The sun was dropping below the mountains to the west by the time they reached the top of the ridge; the encircling wall cast the valley into shadow. There were no bandits following them, so they hurried on, making their way along the switchback trail leading down the other side of the ridge. The sun fired the mountain tops, causing the snow-topped peaks to glow like red-hot brands, and Cait watched the colours slowly fade as the short winter day gave way to a misty dusk.

They halted at the edge of the clearing, and Rognvald lifted Abu's body down from the horse and laid it on the ground. He straightened, crossed himself, then turned to find Cait watching him. 'We will bury him soon,' he told her.

'You are wounded,' she said, regarding the ragged rent in his sleeve above the elbow.

He saw her glance and said, 'A small cut. It is nothing.'

She reached out to take his arm for a better look, but he held it away from her grasp. 'A scratch only,' he insisted. 'Leave it be.'

They walked to the camp to find the knights standing around the outstretched body of Paulo while Halhuli examined his wound and the prince's servants scurried for supplies. Cait pushed in beside Svein and watched as Halhuli probed the unconscious Spanish knight's wound, then looked up. 'The cut is deep,' he said, 'but clean. With rest and care, I think he may recover.'

Satisfied, the knights nodded and moved off to other tasks. While Rognvald and Halhuli made Paulo comfortable in one of the tents, Dag, Svein, and Yngvar found a place at the edge of the camp and dug a deep grave. Then, as the first stars began burning in the east, the knights buried the Syrian servant. While Cait and the wounded Hasan stood looking on, they pressed crude wooden crosses into the mound of soft earth, and prayed over the grave, commending the soul of the slender youth to the Almighty Giver and Receiver of Life.

By the time they finished, the prince's servants had a hot supper prepared, so they all sat down around the fire to warm themselves and eat a simple meal. Cait related what Abu had told her about Alethea's escape and where to look for her. 'Then something good has come of this, at least,' Hasan observed. 'Allah is wise and merciful.'

They finished their supper in silence, each wrapped in private thoughts which none cared to disturb. When they had finished, Hasan, his face pale with fatigue, rose. 'The excitement of the day has given me a headache,' he said, 'and I am tired. May Allah grant you a peaceful repose.' He bade them a good night and retreated to his tent.

After he had gone, Rognvald called the knights to attend him; they moved a few paces away from the fire. 'It may be that darkness will inspire the thieves to boldness,' he said.

'Let them come,' said Yngvar. 'We will make the wolves a feast they will not soon forget.'

'Nevertheless,' said Rognvald, 'we will take no risks. Rodrigo and Dag will take the first watch. Yngvar, you and Svein take the second watch, and I will take the third.'

Thus prepared for the night, the rest of the party retired to their tents to sleep-except Cait, who noticed the way the tall knight had begun favouring his arm as he ate his supper. 'A moment, my lord,' she said as he came into the light of the fire, 'I would examine your wound.'

'A scratch,' he insisted, 'is scarcely a wound.'

Not to be put off, she stepped before him. 'Then it will scarcely matter if I have a look at it.' She took his arm, and led him to the fire where she had prepared a bowl of hot water and some strips of clean cloth. 'Sit you down, and remove your shirt.'

'Lady, it is cold. I will certainly freeze.'

'Listen to you now,' she chided, undoing the laces at his throat. 'And you, a True Son of the North, crying about a little cold.'

'God preserve us,' he sighed. Shrugging off his cloak, he pulled open his shirt, and drew it over his head.

It was the first time she had seen him without his shirt and the broad sweep of his muscled shoulders and the pale curly hair on his chest pleased her. She found herself gazing raptly at him in the wavering glow of the fire.

'Well?' he said, stirring her to action. 'Get on with it then.'

Kneeling beside Rognvald, Cait took his arm, lifted it and stretched it out. The errant blade had caught him on the back of the arm, poked a hole through his shirt and produced a small ragged-looking gash. The edges of the cut were puckered and inflamed; there had not been much bleeding, but some of the fabric of the shirt had been driven into the wound. She could see several discoloured threads sticking out, but all in all, it was as Rognvald maintained, little more than a nasty scratch.

Cait set to work, dampening a square of cloth in the bowl and applying it to the wound. She put the hot cloth against the cut and held it there to soften the dried blood. Rognvald, adopting the pained expression of a man who is being made to endure humiliation at the hands of an inscrutable higher power, stared at the fire, avoiding Cait's eyes.

After a while, she asked, 'How long do you think Alethea could survive out here-alone in the cold?'

'It is difficult to say,' Rognvald replied. 'Water is good and abundant. The days are not so cold in the valleys, and there is shelter to be found. If she kept her wits about her, she would not be much worse off than she was before.'

'What about the wolves?'

He shook his head. 'Yngvar thinks every forest abounds with wolves. Have you heard any wolves since coming to these mountains? Have you seen even so much as a wolfish footprint in the mud or snow?'

'No, but -'

'If there were any wolves hereabouts, we would have known about them long since.'

She accepted his judgement, and continued dabbing at the cut, washing it gently. When she had cleaned it, she turned his arm towards the firelight, and proceeded to pull the embedded shreds of his shirt from the wound. The first threads came free dragging clots of blood, and drawing a wince from Rognvald.

'Am I hurting you?'

'No,' he said. 'It is just a little cold, that's all.'

'Here.' She picked up his cloak and made to pull it up around his shoulders. As she did so she saw that his back was a lumpen mass of welted scars, poorly healed, and livid still. The sight caught her by surprise. 'Your back!' she gasped. 'What happened to you?'

'The Saracens,' he muttered.

'In battle?'

'After,' he told her, pulling the cloak around him. 'They thought I might tell them the strength of the garrison at Tripoli -' he paused, '- among other things.'

'But you refused to tell them so they tortured you,' she guessed.

He looked at her sideways, and then shook his head with reluctant resignation.

'You told them?' said Cait, mildly appalled by this revelation.

'Aye,' he confessed, 'I told them. I am not proud of it, mind. But it was no secret anyway. The city was not under siege; travellers came and went as freely as birds. The next merchant through the gates would have told them if I did not-they had only to ask.'

'Then why did they torture you?'

'Because,' he replied, as if the subject wearied him, 'Prince Mujir ed-Din had just come to the throne, and the wazir hoped to impress him with his skill in dealing with Christian prisoners. When I answered him outright, I made the wazir look foolish. So, he had me beaten in revenge.'

'I see,' replied Cait. Pulling two more scraps of cloth from the wound, she flipped the bloody threads into the fire, then washed the cut again before binding it with strips of clean linen cloth. 'Had I a little unguent,' she said when she finished, 'it would heal more quickly.'

'All the same, I am much obliged, my lady,' Rognvald said, flexing his bandaged arm. 'I thank you.'

He drew his shirt back on and sat for a moment, regarding her in the firelight. He lifted his hand as if to touch her, hesitated, then stood abruptly. 'If you have no further need of me, I will sleep a little before I take my watch.'