'Gladly,' put in Emlyn. 'But do not burden yourself on our account. Simple fare, for simple travellers. Bacon and black bread -we expect nothing more.'

'Pish!' cried the old woman, her wrinkled features taking on a glow of excitement. 'We can do better than that! This is a bishop's house, you know.'

Murdo glowered into the puddle of gravy in his bowl. Despite the warm praises heaped on the meal and its maker by Emlyn and the hungry sailors, he had not tasted a single bite. Never in all the time he had been away had he considered that he would not be met on his return by those he had left behind.

Hardly a day had gone by in the last two years when he had not imagined sitting before this very hearth. And now at long last, here he. was – but in every important way he was no closer to his destination. He was angry with himself for allowing his hopes to soar so high; and he was angry with his companions for refusing to sail straight away to Kirkjuvagr to pull the bishop out of bed and demand an explanation at swordpoint. Most of all, he was angry with the grasping, scheming bishop-for using his holy office to prey on the weak, and for failing his sacred trust to protect and defend the people in his care. Which of the two was the worse, Murdo could not say, but he meant to hold the churchman to account for his crimes.

Unfortunately, the old woman could shed no further light on the matter. Nor could Jam add anything beyond what his wife had already said. A quiet man, he had finally returned with his cows for the evening milking, and though he was agreeable enough, he knew less about the affairs at Cnoc Carrach than his wife. Under Emlyn's gentle probing, it emerged that they had been vassals of Jarl Paul, and had lost their small holding when Magnus placed his son over the islands. Thrown upon the charity of the church, Jam and his wife, Hannah, had been brought by the bishop's men to look after the cows and keep the house; that was all he knew.

While the others sat at their ale, talking of their travels and gathering what news they could from the old folks, Murdo, restless and fretful, went outside to walk and think. He stalked the cliffs above the sea in the long, late twilight, gazing out across the strait to Orkney's mainland, where he imagined the greedy bishop sitting at his supper, smug in his comfort, ignorant of the fearful vengeance soon to break upon his devious head.

Midnight found Murdo sitting on the rocks above the bay, watching the starlight glinting in the calm water of the cove. He could hear the voices of Skidbladnir's small crew as they reclined on the strand around their driftwood campfire. He could smell the smoke as it drifted up the cliff face, but felt not the slightest inclination to join them. The solitary discomfort of his chill perch suited him better.

He slept little, his heart aching for the dawn when they would up sails and make for Kirkjuvagr. By the time the sun broke above the sea's flat horizon, Murdo was already aboard ship, cursing the laziness of Emlyn and Jon Wing who had stayed the night at the house while he had slept on stones.

The two errant sailors appeared on the clifftop as the dawnlight filled the cove. They stumbled stiff-legged down the steep path and greeted the crew with the easy banter of the content and well-rested. Murdo protested their belated arrival, but Jon Wing said, 'If it is a fight you are wanting, save it for the bishop. He will be standing before you soon enough. Why not let him feel the sharp edge of your tongue?'

With that, the sea lord strolled off along the rail to talk to Gorm. A moment later, the call came to push away, and the crew took up oars to push the ship off from the wharf. 'Never fear, Murdo,' said Emlyn, leaning over the rail with his oar, 'we will find out what has happened and see it put right. We have the support of King Magnus, remember. I doubt this bishop of yours can easily afford to anger the king.'

'This bishop is a pig-stealing rogue,' Murdo replied, shoving hard against the oar. 'He cares for no one and nothing but the size of his purse.'

'That I heartily doubt,' remarked Emlyn. 'Instead of believing the worst, we should rather pray for the best.'

'If anything has happened to either Ragna or my mother,' Murdo vowed, 'the bishop will believe the worst is only beginning.'

The low-hulled ship left the quiet cove and sped across the strait towards the big island. Upon reaching the centre of the channel, Gorm turned south to follow the undulating coast to the wide bay of Saint Ola below Kirkjuvagr. There were a dozen or more boats of various sizes in the harbour, but Gorm piloted the ship on a smooth straight line directly to the wharf. Murdo was out of the ship and half-way up the street to the cathedral before the mooring rope was tied.

'Murdo! Wait!' called Emlyn, waddling up the beaten earth track. 'Wait, son, let us help you!'

Murdo had no intention of waiting for anything or anyone. He raced up the slope without looking back, reached the cathedral and darted through the small door and into the dim, cavernous nave to a side door leading out into the cloistered gallery and the house beyond. The door to the house was closed and barred, so Murdo began pounding on it and shouting at those inside to open up.

'I want to see the bishop,' Murdo said to the first face to peer through a crack in the door.

'His reverance is at table breaking fast,' answered the monk. 'He sees no one until after prime. Come back then.'

'I do not care if he is at his window breaking wind,' growled Murdo. 'I want to see him now!'

'He sees no one -' was all the monk got out before Murdo kicked the door into his face. The unlucky cleric gave a yelp and fell back.

'I believe he will be seeing me,' said the young man, stepping quickly through the gap. The monk was rolling on his back, clutching his head and moaning.

Murdo raised the stricken priest roughly to his feet, and pushed him into the room. It was early yet, and most of the brothers were at their morning meal; there was no one else about.

'Now that we understand one another better,' Murdo said, 'tell Adalbert that Murdo Ranulfson has returned from the Holy Land. Tell the old thief that his day of reckoning has come.'

The monk stood in wounded silence, glaring uncertainly at his attacker.

'Better still,' said Murdo, moving to take the cleric by the arm, 'I will tell him myself. Show me to his majesty the bishop's chamber.'

Murdo marched the reluctant monk across the darkened room to another door. 'Through here?' he asked.

The monk nodded, but refused to speak. Murdo put his hand to the latch and pushed the door open. The room they entered contained a wide table surrounded by six large, throne-like chairs; the table was covered with a cloth of gold, and cushions of the same gleaming fabric rested on the chairs. Silver candletrees glimmered in the darkened corners of the room, and here and there, glints of gemwork and precious metals lit the darkness. Bishop Adalbert, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Murdo tightened his grip on the cleric. 'Where is he?'

The monk winced and pointed to a wooden stairway at the far corner of the room. 'Show me,' commanded Murdo, pushing the priest before him. They mounted the wooden treads and ascended into a small room with two narrow windows with panes of stained glass in red and yellow, making the room glow with a rosy colour in the early morning light. A table covered with parchments, quills, and ink pot occupied the centre, and on the wall opposite the windows stood a large, curtained bed.

Murdo crossed the room in two strides and yanked the curtains aside. Adalbert's eyes flew open and he gave a little startled cry as Murdo seized him by the arm and dragged him out of bed; he landed on hands and knees with a grunt. 'Stand up!' ordered Murdo, grasping the bishop's arm and jerking him upright.