Free The Iron Lance by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

him, her expression at once shrewd and thoughtful. She was watching him and he had caught her; but she did not look away, nor did her expression change. She continued staring at him, until two monks carrying a cauldron passed between them and removed her from his sight—but not before Murdo had seen, for the second time that day, the secret smile playing on those sly lips.
    Distracted and confused, Murdo addressed himself once more to his meal and his companions. Gundrun proved himself not only an amiable table companion, but a veritable fountain of knowledge. He had travelled widely; his trade took him throughout the north and into Gaul. Once, he had even made a pilgrimage to Rome. Thus, when Murdo asked him where Rouen might be, the older man replied, “Why, it is in Normandy, if I am not mistaken.”
    â€œWho is king there?” wondered Murdo.
    â€œThat would be William Rufus, King of England,” Gundrun told him. “Are you thinking of joining the pilgrimage after all?”
    â€œNo,” Murdo confessed. “I heard my father talking about it. They are to go to Normandy and travel with the king’s men.”
    â€œAh, no doubt you mean William’s son , Duke Robert of Normandy,” corrected the merchant gently. “It seems he is to lead the Normans and English to Jerusalem—along with some others, of course. There are very many knights and men-at-arms travelling together, you see. At least, that is what I have heard.”
    This brought a snarl of disapproval from Dufnas, sitting next to Murdo. Gundrun replied, “What is it to you, my friend, whether the Franks send a blind dog to lead the pilgrims to Jerusalem? You have no intention of going in any event.”
    â€œFoolish waste,” Dufnas declared. Then, having found his voice, added, “I would not set foot in that God-forsaken land for all the gold in Rome.”
    Thus delivering himself of this sentiment, Dufnas turned once more to his neglected meal; seizing a pheasant, he broke it in two between his fists—as if to show what he thought of the pilgrimage—and then bit deeply into the half in his right hand.
    â€œPay him no heed,” Gundrun advised. “He has been to Jerusalem.”
    â€œTwice,” grumbled Dufnas.
    â€œTwice,” confirmed his friend. “He was robbed by Saracens the last time, and he has never forgiven them.”
    Murdo turned wondering eyes upon the moody merchantman. He did not appear a likely pilgrim; but then, Murdo had never known anyone who had been as far as Lundein, much less Rome or Jerusalem. “They say,” he ventured, “that the Holy Land is surrounded by a desert, and that the sand burns with afire that cannot be quenched. Is this so?”
    Gundrun passed the question to Dufnas, saying, “Well, my friend, you heard him—what about the desert?”
    â€œAye,” he agreed between bites, “there is a desert right enough.”
    â€œAnd does it burn?” persisted Murdo.
    â€œWorse—it boils,” answered Dufnas, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “No one can cross it during the day. You must wait until the night when it freezes like ice.”
    Murdo nodded, as if he had long suspected this to be the case. He tucked this nugget of information into his memory to bring out later and impress Torf and Skuli. He was about to ask Dufnas whether it was also true that the Saracens could take as many wives as they pleased, but the serving monks arrived with pitchers and beakers of wine just then, and everyone began filling their cups and drinking one another’s health. Murdo joined in, and found that he liked wine, and the way it made him feel as if he were glowing inside.
    All around the green, the feast took on a more convivial mood, as everyone awaited the appearance of the Saint John’s bread, sweet little barley cakes taken with wine. When at last they arrived, the cakes brought gasps of delight from