They strolled through the gathering crowds to the huge oak doors of the archbishop's palace hard by the great basilica which, according to the pilgrims at the inn, contained the holy remains of the blessed lacobus Magnus, Saint James the Great, disciple and companion of Christ. It was the apostle's venerable bones that drew the penitent pilgrims in ever-increasing numbers. At the palace, they presented themselves to the much-put-upon porter, who eyed them with weary indifference. 'God be good to you. I am Brother Thaddeus,' he said in clipped, precise Latin. 'How may I help you?'

'Greetings in the name of Our Lord and Saviour,' said Rognvald, stepping towards him. 'We are looking for Archbishop Bertrano. It is a matter of some importance.'

Thaddeus regarded his visitors blankly, and said, 'He is not difficult to find, but you must take your chances like everyone else.'

'We would be happy to make an appointment to see him when it is more convenient,' suggested Cait.

The priest smiled pityingly. 'You misunderstand. The archbishop is overseeing the construction of the new monastery. He is seldom to be found in residence.' The monk lifted a hand towards the tower of timber scaffolding in a corner of the square and then closed the door.

They walked to the place and were soon standing on the edge of a cleared mound where, amidst vast heaps of grey stone and a veritable forest of timber, the stately curtain walls of a sizeable chapel and bell tower were slowly rising, block by heavy granite block. The place was seething with workers: an army of masons, stone-cutters, and sculptors, scores of rough labourers, and dozens of hauliers with their mules and teams of yoked oxen-all of them moving in concert to the loud exhortations of a large, fat-bellied man dressed in the simple black robes of a rural cleric. His jowls were freshly shaved, and his round face glowed with the heat of his exertion.

'Leave it to me,' Rognvald told her as they approached. 'I have a bold idea.'

'What are you-wait!' Cait began, but it was too late. Rognvald was already hailing the priest, who turned to regard his visitors with a scowl that would have curdled milk in a bucket.

'Pax vobiscum!' called Rognvald, cupping a hand to his mouth. With the creaking of windlass and wagon, the groaning of the ropes, the lowing of oxen, braying of mules, and the dull continuous clatter of hammer and chisel on stone, the Norseman had to shout to make himself heard above the din. 'We are looking for Bertrano, Lord of this Holy See.'

'God be good to you, my friend. You have found him.' Turning from his visitors, he cried, 'Not there! Not there!' Bertrano waved his hands at a group of workmen shovelling white powdered lime into a pile beside the half-raised bell tower. Despite his rank, the archbishop appeared perfectly at ease amidst the clamour and dust of the building site. Indeed, the only thing that set him apart from one of his many labourers was the wooden cross swinging by a beaded loop from his wide leather belt. 'On the other side! It goes there -' Bertrano pointed to a heap of sand, 'there-on the other side, you see?'

'I commend you, archbishop,' offered Cait politely when they had succeeded in gaining his attention once more and finished introducing themselves. 'Your monastery will be a marvel of the builder's art.'

'A very marvel, indeed, good lady,' agreed the archbishop sourly, 'if, by some miracle, it is ever finished.' Red-faced, puffing, and sweating – for all the sun had only just risen-the fat man wiped his forehead with a damp sleeve and shouted a terse order to a mule driver who was just trundling past, dragging a length of timber with a chain.

'Why should it not be finished?' she asked.

'Ask the king!' cried Archbishop Bertrano. 'It is his interminable campaigns that keep us limping along like lame lepers when we should be racing like champions to achieve God's glory.'

'If not for the king,' suggested Rognvald, 'the Muhammedans would still rule this part of the world, no?'

The harried archbishop threw him a withering glance. 'What do you know about it?' He cast a disdainful eye on the tall knight's sword. 'There is more to life than brawling, battling, and wenching.'

Before the knight could beg his pardon, the archbishop softened. 'Forgive me, son, I have allowed my temper to get the better of me. God's truth, I am a tyrant until I've broken fast; afterwards, I am mild as a lamb.'

'We would not think of keeping you,' Cait began. 'Perhaps we might return later when -'

'Nonsense,' replied the archbishop, striding away. 'Come, we will break bread together and you can tell me the news of-where did you say you have been?'

'The Holy Land,' said Rognvald confidently.

'Ah, yes, the Holy Land.' Bertrano led them to a small wattle and thatch hut across the way, in the centre of what would one day become the monastery's cloisters; there three monks had prepared a table for the archbishop. At his approach, the monks hastened to fetch the archbishop's throne-like ecclesiastical chair from inside the hut; this they placed at the head of the table. The chair was high-backed and bore the image of an eagle on each armrest; a fine cross was carved into the massive top rail; gilded and surrounded by hemispheres of cut and polished jet, the golden cross looked as if it were encircled by a string of shiny black pearls.

'I had the workmen put up this hut so I might oversee the work,' Archbishop Bertrano said, indicating the sturdy little house. He gathered his robes and settled his bulk in the chair; the monks drew the table up to his stomach, and then darted back inside to begin serving the food. 'You simply would not believe the morass of problems that require my attention.' He waved his guests to places on stools either side of the table, rinsed his hands in a bowl of water offered by one of the monks, and then wiped them on his robe. 'Eternal vigilance, my friends, is all that separates us from everlasting chaos.'

'I imagine it can be very taxing,' replied Cait sympathetically.

'Just you try building a bell tower,' growled Bertrano, 'and then come and teach me about taxing.'

Cait, stung by the remark, felt her face growing red. The archbishop gulped and smacked his forehead with his hand.

'God help me, I have done it again! I beg your kind indulgence, my lady. Please, let us sit in contemplative silence, I pray you, until we've got something in us to dull hunger's sharp edge.'

The three sat quietly, and presently the monks brought bread and boiled eggs, sweetened wine, and a porridge made from dried peas, onions, carrots, and bits of salt cod. Oblivious to his visitors, the archbishop fell to, sopping up the pease porridge with chunks of bread, which he sucked dry and then gobbled down, pausing every now and then to peel an egg, break off a bit of bread, or take a gulp of wine, before plunging in again.

Cait and Rognvald ate sparingly, watching the archbishop for any sign that he deigned to notice them once more. When, after a third bowl of porridge and second cup of wine, he appeared to be slowing his onslaught, Cait ventured a compliment on the food; Archbishop Bertrano held up his hand for silence, raised the bowl to his lips and drained it in a long, greedy draught. He wiped his mouth on the tablecloth, sighed, sat back in the great chair, and beamed beatifically at his guests while flicking crumbs from his robe. 'Ah, now, you were saying?'

'The meal was delicious,' said Cait. 'The eggs were boiled to perfection.'

'We get a lot of eggs,' observed the archbishop. 'The people bring them to the monastery. God knows what they think we want with them. But there you are.' Turning to Rognvald, he said, 'Now then, you say you have come from the Holy Land, I think.'