'And you will tell me?' wondered Murdo, flattered by this unexpected confidence. 'Why?'
Bezu shrugged. 'Perhaps I show you, and you change your mind and stay to learn my craft.' He smiled. 'Also, what good is a secret if you cannot tell it once in a while?' Bending to the stack of iron, he pulled out a long, thin strap, as wobbly as a snake. 'Here!' he cried, handing the iron to Murdo. 'This for you!'
Murdo grasped the cold shank of rusty metal, regarding the wobbly length dubiously. 'It does not seem much to you now maybe,' the armourer suggested. 'But soon-a spear fit for the hand of a lord.'
Bezu then began showing his new pupil the long process of shaping the strap of iron: heating it in the forge, flattening it, folding it, squaring it, and then gently rounding the upper half, a third portion of which was folded over upon itself, squared and flattened once more, leaving a ridge in the centre and flaring the edges to form a stubby, leaf-shaped blade. Murdo liked working the iron, but regarded his handiwork as more of a curiosity than a weapon. Certainly, an iron spear was too heavy to throw, and the blade was too short and blunt to do much more than puncture.
'Just wait until you put the shank into the wooden shaft,' Bezu told him, showing how the long iron core would be inserted into a shaped haft of ash or oak. 'Like so, eh? The blade cannot become separated from the shaft, and the core makes the shaft as strong as iron. When it is finished, you have a spear which cannot be broken! That is the Roman way.'
Thus, Murdo occupied the wet winter months, coming early to the smithy most days and working until dusk, often spending the night beside the hearth as well. When the closeness of the smithy stifled rather than warmed, Murdo would go out and perch himself on the old Roman harbour wall and spend the day wrapped in his cloak gazing out across the low-lying countryside towards the sea. Rain or sun-it made no difference to Murdo. The damp spates of wind and rain which the realm of Burgundy suffered were balmy as summer showers compared to the howling, spitting, bone-cracking winter storms of Orkneyjar.
On these occasions, and much of the rest of the time as well, he thought of Ragna, and what he would do when next he saw her; he thought about the two of them making love, making a home, making a life together. He thought of Hrafnbu, and how he and his father and brothers would win it back from the treacherous usurper Orin Broad-Foot. He thought of his mother, and he hoped she was well and not worrying about him. He took great solace from the fact that she was with Ragna; that the two of them should be together enjoying one another's company warmed his thoughts on dismal days.
As the wheel of the year turned slowly around to spring once more, he grew restless to resume the voyage. Day after day, he watched the low clouds sailing southward, and wondered when Jon Wing would summon the crew and cast off. He went to the harbour often and almost always found the sea lord and two or three crewmen tending to small chores: braiding ropes, mending the sail, repairing oars, and such like. Murdo guessed the time was fast approaching when they would leave, yet whenever he asked, the ship's master would squint up at the sky, taste the breeze, and announce, 'Not today.' Jon would shake his head slowly. 'Tomorrow maybe. You have one more day on dry land.'
Tomorrow would come and the answer would be the same. Then, just when Murdo was beginning to think they would never sail again, Jon looked at the sky and pointed to the north-flying clouds. 'Today we buy provisions. Tomorrow we sail.' He then ordered Murdo to go and fetch the crew from whatever hall or brothel they were to be found, and bring them to the ship.
The chore was quickly accomplished; most of the men, having squandered all their silver long ago, were now eager to sail on. Brothers Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn were dragged from the cathedral cloisters where they were holding forth, and were despatched to the grain merchant, brewer, and butcher for provisions-this was because no wheedling tradesman ever got the better of the shrewd clerics when it came to striking a bargain.
While the monks were gathering the necessary victuals, the rest of the crew undertook to make certain the longship was sea-worthy. The mild winter had left the hull in fine condition-with no water freezing in the joints and ropes, and no raging gales to batter the mast and rudder-so only scrubbing and cleaning was needed. They raised the tent over the platform behind the mast, and by the end of the day, when the casks and bags and boxes of provisions began arriving at the quay, the ship was fit for the seas once more.
Jon Wing, pleased with the work, released the crew to the drinking hall for one last revel in port, and Murdo went off with them. He did not go to the nearby hall, however, but to the smithy to bid farewell to his friends.
'If you stayed a little longer,' Bezu told him, 'we might have made an armourer of you yet.' Producing Murdo's spear, he gave it to him, saying, 'I think you might have need of this where you are going.'
'But I have nothing to give you for it.'
'No matter,' Bezu replied. 'It is my gift to you.'
'I meant to finish it,' Murdo said, regarding the naked length of hammered iron. Crudely worked, and lacking any appearance of lethal power, it was, in Murdo's estimation, handsome nonetheless. 'I wish I had something to give you.'
'Take it – finish it,' the armourer insisted. 'And when men ask you where you came by such a fine and fearsome weapon, you will tell them Bezu, the Master Armourer of Aries, will make them one just as good. Agreed?'
'Agreed.' Murdo thanked him for the gift, and told them all that if they ever came to Orkneyjar, they would receive a hearty welcome. Bezu walked with him part way down the street, and then, looking up at the sky, eyes asquint in the quickly fading daylight, wished him a good journey and hurried back to his hovel. Murdo retraced his steps to the harbour and climbed aboard the longship.
'What is that you have there?' asked Jon Wing as he clambered aboard.
'It is a spear I've been making,' Murdo answered, holding the length of black iron out for admiration.
'Is it?' chuckled Jon. 'It does not look much like a spear. Are you sure it is not a pole for prodding pigs?'
'It is not finished yet,' Murdo replied sourly. 'It needs wood for the shaft, and then it must be sharpened.'
The seaman laughed. 'So this is what you have been doing all this time! I thought you had a girl in the town.' Pointing at the lance, he said, 'From the looks of this, maybe you should try your luck with the girls next time.'
Not caring to provoke any more mirth at his own expense, Murdo retreated to his customary place at the prow where he quickly tucked the unfinished weapon up under the ship's rail before anyone else should see it. The crewmen returned late that night, and the next morning at dawn Jon Wing roused them and gave the command to cast off. The longship was rowed into the bay and down the river. Once past the headland, they raised the sail and caught the first wind; the sail snapped taut, bellied out, and the Skidbladnir, as if delighted to be free once more, surged forward, cleaving the waves and throwing spray either side of the prow.
The journey resumed, and so too the search for King Magnus' ships. Murdo was certain that any day they would find the king's fleet-only the pilgrimage would be over and the ships would be sailing home. Nevertheless, as they slowly worked their way along the coast, pushing ever east and south, they began hearing news of the crusaders' progress. The Genoese, whose ships supplied the armies, brought back stories, and these were passed on in the ports where they stopped for water and supplies.
Although they always asked if anyone had seen the Norse fleet, the answer was always negative: no one had seen or heard of King Magnus or his ships. One scrap of information did prove useful, however. They learned from the harbour master in Trapani that the crusaders were not in Jerusalem at all, but on their way to Antioch, an inland city some distance to the north of the Holy Land. What is more, this report, he said, was very recent: not more than eight or ten weeks old.