The warrior hesitated, his frown deepening. The priest shouted his command again, and still the warrior balked.
Seeing his order defied, the priest rushed forward; taking Niamh roughly by the arm, he tried to wrest the poker from her hands. When her grasp proved the stronger, he raised his hand to strike.
As the blow fell, the warrior reached out, seized the priest by the wrist and jerked the hand aside, squeezing hard. The priest gave out a little shriek of pain and released his hold on Niamh, seeking instead to free himself from the knight's crushing grip.
The warrior bent the priest's arm and forced his hand behind his back. 'She is a lady!' Hakon said, his voice low, but filled with menace. 'Remember that.' He shoved the priest aside.
The priest staggered back, shaking with impotent rage. 'You will do as you are told,' he gasped, rubbing his wrist. 'You will perform your duty, or the bishop will hear of this.'
'I am Prince Sigurd's man, not yours!' the knight countered.
The priest turned and fled the room. In a moment, they could hear him calling for others to come and help him remove the women.
Turning once more to Niamh, the knight held out his hand. 'Please, my lady. Give us no trouble, and I will see no harm comes to you, or the young lady and her child.'
Niamh looked to Ragna, clutching the infant to her breast. Footsteps sounded in the room below as more men pounded up the stairs. 'My lady?'
'Very well,' Niamh relented, delivering the poker to her captor. She moved to the bed and put her arms around Ragna, who was sobbing softly. 'Be strong,' she soothed. 'We cannot prevent this, but we must do now what is best for the child.'
Three more men burst into the room with drawn swords. They made to fall upon the women, but the knight put out his arm as they tried to rush past. 'Stand aside!' he warned. 'I have given them safe conduct. Touch a hair of their heads, and you will answer to me. Is that understood?'
The men glanced from Hakon to the priest, seeking direction.
'Is that understood?' demanded the knight, his voice filling the room suddenly.
The soldiers nodded, put up their swords, and stepped aside. Hakon turned to the priest. 'Go and prepare the wagon. I will bring the women with me when they are ready.'
'You do not command me!' the priest objected.
Ignoring his protest, the knight signalled to the other warriors to leave the room-which they did quickly, relieved not to have to cross swords with their leader and friend. The priest followed them out, shouting at them to rouse their courage and perform their duty.
When the others had gone, the knight also departed. 'I will leave you to gather your belongings for the journey,' he told them, moving towards the door.
'Where are we being taken?' asked Niamh.
'I do not know, my lady. There is much about this that we were not told.'
'I see.'
'I will guard the door so that you will not be disturbed,' he said. 'Gather your things and come out when you are ready. I will conduct you to the ship.'
'Thank you, Hakon,' Niamh told him. 'Thank you for helping us.'
The knight made no reply, but inclined his head as he closed the door, leaving the women to themselves.
Ragna bent her head and began sobbing again. 'Come, daughter, save your tears,' Niamh said firmly. 'The time for weeping is not yet. I need your help now.' She opened the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and began pulling clothing from it. 'The winter wind is cold, and we may have far to go. We must think carefully what to bring for the days ahead.'
Niamh emptied the chest, and then, coaxing help from Ragna, began to fill the box once more with the things they would need for their journey. When that was finished, Niamh helped dress Ragna in her warmest clothes, and bundled the babe in winding cloths. That finished, she dressed herself quickly, helped Ragna to her feet, and then summoned Hakon.
'We are ready,' she told him when he opened the door. Indicating the chest, she said, 'I would be grateful if you would have your men bring the box.'
'Certainly, my lady.'
The two started towards the door. Ragna, unsteady after childbirth and three days in bed, swayed on her feet and staggered backwards. The knight was beside her in two strides. 'Would you allow me?' he asked, holding out his hands for the child.
Niamh took the infant and gave him to the warrior. He turned and started from the room. 'Wait,' said Niamh; she stooped and retrieved a sheep's fleece from the hearth, crossed to the knight, and wrapped the sheepskin around the babe. 'Go,' she said. 'We will follow.'
Together the two women made their way slowly down the stairs and outside to the waiting wagon. A watery grey dawnlight glowed low on the horizon, and a few flakes of snow fluttered on the gusting wind. A group of vassals were standing in the yard, one of them bleeding from his nose and forehead; some of the women were crying. A few of them called out to Ragna as she was helped into the wagon, but, unable to bring herself to answer them, she raised her hand in silent farewell instead.
The two men bearing the chest came out into the yard. As they made to heave the wooden box into the wagon, the priest emerged from the house and stopped them, demanding to know what the chest contained. 'Open it!' he ordered. 'The bishop has commanded that nothing is to be removed from this place.'
Handing the infant to Ragna, Hakon turned to the priest. 'Leave it alone.'
'They might be taking valuables.'
The knight grabbed hold of the monk's robes and pulled him up close. 'You take the roof over their heads in the dead of winter, priest. Do you begrudge them the clothes on their backs as well?'
The priest made to reply, thought better of it and held his tongue.
Hakon released the priest and, to the men holding the chest, shouted, 'On the wagon with it.' Then, taking the horse by the bridle, he led the wagon from the yard and down the path to the waiting ship.
THIRTY-ONE
Murdo roamed aimlessly around the walls of Jerusalem, oblivious to his surroundings. The burning sun scorched his flesh, and the thorns of the desert brush scratched his bare legs bloody. Upon leaving the Holy City, he had stripped off his blood-stained clothes and thrown them away, keeping only his knife and belt, which he carried over his shoulder. He neither ate nor drank, nor stopped to rest, but walked day and night, his mind filled with horrific visions of carnage and butchery.
This is how Brother Emlyn found him two days later: naked and lost, his legs and feet bleeding, his red, inflamed skin blistered and peeling from his shoulders, forehead, and lips, dazed, unable to speak.
'Murdo!' cried the priest, running up to him. 'Oh,
Removing his own mantle, the much-relieved monk spread the garment gently over Murdo's sunburned shoulders. 'Here, now, let us get you out of the heat. Come, the hospital is just beyond that hill-not far. Can you walk, or should I carry you? Oh, Murdo, what has happened? No, do not say a word. There will be time to talk later. Save your strength. Come with me, my son; you are safe now. I will take care of you.'
Gently, gently, the good brother turned Murdo and led him by the hand up the hill to a nearby olive grove where the crusader lords had established a camp for the care of the wounded and sick. There, in the shade of the olive trees, priests and women-the wives and widows of the soldiers-moved quietly among the rows of tents, tending their charges. Despite the calming presence of the monks, the camp throbbed like a restless sea with uneasy sounds: the ceaseless moaning of the wounded over their injuries, the cries and whimpers of the dying, the juddering shrieks of the afflicted in their nightmares.
Emlyn led the unresisting Murdo to a place on the edge of the camp, and sat him down beneath the leafy branches of a low-growing tree. 'Rest here, and do not move,' he instructed. 'I will bring you some water.'
