Thus, when she and Alethea rode out of the gate the next morning to resume the journey, they did so with a company of twenty horses and pack mules, ten knights, and one priest and an interpreter driving a wagon laden with supplies of food and drink. By Cait's rough reckoning, enough ready gold and silver remained from that which she had brought from her father's chest to allow them to reach their destination-so long as it was no further than Matthias' vague intimations. What they would do after that, she did not know.

This cast her into a melancholy, fretful mood-a condition that did not improve when, day after day, they failed to be confronted by any of the region's much-feared bandits. Indeed, they met with no greater mishap than a sudden drenching when the sky opened and dumped a month's supply of rain on them in two days. Riding was so miserable that they camped for a day and a half, staying in their tents for the most part, until the weather cleared and they could continue. The rains filled the all-but-empty river basins, and made fording the streams more of a problem than before. At one crossing the wagon struck a submerged rock and pitched Abu headlong into the rapids; an alert Dag flew after him and plucked him sputtering from the water a few hundred paces downstream.

Each day, they moved on, following the track as it rose slowly higher and yet higher into the hills. The women gradually became accustomed to life on the trail. Cait learned to sleep with her sword, and Alethea eventually ceased complaining about each small discomfort; both became adept at darting quickly into trailside bushes to attend to their more intimate needs, rejoining the company before anyone knew they had gone. The knights grew used to one another's ways, and an easy camaraderie developed between them which made the daily tasks of establishing and breaking camp tolerable, if not enjoyable. From time to time, as the mood took him, Brother Matthias preached and recited Psalms, and he taught the Norsemen simple hymns in Spanish. Despite the ever-worsening weather, everyone remained in good spirits for the most part.

Upon arriving at the place where the rivers joined, they turned north to follow the Rio Aragon up into the foothills of the Sierra de Guara, pausing briefly at the hilltown of Milagro, where, in order to conserve her dwindling supply of gold and silver coins, Cait made the knights work for the townspeople. In exchange for the necessary provisions, the men mended walls, fixed leaking roofs, and chopped firewood for the coming winter. After a week they had accumulated enough supplies, and the company moved on.

The weather in the high hill country was growing damp and windy. Matthias' staunch refusal to tell them precisely where they were going began to rankle Cait more and more. The priest was adamant that the location must remain a secret to the very end, but intimated that their final destination was still a good many days beyond Carcastillo. So, at their next stop they took the opportunity to trade labour for goods-this time in order to obtain heavy cloaks made from the dense wool of the region's sheep. Both Cait and Alethea thought the cloaks smelly beyond belief-an unappealing mixture of rancid fat and burnt dung-but the cloaks were warm even when wet, and kept the sharpening wind at bay. As the party ascended ever upward into the cooler heights, the women slowly became accustomed to wearing the noisome garments through the day and, more often than not, sleeping under them at night as well.

The weather became steadily cooler as autumn advanced; the skies grew dark and moody, and often there was rain-sometimes in fierce pelting bursts, and sometimes in dismal misty drizzle which set in early and lingered, making everyone and everything miserable, wet, and cold. Alone among the members of the company, Brother Matthias seemed not to mind the discomfort. In fact, he revelled in it, regarding the mild distress as a chastening discipline. The worse the storm, the louder he sang his psalms and chants, sometimes delivering whole sermons to the sodden, empty trail and drifting clouds. The Spanish knights apparently derived great satisfaction from this curious demonstration, a thing which Cait could not understand.

'How far?' Cait demanded of the priest one evening. They had stopped at a clearing beside the muddy rivulet which was their trail, and the knights were making camp after a dreary day's ride. Abu was trying to light a fire, and most of the Spanish knights were searching the nearby forest for dry wood. The low grey sky threatened yet more rain and the ground was soggy underfoot. The looming peaks rising in the near distance were wreathed in fog, and the wind among the rocks and canyons soughed with a desolate whine.

'Not far now,' he replied with an exuberance that set her teeth on edge. 'A few more days.'

'How many days?' she said stubbornly. 'I want to know. You are leading us there anyway, so you may as well end this absurd secrecy and tell me how much longer we must endure this incessant rain and chill.'

Matthias regarded her with soulful, compassionate eyes. 'Peace, you are disturbed over nothing. We will arrive in God's good time, never fear.'

'Oh, I am not disturbed,' Cait insisted, her voice threatening and low. 'My feet are wet, my clothes are muddy, I am cold and tired, and I do not think it too much to ask how far we have yet to travel. Is it two days? Ten? Twenty?'

'Sister,' the monk said, 'calm yourself. There is no -'

'I am not your sister. I am your patron, and I want an answer.'

Alethea came rushing up just then. 'Cait, what is wrong? Why are you shouting at Brother Matthias?'

'All is well,' the priest told her. 'It is a misunderstanding, nothing more.' He laid a soothing hand on Cait's arm. 'Forgive me, my lady. By my estimation, we are perhaps six days from our destination. No more than ten.'

'Six or ten days,' Cait repeated dully, removing his hand from her arm.

'Fifteen at the most.'

'Which is it, priest?' demanded Cait. 'Ten? Fifteen? Five hundred?'

'It is difficult to say, my lady. So much depends on the weather. The mountain trails can be treacherous this time of year.'

'Aghh!' Cait cried in frustration, and fled the conversation.

Rognvald caught up with her as she stormed from the camp. 'Is something wrong, my lady?'

'No,' she snapped, charging through the underbrush into the woods. 'Nothing what so ever.' She spat each word as if it were a pellet of venom. 'All is happening in God's good time,' she said, adopting the mincing tone of a dissembling cleric. 'Apparently!' She shoved aside a low-hanging pine bough and let it fly.

The knight walked along beside her a few paces. 'We could remain in camp tomorrow if you like,' he suggested, 'and move on when the weather improves.'

'Why must you always take his side?'

'His side? God's side?'

'No – him\' She jerked her head in the direction of the monk who was now talking blithely to a warmly receptive Alethea. 'The idiot priest!'

'I take no one's side without due cause and consideration,' the Norseman told her firmly.

She glared at him, and surged on ahead. Rognvald started after her again. 'Leave me alone!' she said, turning on him. 'A woman needs a little privacy now and then-have you ever considered that?'

Rognvald begged her pardon and retreated. She went on until she came to a thick bank of elder bushes. Loosening her girdle and swordbelt, she removed her small-clothes, then hitched up her cloak, mantle, and shift, and was preparing to squat when she heard the shriek. At first she thought it the cry of a hunting eagle, for the sound seemed to have fallen from the low sky overhead. She listened, holding her breath. In a moment, it came again.

'Thea!'

Hurrying, she rearranged her clothes once more, and ran back along the track. She had wandered further than she knew. It took longer than she expected to reach the camp and as she drew nearer she heard men shouting and the clash of arms-the unmistakable sounds of battle. The camp was under attack.