The iron lance

'We were commanded to rescue the lance.'

The reply was so far from what Murdo expected, it caught him out of step. 'The Holy Lance?' he said, as if there might be some other.

'To be sure,' answered the monk. 'We have been told to rescue the sacred relic from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy.'

'Who told you to do this?' inquired Murdo, already sensing the reply before it came.

'Saint Andrew,' Emlyn said, and explained that Ronan was the only one who had seen the saint. 'In a vision, as I say. Fionn and I trust Ronan's judgement in these matters. Brother Ronan is a most holy and devout man.'

'I do not doubt it,' Murdo replied, his heart burning within him. Should he tell Emlyn about his own encounter with the mysterious saint?

Before he could work up the courage to say anything, the monk sang out, 'There! On the hillside! I see Baldwin's camp.'

THIRTY-NINE

The Count of Edessa had established his camp atop the Mount of Olives, erecting his own tent on the crown of the hill. The campfires spread out on every side, spilling down the western slope overlooking the walls of the Holy City which rose straight and tall across the Vale of Kidron. As the night was warm, the fires of the soldiers were small-merely lights to illumine their faces while they talked and supped and drank the dark wine of Palestine.

Baldwin had brought four hundred knights and footmen, as many as he could spare from the defence of Edessa. They had arrived just after midday and he had proceeded into the city to hold close council with brother Godfrey, leaving his nobles to arrange the camp as they saw fit. As usually happened, the various groups-the Franks, Scots, Flemish, Normans, and others-had clumped together with their own kin and countrymen, pitching their tents together around a fire or two. Thus, it was a fairly simple matter for Murdo and Emlyn to locate the Dark Islanders.

'Pax Vobiscum, friends,' said Murdo, stepping up to the first group of soldiers they met. 'We are looking for the sons of Lord Ranulf of Orkneyjar. Can anyone here tell us where they might be found?'

This brought a few mumbled suggestions and much shrugging of shoulders, but no firm answer. Murdo thanked them and moved on. At the next clump of men, they received a better reception, and the information that the Orkney men were most likely with the Danes-although no one had seen them after arriving at Jerusalem. They might be camped anywhere, they said, why not try near the horse pickets?

The two proceeded to another campfire a little further on, and learned that the Danes were up at the top of the hill. 'They are near to the count's tents,' one of the knights told them. ‘I saw them there before dark.'

As the count's tents were closer, they decided to try there next. They climbed the hillside in the dark and came upon the count's encampment – a cluster of large tents before which stood the count's standard and those of two other noblemen, the gold and silver trim glimmering in the fireglow. Below the encampment was a group of smaller tents. Murdo and Emlyn heard laughter from the camp, but the mirth died away quickly as they approached.

'Pax Vobiscum, friends -' began Murdo once more, breaking off as two large soldiers rose from their places.

'Move on, move on. We need no priest here tonight,' said one of the men.

'Torf?' The soldier, his face half in shadow, glanced towards him. 'Torf-Einar,' said Murdo, coming into the firelight. 'It is me -Murdo.'

The soldier stared as recognition slowly transformed his scowl. 'Murdo?' he asked in amazement. 'Is it you?'

'Torf, I-'

'God bless us, it is Murdo!' cried another voice as a third man rose from among those hulking at the fire.

'Skuli!' cried Murdo, stepping quickly over the fire to join his brothers.

Torf slapped him on the back in rough welcome, and shouted to the others looking on. 'Here now! It is our brother come to join us!'

'Murdo what are you doing here?' asked Skuli, thumping his back happily. 'How did you find us?'

'Look at you now,' said Torf, breaking in. 'Almost as tall as me. I never guessed it was you. How did you get here?'

'Skuli… Torf,' replied Murdo, shaking his head. 'I am so glad I found you. Are you well?'

'When did you arrive?' asked Skuli. 'Have you been here long?'

'What news from home?' said Torf. 'Father is in Jerusalem. Did you know that?'

'Have you seen him?' said Skuli. 'We parted company at Ma'arra.'

'Where is Paul?' asked Murdo glancing around quickly. 'Is he here with you?'

Torf's smile faded. 'Paul did not make it to Edessa,' he explained. 'The fever at Antioch took him, and he died there. That was when we decided to join Count Baldwin.'

'Who is the priest?' wondered Skuli, brightening the mood once more. He turned towards Emlyn who stood looking on across the campfire.

'This is my friend, Brother Emlyn,' Murdo answered. 'We have been travelling together.'

'Murdo and a priest on pilgrimage together!' hooted Skuli. 'I never would have believed it. Do not tell me you have taken vows, Murdo. You hate priests more than Torf even.'

'No,' laughed Murdo, 'I never would. There are two others-they are counsellors to King Magnus. They allowed me to join them.'

'King Magnus is here, too?' asked Torf. 'How many men did he bring?'

'A fair many,' Murdo said. 'Nearly four hundred in all.'

'Then he should join Baldwin,' Torf said. 'The count is paying his soldiers well.'

Emlyn spoke up then, saying, 'Perhaps we might find a place to talk among ourselves. You all have much to say to one another, and I would like a drink after our long walk.'

'Yes!.Yes, to be sure,' agreed Torf. 'This way-there is a tree just here. Skuli, fetch us a jar and cup.' To Murdo and the priest, he said, 'It is wine only-there is no ale hereabouts, but we are growing used to it.'

'I have found a taste for wine,' the fat cleric remarked. 'It is wet, after all, and goes down tolerably well.'

Torf laughed at this, and led them away from the campfire to a twisted old olive tree a few paces away. The view across the valley to the Holy City-pale as bone in the moonlight, and silent as a tomb-brought the solemnity of his purpose to Murdo's mind once more.

They settled themselves beneath the branches. Emlyn rested his bulk against the trunk, and Torf reclined on the patch of dry grass around the gnarled and twisting roots; Murdo sat crosslegged opposite his brother, suddenly silent. All the things he had to say bubbled in a strong ferment inside him-but where to begin? What to tell first? There was so much, he could not think what to say, so merely stared at his brother, willing Torf to understand the need that had driven him over oceans to search them out, to lay his plea before them.

'How do you like Jerusalem?' asked Torf after a time. 'They say the fighting was good. Were you here when the city fell?'

'We were here,' answered Murdo. Not caring to refresh the memory of that day, he asked instead, 'Is it far to Edessa?'

'Aye, far enough,' replied Torf-Einar. 'It took us ten days to get here. If they had prolonged the siege, we might have joined the battle. We got word four days ago that the city was taken.'

'There is a lot of plunder, they say,' remarked Skuli as he rejoined them. He filled the cup with wine and passed it to the priest.

'Slainte!' said Emlyn, raising the cup. He drank deeply and passed the cup to Murdo, who took a mouthful and passed it on to Torf; he drained it and gave it back to Skuli for refilling.

'Murdo,' said Skuli, shaking his head in disbelief. 'You are the last person I ever thought to see here. But how is our lady mother to do with the farm? Is she to take care of it all herself now?'

Murdo, loath to darken the mood with bad tidings, nevertheless decided it could not be put off any longer. 'That is why I have come,' he said. 'Hrafnbu is lost.'