'Even so,' said Rognvald, 'the cathedral rises day by day. It will be a magnificent church.'

'That it will,' agreed Matthias with a sigh of resignation.

The marked lack of enthusiasm did not go unnoticed. 'You do not approve of such enterprise?' asked Cait.

'Lady, I confess I do not. The expense is beyond belief. For the cost of one cathedral, a thousand churches like mine could be built and a hundred monasteries, convents, and hospitals besides.' He sighed again. 'But cathedrals woo the wealthy, and everywhere kings are vying with one another to see who can build the most ostentatious monuments to their own vanities.'

'The food is ready,' said Alethea pleasantly. She smiled at the tanned and hardy priest. 'Please sit, brother, be our guest.'

Taking up one of the small loaves of bread, the monk raised it on high as if it were the host of the holy sacrament, and blessed it, whereupon they all sat down to a simple, but perfectly satisfying meal. They had brought bread and smoked fish, olives, cheese, and plums. There was watered wine to drink, and while they ate, they listened in enthralled silence as Matthias told an enchanting and wondrous tale.

'I first learned of the Holy Cup four years ago,' Matthias said, rolling an olive between thumb and forefinger before popping it into his mouth. 'This was in Old Alfonso's day, mind, when the king's peace still held-and I was travelling in the high hills to the east, beyond the Ebro valley, where there are many villages without churches. But in one of the places-a small settlement in the mountains reached by a single sheep trail which is all but impassable most of the year-I found that the people already knew Christ and his teachings.

'I asked how this had come about, and the head man of the village told me that they had preserved this knowledge from long before the Muslims came -'

'But that must be,' said Rognvald breaking in, 'what? Three hundred? Four hundred years?'

The priest nodded; he broke off a bit of bread and chewed thoughtfully. 'You know something of history, my friend. Yes, four hundred years-as you shall see. And for all those hundreds of years the people have remained faithful though surrounded by Muhammedans on every side – like a tiny rock of Christianity in a turbulent Muslim sea.'

'Extraordinary,' breathed Alethea, hanging on the handsome young priest's every word.

'Miraculous,' agreed the monk placidly. 'I confess that, at first, I scarce thought it possible. So, during my sojourn with them, I took every opportunity to question the villagers about this-subtly, of course, for I did not care to make them wary. Gradually, they began to trust me, and to tell me more. And the more I learned, the more extraordinary it became.

'In time, they came to realize my interest in them was genuine, so one night the village chief came to me and asked if I wanted to learn a secret which would answer all my questions. I told him I would welcome it – if he wished to show me. But if it would disturb any of his people in any way, I did not care to know it; for I valued their friendship far more than any secret they might possess.'

Alethea clucked her tongue with impatience at such irrelevant civility. '/ would have made him show me at once.'

'And that,' replied Matthias with a wink, 'is why you would still be waiting to discover the secret. You see, the hill people are not like others. I believe they are the remnant of a more ancient race. They are secretive by nature, but they can be very loyal and they have extremely long memories. They remember the slights and injuries of centuries as if they happened yesterday, and they never forget a kindness.

'So, my answer was just the right one, for the chief looked at me and said, "I would not show you if I had not already asked everyone. I asked them, and everyone has agreed-even Gydon, and he never agrees to anything!" Well, it was the middle of the night, and I thought he meant to show me in the morning, but he instructed me to tie up my shoes and put on my cloak and, taking neither lantern nor torch, we walked out into the darkness and up into the hills behind the village with nothing but the light of a pale quarter-moon to guide us.

'I saw neither trail nor path; like a blind man, I had to maintain a tight grip on the chief's shoulder to keep from stumbling with every step. We walked a fair distance, or so it seemed, and came at last to a hidden valley-nothing more than a crease between two steep bluffs – and high up on the side of one of the bluffs was the entrance to a cave.

'I could not see it-for all it was dark as the bottom of a well -but he assured me it was there, and by virtue of small steps cut in the bluff, he led me up to the cave. Though it was a tight squeeze through the rough doorway, once inside the chamber we could stand upright. My guide knew the cave well, and by means of some materials left there, he soon lit an oil lamp so we might view what he had come to show me.'

'What was it?' asked Alethea, rapt, her eyes gleaming.

'A small altar had been cut in the rock at the back of the cave, and the entire wall whitewashed and painted with the sign of the cross so as to make a sort of shrine. This painting was of a delicate and intricate craft the like of which I had seen but once before-in an old, old text in the scriptorium of the monastery where I received my priesting. This text was one of the monastery's principal treasures: a gospel of John copied out by the hand of Saint Samson of Dol.

'It was a very beautiful ornament, and I imagined that this was what he had brought me to see-and it was wondrous enough! But no. The chief indicated that I should move nearer the altar, which I did; and on the altar was a curious object. At first I took it for a knife-it was long,' the monk held up his hand to indicate a dagger-length span, 'and like a knife, it tapered along its narrow length. A closer look revealed that it was not a knife, however, for although it had a sharp point, it had no edge like an ordinary blade, and no handle.'

'What was it?' demanded Alethea, hugging her updrawn knees and rocking back and forth in anticipation.

Matthias, enjoying the suspense, gave her a smile. 'That is what I asked him. The chief stretched forth his hand, and said, in a prayerful and reverent voice, "This is the spike which pierced Our Blessed Redeemer's feet as he hung on the cross for our salvation." Just like that.'

At these words, Cait felt a tingle of excitement trickle up along her spine. This is ordained, she thought. We are meant to be here. This is a sign.

'How did it come into their possession?' asked Rognvald.

'That is what I asked,' chuckled Matthias. 'I said to him, "My friend, tell me, how did it come to be here?" Crossing his arms over his chest, the village chieftain bowed low before the altar and spoke out a prayer in a language I have never heard before. And then, pointing to the spike he said, "lago gave it to us."'

'lago?' echoed Cait. 'You mean, Saint James-the same whose tomb is at Compostela?'

'The same,' replied Matthias, enjoying the wide-eyed wonder of his listeners. 'The old Galicians called him lago, and hold that after the infant church was driven from Jerusalem, Saint lago fled by ship with a number of other followers of the Way. They landed in the north and wandered here and there, performing signs and wonders, and preaching the gospel of salvation through belief in the Risen Lord Christ.

'He lived among the Galician tribes for many years, and towards the end of his life decided to return to Jerusalem. His proselytizing landed him in trouble with the Jewish authorities, who had him arrested and taken before Herod Agrippa, who tried him and put him to death. So that his grave should not become a place of worship, Herod refused to allow him a proper burial.'