The Iron Lance Read online

  Fossi was the family’s oldest and most trusted servingman. Though his hair had grown gray in the service of Lord Ranulf’s father, he still moved with the spry step of a man twenty years younger; his eye was as clear and his hand as steady as Murdo’s. Never one to speak two words where one would do, that one word was worth ten of anyone else’s. Old Fossi could be relied on to say what he thought without regard to rank or favor.

  “What think you, Fossi?” asked Murdo as they leaned on the enclosure fence.

  “The gathering-in?”

  “Yes. How do you mark it?”

  “I marks it right fair.”

  They stood a little in silence before Murdo coaxed some more out of him. “I am thinking it is better than last year,” Murdo suggested.

  “Oh, aye,” agreed Fossi.

  “We shall have enough to plant the new field, I think,” Murdo ventured. Lord Ranulf had cleared a patch of ground to the south of the present barley field earlier in the summer, and it was Murdo’s plan to sow it in the spring as his father intended.

  “Aye,” Fossi concurred, “we will.”

  Satisfied with this, Murdo chose a fine, fat calf from among the yearlings, and one of the pigs. “Mind you do not take Red William by mistake,” Murdo warned. “He is for the Yule board.”

  Fossi frowned and regarded Murdo with dark disapproval for impugning his abilities, but said nothing. Leaving Fossi to oversee the butchering, Murdo walked back to the house, tired in every muscle, but glowing with a contentment he would have envied in anyone else. The first drops of rain splashed into the dust at his feet as he reached the yard; he paused and stood as the rain pattered down around him, feeling the cool splashes on his upturned face.

  “Come winds and rain and winter cold,” he hummed to himself, reciting the words to the song. “my hearth is warm and my house is dry, and I shall not stir until the sun does rise on blessed Easter morning.”

  The good weather held long enough for the folk of Hrafnbú to enjoy their feast the next day, but after that a gale broke in full across the isles. The golden autumn dissolved in a rainy haze that did not lift, giving way instead to cold, gray days of rain and snow. Winter came early and stayed long, but the great house and its inhabitants remained in good spirits, passing a fine, if somewhat subdued, Yuletide with guests from the neighboring farms.

  Murdo reluctantly returned to his wintertime pursuit of Latin, and made steady progress in both reading and speech. His natal day passed uneventfully and unmarked, save for his mother’s thoughtful present of one of Lord Ranulf’s best hunting spears—one which Murdo had secretly coveted for some time. True, it was not the sword taking he would have wished, but it would have to do until his father returned. He prized the spear, and alternated his Latin with hunting from then on.

  Following the turn of the year, he and his mother, along with some of the neighbors, rode to the church at Saint Mary’s for the Feast of the Virgin. They stayed seven nights at Borgvík, the estate of Jarl Erlend’s younger sister, Cecilia, and her family. There were many young people, but no one Murdo’s age, and while the older people made vague attempts to include him in their conversations, all the talk of fishing and farming soon grew wearisome and he decided to play games with the children instead.

  Upon their return to the bú, Murdo began the task of repairing the tools and equipment for the spring planting. Besides that, there was the lambing to think about, but mostly the days remained uncluttered and he had time to himself. He occupied himself with riding the estate, often taking the spear and, with two or three of the tenants’ sons, trying his hand at hunting for the table. The woods at the end of the valley yielded a young stag, and though they often saw wild pigs, they were never able to get close enough to one for a good cast.

  Often on these excursions Murdo pretended he was on pilgrimage fighting Saracens. With every throw and thrust of the spear, he struck a decisive blow for Christendom. From time to time, he wondered about his father and brothers. He had no idea how far distant Jerusalem might be, but he thought they must soon be returning. How long could it take to liberate the Holy Land from the slack grasp of a few vexatious Arabs?

  According to common opinion, the pilgrims would make short work of it so that they could return to the comforts of home as soon as possible. Murdo decided that his father and brothers would be back well before the next harvest, and he would not have to undertake that chore alone.

  Thus the months passed, and winter grudgingly receded. The days grew longer and warmer, and the rains less fierce. As spring firmed its hold on the land, Murdo frequently found himself weighing the possibility of paying a visit to Lord Brusi’s estate to see how Lady Ragnhild and her daughter were bearing the lord’s absence. Try as he might, however, he could find neither a convenient nor convincing excuse to go to Hrolfsey. Sailing from one island to another was not difficult, but it was not a thing one did casually, and it was not in the way of a simple day’s outing. His mother would have to know, and he had no satisfactory means of explaining his sudden interest in the welfare of the Hrolfsey farming estates.

  He decided instead to make certain he and his mother attended the Eastertide ceremonies at the cathedral—in the hope that Lady Ragnhild would do the same. It took him several days to work up his courage to broach the subject with her, and then several more to find just the right opportunity to introduce it naturally into the conversation so that she would not suspect him of plotting anything. His chance came one night when, after their supper, he and Lady Niamh were sitting in their chairs before the hearth. His mother was mending a siarc, and he was stropping a knife on a length of leather when his mother said, “We will soon begin our Lenten observances.”

  “Is Eastertide so near?” he wondered, assuming an air of astonishment. “I suppose it must be. What with the planting and all, I had completely forgotten.”

  This statement, uttered with innocent sincerity, caused his mother to look up from her needle to regard him curiously. Murdo continued stropping the knife, aware of her glance, but betraying no sign. After a moment, Lady Niamh resumed her sewing. “We must give a thought to Eastertide preparations,” she said.

  “Did we go to the cathedral last year?” Murdo asked. “I have forgotten.”

  “Oh, Murdo, of course we did,” his mother informed him with quiet exasperation. “You forget because it is beneath your regard to remember. You have so little heart for the church, I wonder you go at all, Murdo.”

  I would not go, he thought to himself, if I was not forever pestered into going. Adopting a suitably contrite tone, he admitted, “It is not often uppermost in my thoughts, it is true. But I did enjoy the Saint John’s feast, and I would be happy to hear Easter Mass at the cathedral—if that is what you wish.”

  Oh, that was well done. He had deftly turned the entire affair into a matter of pleasing his mother. Murdo commended himself on his shrewdness and aplomb.

  His exultation was short-lived, however, for his mother downed her needlework to stare at him—as if unable to determine whether it was indeed her son sitting beside her, or a sly impostor. “As it happens,” she said, “I have already made other plans. We are to spend Eastertide elsewhere.”

  Murdo felt his heart sink. After all his cunning and careful planning, he was not to go to the cathedral at all. In desperation he said, “Yet the cathedral is a splendid sight on Easter—what with all the gold and finery. Could we not hear the mass, at least, before chasing off somewhere else? I do so like it there.”

  Lady Niamh frowned and shook her head. “You are a wonder. I had no idea you held such strong opinions on the matter.” She paused, considering what to do. After a moment, she said, “Honestly, I wish you had spoken sooner, Murdo. Lady Ragnhild has invited us to join them, and I have accepted. I do not see how I can tell her that we will not come after all—they will have made many preparations for us.” She paused again. “But, if you are determined, we might—”

  “Lady Ragnhild—wife of Lord Brusi…”
Murdo interrupted quickly.

  “Yes, the same—and if you tell me you cannot remember them, Murdo, I will thump you with a broom.”

  “I remember them right well,” Murdo replied truthfully. “But I do not recall seeing a messenger hereabouts.”

  “Messenger? Whatever do you mean? There was never any messenger.”

  “Then how—?”

  His mother regarded him with frank exasperation and clucked her tongue. “Ragnhild herself invited us at the Feast of Saint John. She knew we would be alone—as she would be herself—with the menfolk gone on pilgrimage. I told her we would be honored and delighted to observe the holy days with them.”

  Murdo, adopting a philosophical air, replied, “Well, I am never one to disappoint a body. In light of all the preparations the good lady will have made on our behalf, it would ill behove us to spurn an invitation already accepted. I fear we shall have to make the best of it.” He sighed heavily to show that, though his sentiments were firmly elsewhere, he was nevertheless capable of sacrificing his own happiness for that of others.

  “The things you say, Murdo,” Niamh said, shaking her head slowly. “One would almost believe you had another purpose in mind.”

  “My only wish is to please you, Mother,” Murdo replied, trying to sound hurt and dignified at the same time. “Is that wrong?”

  Lady Niamh rolled a skeptical eye at him and took up her needlework once more. Murdo turned his attention to the knife in his hand with what he considered an attitude of silent forbearance, all the time hoping against hope that his mother would overlook his ill-timed insistence on attending mass in Kirkjuvágr, now the last place he wanted to go.

  “Then it is settled,” Niamh mused after a time. “We shall go to Cnoc Carrach as we have planned.” She paused, thinking of the impending visit. “It will be good to spend a few days with Ragnhild again; it’s a long time since we stayed with one another.”

  Murdo, feeling he had said more than enough, wisely kept his mouth shut, as if accepting his mother’s final decree. That night he lay awake imagining what he would say to Ragna when he saw her, and wondering whether some sort of gift might be required for the occasion. He determined to give the matter serious consideration, and fell asleep dreaming of her pleasantly surprised reaction to his affection and generosity.

  In the days to follow, it took all of Murdo’s cunning to appear indifferent to the impending visit. He contrived to help Peder ready the boat; after wintering on the shore, there was always a deal of work to get the craft seaworthy once more, and the old sailor was most exacting about how the various chores were done. Peder had collected a supply of pitch to be mixed together with a little wool, the compound to be pressed into the seams and any cracks which had opened during the cold months. Then, the hull would be scraped with pumice stone and a fresh layer of pitch applied. Also, during the long winter, Peder fashioned lengths of rope from twisted hemp; these would have to be stretched and soaked, stretched and soaked again, and then spliced together to make good stout seaworthy lines—an arduous process, but, as Peder never tired of pointing out, at sea a man’s life hung by each and every strand of seaman’s thread.

  Save for the smell of hot pitch, Murdo did not mind the work. He preferred the sailing to farming anyway, and Peder’s rambling talk took his mind off the aching anticipation of seeing Ragna again. The thought tormented him like an inflamed itch, and he could not wait for the day. Easter had gradually assumed a towering significance for Murdo, and he began to fear he would not live to see it. The incomparable day hung over him like doom itself, and he even considered praying that God would allow him the blessing of beholding the lovely Ragna once more. If I can but see her dressed in her Easter finery before I die, he thought, I can depart this world a contented soul. And if, by some miracle, he was granted the favor of a kiss, he would meet judgment day a happy, happy man.

  Despite his feelings, however, Murdo made no prayers. He felt it beneath his dignity to honor that distant tyrant with his reverence, and he certainly did not care to enter into any bargains which might require him to atone in some disagreeable way, or attend church more often than he already did. He bore his affliction as best he could, working hard and taking long walks at dusk when his thoughts inevitably turned towards the forthcoming journey…and the ineffable delight which lay at the end of it.

  When the day of their departure finally dawned, Murdo was awake and ready before the cock had finished crowing. For the life of him, he could not understand why, this day of all days, everyone had suddenly become so sluggish and slow. It was not as if they were taking the entire holding with them; besides his mother, Murdo was the only other person going, along with Peder, of course, and Hin, one of the younger servingmen, who was to help with the boat. But there were numerous baskets and bundles of food, and several chests of clothing and other belongings to be loaded onto the wagon and carried down to the boat, and stowed aboard.

  “We are not settling unknown territory,” Murdo observed tartly. “Why do we need all this—this tack?”

  “Is it impatient you are?” his mother cooed sweetly. “Ah, heart of my heart, you will see your Ragna again soon enough.”

  Murdo gaped at his mother. All this time he had been so careful—how did she know? How could she know?

  He could feel his cheeks burning, and turned away quickly. “I was only thinking of the weather,” he said vehemently. “Peder says we will have a good wind to begin, but it will grow tassy by midday.”

  “Listen to you now,” Niamh said, her eyes glinting mischievously as she stepped near, “going on about the weather, when the merest mention of her name brings the color to your cheeks…or was that the wind as well?”

  He glared at his mother, but held his tongue lest he make the thing worse.

  “Murdo,” she coaxed, “you have been stalking around here like a caged bear ever since we decided to go to Cnoc Carrach—did you really think I would not guess the reason? I have been the mother of sons for a fair few years; there is very little I do not ken of menfolk.”

  Murdo softened under her gentle reproof. He shrugged, and said, “Well, we have been shut up here all winter, after all. I know how eager you are to see your friend again.”

  Lady Niamh put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Hear me, my soul,” she said, “Ragna is a splendid young woman, and nothing would make me happier than seeing you take her to wife. Your father feels the same, I know. We are both noble families, and there is a great deal to be said for binding our houses together. I have good reason to believe Lord Brusi would welcome the match.”

  “Mother,” he said, mystified, “why are you telling me this?”

  She smiled. “So that you will feel free to follow your heart in the matter.” She lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek. “I have seen the way you look at her. Truly, a love match is a rare thing, my light. Your father and I have been fortunate, but many—nay most—are not so blessed.” She paused. “As it happens, I have also seen the way Ragna looks at you.”

  Murdo jerked his head back in disbelief.

  “Oh, aye,” his mother assured him, “she likes you, Murdo. She surely does.”

  Unable to endure any more of this talk, Murdo turned away, seized the nearest basket, and strode from the room as quickly as his wilted dignity allowed. “You could do worse, dear son of mine,” Niamh called after him. “Just you ponder that!”

  EIGHT

  The boat made landfall in the narrow cove below Cnoc Carrach on the western side of Hrolfsey. The house was built on the southeastern side of the cnoc, or hill, so that it might not be seen from the sea, but Murdo knew where it was, and his heart quickened at the thought that Ragna was so near. To his dismay, he found his hands trembled on the tiller as Peder and Hin readied the pole and anchor in preparation of coming alongside Lord Brusi’s timber quay.

  No one appeared to notice his excitement, however, and Murdo quickly busied himself with helping unload the boat. They were still about this
chore when two servingmen and an ox-drawn cart appeared on the winding track leading down to the cove. “We saw your boat in the narrows,” the elder servant explained. “Lady Ragnhild sent us to help you.” Addressing Niamh, he said, “If it pleases you, my lady, you might go ahead to the house. It’s for us to see to your possessions.”

  Murdo’s mother thanked the servants, but declined, saying, “There is no hurry. We will stay and help you.” She then directed Murdo to assist the servingmen, while Peder and Hin secured the ship. Owing to the steepness of the cliff, the cart could not reach the quay and so all the chests and baskets had to be carried half-way up the hill to the waiting wagon. This simple task seemed to take forever, and the sun was already disappearing behind the shoulder of the hills by the time the cart was loaded and the oxen prodded into motion.

  The visitors climbed the hill and walked the short distance to the house, and by the time they reached the yard, Murdo was almost faint with anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest and his vision swam; it was all he could do to keep from falling over at every step.

  Ah, but his expectation was not misplaced. For no sooner had the cart come to a halt than the door to the great house opened and Ragna emerged, bearing a golden cup on a wooden tray. She stepped lightly into the yard, her limp visible only in the slight tilt and jiggle of the tray she carried. To Murdo, however, she seemed not so much to walk, as to glide a little above the ground.

  Dressed in a simple white mantle edged with gleaming blue embroidery, and wearing a blue-embroidered girdle around her slender waist, she appeared taller than Murdo remembered, and even more beautiful. She is always new, he thought, and always better than herself. Indeed, her fair features seemed to glow in the setting sun, and her hair glinted red-gold in the dusky light. She was a creature of radiance and grace. Murdo drank in the sight of her in one prolonged gawk of amazed delight, and swore on his life that he had never seen anything so handsome, or so fine.