Duncan clucked his tongue, and said, 'If I thought there was even the slightest chance you would deign to marry, I swear this cathedral would witness a ceremony far more grand than that which just took place.'

'Bring on the king and golden bed,' snipped Cait. 'Let us get it done here and now.'

'Is it too much for a father to hope the treasure of his life might find a little happiness in wedlock?'

'And ensure the continuance of the noble line, yes.' She frowned dangerously. 'Look at me, Papa, and tell me the truth: who in their right mind would want to marry me?'

'Any number of men, dear heart, given half a chance.'

'Papa!'

'There are fairer women perhaps,' allowed Duncan delicately. 'But the beauty of the soul far outlasts the charms of the flesh.'

'Show me a man enraptured with the beauty of the soul, and I will show you a eunuch.'

Duncan sighed. His daughter's refusal to consider a suitable marriage had long been a thorn in his flesh. While Cait herself imagined it was her lack of loveliness which kept acceptable men at a distance, her father strongly suspected it was the quick, dagger-like edge of her tongue. Why, oh why, did she have to be so hardheaded and immovable? It was, he realized, the family curse.

'Poor, poor Papa,' she cooed, sliding her arm through his. 'Lumbered with a thankless wench of a daughter who makes his life a dreary cavalcade of suffering from dawn to dusk. Oh, will this unendurable misery never cease?'

Leaving their places at the marble rail, they began following the other nobles from the gallery. Once in the outer corridor, they entered the slow-moving stream of people shuffling towards the wide staircase leading down to the main floor of the cathedral. 'I suppose,' mused Duncan philosophically, 'there are worse things than having a daughter who thinks she is King of Caithness.'

Cait laughed. The sound delighted her father, who heard in it the echo of her mother's voice. Alas, that was all she had inherited from her mother; Caitriona's green eyes and long black hair were hers alone. Tall and long-limbed like her forefathers-her stature made the vaunted Grecian beauties seem scrawny and underfed -. she was a fully fleshed woman whose imposing presence easily dominated the more demure members of her sex.

Few men could match his wilful daughter for strength of resolve and cold, clear-eyed reckoning, he admitted to himself; fewer still were keen to try. The ancestral blood which flowed through her veins contained too much wild Celt, and too little refined nobility. It was, he knew, often remarked that she was more at ease with a spear in her hand than a spindle-but what of that? When Cait passed by, one caught the scent of sea air and rain-misted heather; the bracing, blustery wind off the highland moors was in her hair and in her impetuous, exuberant nature.

Cait herself was not unaware of what people thought of her. But if other women were more comfortable in costly silks and satins than rough boots and riding trews, more content to sit moon-eyed beside the hearthfire with their needlework than hunt with the hounds, so be it. To Cait's way of thinking, these shrinking, swooning sisters had no one to blame for their drab and insipid lives but themselves.

'Papa, were you and Sydoni married here?' she asked, gazing up at a glittering mosaic of the holy family, resplendent in purple robes and gilded halos.

'Here-in Ayia Sophia?' Duncan glanced at her to see if she were teasing him, but saw that she was in earnest; 'No, not here. Such splendour was far beyond our scanty means. He paused, remembering. 'Also, I seem to remember that to be married in the cathedral required a ten-month delay. I fear neither one of us would have survived the wait-the fires of passion would have consumed us to cinders.'

Cait pretended shock. 'Presented with such a lacklustre jewel of virtue as yourself, dear Papa, I am amazed they allowed you to be married at all. So, where did you find a priest to proclaim the banns?'

'We were married at the Church of Christ Pantocrator. Padraig knew of it, but then he knows everything. As it happens, it is not far from here. We might go there this evening, if you would like to see it.'

'If I would…' she chided. 'It is the sole and entire purpose of this journey to drag your dutiful daughters over every last footprint of your great pilgrimage, and well you know it.'

Duncan took her hand from his arm and kissed it. 'You are a very treasure, my light.'

'I wish Sydoni were here,' Cait said. 'Padraig, too. I am certain they would have a few tales to tell.'

'Oh, indeed,' agreed Duncan somewhat wistfully, remembering the day more than twenty years ago when he and Sydoni had been married in this city, and that night had celebrated their union. 'Well,' he continued after a moment, pressing his daughter's hand, 'we must enjoy our brief stay all the more for their sake, and hear what they have to say when we get home.'

They reached the staircase and started down, following the crowds, and eventually joined the throng in the huge hall-like vestibule just as the royal family emerged from the sanctuary. Imperial Varangian guards moved with silent efficiency into the crowd and swiftly formed a double rank stretching from the sanctuary entrance to the outer doors, whereupon they turned and stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind their gold-rimmed shields, ceremonial lances upraised; the blades of their spears were gold, and dressed with scarlet pennons, but sharp nonetheless. Once this protective corridor was established, other guardsmen marched through it, clearing the crowds before them.

'The emperor and empress!' said Cait. In spite of herself, she was enjoying the imperial display.

'Go, my dear,' he said, urging her forward. 'I will wait here.'

Cait released his arm and darted forward. She threaded her way through the gathered horde and peered over the shoulders of the Varangians to catch a glimpse of Emperor Manuel and Empress Irene, and their sallow-faced daughter, as they swept from the church. They were followed by the Patriarch and the Archbishop, and a long triple row of priests holding lanterns and chanting, their voices rising and falling in rhythmic waves.

As soon as the priests passed, the twin ranks of imperial bodyguards took three paces towards one another, turned, and marched from the church. Instantly, there was a rush behind them as the congregation surged for the door to see the emperor flinging handfuls of gold coins to the crowds. Caitriona was momentarily caught up in the flow and quickly found herself outside the church. The royal party moved on, the clamouring populace with them, and Cait turned against the stream to make her way back inside the church to rejoin her father.

Darting and sliding between close-packed clumps and clusters of people hurrying to follow the procession, she made for the place where she had left him-but he was no longer in. the vestibule. She paused and looked around, but could not see Duncan anywhere, and was at the point of going back outside to look for him when she caught sight of him in the dimly lit sanctuary. Lord Duncan was standing next to one of the gigantic porphyry columns so as to be out of the way of the departing masses.

Cait forced her way through the streaming multitude at the door, and struggled to reach her father. As she came nearer, she saw that he was talking to someone; she could not see who it might be, for the stranger was hidden behind the column; but from the expression on her father's face the conversation was far from cordial.

Duncan's brow was lowered and his jaw was tight, his chin thrust forward defiantly. His eyes glinted cold fire which, although fearsome, was not easily kindled.

Indeed, Caitriona had seen him this way but once in her life: when an uninvited party of Danes, after setting up camp on the beach below the stronghold, had stolen, butchered, and roasted three good breeding cows. When Duncan found out about it, he marched down and confronted them in their camp. The roistering Danes got off lightly, she thought, with an apology and double payment for the cows. He was not facing marauding Danes now, but the expression was the same-his noble features were alight with righteous wrath.