The iron lance

The monks agreed this seemed the wisest course. 'The voyage could be long,' Emlyn told him.

'How long?' asked Murdo suspiciously.

'A year, perhaps even longer-or so I have heard,' replied the priest.

'A year!' challenged Murdo. No place could be so far away that it could take so long. He imagined a few more weeks would be more than sufficient.

'Oh, yes,' agreed Fionn. 'What with winter harbourage, it could well take longer.'

This information cast Murdo into such a dismal mood that he lost all interest in going into the town. As soon as the boat touched the strand, the monks scampered away to the market to secure the needed supplies. Jon, having no wish to visit the settlement himself, allowed his men to go and enjoy a brief diversion. 'I will stay and look after the ship,' he told them. 'You go on without me, but try not to get too drunk.' Turning to Murdo he advised, 'You should go, too. We will not see another familiar settlement in a very long time, nor-get any ol.'

'I left the last familiar settlement behind long ago,' Murdo told him. 'As I have no wish to drink ol in the marketplace, I will stay to help you with the boat.'

Jon shrugged, and proceeded to undertake an examination of his vessel, searching the craft prow to stern and rail to keel for anything requiring his attention; finding nothing particularly troublesome, he turned his scrutiny to the ropes and tiller and mast. Meanwhile, Murdo slipped over the side and waded to shore. The strand was flat and wide here, the settlement a fair distance from the sea, sheltering beneath towering cliffs of white stone. He walked a while along the sand, returning some time later to find Jon Wing wading around the hull of the ship, feeling the planking with his hands. Every now and then, he would take a deep breath and dive underwater, surfacing again in a moment to resume his inspection.

Murdo sat down on a low rock to watch, and approved of the precautions Jon was taking. He had quickly learned to respect the Norseman's seamanship, and that of his crew. They all worked well together, rarely provoking one another; each seemed to anticipate what the other would do so that Jon had little need to call commands or raise his voice in reprimand. Murdo knew enough about sailing to know that it was not as easy as Jon Wing and his crew made it appear. He concluded that this accord had been gained through long experience; probably they had sailed with one another for a few years at least.

The first of the evening stars were glowing when the monks and seamen returned, staggering over the strand, toting casks of ale, and sacks of grain, and numerous other bundles, including an entire side of smoked pork. The monks had purchased an enormous heap of common foodstuffs-so much, in fact, that Jon Wing complained that his ship would sink beneath the weight at the first contrary wave.

The monks merely shrugged and said that the market was so well-stocked with delicacies they could not help themselves. Apparently, restraint was not, Murdo reflected, a priestly virtue these curious clerics recognized.

Nevertheless, the supplies were quickly stowed, and Murdo, after a dull and tiresome day ashore, fairly itched to see the sail raised and the dragonhead prow slicing deep waves once again. But Jon Wing chose a snug little bay just a stone's throw down the coast and coved the boat for the night. 'After this, there is no more land for many days,' he said, when Murdo voiced his frustration. 'We will sleep on solid ground tonight. You should enjoy it while you can.'

The monks seemed overjoyed to have a night on dry land, and busied themselves with making a fire and preparing the evening meal. Despite his initial annoyance, supper that night was an extravagance Murdo welcomed. He watched hungrily while the clerics brought forth the victuals and set to work, as deft and clever in their movements as weavers. The seamen were amazed at the monks' proficiency with provisions. After securing the boat for the night, they settled before the campfire to gaze with increasing admiration at the masterful display.

Various raw ingredients appeared and were nimbly dispatched to pot and pan and skewer. The three worked efficiently, rarely speaking, wielding knives and spoons with the adroit agility of jugglers. Their craft, and the rising esteem of the onlookers, was augmented by the very good ale which they quaffed liberally and shared all around, 'To restore the inner man,' as Brother Emlyn put it.

The monks prepared food enough for a hundred footweary pilgrims: pease porridge and new brown bread; smoked fish cooked in milk and butter and onions; chops of pork roasted slowly above the fire, and over which, from time to time, they sprinkled a concoction of dried herbs; and apples, cored and cooked in cream and honey.

Ordinary fare, but exquisitely prepared, and Murdo, after devouring one bowl of porridge and two chops, began to see a side of monastery life previously unknown to him. Priests were still a bane and a blight – deceitful as snakes, and just as poisonous-but these,.he reflected once again, were of a wholly different stripe than any he had seen or heard tell of before. He wondered what other talents they possessed.

The seamen were equally impressed. Jon Wing could not help asking, 'Do you eat like this all the time in the monkery?'

'We are on pilgrimage,' Ronan cheerfully explained. 'It is forbidden for pilgrims to fast.'

By the time the last bowl was licked clean and the last bone tossed away, the moon had risen and stars could be seen reflecting on the smooth surface of the bay. Fionn banked the fire for the night, and the good brothers fell to discussing whether the soul of a sinner was heavier than that of a saint-being burdened down, as it was, with the dross of iniquity. The exchange was good-natured, and Murdo followed their musical speech as best he could until, full of good food and ale, he grew too drowsy to keep his eyes open anymore. Rolling himself in his cloak, he was soon asleep with the murmur of monks droning pleasantly in his ear, and dreams of Ragna floating through his head.

He was roused the next morning well before dawn by a cup of cold water dashed over him. Murdo leaped up, spluttering and swinging his fists. 'Here now,' Jon said, 'and I thought you were eager for leaving.'

Murdo shook the water out of his eyes and, with a grumble about the coarseness of the jest, fell to helping the others fill the water skins; meanwhile, the monks, yawning and scratching themselves, stowed their cooking utensils, and within a few moments of rising, the crew and passengers were aboard and rowing the boat towards the open sea once more. Murdo nestled himself among the grain bags in the centre of the ship and leaned against the mast; he watched the early-morning mist swirling over the water and listened to the birdcalls in the trees along the river. He must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing he knew, he was rolling on the bottom of the boat.

Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed the rail and looked out to see low, green, cloud-covered hills far behind, and nothing but empty sea and sky ahead. The sail snapped sharply and the ship plunged into the swell again. Jon Wing, pulling hard on the tiller oar, turned onto a new heading, and the ship began to run smoothly before the wind.

Murdo felt the sheer exhilaration of the chase stirring his blood. Somewhere out there, across the grey and vasty sea, his father and brothers were fighting the cunning Saracen, and he, Murdo, would find them and bring them back. It would happen; it must. He would make it happen.

He spared no kindly thought for the pope or his innumerable lackeys, nor for the sacred duty of the pilgrimage. Whether the crusade succeeded or failed was all one to Murdo; he could not have cared less one way or the other. His heart was filled with a single desire and had no room for anything else: to see the lands of his fathers restored. His life, his future, his happiness with Ragna -everything depended on saving Hrafnbu. That meant more to him than all the empire's gold-and certainly, far, far more than the pointless protection of a handful of churches and a few dusty relics no one he knew had ever seen.

'You are very grim for a young man,' Emlyn observed cheerfully.

Murdo turned his head to see the round-shouldered monk reclining on his elbows against the rail. 'I was thinking.' He shifted on the grain sacks for a better look at the jovial priest.

'About the crusade, yes?'

Murdo heard the word, but the crusade was so far from his thoughts that for a moment he could not make sense of what the cleric was saying. 'No, not that,' he answered at last. 'I was thinking about my farm-home, I mean.'

'You are wishing you had not left home perhaps,' suggested the monk. 'Ah, fy enaid,' he sighed wistfully. 'I, too, sometimes grow melancholy thinking of my home in blessed Dyfed.'

Murdo had never heard of the place and said so.

'Never heard of Dyfed!' cried the monk, aghast. 'Why, it is the best place on earth. God has showered every