The iron lance

'I will never become a monk,' Murdo said with a flat slash of his hand.

'Did I say anything about becoming a priest? Most of the Cele De are priests, it is true. Most, I say, but not all.'

This roused Murdo's interest; he asked what he would have to do to become a Cele De. Emlyn answered, 'Better to ask what would be required of you after joining our number.'

'Does that mean you will not tell me?'

'It means,' replied the monk, 'that you would do well to count the cost of following the True Path.'

'How can I count the cost,' complained Murdo, 'if no one will ever tell me what it is? Who are the Cele De anyway, that you treat everyone with such suspicion?'

Emlyn sighed wearily, as if a sleeping dog had woken to snap at him once more. 'Ever since King Oswy-that poor benighted man, weak-minded and easily led by his pernicious wife and that grasping Saxon bishop – we have been made to suffer Rome's insults. The Cele De, longer in the land than any Saxon, have everywhere been hounded by the pope's noxious minions and driven to the wastes and wilderness.' The priest's hands clenched at the ends of his arms.

'We, who established the church among the pagan folk from the first, are reviled and rebuked by those who received salvation from our hands,' Emlyn continued, his voice rising steadily. 'We, who should sit at the banquet table with our noble brethren, are forced to stand in the yard with the lepers and malefactors! Almighty Rome gluts itself on the rich food of power in the realm of kings, yet our modest portion is denied. Having brought light and life to those who long dwelt in darkness and death, we are made wanderers and outcasts in the very lands that once rejoiced to speak our names.'

Murdo stared at the monk. He knew that there was some contention between Rome and the Cele De, but never had he heard any of the brothers complain so forcefully. 'So that is why you chose King Magnus to be your protector,' mused Murdo, thinking about what he had been told earlier.

As Emlyn drew breath to reply there came a distant rumble like the sound of a storm far away. Both he and Murdo turned instinctively to look behind them on the road. In a moment the sound came again, a little louder this time.

'More soldiers, I expect,' surmised Emlyn. 'It seems we will never be lonely on this road.'

The drumming of the hooves, rolling relentlessly towards them, sounded ominous. 'They are coming this way fast,' Murdo said. 'And there are more of them.'

'Perhaps we will have some company on the way.'

'No,' Murdo countered, swiftly scanning the land around for a place to hide. 'Get off the road.' Further on, the road passed through the remnant of a cedar and pine forest, but they would never make it. The last farm was too far back to be seen now, and there were no others ahead. Save for rocks of various sizes, and the occasional lonely olive tree and thorn bush, the land around them was barren.

'Over there -' Murdo pointed to a thorn bush growing from a little heap of rocks; together the bush and pile protruded above the surrounding landscape. Perhaps if they could get the camel to kneel, they might have a chance of hiding there.

Taking hold of the animal's harness, Murdo urged the beast off the dusty track towards the rock pile. They had just left the path, however, when, with a jerk of its head the camel stopped. Murdo pulled on the harness, but the beast refused.

'They are coming!' shouted Emlyn. 'I can see them!'

Murdo whirled to look behind them. The riders could be seen now as they came up over the hill, but they were still too far away to be counted; there might be six or sixteen, he could not tell.

'Help me!' Murdo called, pulling hard on the rope rein. Emlyn dashed to the grain bag and dug in his hands. Then, holding his hands before the camel, he succeeded in coaxing the beast forward a few more steps. But precious moments had been lost; the riders were now much closer.

There were not six or sixteen-there were more than sixty-and they were neither crusaders, nor Immortals. Murdo glimpsed the white-turbaned heads of the riders and his heart quailed. 'Turks!'

The rock pile stood little more than a few dozen paces, but already it was too late. For although he and Emlyn might reach it in time to get themselves out of sight, the foul beast never would.

'Leave it!' said Emlyn.

'No!' shouted Murdo defiantly. 'They will have to kill me to get their hands on my treasure.'

'They will do just that, and think nothing of it.' The monk tugged on his arm. 'Come away, Murdo.'

'No!' Murdo darted to the camel's side and reached for his father's sword. 'Hide behind the rocks. I will hold them off-'

'Murdo, stop!' said Emlyn, his voice taking on a note of authority Murdo had never heard him use before. 'Think! It is not worth your life, son.'

'It is my life!' spat Murdo. 'You cannot know what it means.' He drew the sword, and then unloosed the shield.

Emlyn stepped beside him and gripped him hard by the arm. 'No, Murdo,' he told him. 'Do not imagine that you will defeat them. Put aside the sword.'

'This is our only protection,' Murdo said, quickly strapping the sword belt around his waist.

'Listen to me closely; there is not much time. I can protect you,' the cleric said. 'I can protect us both, but there can be no weapons.'

This was said simply, but with such confidence that Murdo felt his conviction wavering. He gripped the sword hilt in his hand, feeling the comforting heft of the blade. He glanced again at the onrushing Turks; there were over a hundred, and still more appearing over the hill.

'You have trusted me in small things; will you trust me in this?' asked Emlyn. 'Will you do what I ask of you?'

Still watching the enemy's approach, Murdo reckoned that, at best, he would only be able to strike three or four times with the sword before the enemy drove him down with their spears.

'What must I do?' asked Murdo.

'Stand next to me,' Emlyn instructed, 'and take hold of my mantle.'

Although it made no sense, Murdo did as he was told. 'Now give me the sword,' the monk directed.

Murdo hesitated.

'Hear me, Murdo: we do not need it. You must trust me now.'

Emlyn took the sword in both hands, closed his eyes and spoke a few prayer-like words, then began scratching the rough outline of a circle in the hard-baked, rocky dirt. Murdo watched as the Turks raced nearer. The monk completed the circle, joining the ends so that it now enclosed them; he then drew back his arm and let the sword fly. It spun once in the air and landed with a dull thud in the dust a few dozen paces away.

'What are you doing? They are almost here!' he said, unable to keep the fear from edging into his voice.

'This is the cairn,' said the monk. 'It is a powerful symbol.'

'Symbol!' Murdo almost shrieked. He knew better than to trust a priest. Why had he given Emlyn the sword?

'It represents the all-encompassing presence and protection of God. Now do not let go of my mantle, and do not step across the circle – understand?'

Murdo nodded.

'Our Lord Christ said that wherever two or three are gathered in his name, he would be with them.' Closing his eyes, he raised his hands, palm outward, and began to chant.

The Seljuqs were almost upon them now. Murdo could see the foam gleaming on the horses' sides, and the dark, unfriendly eyes of the riders. It took all his courage, but Murdo closed his eyes, too, and listened as Brother Emlyn said, 'In the holy name of Jesu, I invoke the powerful protection of the Three to encompass me even now. I stand within the circle of the Great King's might, and place my life, my spirit, my soul in his loving care. Dearest Lord and Saviour, be to me the Swift Sure Hand of deliverance in danger. While enemies gather round about me, hide me in the hollow of your hand.'

The invocation finished, the two opened their eyes as the foe thundered past; the horses' hooves cast up clouds of grey dust as the riders hurtled by only a short spear's thrust away. The horses, nostrils wide, legs stretching and gathering, raced on as their riders, faces dark beneath white turbans, stared straight ahead, looking neither right nor left.