The iron lance

Turning away from the sight, he sat up-wincing from the pain of his blistered skin. He touched his chest, and his fingertips came away slick and greasy. Looking around, he discovered that he lay on a mat of woven grass, naked beneath a thin cloth; his belt and knife lay beside him-along with Emlyn's mantle, neatly folded, and a gourd full of water which he took up at once and drained in long gulps.

His back and shoulders felt as if he had been scourged and then dragged by wild horses through flaming coals. There was a gnawing ache in his empty stomach, and his eyes and lips throbbed. But it was not until he tried to stand up, that the fiery pain in his feet burst upon him. He fell back whimpering; the soles of his feet were gashed and torn, the skin hanging from them in shreds.

He groaned, squeezing his eyes tight against the pain and breathing in quick, panting gasps. This awakened Emlyn, who was lying behind him on the other side of the olive tree. 'Murdo!' he cried, rolling to his knees. 'You have come back to us! How do you feel?'

Before he could answer, the priest said, 'Are you hungry? There is bread and broth; I will get some for you.' He darted away before Murdo could think to call him back.

Unable to lie down again for the pain, Murdo leaned on his elbow and looked out towards the city. The shadow of the hillside stretched across the valley, and the ferocious heat of the day was abating. He could see men and wagons moving on the roads outside the city. Although he could remember all too vividly what he had witnessed in Jerusalem, he could not recall what had happened when he left the city, nor how he had come to be in the olive grove.

He pondered this until Emlyn returned a little while later, bearing a big wooden bowl and two flat loaves under his arm. 'The pilgrims here have been starving for months,' he said, 'but now that the city is free, food is more plentiful.'

Yes, thought Murdo grimly, and I know why: the dead eat very little.

Settling himself beside the tree, the monk helped Murdo sit up, and placed the bowl in his lap. Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, he put it in the broth to soften it. 'Ronan and Fio

'Where are my clothes?' Murdo asked in a voice as dry and rough as gravel. Taking up the spoon, he began to eat.

Emlyn shook his head. 'God knows,' he said. 'You are as I found you. I feared you had been set upon by Saracens. You were dazed by the sun, I think, and could not speak.' The priest looked at him with large, sympathetic eyes. 'Were you attacked?'

Murdo, his mouth full of soggy bread, only shook his head.

'Some of the things they are saying… terrible things… I ca

Murdo felt his throat tighten and his own tears welled up. He bent his head and began to weep anew. Huge salty tears fell from his eyes and into the bowl in his lap; ragged sobs seized him and he began to shake as the grief and shame descended all over again.

Emlyn, kneeling beside him, took the bowl away then and Murdo felt the priest's arms encircling him. Emlyn cradled Murdo to his breast, and whispered, 'Let it go, Murdo. Let it all come out. Give it to God, my son. Let the Good Lord bear it away.'

Murdo gave himself to his sorrow. As before, he was helpless against the deluge. The waves of remorse tossed him to and fro, battering him without mercy.

Emlyn held him, stroking his head, and after a while began to chant in a low murmuring voice: 'The Good God is my shepherd, I nothing want. In green pastures he makes me lie, and leads me beside the waters of peace; he renews my soul within me, and for the sake of his good name guides me along the right path. Even though I walk through the death-dark valley, I fear no evil thing, for you, O Lord, are with me, and your crook and staff are my very present comfort…'

When he finished the psalm, the monk began another, and then another-until at last the grief began to ebb. Murdo pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and smeared the last of the tears across his blistered cheeks. Emlyn released him and took up the gourd; seeing it was empty, he went to refill it, and returned to find Murdo with the bowl raised to his mouth, spooning broth into his mouth. He accepted the gourd gratefully, and drank deeply.

They sat together in the growing twilight, silent in one another's company, watching the campfires spark to life across the valley. Then, with the monk's help, Murdo rolled onto his side, put his head down, and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was Emlyn's promise to stay with him and watch over him.

Murdo woke twice during the night to the sound of his own screams. The atrocities and brutality stalked him in his dreams, and he imagined himself trapped in the burning mosq, or fighting for his last breath with a spear through his gut. Each time, Emlyn was there to comfort him and soothe him back to sleep with a psalm.

The next morning Emlyn was nowhere to be seen, so Murdo lay back and dozed. In a little while he heard the soft footfall of someone hastening towards the tree. He lifted his head. 'Emlyn?'

'Murdo, I was coming to wake you,' he said, his voice shaking slightly. 'You must come quickly.'

'Why? What has happened?'

'Fio

'Where is he?' Murdo asked, painfully drawing his arms into the sleeves. The coarse cloth was savage next to his sore skin. 'Is it far?'

'Not far. Fio

'I can walk.' Murdo made to get up at once. His skin was still raw and sore from the sunburn, but it was his feet which hurt him more-cut and battered as they were, they had swollen and he could not put his weight on them. 'Agh!' he cried, sitting down quickly. 'No, it hurts too much.'

'Let me help you.' Taking the edge of his cloak, Emlyn tore strips from it and began wrapping the bands around Murdo's feet.

'Ca

'I fear he is,' Emlyn confirmed.

'How badly?'

'I ca

'How badly, Emlyn?'

'Truly, Fio

While he was binding Murdo's feet, Fio

Together, the priests took him gently under the arms, lifted, and stood up. But even with his weight resting on the monks' shoulders it was still too painful. Murdo groaned and bit his lip to keep from crying out. Black spots spun before his eyes, and sweat broke out on his forehead. The monks steadied him, and then carried him the two steps to the waiting donkey and boosted him onto the animal's back.

Fio

Of all the wounded Murdo saw, only a fortunate few had so much as a grass mat or cloth on which to lay, and fewer still had tents. Consequently, many tried to escape the blistering heat of the sun by making shelters out of their shields, or flinging their cloaks on low-hanging branches to create sun-breaks for themselves.