Murdo reluctantly returned to his wintertime pursuit of Latin, and made steady progress in both reading and speech. His natal day passed uneventfully and unmarked, save for his mother's thoughtful present of one of Lord Ranulf's best hunting spears-one which Murdo had secretly coveted for some time. True, it was not the swordtaking he would have wished, but it would have to do until his father returned. He prized the spear, and alternated his Latin with hunting from then on.

Following the turn of the year, he and his mother, along with some of the neighbours, rode to the church at Saint Mary's for the Feast of the Virgin. They stayed seven nights at Borgvik, the estate of Jarl Erlend's younger sister, Cecilia, and her family. There were many young people, but no one Murdo's age, and while the older people made vague attempts to include him in their conversations, all the talk of fishing and farming soon grew wearisome and he decided to play games with the children instead.

Upon their return to the bu, Murdo began the task of repairing the tools and equipment for the spring planting. Besides that, there was the lambing to think about, but mostly the days remained uncluttered and he had time to himself. He occupied himself with riding the estate, often taking the spear and, with two or three of the tenants' sons, trying his hand at hunting for the table. The woods at the end of the valley yielded a young stag, and though they often saw wild pigs, they were never able to get close enough to one for a good cast.

Often on these excursions Murdo pretended he was on pilgrimage fighting Saracens. With every throw and thrust of the spear, he struck a decisive blow for Christendom. From time to time, he wondered about his father and brothers. He had no idea how far distant Jerusalem might be, but he thought they must soon be returning. How long could it take to liberate the Holy Land from the slack grasp of a few vexatious Arabs?

According to common opinion, the pilgrims would make short work of it so that they could return to the comforts of home as soon as possible. Murdo decided that his father and brothers would be back well before the next harvest, and he would not have to undertake that chore alone.

Thus the months passed, and winter grudgingly receded. The days grew longer and warmer, and the rains less fierce. As spring firmed its hold on the land, Murdo frequently found himself weighing the possibility of paying a visit to Lord Brusi's estate to see how Lady Ragnhild and her daughter were bearing the lord's absence. Try as he might, however, he could find neither a convenient nor convincing excuse to go to Hrolfsey. Sailing from one island to another was not difficult, but it was not a thing one did casually, and it was not in the way of a simple day's outing. His mother would have to know, and he had no satisfactory means of explaining his sudden interest in the welfare of the Hrolfsey farming estates.

He decided instead to make certain he and his mother attended the Eastertide ceremonies at the cathedral-in the hope that Lady Ragnhild would do the same. It took him several days to work up his courage to broach the subject with her, and then several more to find just the right opportunity to introduce it naturally into the conversation so that she would not suspect him of plotting anything. His chance came one night when, after their supper, he and Lady Niamh were sitting in their chairs before the hearth. His mother was mending a siarc, and he was stropping a knife on a length of leather when his mother said, 'We will soon begin our Lenten observances.'

'Is Eastertide so near?' he wondered, assuming an air of astonishment. 'I suppose it must be. What with the planting and all, I had completely forgotten.'

This statement, uttered with innocent sincerity, caused his mother to look up from her needle to regard him curiously. Murdo continued stropping the knife, aware of her glance, but betraying no sign. After a moment, Lady Niamh resumed her sewing. 'We must give a thought to Eastertide preparations,' she said.

'Did we go to the cathedral last year?' Murdo asked. 'I have forgotten.'

'Oh, Murdo, of course we did,' his mother informed him with quiet exasperation. 'You forget because it is beneath your regard to remember. You have so little heart for the church, I wonder you go at all, Murdo.'

I would not go, he thought to himself, if I was not forever pestered into going. Adopting a suitably contrite tone, he admitted, 'It is not often uppermost in my thoughts, it is true. But I did enjoy the Saint John's feast, and I would be happy to hear Easter Mass at the cathedral-if that is what you wish.'

Oh, that was well done. He had deftly turned the entire affair into a matter of pleasing his mother. Murdo commended himself on his shrewdness and aplomb.

His exultation was short-lived, however, for his mother downed her needlework to stare at him-as if unable to determine whether it was indeed her son sitting beside her, or a sly impostor. 'As it happens,' she said, 'I have already made other plans. We are to spend Eastertide elsewhere.'

Murdo felt his heart sink. After all his cunning and careful planning, he was not to go to the cathedral at all. In desperation he said, 'Yet the cathedral is a splendid sight on Easter-what with all the gold and finery. Could we not hear the mass, at least, before chasing off somewhere else? I do so like it there.'

Lady Niamh frowned and shook her head. 'You are a wonder. I had no idea you held such strong opinions on the matter.' She paused, considering what to do. After a moment, she said, 'Honestly, I wish you had spoken sooner, Murdo. Lady Ragnhild has invited us to join them, and I have accepted. I do not see how I can tell her that we will not come after all-they will have made many preparations for us.' She paused again. 'But, if you are determined, we might-'

'Lady Ragnhild – wife of Lord Brusi…' Murdo interrupted quickly.

'Yes, the same-and if you tell me you cannot remember them, Murdo, I will thump you with a broom.'

'I remember them right well,' Murdo replied truthfully. 'But I do not recall seeing a messenger hereabouts.'

'Messenger? Whatever do you mean? There was never any messenger.'

'Then how-?'

His mother regarded him with frank exasperation and clucked her tongue. 'Ragnhild herself invited us at the Feast of Saint John. She knew we would be alone-as she would be herself- with the menfolk gone on pilgrimage. I told her we would be honoured and delighted to observe the holy days with them.'

Murdo, adopting a philosophical air, replied, 'Well, I am never one to disappoint a body. In light of all the preparations the good lady will have made on our behalf, it would ill behove us to spurn an invitation already accepted. I fear we shall have to make the best of it.' He sighed heavily to show that, though his sentiments were firmly elsewhere, he was nevertheless capable of sacrificing his own happiness for that of others.

'The things you say, Murdo,' Niamh said, shaking her head slowly. 'One would almost believe you had another purpose in mind.'

'My only wish is to please you, Mother,' Murdo replied, trying to sound hurt and dignified at the same time. 'Is that wrong?'

Lady Niamh rolled a sceptical eye at him and took up her needlework once more. Murdo turned his attention to the knife in his hand with what he considered an attitude of silent forbearance, all the time hoping against hope that his mother would overlook his ill-timed insistence on attending mass in Kirkjuvagr, now the last place he wanted to go.

'Then it is settled,' Niamh mused after a time. 'We shall go to Cnoc Carrach as we have planned.' She paused, thinking of the impending visit. 'It will be good to spend a few days with Ragnhild again; it's a long time since we stayed with one another.'