

Alexius, still fuming, glared at the mule-headed cleric and decided there was no point in prolonging the misery; with a flick of the imperial hand, he ended the audience and directed Nicetas to take him away. When they had gone, the emperor turned to Dalassenus. “This is that incompetent Urban's doing, and he will bitterly regret it. His insufferable interference has brought us nothing but hardship…and now this!”

The emperor stared at his commander, his brow furrowed in
thought. After a moment, he said, “Can it be that he has misunderstood our intentions?”

“I do not see how that could be possible, basileus,” Dalassenus replied. “Your letter was most explicit. He had it read out before his bishops, and you have received his favorable reply.”

“Even so, something has gone wrong,” Alexius declared. “I asked for an army to help fill the ranks and restore the themes. I said nothing about a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“No, basileus,” agreed Dalassenus firmly.

The emperor shook his head. “I fear I must ask you to return to Rome, cousin. We must learn what that old meddler has done, and take measures to prevent any more citizens coming to harm. You will leave at once, and may God go with you.”