The gateman relented then. 'God have mercy,' he muttered, and flapped his hand at them. 'Go on… go on-and hurry!'

Keeping to the perimeter of the yard, they made their way through the confusion of soldiers. Off to one side, surrounded by a group of tall soldiers in gleaming armour, Murdo saw the abbot and the dark-featured man he had seen the night they came to the monastery. As he hurried by, the man looked up and stared directly at him, and Murdo knew he had been recognized. The man turned his attention once more to what the abbot was saying, and Murdo and Emlyn continued on to the small building behind the refectory and kitchens. Murdo ducked inside and fetched a torch from the box beside the door, lit it from the embers of one of the ovens, and then they both descended to the darkness of the catacombs below.

The air cooled wonderfully as they went down into the earth.

Murdo stepped from the staired passageway and was met by the scent of dry mould and ancient dust. In the flickering light of the torch, he saw their footprints from their previous visit on the floor, and followed them through the first two galleries and the next and into the one beyond-the unfinished gallery where they had laid the treasure.

Murdo saw his father's shield below one of the niches where they had hidden the treasure; he squatted down and, when he did not see anything, he thrust the torch inside. The shroud-wrapped, corpse-like bundles were still there, along with the sword and belt, and hauberk. He quickly checked the other niche as well, and saw that all was as they had left it. He realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief. 'All is well,' he told Emlyn. 'They are still there.'

'What did I tell you?' said the monk. 'There is no place safer than the catacombs.'

'I will remember that,' Murdo replied, pulling the first of the bundles from the niche.

They worked quickly and quietly, dragging the bundles up from the catacombs and binding them with cords to the camel's saddle frame. Lastly, Murdo retrieved his father's sword, shield, and hauberk, and tied them on as well. Satisfied that his treasure was secure, Murdo led the camel back out into the yard again.

The commotion had abated somewhat, and they hastened along, unnoticed by any save the gatekeeper, who was greatly relieved to see them. He opened the gate as they approached. 'Hurry! Hurry!' he said, beckoning them through.

Murdo paused a few paces outside the gate. 'Do not stop!' said the gateman, rushing towards them. 'Move on. No one knows you were here. Move on before they find out.'

Turning to Emlyn, Murdo whispered, 'Talk to him. Keep him occupied for a moment.' He pushed the priest forward. 'Make certain he looks the other way.'

Emlyn scurried forth. 'Thank you, brother,' he said, taking hold of the gateman's arm and turning him around. 'Truly, you have rendered us a divine service, and we are grateful for your kindness.' He walked the gateman back towards the gate. 'Never fear, you will not see us again.'

'It is not myself who has made this command, you understand,' said the worried cleric. 'It is the emperor's envoy. We must do what he says, and -

'I am certain of it,' said Emlyn, breaking in. 'Rest assured, we bear no ill feelings.'

'On the contrary,' said Murdo, stepping up beside him, 'I want the monastery to have this as a remembrance of our gratitude and thanks for your help.' With that, he placed a fine golden bowl into the astonished gateman's hands.

'What is this?' whined the porter. He gaped fearfully at the bowl as if a world of fresh trouble opened before him.

'A gift,' Murdo assured him. 'I want you to take it to your abbot and tell him that this is my thanks for the brief use of the catacombs. Will you do that?'

'It will be in his hands before vespers,' replied the gateman, relieved to have the matter resolved.

'Then we will trouble you no more. Come, brother,' he said to Emlyn, 'we are away.'

They left the gateman standing before his gate, clutching the golden bowl and gawking after them. They passed the church and started back down the hillside. Murdo looked out across the valley to the Holy City, now misty in the haze of a hot day's rosy twilight, and, for the first time since leaving home, felt as if he had finally, at long last, arrived.

They descended into the valley, passing beneath the city walls once more. Upon reaching the Jaffa road, Murdo looked for the last time at David's Tower, and then turned his face to the west and put Jerusalem at his back. 'We will find a place to sleep beside the road,' Murdo said. 'Are you hungry?'

'A little bread and wine would sit nicely with me,' Emlyn said. 'But I am content.'

'Maybe we can buy some bread and wine from a farmer,' Murdo suggested. 'Or find some water at least.'

'If not, we will fast like true pilgrims-until we reach Jaffa,' Emlyn offered amiably.

After a while the road bent a little to the north, and they could see the fires of the crusader camps on the hillsides and in the valley along the northern walls of the city. The sky was almost dark now, and the first stars were glowing overhead. The path began to rise to its climb into the heights, before beginning its long descent to the sea. Once up from the valley floor, the air was cooler, and the light breeze felt good on their skin. Yes, and it felt good to be on the road, thought Murdo, to be going home.

'Most imprudent of you, Godfrey,' observed Baldwin, holding out his cup to be refilled. 'How could you promise to forfeit the treasure to the emperor without knowing what it was you were being asked to surrender?'

'Would you rather have him take Jerusalem?' Godfrey, in a surly humour, glared at his brother and at the noblemen holding vigil with him. The day, begun with a towering victory, had ended in ripe disaster. In his first act as ruler of the Holy City he had succeeded in losing its most holy and sacred relic.

The lords of the West were angry at him, and baying for blood. Some of them were for refusing to honour the promise and declaring war with Byzantium instead. The fact that the empire's troops now outnumbered their own vastly diminished armies had not yet occurred to anyone.

Jerusalem had been won. The heady days following the city's fall were giving way to a season of sober reflection-for Godfrey, Defender of the Holy Sepulchre, if for no one else. In the short space between this day's glorious beginning, and its cruel, regretful end, Godfrey had pondered deeply over his unenviable position; his unhappy meditations had borne bitter fruit. The lords of the West had liberated the Holy City, but the cost had been ruinous. And now, with nearly all the crusaders returning home, he would be ruler of a city surrounded by hordes of crafty and relentless enemies -Turks and Saracens, to be sure, but also Greek and Armenian Christians whose people had been slaughtered in the blood frenzy-all of whom knew the land and tolerated the unbearable heat far better than his own war-weary troops.

The sad truth, and Godfrey knew it well, was that the crusaders would very soon be in desperate want of imperial aid. Continual and close friendship with Alexius was the only way to guarantee that help remained forthcoming. Unless he thought of something now-this night!-tomorrow he must deliver Jerusalem's most valuable object to the emperor's envoy as a peace offering and sign of his reign's good will, and his recognition of Alexius' supremacy. The prospect made him squirm. Why, he would become the laughing-stock of the entire Christian world: the Lord of Jerusalem a mere vassal of the Greeks.

'Oh, cheer up, brother,' Baldwin said over the rim of his cup. 'The night is young. We will yet think of something.'