'If you like,' she said indifferently. The Norseman regarded her with pursed lips, but said nothing. 'What?'

'It is a large enough ship. I can easily find another place to sit.'

'Please,' Cait relented. 'I insist.'

His smile was ready and affable. 'Since you insist, I accept.' He sat down happily beside her, put his cup on the deck and began pulling steaming bits offish from the skewer. He chewed quietly for a while, and when Cait thought he might let their former discussion pass without comment, he said, 'If Galicia is so full of friendly people, why do you need a bodyguard of fierce and terrible Norwegians?'

Cait could feel his eyes on her, but she stared straight ahead and deliberately stripped off a piece of fish and put it in her mouth and chewed slowly to give herself time to think how to answer. Rognvald sipped from his cup and waited.

'We are going…' she began at last, then paused. It was no good trying to concoct a plausible explanation on the spot. 'The truth?'

'Well, why not?' said Rognvald. 'It saves so much time and trouble in the end. Yes, let us begin with the truth.'

She looked at him sideways. 'The truth is, I do not know.'

He nodded thoughtfully, considering this odd revelation. 'Then,' he said after a moment's reflection, 'if you do not mind my asking, why are you going?'

The way he said it-neither opposing, nor disapproving-made Cait smile. She could hear Duncan adopting the same tone, and she liked it. 'As to that,' she said, 'I am not altogether certain.'

'That would follow.' He slapped his knee with his palm. 'Well now, it is good to have that settled.' He thanked her for telling him and rose abruptly, saying that if she should ever receive any further leading in the matter he would much appreciate a word.

'Are you always so headstrong and haughty?' she called as he stumped away. When he did not stop or look around, she relented. 'Oh, very well. I will tell you.'

He turned around and retraced his steps. 'Everything,' he said, standing over her.

'Yes,' she conceded, 'everything. Just sit down so I do not have to shout up at you.'

Rognvald sat, leaned back against the tiller rail, clasping his cup in both hands. 'Proceed.'

'First,' Cait said, 'I must know if you hold any regard for the Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.'

'The Templars?' He glanced at her curiously, and saw that she was in earnest. 'No, my lady,' the nobleman answered, shaking his head slowly. 'I have known but two or three of them-they were in prison with us, but were quickly ransomed by their order. They were Franks, it is true, but seemed like honourable men nonetheless.' He shrugged. 'They are said to be formidable warriors, but I cannot say one way or the other. Are there Templars in your explanation?'

'There are,' confessed Cait. 'One, at least, but probably many more by now. They are the reason for this… this…' she searched for a word and did not find one.

'Pilgrimage?' suggested Rognvald, supplying the term she had used before.

'It is no pilgrimage,' Cait admitted.

'No?'

She looked across the deck to where the knights were now lolling around the brazier, their voices loud with raucous talk. Rognvald was right; she had entrusted her life to these knights, she might as well trust him with the rest. She stood. 'Come with me. It will be easier if I show you.'

She led him below deck to her father's quarters where she opened the wooden sea chest containing his clothes and belongings. Reaching down into the chest, she felt along the side of the box and brought out a flat parcel wrapped in one of her mantles. While a bemused Rognvald watched, she untied the knotted fabric and withdrew a flat parchment tied with a red silk band.

'This,' she said, placing the document in his hands, 'is why we are going to Galicia.' She indicated that he should open it.

He untied the silk band and opened the stiff parchment. 'A letter,' he said, scanning the salutation, 'to the Patriarch of Rome.'

'Yes,' she confirmed, 'and it leads to a prodigious treasure.'

'That which is beyond all price,' intoned Rognvald, following his finger along the heavy parchment, 'the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come, the… what? Rosa Mystica..' His voice trailed off and he looked to Cait for an explanation.

'I do not know what it is, either,' she confessed. 'He calls it the greatest treasure in the world. I mean to have it.'

'And the Templars? What of them?'

'The letter was in the possession of a Templar commander,' Cait explained. 'I got it from him.'

'You stole it,' guessed Rognvald.

'Yes.'

The Norseman nodded slowly. 'This priest, Bertrano-do you know him?'

'All I know about him is there.' She pointed to the elaborate signature in red ink: Bertrano de Almira, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela. 'First we find the man who wrote this letter and induce him to tell us where the treasure can be found. Then we go and get it.'

Rognvald frowned and looked at the letter again. 'Simple plans are often the best,' he mused.

Cait caught a note of censure in his tone. 'You disapprove?'

'Of the treasure? No.' Tapping the signature with his finger, he said, 'But have you considered that Archbishop Bertrano may not feel like telling you what you want to know?'

'You asked me what I planned to do, and I have told you.' Cait stood and, hands on hips, glared down at the disagreeable knight. 'I do not require your approval, my lord, but I will insist on your obedience. And I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.'

They came in sight of Cyprus the second day after leaving Tyre, and that evening Persephone sailed into the harbour at Famagusta. The rumoured pirates had not appeared, and the crossing proved wholly uneventful – which Cait counted a victory for her decision. The next morning, as soon as the markets opened, she sent Rognvald and the knights into the city to search out the best armourer. 'Take Abu with you, and when you have found the one,' she instructed, 'send Abu to fetch me. He will find me in the street of tailors.'

The knights departed in high spirits, and Cait and Alethea disembarked a short while later, with Otti as an escort, and proceeded to a narrow dog-leg of a street where the city's tailors plied their trade. They passed along, examining the goods on display carefully, and asking the prices.

'Oh, look, Cait,' said Alethea, holding up a white linen mantle with tiny blue flowers embroidered around the neck. 'It is beautiful, is it not?'

A young Greek fellow squatting in the doorway leaped up just then, crying, 'No! No! No! This is not for you. God forbid, my fine lady, you should ever wear anything so coarse and unflattering.' He seized the mantle and tossed it back on to the pile of folded garments. 'This!' he said, producing a mantle in butter-coloured satin. 'This is for my lady.'

Alethea was delighted. 'Oh, Cait, look!' She clasped the delicate mantle to her and gazed down at its shimmering length. 'It is wonderful.'

Sensing a potential sale in the offing, two tailors from across the street hurried over. 'You like this, lady? We have more,' said one. 'And better than this,' added the other. 'Much better. Here, come, we will show you.'

The young Greek stepped between his customers and the other merchants. 'Get back, Theodores. Away with you.' He pushed them back. 'I saw them first. Go. Leave us in peace.'

'If he cannot help you,' called Theodoros, 'come to us. We have better goods.'

'If I cannot help them, I will personally bring them to you. Now, go.'

Having sent away his rivals, he turned to his customers, and made a polite bow. 'I am Didimus. What can I show you? A new cloak perhaps? I have several I think would appeal.'