regaining his breath and strength, he began to think that he had eluded his pursuers.
He looked at the long, slender length of cloth-bound iron in his hand, and decided to take a look at the prize for which he had risked his life. He pushed himself up and sat crosslegged, holding the lance across his knees, he untied the golden cord and unwound some of the silken covering.
For all that he could see, sitting in the dark, the holy relic was a simple shank of ancient iron, rust-spotted, and slightly crooked along its length. Despite its age, the crude weapon seemed sturdy still. True, it had lost its wooden shaft, and binding-all that remained was the iron haft and the short, tapering, three-sided blade-still, it did not appear beyond repair. It was simply an old iron lance, and a wholly unremarkable example of its kind at that.
He carefully pulled the winding cloth back into place, and retied the binding cord. This finished, he leaned back against the wall once more. He was tired and hungry, and wished only to be far, far away from this wretched desert land. God, he thought, I want to go home.
He closed his eyes, thinking only to rest a moment, but awakened with a start to find the night far gone. He looked around quickly, and made to run. But all was quiet. The moon had disappeared, and from the look of the sky to the east, he reckoned it was near dawn.
Rising, he began walking stiffly along the wall, using the lance as a staff. His over-tired muscles were sore, his back ached, and he was hungry and thirsty. He wondered how Emlyn had fared, and whether the monk was waiting for him at the harbour. Murdo walked around the tower, and started along the western wall making for the main gate. The plain where the battle had taken place the previous day was still in darkness, but he thought he could see figures moving on the battlefield-scavengers early to their work, he thought.
The gloom faded as he walked on towards the massive gate tower. Upon reaching the entrance, he darted quickly around the base of the tower-only to find the huge doors closed. Scorched and blackened from the fire of the day before, they had not yet been opened by the gatemen.
He turned and looked out at the battlefield again and saw that he had been mistaken: the figures he had taken for scavengers in the dim early light were actually those of knights and their horses moving slowly among the dead. They seemed to be searching for something…
Stepping quickly back against the great gatepost, he pressed himself against the stone, hoping someone had not noticed him already. Once beyond the walls, he would not be caught. If he could just avoid being seen until the doors opened-was that too much to hope?
Making himself as small as possible, he squatted down in the corner formed by the door and post to wait. He lay the lance down beside him, and kept his eye on the soldiers moving out on the plain. While he was watching, he heard the jingle of horses' tack; the sound seemed to be coming from the wall to his right. Keeping low, he leaned out from the doorway and looked down along the city wall. Three riders were approaching at a fast trot; they were making for the gate.
It was too late to hide, and he would never outrun them. He would have to brazen it out. He kicked dust over the lance and hoped to God they would not see it.
In a moment, the riders came around the side of the gate tower to find a young man leaning against the gatepost, head down, half-asleep.
'You there!' said one of the riders.
Murdo raised his head and regarded the three men sleepily. All were knights and, judging from the quality of clothing and horses, at least one was a nobleman. 'Greetings, my lords,' Murdo replied. 'Pax Vobiscum.'
'What are you doing out here?' demanded the second knight, who seemed to be superior to the other two.
'I was late coming home,' Murdo explained, 'and the gates were closed.'
'You spent the night outside the city alone?' inquired the knight suspiciously.
'Aye, for a fact I did,' answered Murdo directly; he gazed honestly into their faces. 'I am waiting for the gates to open now.'
The rider's eyes narrowed. 'Why were you so late coming home?'
Murdo hesitated. 'I was watching the battle,' he said, deciding to tell as much of the truth as he dared.
'What battle?' demanded the foremost rider. He glared at Murdo, and all three were frowning.
'Out there,' Murdo replied, pointing away to the south. 'Bohemond's troops engaged the Turks who slaughtered Godfrey's war band.'
'Bohemond here?' wondered the other knight. 'How do you know this?'
'I saw him,' Murdo answered vaguely. 'I took it you were men of his war band. I see I must be mistaken.'
'We are from Count Baldwin's camp,' replied the nobleman.
'What is Bohemond doing here?' demanded one of the others.
1 cannot say,' replied Murdo, trying to sound helpful but ignorant at the same time. He did not care for the tone of accusation creeping into the nobleman's voice.
Just then he heard a scraping sound on the other side of the huge timber door; it was followed by a clanking, jangling noise. Murdo guessed the gatemen were drawing the bolts. All he had to do now, was to keep the riders occupied until he could get through.
'We saw the first battle, too,' Murdo volunteered helpfully. He pointed out towards the plain. 'The Turks ambushed the knights and killed them. It was a terrible fight. The crusaders fought well, but there were too many Turks, and they -
While Murdo was speaking the rider to the left of the nobleman leaned close to his companion and whispered, 'Look! He has it, by God!'
Murdo saw the knight's gaze shift to the lance behind him on the ground.
'What have you there, thief?' shouted the nobleman.
There came a clunk from the door, and a muffled voice on the other side called out. Murdo took a slow step backwards.
'Stop! Stand where you are!'
The door gave out a creak. Murdo glanced to the side to see that a smaller door cut in the larger was opening. He took a half-step towards it, away from the lance.
'Stand still!' shouted the knight, handing his reins to the rider next to him as he made to dismount.
Murdo waited until the knight had begun sliding his leg over the saddle, and then leaped forward, throwing his hands in the horse's eyes, and shouting as loudly as he could. 'Hie!' he cried, waving his hands. 'Hie-yup!'
The frightened animal tossed its head and reared back, lifting its forelegs off the ground and sending the unbalanced knight sprawling, his foot still caught in the saddle. The other horses shied, too. Murdo jumped back, snatched up the lance, and dived for the door, which was yet but half-open. He heard the sharp ring of steel as the knights drew their swords, and then hit the door with his shoulder. The gateman was thrown back off his feet, and Murdo was through.
Gathering his feet under him, he dashed for the nearest street.
An instant later, the first of the knights burst through the door. 'Stop, thief!' cried the knight, his voice loud in the quiet of the morning. 'Thief! Thief! Stop that man!'
FORTY-SIX
Keeping the sun at his back, Murdo darted quickly along the twisting, narrow streets, working his way down through the city of Jaffa to the harbour. Every now and then, he paused to look for his pursuers, but he neither saw nor heard them, and began to feel he had left them far behind.
As he ran on, he noticed there were more people about in the streets now as the morning's business began to occupy the townspeople. Lest he draw any unwanted attention, he slowed to a purposeful walk, and crossed an empty market square in which merchants and traders were beginning to gather. Once across the square, he entered a covered street stuffed tight with tiny stalls from which the ring of hammer on brass could be heard. Several of the traders called out to him in Greek as he passed, but he ignored them and hurried on.
The sudden sight of the bay brought him up short. He stopped and stepped quickly back, hiding in the early
