Murdo did not hesitate, but hurried off along the bank. He worked his way around the inlet, looking at the ships and trying to determine if this one or that might belong to Lord Orin. He eventually arrived at a wide place at the farthest end of the anchorage, a square of sorts, where the harbour and main settlement met. Here the wagons and carts of the provisioners called to deliver their goods, and here the sailors met to drink ale and talk.

An inn – the first Murdo had ever seen-fronted this muddy square: a low, dark, rambling house with a small mountain of wooden casks, kegs, and tuns stacked high outside the entrance. Upon reaching the inn, he paused and savoured the toothsome aroma of roasting meat wafting out the wide and open door; the smell brought the water to his mouth and made his empty stomach squirm in anticipation. While he was yet surveying the square, a man in a leather apron emerged from the inn behind him and took up one of the kegs from the heap a few paces from where Murdo stood.

'I beg your pardon,' said Murdo, putting on his most polite demeanour. The man glanced at him and started back into the inn. 'I am looking for Orin Broad-Foot's ship. Can you tell me where it is?'

The fellow grunted at Murdo, but did not turn aside. 'Am I the harbour master now?' he growled without looking back. 'Get you gone!'

Rebuffed by the fellow's unaccountable rudeness, Murdo nevertheless seized upon the notion of searching out the harbour master. He continued his circumnavigation of the square, moving along the edge, watching all that passed before him, but failed to see anyone who might be called the master of the port and its disorderly commerce.

There were, he determined, a hundred or more men-many in clumps of three or four together, a fair few in larger groups, and the rest hastening about their errands alone; but, whether talking loudly and drinking freely, or pursuing their various chores, everyone seemed wholly preoccupied and oblivious to Murdo's presence as he walked here and there, apparently idly, but listening all the while to each group for the accents of speech that would tell him he had found the Norsemen.

Upon reaching the earthen bank once more-here built up and faced with timber to better accommodate the loading and unloading of larger ships-Murdo saw a group of seven big men talking loudly and drinking ale from a large stoup. Behind them, eight others were shifting a small mountain of bundles, bales, and wooden boxes from the bank to the deck of a sleek, low-hulled, longship. The high stern and prow swept up gracefully from the knife-sharp keel; the prow was carved with the head of a dragon with round staring eyes painted red, and long curved teeth painted white.

The men working and drinking were dressed in leather and homespun, and most wore their long hair tied and braided. Murdo slowed to hear better, and the sing-song lilt of their voices confirmed what he already knew: Norsemen, without a doubt.

He paused for a moment to decide how best to approach them, and was still trying to work out what to say, when one of the group-a brawny bare-chested seaman with a thick braid over his shoulder, saw him. 'You there!' the man growled. 'You find something funny to look at maybe, hey?'

The man's accent was so thick that, though Murdo recognized the words, it took him a moment to work out what he meant. 'Beg pardon?' he muttered.

'He deaf maybe,' suggested another of the group as they all turned to stare at him.

'Please,' said Murdo, plucking up his nerve and stepping forward. 'I am looking for Lord Orin Broad-Foot's ship. Could you tell me if it is here?'

The men looked at one another, but appeared reluctant to reply. Murdo was about to ask again when a voice boomed out behind him. 'Who is it that asks of Orin Broad-Foot?'

'I do, myself,' replied Murdo quickly.

He turned around to see who had addressed him, and saw a swarthy, bull-necked Norseman with arms as big as hams stuffed through a sleeveless tunic of undyed leather. His breecs were heavy sailcloth dyed the colour of rust, the legs of which were rolled to the tops of his tall boots – made from boar's hide which still displayed the hair of the beast. A large purse hung from a wide belt made of the same stuff. His beard was long and dark and, like most seagoing men, he kept his hair out of his face by tying it back with a leather string. He wore a broad-linked chain of silver on his neck, and a fat gold ring on the first finger of his left hand.

The eyes that watched him were clear and keen beneath a high smooth, sun-browned brow. Good straight teeth flashed white as the newcomer demanded, 'What's your business with Broad-Foot?'

Wary of revealing too much, Murdo replied, 'It is said Lord Orin is sailing for Jerusalem.'

'Aye, he goes with his king on pilgrimage.' The man regarded Murdo, looking him slowly up and down-as if placing a value on a beast of burden, and that value was not high. 'What is it to you, boy?'

The man was blunt, Murdo decided, but not malicious. 'I also am pledged to go to the Holy Land,' Murdo announced boldly. 'I have come to ask a place in his boat. I know about ships, and I can work. Also, I have a little silver; I can pay my way, if need be.'

'Can you now!' the man said, his mood lightening somewhat.

'I would thank you kindly if you could tell me where I might find Lord Orin – or his ship, at least.'

The dark-haired man drew himself up full height. He was a big full-fleshed man, and his shoulders were wide and strong. 'You come looking for Orin Broad-Foot, and you come to the right place,' he declared, 'but you come too late. He sailed two days ago on the morning tide.'

Murdo's heart sank, and he felt bleak futility descending over him. He thanked the man, turned away, and began walking back to where Peder waited with the boat.

'Pilgrim!' the man called after him. 'How much silver?'

Murdo turned, not certain he had heard correctly. 'What?'

'You have silver,' the Norseman said. 'How much?'

Murdo hesitated, uncertain what to answer. The seaman eyed him shrewdly, awaiting his reply. 'Ten-ten marks.'

'Bah!' the man said, flapping a huge hand at him. 'Go away, liar.'

'No, wait!' Murdo protested. 'It is true-I have ten marks.'

'Let me see it,' the man demanded.

Murdo, against his better judgement, reached into his shirt and tugged out the little leather bag. He started to untie it, but the Norseman snatched the bag from his fingers. 'Stop!' cried Murdo. 'Give it back!'

'If there is ten marks in here,' the rough seaman told him, 'you have nothing to fear. If there is more, or less, I keep the silver and cut out your tongue for a liar.'

Murdo, smouldering with rage, watched as the man opened the bag and poured the coins into his fist; he then counted them back into the bag one by one.

'Ten marks,' the Norseman confirmed.

'I am no liar,' Murdo told him. 'Now, give it back.'

'I thought you wanted to go to Jerusalem,' the seaman said, bouncing the purse on his palm. 'Ten marks pays your passage.'

Murdo, outraged at being robbed, and aghast at the audacity of the thief, sputtered in protest.

'Stay or go-the choice is yours, but it must be made quickly,' the Norseman told him. 'Skidbladnir is ready, and the tide is on to turning.'

Murdo regarded the ship: a goodly-sized vessel of the kind the Norsemen excelled at building-sleek and low, easily manoeuvred and fast; it could hold thirty fighting men. From where he stood, he could see that many of the rowing benches had been removed to accommodate the small mountain of cargo, and the tented platform behind the mast.

'I will go with you,' Murdo answered, making up his mind. 'But I will give you five marks only.'

'Impossible,' replied the seaman. 'Seven, or you stay behind.'