'He is telling the truth,' said Murdo. 'There were Turks-hundreds of them – on this road yesterday. We both saw them. They were heading for Jaffa.'

'Did you see them ride into the city?' the soldier challenged.

'No,' said Murdo, pointing back the direction they had come, 'we were on our way from -'

'Worthless beggars,' sneered the knight. 'Be gone with you!' He lashed the reins across his mount's shoulders and the horse lurched away.

'Wait!' called Murdo. 'We need water-a drink only. We have lost our wat -'

'Drink piss!' shouted the knight as he rode to rejoin his companions.

Thirsty and disappointed, they turned their attention to rousing the camel and, after repeated threats to flay it alive, succeeded in getting the belligerent creature onto its great flat feet. They then started off once more, following the crusaders' dust.

They walked along, and Emlyn began saying prayers in Gaelic to occupy himself. Murdo listened, picking out a word here and there which he recognized. Hearing the familiar sounds put him in mind of his mother. He wondered how she would take the news of her husband's death, and her sons' refusal to come home and fight for the return of their land. He wondered how Ragna was faring, and what she was doing, whether she missed him as much as he missed her, and whether they would ever see one another again. He vowed, not for the first time, that if he ever got home, he would never leave her side.

The sun gained strength as it ascended, and the morning warmth gave way to an oven-like fire which baked the arid hills and rocks all around, and caused the lowlands before them to liquefy and run in the heat haze. When they could not stand to walk any longer, they stopped to look for a place to rest and escape the sun. There were no trees nearby; a fair-sized thorn bush not far from where they stood offered the only shade for leagues around.

Leading the camel to the bush, Murdo flicked its forelegs with a stick and the beast knelt down. Next, Murdo stripped off his sweat-soaked siarc and draped it over the bush. He settled in the bone-dry dirt beside Emlyn, and the two of them rested in the combined shade of the siarc, stinking camel, and thorny bush. It was too hot to talk, or think, and they were beginning to feel the loss of their water. Murdo's mouth felt as dry as the stones on which he lay, and his tongue as if it was swollen to twice its size; his lips were cracking, and his eyeballs were cinders in his head.

He closed his burning eyes and rested his head on his arm. In a moment, he heard Emlyn's breath slow and deepen as the monk drifted off to sleep. Though he tried, sleep eluded Murdo; his mind kept returning to the awful moment when he thought the Turks would kill him while he stood there clinging to Emlyn's mantle like a toddling child. He felt again the sharp spear point bite into his throat, and he heard the warrior say, 'Build me a kingdom, brother'.

The voice was so clear and lifelike, he opened his eyes and looked around. There was no one nearby, of course, and Emlyn was still asleep, so he knew he must have imagined it. Though the voice was imagined, the words were those of Saint Andrew, and he had promised to do what he could. Perhaps, he thought, the same lord who honoured the circle in the dirt-the caim of protection-could deliver him safely home.

'Only get me home, and I will build a realm for you,' Murdo said; 'I will build it next to my own.'

His mumbling roused Emlyn who opened his eyes drowsily. 'Did you say something?' he asked, yawning.

'No,' whispered Murdo. 'Go back to sleep.'

The monk yawned again and closed his eyes. 'It looks like smoke,' he said, his voice falling away as he drifted off to sleep again.

Murdo lay for a moment before it occurred to him to wonder what Emlyn had said. Turning his head, he looked in the direction that Emlyn was facing, and saw the hard-baked land, white with dust, beneath a heat-riven sky so bleached it appeared almost grey. A thin thread of darker grey was snaking up through the cloudless heights. Yes, concluded Murdo, it did look like smoke. What could be burning in this God-forsaken place?

He raised his head and looked again. The thread was slightly thicker now, and a little darker, rising out of the west. It was Jaffa!

Rolling to his knees, Murdo looked out, shielding his eyes with his hands. The sun was beginning its long, slow slide into the west, its fierce light all but drowning out the faint smoke trail. He dragged himself to his feet, and climbed to the top of the gulley for a better look – only to find that he had to go all the way back to the road in order to see down to the distant horizon.

One quick look confirmed his suspicion: the smoke was coming from the walled city.

Hurrying back to the thorn bush, he quickly pulled his siarc off the branches and drew it back on. He then knelt and shook Emlyn awake. 'You were right about the smoke,' Murdo told him. 'Jaffa is burning.'

'They must be fighting there,' the monk said.

'Maybe,' Murdo granted. 'It is still too far to see.'

'I hope the ships are not in danger.'

'The ships!' It had not crossed his mind that the ships might be at risk in any conflict. What if the Turks were attacking the port? 'Hurry!'

'Murdo, wait!' Emlyn called after him. He struggled to his feet and started up the side of the gulley, remembered the camel, and paused to untie the rein rope.

Their short rest had far from restored either of them, and here they were, starting out again in the heat of the day. It was madness, thought Murdo; even if he reached the fighting in time, what could he do?

'Murdo, slow down,' called Emlyn, struggling up out of the gulley and onto the road. He held tight to the camel's rope, all but pulling the beast after him.

Ignoring the monk, Murdo charged on, head down to keep the sun out of his eyes. Though more desperately thirsty than ever, he kept his mouth shut, and concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other. How long this continued, he could not say. Time seemed to melt into a stagnant pool; he was no longer aware of its passing. This strange state persisted until he heard Emlyn say, 'Look, Murdo! I can see the harbour.'

Murdo raised his head and was amazed to see how far they had come. The city lay on the shelf of the sea plain below them, its white dwellings shimmering pale gold in the light of a low-sinking sun. The sea stretched out on either hand in a broad band of shining white silver. Smoke rose in a dark column from the city walls in the vicinity of the central gate, where, judging from the darkly writhing stain on the plain outside the city, the battle still raged. But the ships rode at anchor in the bowl-shaped harbour, as yet untouched by the fighting outside the walls.

'Can you see who it is?' asked Emlyn, toiling up beside him. The cleric sank to the road and rested on his haunches in the dust.

'No,' answered Murdo, 'they are still too far away. I suppose it is Godfrey's troops-the ones that passed us earlier. No doubt the Turks were waiting for them.'

With that, he started off again.

'Murdo, for the love of God, man, can you not wait even a moment while I catch my breath?'

'Catch your breath later,' Murdo called back to him. 'We must get down there.'

'Murdo, stop!' cried the monk. 'We can await the outcome here.'

He hastened down the track leading to the city. Behind him he heard Emlyn call out, 'Murdo, if you cherish your life at all, do not go down there!'

He stopped and looked down upon the broad plain. Emlyn was right; there was nothing he could do down there except get himself killed. He returned to where the priest was waiting, took the rope from his hand, and led the camel off to the side of the road where they found another low bush and settled down to watch and wait until the battle was over.