Free The Iron Lance by Stephen R. Lawhead Page B

the celebrants, for, baked into each small round loaf was a silver coin. Murdo plucked the coin from his cake and cupped it in his palm. Though it was but a tiny coin, it was more money than he had ever held at once. He gazed at the coin and marvelled at the Bishop’s generosity.
    â€œThe pilgrim’s coin,” Gundrun told him. “It is to pay the gattage.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe tax which the gateman of Jerusalem demand of all pilgrims who enter the Holy City.”
    â€œTo carry it with you means that you will live to see the city of the Blessed Saviour.”
    Dufnas grunted at this, and pressed his coin into Murdo’s hand. “There,” he said, “now you can pay my tax, too, when you get there.”
    Murdo thought to remind the disagreeable merchant that, in fact, he was not going to Jerusalem at all, but Dufnas was already draining his second beaker of wine and Murdo thought it best not to disturb him with such trifling matters. He tucked the coins into his belt, and turned his attention to the Saint John’s bread and wine.
    The wine, sweetened with honey and lightly spiced, quickly disappeared—most of it down Dufnas’ gullet, it had to be said—so Murdo sipped his cautiously, fearing he would get no more. Yet, no sooner had the empty pitcher touched the board than it was refilled from one of the two tuns of wine the bishop had established at either end of the green. One glance at the broad oak vats supported on their iron stanchions, and Murdo drained his beaker and then thrust it out for Gundrun to refill.
    â€œThirsty, boy, eh?” he laughed. “Well done!”
    Dufnas nudged him with an elbow and nodded his grudging approval. “We shall make a trencherman of you yet,” he declared.
    There followed more barley cakes and spiced wine, and some time later a dish made from ground almonds, honey, eggs and milk all boiled together to produce a thick sweet confection which was eaten from bowls with spoons as if it were soup. Murdo had never tasted anything so sweet, and did not think he could finish his, until, following Dufnas’ example, he alternated each spoonful with a healthy swig of wine, and found the combination produced a delectable flavor.
    When Murdo at last looked up from his third bowlful, he wasastonished to find that the day was fading; shadows were stealing across the green. Many of the celebrants had left the board—some to stroll arm in arm around the cloisters, others to be received by the bishop before making their way home. He looked for Ragna and her family, but could not see them anywhere.
    He was still searching when he heard someone call his name; he turned and saw Skuli motioning to him to come, and then saw his father and mother among those awaiting a word with Bishop Adalbert. Murdo reluctantly rose to join them.
    â€œLeaving us so soon?” inquired Gundrun, placing his hand affectionately on Murdo’s shoulder.
    â€œAlas,” replied Murdo, “I must go, or get left behind.” He bade his dining companions farewell and thanked them for telling him about the Holy Land. Upon receiving their compliments, he turned and walked, on slightly wobbly legs, to where his father was just then stepping before the bishop.
    Murdo arrived in time to hear the cleric say, “—so I have been informed. However, I had hoped, Lord Ranulf, that you might be persuaded to see the matter in a different light. It is a long journey and far from safe at the best of times. I am certain you would travel in better peace were your lands and possessions secure in our care.”
    Ranulf smiled with genuine warmth. “Your concern shows much to your favor, bishop. Yet, the matter is settled. My lady wife is well able to look after the ordering of the farm. Indeed, she has been so accustomed these last twenty years.”
    â€œEven the most accomplished overseers require help,” the bishop pointed out, nodding