The Iron Lance (49 page)

“And his mother was the lady here,” deduced the woman incorrectly. “Then his father must be the lord. But I never heard what happened to any of them. We were just told that the property here was under the care of the church, and the bishop was loath to let the fields fall idle. Nor is it meet to let a good house suffer neglect.”

“Indeed,” agreed Emlyn, “and I am certain the house is well in hand with you and Jarn here. But the fields are too much for the two of you, I think. You must have help with those.”

“Oh, aye,” answered the woman quickly. “The vassals take care of the crops still.”

“Where are the vassals?” inquired Murdo, stepping from the doorway with the jar. “They would know what happened here, but we saw no one in the fields.”

“They are working on the other island today, are they not?” answered the woman smugly. “The bishop has many such estates he must care for now. So many of the men went away on the crusade, you see, and left him with all the work—fields to plough, cattle to raise, crops to be harvested, and what all.”

“A shame that,” observed the monk, taking up the jar once more. He drank a long, noisy draught. “Ahh, yes, a very joy and a blessing to restore the inner man!”

“You have travelled far then,” the old woman said.

“All the way from the Holy Land,” answered the monk.

“As far as that…” the old mother shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Well, you can stay here the night, I expect. The bishop would not refuse you hospitality, nor will I.”

“We thank you, good woman,” agreed Jon, much to Murdo's annoyance. “It would be fine indeed to spend a night on solid ground. We accept your kind offer.”

“Gladly,” put in Emlyn. “But do not burden yourself on our account. Simple fare, for simple travelers. Bacon and black bread—we expect nothing more.”

“Pish!” cried the old woman, her wrinkled features taking on a glow of excitement. “We can do better than that! This is a bishop's house, you know.”

Murdo glowered into the puddle of gravy in his bowl. Despite the warm praises heaped on the meal and its maker by Emlyn and the hungry sailors, he had not tasted a single bite. Never in all the time he had been away had he considered that he would not be met on his return by those he had left behind.

Hardly a day had gone by in the last two years when he had not imagined sitting before this very hearth. And now at long last, here he was—but in every important way he was no closer to his destination. He was angry with himself for allowing his hopes to soar so high; and he was angry with his companions for refusing to sail straight away to Kirkjuvágr to pull the bishop out of bed and demand an explanation at swordpoint. Most of all, he was angry with the grasping, scheming bishop—for using his holy office to prey on the weak, and for failing his sacred trust to protect and defend the people in his care. Which of the two was the worse, Murdo could not say, but he meant to hold the churchman to account for his crimes.

Unfortunately, the old woman could shed no further light on the matter. Nor could Jarn add anything beyond what his wife had already said. A quiet man, he had finally returned with his cows for the evening milking, and though he was agreeable enough, he knew less about the affairs at Cnoc Carrach than his wife. Under Emlyn's gentle probing, it emerged that they had been vassals of Jarl Paul, and had lost their small holding when
Magnus placed his son over the islands. Thrown upon the charity of the church, Jarn and his wife, Hannah, had been brought by the bishop's men to look after the cows and keep the house; that was all he knew.

While the others sat at their ale, talking of their travels and gathering what news they could from the old folks, Murdo, restless and fretful, went outside to walk and think. He stalked the cliffs above the sea in the long, late twilight, gazing out across the strait to Orkney's mainland, where he imagined the greedy bishop sitting at his supper, smug in his comfort, ignorant of the fearful vengeance soon to break upon his devious head.

Midnight found Murdo sitting on the rocks above the bay, watching the starlight glinting in the calm water of the cove. He could hear the voices of
Skidbladnir's
small crew as they reclined on the strand around their driftwood campfire. He could smell the smoke as it drifted up the cliff face, but felt not the slightest inclination to join them. The solitary discomfort of his chill perch suited him better.

He slept little, his heart aching for the dawn when they would up sails and make for Kirkjuvágr. By the time the sun broke above the sea's flat horizon, Murdo was already aboard ship, cursing the laziness of Emlyn and Jon Wing who had stayed the night at the house while he had slept on stones.

The two errant sailors appeared on the clifftop as the dawn light filled the cove. They stumbled stiff-legged down the steep path and greeted the crew with the easy banter of the content and well-rested. Murdo protested their belated arrival, but Jon Wing said, “If it is a fight you are wanting, save it for the bishop. He will be standing before you soon enough. Why not let
him
feel the sharp edge of your tongue?”

With that, the sea lord strolled off along the rail to talk to Gorm. A moment later, the call came to push away, and the crew
took up oars to push the ship off from the wharf. “Never fear, Murdo,” said Emlyn, leaning over the rail with his oar, “we will find out what has happened and see it put right. We have the support of King Magnus, remember. I doubt this bishop of yours can easily afford to anger the king.”

“This bishop is a pig-stealing rogue,” Murdo replied, shoving hard against the oar. “He cares for no one and nothing but the size of his purse.”

“That I heartily doubt,” remarked Emlyn. “Instead of believing the worst, we should rather pray for the best.”

“If anything has happened to either Ragna or my mother,” Murdo vowed, “the bishop will believe the worst is only beginning.”

The low-hulled ship left the quiet cove and sped across the strait towards the big island. Upon reaching the center of the channel, Gorm turned south to follow the undulating coast to the wide bay of Saint Ola below Kirkjuvágr. There were a dozen or more boats of various sizes in the harbor, but Gorm piloted the ship on a smooth straight line directly to the wharf. Murdo was out of the ship and halfway up the street to the cathedral before the mooring rope was tied.

“Murdo! Wait!” called Emlyn, waddling up the beaten earth track. “Wait, son, let us help you!”

Murdo had no intention of waiting for anything or anyone. He raced up the slope without looking back, reached the cathedral and darted through the small door and into the dim, cavernous nave to a side door leading out into the cloistered gallery and the chapter house beyond. The door to the chapter house was closed and barred, so Murdo began pounding on it and shouting at those inside to open up.

“I want to see the bishop,” Murdo said to the first face to peer through a crack in the door.

“His reverence is at table breaking fast,” answered the monk. “He sees no one until after prime. Come back then.”

“I do not care if he is at his window breaking wind,” growled Murdo. “I want to see him now!”

“He sees no one—” was all the monk got out before Murdo kicked the door into his face. The unlucky cleric gave a yelp and fell back.

“I believe he will be seeing me,” said the young man, stepping quickly through the gap. The monk was rolling on his back, clutching his head and moaning.

Murdo raised the stricken priest roughly to his feet, and pushed him into the room. It was early yet, and most of the brothers were at their morning meal; there was no one else about.

“Now that we understand one another better,” Murdo said, “tell Adalbert that Murdo Ranulfson has returned from the Holy Land. Tell the old thief that his day of reckoning has come.”

The monk stood in wounded silence, glaring uncertainly at his attacker.

“Better still,” said Murdo, moving to take the cleric by the arm, “I will tell him myself. Show me to his majesty the bishop's chamber.”

Murdo marched the reluctant monk across the darkened room to another door. “Through here?” he asked.

The monk nodded, but refused to speak. Murdo put his hand to the latch and pushed the door open. The room they entered contained a wide table surrounded by six large, throne-like chairs; the table was covered with a cloth of gold, and cushions of the same gleaming fabric rested on the chairs. Silver candle trees glimmered in the darkened corners of the room, and here and there, glints of gem work and precious metals lit the
darkness. Bishop Adalbert, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Murdo tightened his grip on the cleric. “Where is he?”

The monk winced and pointed to a wooden stairway at the far corner of the room. “Show me,” commanded Murdo, pushing the priest before him. They mounted the wooden treads and ascended into a small room with two narrow windows with panes of stained glass in red and yellow, making the room glow with a rosy color in the early morning light. A table covered with parchments, quills, and ink pot occupied the center, and on the wall opposite the windows stood a large, curtained bed.

Murdo crossed the room in two strides and yanked the curtains aside. Adalbert's eyes flew open and he gave a little startled cry as Murdo seized him by the arm and dragged him out of bed; he landed on hands and knees with a grunt. “Stand up!” ordered Murdo, grasping the bishop's arm and jerking him upright.

“Unhand me!” answered the bishop. Recovering some part of his ecclesiastical decorum, he rose slowly in his siarc, legs and feet bare. “Who are you?” he demanded. “How dare you accost a prince of the church on holy ground!”

“I think you know me, bishop.” Murdo stepped nearer, staring into the churchman's face.

“I have never seen you in my life,” declared Adalbert stiffly.

Murdo's hand snaked out and caught the churchman on the side of the face with a resounding slap. “I have no time for your lies,” Murdo told him.

“What do you want from me?” demanded the bishop, pressing a hand to his cheek.

“Lady Ragnhild and her daughter Ragna—where are they?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Again Murdo's hand flicked out, stinging the rattled clergyman on the cheek. “Think carefully before you answer next time,” he warned.

Thrusting a hand towards the silent monk cowering at the top of the stairs, Adalbert pleaded, “Brother, fetch help. Quickly! I want this brigand seized at once.”

“Stay where you are,” snapped Murdo. The monk remained standing. To the bishop he said, “Lady Ragnhild and her daughter—where are they?”

“Again, I can only say I have no idea what you are talking about,” replied the bishop petulantly. “You are deceived if you think that I—”

Murdo's hand caught him on the cheek once more, harder this time. The sharp slap brought a new light of fear to the churchman's eyes. “Who are you?” he murmured. “Why are you doing this?”

The fearful monk seized the opportunity to run for help. He fled in stumbling haste down the stairs. Murdo gripped the bishop's arm and raised a warning finger. “For the last time of asking: what have you done with Lady Ragnhild and her daughter?”

“I have the entire flock of the islands under my care. It is difficult to know what is hap—”

Murdo drew back his hand, higher and further this time, giving his victim a chance to see the blow coming.

“No! Wait!” Adalbert shouted quickly. “Lady Ragnhild and her daughter! Of course, I remember them now.”

“Where are they?”

“Lady Ragnhild is dead,” the bishop informed him bluntly. “Fever, I believe. I know nothing about anyone else.”

Murdo stared hard at the oily churchman, and decided he was telling the truth. “Her daughter and the others—the Lady Niamh who lived with her—what happened to them?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Am I now to assume responsibility for every wayward
woman in these islands?” Adalbert sneered. “You must be insane.”

The blow caught the bishop full on the mouth and rocked him back on his heels. Blood trickled from Adalbert's split lip, spilling down his chin. At the sight of his blood, the cleric began whimpering.

“The lady is my mother, you grunting pig.” Murdo drew back his arm once more. “Must I ask you again?”

“No! No!” The startled churchman thrust his hands before him. “The convent—any women were taken to the convent. I can tell you where it is.”

“I have a better idea,” replied Murdo. He started towards the stairway, pulling the bishop roughly with him. “You will
show
me where it is.”

There came a commotion from the room below and footsteps sounded on the stair.

“Salvation is at hand,” remarked Adalbert with a superior smile. “I am not going anywhere with you. Indeed, you will soon wish you had never perpetrated this outrage against the church.”

Murdo turned to meet the first of the bishop's defenders. It was Jon Wing's head and shoulders that appeared in the opening, however. “They are coming, Murdo.” Indicating the bishop, he asked, “Has he told you anything?”

“Some, not all.”

“Then bring him. I will hold them off.”

The Norseman disappeared at once, and Murdo tightened his hold on the unrepentant cleric. “Move!”

“There is no need to—”

“Move!” shouted Murdo, yanking his stumbling captive towards the stairwell.

“I cannot go like this—I am undressed. I must have my man
tle at least—and shoes.” He turned and tried to squirm back into the room. “I cannot be seen like this; it is undignified.”

“We will have a care for your dignity,” Murdo retorted, placing his hands firmly on Adalbert's back and forcing him down the stairs. “The same measure you granted to others shall be granted to you.”

Upon reaching the room below, Murdo pushed the resisting cleric to the door and out into the anteroom where Jon Wing was standing, spear in hand. “Hurry! Someone is coming.”

They ran for the outer door, tugging the bishop with them. Just as they reached the gallery, the door opposite the bishop's quarters opened, and a voice shouted, “You there! I demand you stop at once!”

Glancing behind him, Murdo saw Abbot Gerardus hastening towards him. He took one look at the odious priest and called to Jon Wing, “Bring him, too.”

The Norseman whirled around, raising the spear in the same motion. Gerardus, his voice loud in protest, saw the spear leveled at his throat and promptly closed his mouth.

Murdo poked his head out into the gallery to see Emlyn standing before a group of monks; from the intent looks on their rapt faces, he seemed to be explaining something to the brothers. “Come along, and keep your mouth shut,” Murdo said, drawing the bishop out into the gallery; Jon Wing followed with the abbot firmly in his grasp and the four started down the cloistered gallery towards the sanctuary.

They reached the sanctuary, crossed the nave quickly and made for the great outer door, which one of the brothers was just opening for the day. Murdo thanked the startled monk and shoved the door wider; Jon Wing pushed the two priests through, and they started down the path leading to the harbor.

Once away from the church, the bishop, still in his night dress, halted. “Kill me if you wish. I am not taking another step.”

Jon Wing crossed to Adalbert in two strides. Handing his spear to Murdo, he said, “Take this and lead the way. We will be right behind you.”

Murdo prodded Abbot Gerardus in the ribs with the butt of the spear and, as they started off once more, Jon Wing turned to the churchman and said, “Allow me, bishop.” Stooping quickly, he caught Adalbert around the knees, and hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of mutton.

In this way, the four men hurried through the town—to the laughter of the citizens going about their early-morning chores. The bishop, struggling weakly, called for help and pleaded to be released. Upon reaching the harbor, Murdo turned to look behind them, expecting to see monks boiling out of the cathedral. To his surprise, however, all he saw was Emlyn bustling down the hill to the harbor, his short legs stumping.