'I see no surviving warriors of Lord Godfrey's war band.' He regarded the small gathering with grave dark eyes. 'I pray you, tell me I am wrong.'
The Jaffa merchant took it upon himself to answer for everyone. 'Alas, lord,' he replied, 'you are too right. The Turks were waiting in ambush. Their victory was complete; there are no survivors.'
'If you saw the ambush,' said the man with Bohemond, speaking up, 'I wonder that you did not send soldiers from the town to aid in the fight.'
'They set fire to the gate,' the merchant countered. 'What could we do?'
'Has the city no other gates?' demanded the knight angrily.
Bohemond held up his hand for silence. 'Desist, Bayard. The deed is done.' He gestured towards the wagon into which the weapons were being loaded. 'Go and see what they have found.' The knight rode to the wagon, and while he began questioning the townsfolk working there, the count turned once more to the merchant. 'These men were coming from Jerusalem. Am I to assume they did not reach the city?'
'No, my lord, they did not,' Black Hat confirmed. 'Unfortunately, they were attacked before they could reach the safety of the walls.'
The Prince of Taranto nodded and looked around. He saw Murdo standing nearby, and said, 'You there. Is that the way you saw it?' The question held neither suspicion, nor judgement. Bohemond gazed mildly at the young man before him, his handsome face ruddy in the dying light.
'We saw it only from a distance,' Murdo answered, pointing to the hills away to the east. 'By the time we arrived here, the battle was over. But there is -' he began, intending to tell the prince about the lone surviving knight they had found.
Before he could say more, the nobleman Bayard returned from his inspection of the wagons. 'It is not among the weapons,' he called, reining in his horse. 'I say the Turks have taken it. They cannot have gone far. We can catch them.'
Bohemond turned his attention to those searching among the dead. He called to the warriors, and asked, 'Have you found it?'
'No, lord,' shouted the nearest soldier; the others answered likewise.
'Return to your mounts,' Bohemond commanded. 'Come, Bayard, we will discover where the accursed Seljuqs have gone.' He thanked the merchant and townspeople for the help, turned his horse, and rode away. Within moments the battle host was streaming after him; they passed by the walls of the city and headed south along the coast.
Murdo returned to where Emlyn was waiting. He had spread a cloak over the wounded soldier, and was sitting beside him, praying. He looked up at Murdo's approach. 'What did you learn?'
'You were right-it was Bohemond,' the young man confirmed. 'They are looking for something. They said the ambushed troops belonged to Godfrey, and that…' Murdo paused and gazed at the wounded soldier. 'I know what it is.'
'Well?' asked the monk.
'He said it,' Murdo replied, indicating the unconscious knight. 'He said, "Tell Godfrey the lance is gone." He meant the Holy Lance.'
'They have lost the Holy Lance,' Emlyn said, his voice growing suddenly bitter. 'These ignorant, foolish men! Blind and stupid, every one-from king to footman, not a brain among them. Cast them all into the pit and be done with it, O God!'
Once, such an outburst from the gentle monk would have alarmed Murdo, but not now. He knew exactly what the monk was feeling; he felt the same way himself.
Sinking to his knees, Emlyn raised clenched fists in the air. 'They have made of your great name a curse, O Lord,' he cried, 'and their deeds are blasphemy in your sight. Who will restore your honour, Great King? Who will overthrow the wickedness of the mighty?'
Murdo heard these words, felt his heart stirred to anger within him, and answered, 'I will.'
Emlyn, hands still raised, looked at his young friend. 'Murdo?' Seeing the light of a strange and powerful determination in the young man's eyes, he said, 'You have seen the vision, too.'
'I have,' confirmed Murdo. 'A curse and a blasphemy, you said -you were told to rescue the sacred relic from those who -
– from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy, yes, but-' the monk began.
'I am going after it,' Murdo said, his confidence growing by the moment. 'It is not right that they should use that holy relic as a trinket to be bartered for position and power. One way or another, I will bring it back.'
The priest rose quickly and stood before him. 'Hear me, Murdo: once in every life the choice is given,' Emlyn said quietly, his voice taking on the tone he used when telling the stories that moved Murdo's heart, 'to follow the True Path, or to turn aside. Your time has come, Murdo, and here is where it begins. You may lose everything you have worked for-you may even lose your life; but once you have begun, you can never turn back. Do you understand?'
Murdo accepted this with a nod. In that instant, he saw the path stretching out before him; he had taken the first step of a journey that would take a lifetime to complete. And for once in his life, he felt truly free. 'I am going,' he said again.
'Give me your sword,' Emlyn said. 'Men are forever taking up swords in spiritual battles. They forget who upholds them and delivers them; they trust instead to their own strength, and they fail. I do not want that to happen to you.'
Murdo hesitated.
'Look around you,' the monk instructed, indicating the corpses spread out upon the field. 'Godfrey's best warriors could not avail; why believe one more blade will make any difference?' He held out his hand for the weapon. 'It is not by might or skill at arms that this battle will be won, but by faith and the will of God.'
Unbuckling the sword belt, Murdo handed the blade to Emlyn. 'You are right,' he agreed. 'Besides, it would only slow me down.'
'May God bless you, Murdo, and send a flight of angels to surround you and guide you safely home once more.'
Murdo thanked the monk, embraced him, and said, 'Once you get inside the walls, go to the harbour. Find Jon Wing's ship and wait for me there. I will join you as soon as I can.'
Murdo drank some water then, and quickly refilled the waterskin from the contents of others he retrieved from among the belongings of the dead nearby. Meanwhile, Emlyn pawed around in the pouch behind the wounded knight's saddle, and brought out a chunk of dried meat and a bit of hard bread. Taking a cloak from behind the saddle of another dead knight, he returned to Murdo. 'You will need this tonight, I think,' the priest said, handing him the cloak. 'And take this bread and meat.'
Murdo slung the waterskin over his shoulder, and drew on the cloak. 'I will return as soon as I can,' he promised, accepting the small hard loaf and scrag of meat the monk offered. He glanced up at the sky and saw the stars already shining over the hills to the east. 'It will be a clear night and a good moon. I will be able to see the way. You should hurry, too, before the gates are closed for the night.'
He started off, making for the trail Bohemond and his war band had followed. 'Fear nothing,' Emlyn called after him. 'God himself goes with you.'
'See you do not lose the camel,' Murdo called back, lifting his hand in farewell. Then, turning his gaze quickly to the south, he saw the broad backs of low hills; he could make out their smooth slopes in the twilight. These were the leading edges of the grassy dunes which ran along the coast south of the city. It was from there that the Seljuqs had sprung their attack, and that was where he had seen them disappear. Somewhere among these dunes, thought Murdo, he would find the Holy Lance.
FORTY-FIVE
Murdo reached the edge of the sand hills as the first numbing pangs of fatigue seeped into his bones. He paused only long enough to catch his breath and swig a few mouthfuls of water before he climbed the nearest dune for a better look around. Sea grass, tough and dry, covered the top of the hill, and hissed at him as he waded through the tall stuff to see over the other side.