Caitriona frowned, regarding the young man with mild exasperation.

'If you have any more dealings with Arabs,' Abu suggested pointedly, 'y°u will most certainly need someone to speak for you.'

'Very well,' said Cait, deciding at once. 'You can join us.'

'Thank you, sharifah. Oh, thank you very much,' Abu said. Darting forward, he snatched up her hand and pressed it to his lips. 'You have made the right decision, you will see. God wills it, amen!'

'Go and help Svein and Dag find your donkey,' she ordered, extricating her hand.

Rognvald stared at her for a moment, then rose without a word and stumped off. 'What is wrong with him?' wondered Cait.

'He is a little upset, I think,' suggested Yngvar.

Cait rose and went after him, and caught up with him at the horse picket. She stood and watched while he made a pretence of inspecting the animals. 'Well? Whatever it is, you might as well spit it out.'

'There is nothing to say.' He did not look at her when he spoke.

'You think I made a mistake.'

'So, now you know what everyone is thinking.'

'Am I wrong?' she demanded. 'Look at me and tell me I am wrong.'

'Honest men do not consort with thieves.'

'Neither do they consort with the refuse of the hostage pit,' she replied crisply. 'Yet, I did not hear you complain about that.'

The nobleman's countenance darkened at the jab. Before he could reply, she said, 'Hear me, I am in command here and I will not have my authority questioned. Understood?'

'Perfectly,' Rognvald replied, then added, 'my lady.' He bowed stiffly, turned, and walked away.

Cait returned to her place beneath the tree and sat down. 'You made him angry,' Alethea pointed out.

'He will learn who is in command.'

'You should be nicer to people. You might want them to be nice to you one day.'

'Spare me your homilies, Saint Alethea.'

Thea sniffed and shut up. Cait leaned against the trunk, and closed her eyes, but she kept thinking of all the other things she wished she had said to put haughty Lord Rognvald in his place.

After a time, the others returned with Abu's donkey. They rested through the heat of the day, and moved on again when the sun began its descent in the west. A few small ragged clouds had drifted in from the coast after midday, bringing with them a slight freshening of the air. Thus, the party resumed their journey in better comfort than before, and continued on until darkness made the road difficult to see.

They camped then, a little distance from the track, in a grove of ancient olive trees which were fed by a tiny spring. While the others set about watering the horses, Haemur, Otti, and Yngvar prepared a meal. The moon had risen by the time the food was ready; they ate by moonlight, and stretched themselves beside the dying fire to sleep. Caitriona lay awake for a long time, watching the stars slowly turn in the heavens. The moon rose above the far-off hills, causing the night creatures to stir. Somewhere out in the unseen wilderness a bird called, filling the silence with its sad, forlorn song. Tears came to Cait's eyes, for she heard in the sound the cry of her own wounded soul, and she felt a cold hard ache inside-as if a sliver of ice had pierced her breast and lodged itself deep in the hollow of her heart.

She would feel the ache, she told herself, until she-God's instrument of Holy Vengeance-had sent de Bracineaux's black soul to judgement.

The night passed, but gave her no rest, and she rose to begin another day on the trail ill-at-ease and irritated. They broke camp and started off; it was not long before she found herself riding beside Rognvald once more.

'We will get you some weapons when we reach Tyre,' she said when the uncomfortable silence grew too great to bear. 'The markets are good there. We should be able to buy whatever you want.'

Rognvald thanked her, but made no further reply.

'I would have preferred to get weapons in Damascus,' she continued, 'but the merchants are forbidden to sell arms to Christians.' She paused, glancing sideways at the tall Norseman. His proud silence was beginning to irk her.

'I suppose,' she said, trying to draw him out, 'Abu might have bought something for us somewhere.'

Again, he waited before he answered. 'No,' he said at last. 'It is better this way.'

'Better?' she challenged, her vexation flaring into anger. 'In what way better? Knights without weapons are not much use.' He looked at her calmly, and that irritated her the more. 'Well?' she demanded.

'If any of Prince Mujir ed-Din's soldiers had caught us with so much as a pruning knife between us while we were still in the city, we would have been thrown into prison again-or worse,' he told her. 'I think it is better this way.'

For some reason this reply annoyed her, too.

'Well, then,' she said tartly, 'if we are attacked on the road, I will just leave it to you to explain to the cut-throats just how much better it is this way.'

She snapped the reins and made to ride away, intending to leave him behind with the sting of her retort. But the knight reached out and took hold of her mount's bridle, jerked back on the reins and brought both horses to a halt.

Surprised, and instantly furious, Cait glared dangerously at him and was about to lash out at his impertinence, when he looked her in the eye and said in a low, deliberate voice, 'So long as I have breath in my body, no harm will come to you.'

He paused to make certain she understood, then added, 'That is my solemn vow, and I do not make it lightly.' He looked at her again, and she felt herself unsettled by the intensity of his gaze.

'My lady,' he said, releasing his hold on her mount's bridle. He snapped the reins and rode on alone.

Dusty, saddle-sore, hungry, and with a throbbing thirst clawing at their throats, Cait and her small company arrived at the port of Tyre. It was late in the day and, after the stifling, airless heat of the dry plain, the wind off the sea was cool silk on her skin. As they rode through the wide main street of the city which led down to the harbour Cait saw the white glimmer of sun on water just ahead, and heard the cry of gulls, and was instantly transported to the coldwater bay below Banvaro" in Caithness.

The elation she felt at this sudden memory faded with the realization that her father would never see his home again, never again sail into that generous bay, never again sweep his darling Sydoni off her feet and fold her in his strong arms. Poor Sydoni, Cait thought, she does not even know Duncan is dead. She is waiting for him to come home and he never will.

She felt the sadness rising up in her like a spring, but like the girl in Abbot Emlyn's tale of the overflowing well, she dropped the heavy stone lid back into place and the upsurge of grief subsided. There would be time one day to lament her father's death and mourn him properly. But that day would have to wait. Grief was an extravagance she could not afford-there was too much to do, too many responsibilities, too much ground to cover. Later she would grieve, she told herself, when her work was finished. You will be avenged, Papa, she vowed once more.

As they drew near the harbour, she sent Haemur and Otti to buy food and drink for their supper, while she and the others proceeded to the wharf. Upon dismounting, she dismissed the hostler, paying him a little over the agreed amount for the use of his horses, thanked him and sent him on his way. She also gave the last-chosen knight a handful of silver coins and sent him on his way, saying, 'Should you be tempted to desert your family again, remember your vow and know that God will hold you to account.' The knight bowed and, thanking her lavishly, hurried away along the wharf in search of a fast ship to take him home.