He came up from the bed like a lion rising to the attack, his mind filled with all the things he must do. Before anything else, he must delay the envoy. He must buy himself some time if his plan was to have even the slightest chance of succeeding.
Godfrey bolted from the bed chamber, calling, 'Baldwin! Where is my brother?' He grabbed hold of a sleepy servant, and shouted. 'Find my brother, and bring him to me. I want to see him at once.' He then charged off to the chapel for his morning prayers. He would send for the abbot as soon as he was finished, and put the plan in motion.
Murdo and Emlyn had spent a short, wakeful night beside the trail, moving on before dawn. As the sun crested the hills behind them, they looked down the road, descending in a series of long, gentle slopes all the way to the sea. A sprinkling of farms and fields lay before them and, as the sun threw their shadows before them, they started for the nearest of these, hoping to beg some water for the day, and perhaps a handful of fodder for the camel.
Emlyn was already drenched with sweat by the time they came into the dusty yard. There seemed to be no one around, so they went to the well and dipped the dry leather bag down and down into the cool dark hole. At first, Murdo feared the well must be empty, but the bag came up half full of murky water-which he poured out into a nearby trough for the beast. He poured out another, dipped again, and offered Emlyn the first drink. The monk sniffed, then drank a few mouthfuls. 'I have had worse,' he declared, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 'It will keep us until we can get something better.'
'Even so, we need more waterskins,' replied Murdo, looking towards the mud-brick dwelling. Flies buzzed in the yard, but no other sound could be heard. 'I wonder if the house is abandoned.'
'That we can soon discover,’ said Emlyn, moving towards the building.
A dirty, ragged cloth hung across the doorway so Emlyn slapped the rounded timber post with the flat of his hand, calling out in a loud voice, 'In the name of Christ, I bid thee, come and greet a weary pilgrim.' He waited, and called again. Receiving no answer, he turned to Murdo. 'I think there is no one here.'
Tying the camel at the trough, Murdo crossed the yard in quick steps, while Emlyn pulled aside the rag at the door and looked in. 'Empty,' he said as Murdo pushed in beside him.
Murdo scanned the single room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim interior. There was a small, low table, and a three-legged stool beside the door, and in the centre of the room, a hearth. He put his hand to the ashes, but they were cold. There was no telling how long ago the inhabitants had deserted the place. Beside the hearth was an assortment of clay pots of various sizes, cracked and blackened from the fire. There was nothing else in the humble room; most likely the farmer and his family had taken anything of use or value with them.
'See here!' said Emlyn, pointing to a rough cloth bag hanging from a wooden peg on the far wall. He crossed to the bag, lifted it from the peg, and peered inside. 'Praise God, for his faithful provision!'
'What is it?' asked Murdo impatiently. The empty house made him uneasy, he did not like it and wanted to be on his way once more.
'Grain,' answered the monk; he reached inside and brought out a fistful which he let slide back into the bag. 'Enough for the camel, and for us, too, if we find nothing better.'
'Good,' said Murdo. 'We will take some of these bowls, too, for water.' He collected the clay vessels, retraced his steps to the well, and began filling the pots. Meanwhile, Murdo tied the grain bag to the camel's saddle, and then retrieved the filled jars, replenished the waterskin, and stowed everything among the treasure bundles as carefully as he could.
'We should be on our way,' said Murdo when he finished, 'before it gets too hot.' He glanced at the sky, already white in the east with the heat of the day to come. 'We will stop and rest later.'
They left the farmhouse and, somewhat refreshed, began the day's journey in earnest. The countryside was quiet; there were no people in the fields, nor did they discern any activity around the houses they passed, whether near or distant. Murdo seemed to recall having seen labourers and farmers, women and children, sheep and dogs and chickens, too, when he had passed this way before.
They walked all through the morning and, when the sun grew too hot, found an olive tree near to the road and rested in the shade. They drank from one of the bowls, and Emlyn fed the camel a few handfuls of the grain. Murdo was dozing lightly when he felt Emlyn's touch on his arm. 'Listen! Someone is coming!'
The sound of horses moving on the road reached him in the same instant, and he came fully awake. The company was soon on them, and they huddled beneath the olive branches and watched the long double rank of soldiers gallop past.
'They are certainly in a hurry,' observed the monk.
'It is the emperor's envoy,' replied Murdo, looking at the distinctive armour. 'They must have been getting ready to leave when we were at the abbey.'
The soldiers moved on and the silence descended upon them once again. They then stretched themselves beneath the tree and slept through the heat of the day, rousing themselves and moving on again as the sun drifted low in the west.
Emlyn chanted a verse in praise of light and warmth, and offered up a travelling prayer for the protection of wayfarers. When he finished, Murdo asked, 'How did you come to serve King Magnus?'
'Well now,' said Emlyn, 'that is one of our secrets.'
'Yet another secret?' scoffed Murdo. 'It is a wonder you find anything to talk about at all.'
'The Cele De have become a secretive order, it is true,' allowed Emlyn. 'Believe me, it was not always so. But now it is our best protection. This is why we chose King Magnus.'
'You chose him!’ laughed Murdo derisively. 'Then Magnus is like no king I ever knew.'
'We needed a protector and a benefactor,' the monk explained, ignoring Murdo's scorn. 'We are few, and the power of the Anti-Christ is strong. It was either take up swords ourselves, or find someone who would shield and defend us. King Magnus was the strongest lord in the north, so -'
'Wait – what was that? Anti-Christ? What in God's name is that?'
'You would do well to speak that word softly,' Emlyn warned. 'The Cele De know that in every age a spirit of immense evil arises to work its wicked will on mankind. Very often this vile spirit seeks refuge in the Church itself, where its wickedness can work the greatest woe and destruction on the poor and needy spirits of this world; when this happens, we call it the Anti-Christ-the opposite Christ. Whatever Our Blessed Redeemer may be, the Anti-Christ is the opposite, the reverse.'
'So then, who is this Anti-Christ?'
'It is rarely a single person,' Emlyn replied. 'Sometimes, perhaps. Most often it is more like a sickness, a plague which suddenly assails the Body of Christ and seeks to destroy it.'
'If that is so, then what good is a king, no matter how many swords and shields he has at his command?'
'Oh,' remarked Emlyn quickly, 'do not misunderstand. Though the Anti-Christ might be a spirit, albeit of wickedness, the power he wields over those in his service is extraordinary. Make no mistake, in the last extremity the servants of the Anti-Christ must be fought with sword and spear.'
Murdo regarded the monk beside him-stocky legs stumping rhythmically, red face dripping with sweat. Once again, as so often happened when talking to the unassuming cleric, the discussion had abruptly taken an unexpected turn. He felt like the fisherman who sees his prize catch suddenly disappearing into unknown depths with a glinting flash of its silver sides. 'Tell me about the True Path,' he said.
'I have told you all I can. If you would learn more, you must become a Cele De,' the monk replied.