The iron lance

Lady of Dyrness. 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 honour 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 favourite 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 bu.'

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.

FOUR

'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 towards 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 towards 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 donning 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 sombre gravity befitting the seriousness of the extremity facing the empire.

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