'Glad Yule, my lady!' called Yngvar as Cait and Rognvald entered. 'They have already fed our horses and now they are going to feed us.'

'Glad Yule!' added Svein, lofting the cup in his hand. 'They have ale, too!'

'And black bread like home!' said Dag, waving half a loaf at them.

'It seems the Yuletide celebrations have begun after all,' remarked Rognvald.

'The people here are like children in many ways,' sighed Brother Timotheus, 'they can never wait for anything.'

Dominico, chattering excitedly, gathered the late arrivals and herded them to a bench opposite the hearth. He dashed away, returning a moment later with two overflowing ale cups and a young girl bearing a tray of bread. The dark-eyed girl, grave with the weight of her responsibility, stood straight and, looking neither left nor right, offered the noble guests loaves of black bread from her tray. While Rognvald took charge of the cups, Cait accepted one of the loaves, smiled pleasantly, and thanked the girl, whose stoic solemnity wilted at their exchange. The household honour satisfied, she turned and scampered away, calling loudly for her mother.

The musicians, meanwhile, finished their song to the noisy acclaim of the knights, who began stamping their feet and slapping their knees and clamouring for more. The two boys grinned and quickly commenced another, yet more spirited tune. Dominico, clapping his hands and calling like a bird, began whirling around; spinning this way and that, his feet beating time to the music, he rounded on Cait, scooped her up and spun her on to the floor. The next thing she knew, she was caught up in the dance to the dizzy delight of one and all.

More and more villagers were crowding into the house by the moment, some bringing jars of wine and ale, and others bearing festive foods: boiled eggs, smoked meat and fish, flat bread flavoured with anise. When there was no more room in the house, the merrymaking spilled out into the snow and then the neighbouring houses. More musical instruments appeared: tabors and shakers, pipes made of gourds and clay, wooden flutes of several sizes, and an oddly shaped lyre with four strings.

They drank and sang and danced, and then drank some more. Cait quickly became the most sought-after partner, as one after another of the male villagers, young and old, seized the opportunity to dance with their noble visitor. Once, presented with two obstinate partners who asked at the same time, she averted hurt feelings by taking on both at once – to the exuberant approval of the women looking on.

Amidst the singing and dancing, the food came and went, and the night with it. One night's revelry spilled over into the next day's celebration. The light of a Yuletide dawn was showing when Cait finally found a chance to creep away. She went into her host's chamber, loosed her swordbelt and put the weapon aside, before sinking into a bed piled high with furs. She closed her eyes and slept only to be awakened a short time later by the clanging of a bell outside the house.

Cait sat up in bed; so strong was the sense of familiarity, she imagined she was home again in Caithness. The priests at Banvard rang the bells to signal the beginning of the Yuletide celebrations; she wondered if Brother Timotheus did the same.

When the music began again, she relinquished any expectation of sleep, rose from her bed, and made her way outside to a world of sparkling white made brilliant by the light of the rising sun. The sky was clear and heart-breakingly blue, and the high, encircling mountain peaks burned with a rosy glow like fired bronze.

The villagers were making their way in procession to the chapel, led by Brother Timotheus exuberantly swinging an oversize bell. The air was biting cold, and the pealing of the bell piercing in its clarity. Yngvar, Dag and Rodrigo were in the forefront of the parade, trampling triumphantly through the snow as if to make a path for those behind; they were followed by Dominico and his sons, and all the rest. Neither Rognvald nor Svein was to be seen, but Cait fell into line behind the others and proceeded to the church.

The service was blessedly short. Brother Timotheus simply read out a Psalm and led his faithful flock in a few prayers; the congregation sang a song, and then they all trooped back outside where everyone hailed everyone else with an enthusiastic Yuletide greeting. Cait was swept up in wave upon wave of hugging and kissing, as one after another of the villagers embraced her. Then they all went off to resume the celebration.

As the last released her and hurried away, she looked up to find Rognvald standing before her. 'Glad Yule, Lady Caitriona,' he said. 'It seems I am too late for prayers, but not, I hope, for a greeting.' With that, he opened his arms and folded her into a warm embrace and gave her a kiss that left her blinking at its sudden, virile intensity.

'Glad Yule, my lord,' she said, gazing up into his face.

He smiled, his blue eyes keen and clear as the skies high overhead. 'Will you break fast with me?'

'It would be a pleasure,' she replied, taking Rognvald's arm. They walked slowly, enjoying one another's company and the fine, sparkling day. The sound of the snow squeaking beneath her feet filled Cait with a youthful joy she had not known for years. 'It seems our search is soon concluded,' she said after a time.

When Rognvald did not answer, she glanced sideways at his face and saw that he was gazing at the mountains towering above the village, their smooth, snow-dusted slopes gleaming in the new day's light. They appeared to Cait like stately monarchs robed in winter furs and enthroned around the bowl of the valley, gazing at their own splendour in the bright mirror of its lake.

'Tell me about the Cele De,' he said. 'Who are they?'

'There is little enough to tell,' she began. 'They are priests of an order that holds itself apart from Rome-a small order, but tenacious, and fiercely loyal to its calling.'

'What is that?'

'To preserve the True Path and guard the Holy Light.'

Rognvald nodded. 'They are heretics then.'

'Not in the least,' Cait protested. 'They simply embrace an older tradition than Rome. There were Christians in the West before Rome, you know. The church of the Celts is older by far than the one decreed by Emperor Constantine, and -'

Rognvald chuckled.

'Are you laughing at me?' she said defensively.

'You sound like a priest now,' he replied, 'trying to convert the unbeliever.'

'I suppose I am,' she allowed, accepting his chiding. 'The Cele De are a small and much maligned sect, and we grow protective.'

'Are you one of these Cele De?'

She nodded. 'All of my family belong to the sect-ever since my grandfather went on the Great Pilgrimage to Jerusalem.'

'He discovered them in Jerusalem?'

'No, he met some priests aboard the ship that carried him to the Holy Land. He would not have survived the journey without them. When he returned he rewarded them with lands, and money to build a monastery. And,' she added with quiet defiance, 'no matter what anyone says, they are the kindliest, most compassionate, and thoughtful people you will ever meet.'

'If that is true, why are they so reviled?'

'But they are not reviled!' protested Cait.

'You said they were maligned,' he pointed out. 'It is the same thing.'

'No it is not!' she snapped. 'There is a world of difference. The Cele De are never reviled.'

'No?' He looked at her askance. 'If they were not, would you defend them so heartily?' Before she could challenge this observation, he said, 'What is this True Path that they follow?'

'I am not going to tell you,' she replied crisply. 'You will only make sport of it, and -' Rognvald stopped walking. He was looking straight along the path beaten through the snow by the villagers. 'What is it? Why have you stopped?'