'Bishop Adhemar,' the drungarius repeated dully.

'Do you know him?'

'Alas, no.'

'A wonderful man-solid of faith and rich in good works, a saint unflagging in zeal and courage.'

'Be that as it may,' Dalassenus said, 'it appears your intentions have been anticipated somewhat.' He then told the pope about Peter the Hermit and his pilgrim horde, and their unruly excursion through imperial lands.

Bishop Urban shook his head sadly. 'It is unfortunate, I agree, but I do not see how it can be prevented. God calls who he will. Are we to judge who may take the cross, and who must refrain? It is the instrument of salvation for many, and no earthly power has the right to deny it.'

'When will these-Dalassenus hesitated. To avoid needless antagonism, he said, 'These crusaders – they will pass through Constantinople, no doubt? In that event, it would be useful to know how many we might expect to receive.'

The pope's eyes went wide at the question. 'I have no idea! It is God's will, my friend. He alone knows the number. Yet, I can tell you the call was most enthusiastically received.'

'When might we expect them?'

'I have decreed that those wishing to follow Bishop Adhemar on pilgrimage must be ready to depart no later than August of this year. God willing, you may expect their arrival by the Christ Mass, if not before.'

'The emperor will be delighted to hear it,' the young commander replied, trying not to let dismay colour his tone.

'Good,' the pope answered. 'So be it.'

'Now, if you will excuse me, I must make arrangements for my departure.'

'Such devotion to duty is laudable, Drungarius Dalassenus. But must you leave Rome so soon? I had hoped you would dine with us here in the palace. These are exciting times, and there is much to discuss.'

'I am sorry. As much as I might wish otherwise, I am compelled to rejoin the Basileus as soon as possible.'

'As you will.' Urban, Patriarch of Rome, extended his hand for the kiss, and the young commander brushed the papal ring with his lips. 'Farewell, my son. Greet the emperor in my name, and tell him he is remembered daily in prayer, as are all our brothers in the east.'

'Thank you, I will indeed tell him,' Dalassenus answered. 'Fare well, Bishop Urban.'

The young commander turned on his heel and departed the audience room. Urban sat for a long time, contemplating the incredible event which had just taken place. Then, when he had set the thing properly in his mind, he called his abbot to him and, giving him the emperor's letter, commanded him to read it aloud. The priest broke the seal, unfolded the heavy parchment square and, in a high, thin, reedy voice, began to read.

'Slowly, Brother Marcus,' the pope chided, 'slowly-and in Latin, please. My Greek has never been more than adequate. Begin again, my friend, if you please.'

As the abbot began once more, Pope Urban leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Yes, he thought, the long hoped-for reconciliation had come; what is more, thanks to the tremendous response to his call to Crusade, it was now proceeding more swiftly than he would have dared dream possible.

Harvest time sped by Murdo in a dull blur of sweat and fatigue. Day after day, he dragged his aching body out of bed at first light, pulled on his clothes, and was in the fields by dawn, where he laboured until long into the radiant northern twilight, pausing only to break fast at midday, and then again for supper. He took his meals in the field with the vassals and, like his father, worked elbow to elbow with them, never allowing himself even so much as a swallow of water unless he could offer them the same.

By the time the last sheaf of grain had been gathered and the last lonely kernel gleaned, Murdo knew deep in every bone and sinew that he had never worked so hard, nor accomplished so much. The fact that the final three rows were harvested under black, threatening skies with the rumble of thunder in the distance only increased his sense of triumph. When the last wagon trundled into the yard and the oxen were led to the barn, he stood and gazed proudly at the great stacks of yellow grain, marvelling at the achievement. When his mother came and put her arm around his shoulder in a gentle hug, Murdo could not have been more delighted if heaps of gold had been mined and stored away.

'You have done well, Murdo,' his mother told him. 'I cannot remember a richer harvest. Your father could not have done better, and he would tell you the same if he were here.'

'The weather remained dry, and that helped,' he replied sagely. Casting an eye towards the dark clouds overhead, he added, 'I feared the storm would take the last, but it can rain from now until Yuletide and I will not breathe a word of complaint.'

'A harvest like this deserves a feast,' Niamh suggested. 'Tomorrow we will celebrate. Tell the tenants and vassals, and then choose a pig-oh, and one of the yearling calves, too. We will make it a fine harvest celebration.'

As his mother hurried off to begin ordering the preparations, Murdo stood for a time admiring his handiwork. Then, adopting the manner of the absent lord himself, he strode into the barn where the workers were placing the last sheaves onto the stack, and began praising the men for their diligence and hard work. 'Tomorrow will be a feast-day at Hrafnbu farm,' he told them, and bade them bring wives, children and their old ones to help observe the festivities properly. Leaving the others to finish in the barn, Murdo and Fossi went to the cattle pens to choose the calf and pig for the feast.

Fossi was the family's oldest and most trusted servingman. Though his hair had grown grey in the service of Lord Ranulf's father, he still moved with the spry step of a man twenty years younger; his eye was as clear and his hand as steady as Murdo's. Never one to speak two words where one would do, that one word was worth ten of anyone else's. Old Fossi could be relied on to say what he thought without regard to rank or favour.

'What think you, Fossi?' asked Murdo as they leaned on the enclosure fence.

'The gathering-in?'

'Yes. How do you mark it?'

'I marks it right fair.'

They stood a little in silence before Murdo coaxed some more out of him. 'I am thinking it is better than last year,' Murdo suggested.

'Oh, aye,' agreed Fossi.

'We shall have enough to plant the new field, I think,' Murdo ventured. Lord Ranulf had cleared a patch of ground to the south of the present barley field earlier in the summer, and it was Murdo's plan to sow it in the spring as his father intended.

'Aye,' Fossi concurred, 'we will.'

Satisfied with this, Murdo chose a fine, fat calf from among the yearlings, and one of the pigs. 'Mind you do not take Red William by mistake,' Murdo warned. 'He is for the Yule board.'

Fossi frowned and regarded Murdo with dark disapproval for impugning his abilities, but said nothing. Leaving Fossi to oversee the butchering, Murdo walked back to the house, tired in every muscle, but glowing with a contentment he would have envied in anyone else. The first drops of rain splashed into the dust at his feet as he reached the yard; he paused and stood as the rain pattered down around him, feeling the cool splashes on his upturned face.

'Come winds and rain and winter cold,' he hummed to himself, reciting the words to the song, 'my hearth is warm and my house is dry, and I shall not stir until the sun does rise on blessed Easter morning.'

The good weather held long enough for the folk of Hrafnbu to enjoy their feast the next day, but after that a gale broke in full across the isles. The golden autumn dissolved in a rainy haze that did not lift, giving way instead to cold, grey days of rain and snow. Winter came early and stayed long, but the great house and its inhabitants remained in good spirits, passing a fine, if somewhat subdued, Yuletide with guests from the neighbouring farms.