'Do you hear?' said Rognvald.

'It cannot be Latin,' said Svein. 'Or Arabic.'

'And it is not Danish or Norwegian,' added Yngvar.

'Nor Spanish, I think,' offered Dag, none too certain. Rodrigo shook his head.

'No,' Cait told them, 'it is Gaelic.'

'You know it, my lady?' asked Svein.

'I know it well.' She raised her face to the falling snow and sang:

'lompaim siar go dti Goiroias,

an Chathair Tintri,

Dun an tSolais,

Dun Gleadhrach Gloir,

Dun Feasa,

Baile don Tiarna loldanach…'

Her voice, gentle and melodious in the snow-smothered silence, wrought a magical change in the knights. They stared at Cait with rapt, almost ecstatic expressions of amazement-as if she had suddenly sprouted wings.

'What does it mean?' asked Rognvald when she finished.

'It is an old invocation,' she replied. 'It means:

I am turning towards the West,

towards Goirais, the Fiery City,

Fortress of Light,

Fortress of Blazing Glory,

Fortress of Wisdom,

Home of the Many-Gifted Lord…'

She broke off suddenly, aware of the wondering stares of the knights. 'It is part of a Yuletide ritual performed by the Cele De,' she explained.

'Yuletide,' remarked Svein. 'Can it be the Christ Mass?'

'This way,' Dag said, starting off along the path leading into the settlement. The others followed, and they shortly arrived at a small village green. At the end of the green was an odd round building of rough mountain stone. Larger than any of the surrounding houses and barns, it was roofed with turf, and topped by a wooden cross. A round window above the chapel door allowed light to stream out into the darkness-along with the clear, poignant strains of the song the congregation was singing.

The knights, so rapt in their fascination with the song, remained motionless in their saddles, listening as the last notes of the graceful melody faded away.

'If it is the Christ Mass,' said Yngvar, breaking the silence at last. 'Let us go in and join the celebration.'

Svein and Dag were out of the saddle and hurrying towards the door before he finished speaking. Rodrigo and Yngvar followed. 'Lady,' said Rognvald, 'it seems we are going to church.'

'So it seems, my lord, and not before time.'

As they dismounted, the congregation inside the chapel began singing again. Recognition caused Cait's heart to beat faster; she halted in midstep to listen.

'A Fionnghil,

A Lonraigh,

A Feasaigh… Tiana anocht… Tiana, Naofa Leanbh, anocht

Seeing Cait had stopped, Rognvald turned and heard her repeating the words of the song. 'O Bright One, O Radiant One, O Knowing One… Come tonight… Come, Holy Child, tonight…' she said, translating the words for him.

The tall knight smiled with genuine pleasure then nodded to Dag to proceed.

Dag pushed open the door of the chapel and stepped inside, with Yngvar, Rodrigo and Svein close on his heels. The singing stopped instantly. Cait and Rognvald entered to find the villagers gaping in amazement at the snow-covered, half-frozen knights-as if at the Wise Kings appearing fresh from the Judaean hills on their fateful journey.

The chapel blazed with the light of hundreds of candles, and, in the centre of the timber floor, a large bronze bowl filled with glowing embers. Before this glowing bowl stood a priest in robes of undyed wool, his hands still raised in supplication, his mouth open, the song fresh on his lips.

At Cait's appearance, the priest lowered his hands. He spoke a few words in a language Cait did not know. 'Pax vobiscum,' she offered by way of reply. Stepping forward, she quickly searched the congregation for her sister, but did not see her and realized, with a pang of disappointment, that if Alethea were here, she would have made herself known by now.

'Pax vobiscum' the priest answered excitedly. 'Pax vobiscum! Gloria in excelsis Deo? He moved quickly around the burning bowl and came to stand before Cait. 'Lady of the Blessed Night,' he said in curiously accented Latin, 'I greet you with a holy kiss.' Seizing both her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and kissed them, then led her by the hand into the centre of the round chapel.

This caused a hushed sensation among the villagers-a group of fewer than seventy souls, young and old; the people gawked and murmured over their priest and the strange woman. Cait glanced around at the ring of watching faces once more in the forlorn hope that Alethea might yet be found among them-perhaps overcome by the sudden appearance of her sister and unable to step forward.

Meanwhile, the priest turned to the knights. 'Welcome, friends,' he exclaimed, pulling Cait with him to the bright burning bowl. 'Come in! Come in! Close the door and warm yourselves by the fire.'

'Please,' Cait said, turning to the priest at last, 'we had no wish to disturb your service. We heard the singing, and thought merely to join you in your observance.'

'But you have disturbed us,' replied the priest. 'Even so, we welcome the disturbance, for it is an honour to entertain visitors on this most holy of all nights.'

'Is it the Christ Mass?'

'It is, daughter,' answered the priest. He regarded her with a bemused expression. Now that she saw him better, Cait decided the priest was not so young as she had first thought him. Indeed, he was, she surmised, as old as Abbot Padraig-if not older. Yet his deportment and demeanour were those of a man half his age.

'Then, by all means, continue with your songs and prayers,' she said. 'We would be pleased to listen.'

The priest assented, and turning to his congregation, raised his hands once more. He called them to attention, and began singing again; gradually, the people resumed their songs and prayers-if somewhat self-consciously now for the presence of the strangers in their midst.

They were, Cait observed, a small, sturdy people, short-limbed and thick-set, with broad, handsome faces. It was the eyes, she decided, that gave them such an unusual appearance-large and dark, set deep above prominent cheekbones either side of their fine straight noses, and each and every one gleaming with quick curiosity and humour. The old Orkneyingar told of the little dark people who had inhabited the islands long before the coming of the tall-folk. She wondered if the people of this strange, hidden place could belong to a similar race.

As the Christ Mass followed its hallowed sequence, Cait was moved by the extraordinary peculiarity of what she was hearing-to be so far from home, yet listening to people sing the old familiar songs in the same familiar accents. She closed her eyes; with the voices filling her ears, she was once again back in Caithness-as she remembered it a long time ago. She was sitting in her grandmother Ragna's lap in the church her grandfather Murdo had built, surrounded by men and women of the settlement, and important guests and visitors. The monks of the nearby monastery were singing, their voices creating dizzying patterns as they rose, swirling and soaring up to the cold, clear star-dusted heaven on the holiest night of the year.

Before the gathered listeners stood her Uncle Eirik; only, tonight he was not her special friend, he was the abbot, straight and tall in his fine robes as he led the good brothers in their song. And beside her, his rough hand gently patting out the rhythm of the music on his knee, her dear old grandfather Murdo, his hair white as the snow on the hills and rooftops of Banvard, his beard a grizzled frost on his cheeks and chin.

She saw it all so clearly, and the memory made her heart catch in her throat. The most potent yearning she had ever known rushed over her in a flood of longing so powerful it took her breath away. She had no doubt this was the hiraeth old Padraig had often spoken of: the home-yearning-an affliction of the traveller which produces a craving of such unrivalled magnitude that some poor wayfarers had been known to waste away in hopeless pining for their far-off home.