Tancred, wishing to express his independence and secure the emperor's favour forthwith, spoke first. 'I will delay only so long as it takes to pare reed and dip pen,' he said, inclining his head. Whereupon the magister unfolded the document and, placing it on a board bearing a pot of ink and a prepared quill, offered it to the young nobleman, who affixed his signature beneath those of Godfrey and Baldwin while the magister held the board.

'Your readiness shames me, Tancred,' Bohemond observed. 'But I will write my name large so that our friend and emperor will know at a glance who it is that he has clasped to his bosom in friendship.' Taking up the quill pen he dipped the tip in the pot and with an elaborate flourish wrote his name in letters twice the size of all the others. He replaced the quill and, still smiling, inclined his head in submission.

The emperor, unable to believe the ease with which he had secured Bohemond's vow, said, 'Come, Nicetas, present the gifts to our esteemed guests.'

Tancred eagerly received the offered bowl; it was definitely worth the cost of travelling to Constantinople. Bohemond did not lift a hand to the tray, however, but remained with his hands clasped before him, smiling as he had since entering the throne room. 'Do not think I shun your gift, Lord and Emperor,' the prince said. 'If I refrain, it is not from scorn, but rather out of forbearance.'

Alexius stared at the haughty prince and tried to imagine Bohemond exercising this particular virtue. Certainly, he possessed all of his father's insatiable passions, and old Robert Guiscard had never abstained from anything the entire length of his life.

'You have some other token in mind, perhaps,' the emperor decided at last.

'Ah, you have hit on the very thing, lord,' replied Bohemond. 'As it happens, the pilgrimage we have undertaken is one in which the warrior arts must, alas, also play their part. It would mean more to me than treasures of gold to receive the imperial blessing on our mutual enterprise.'

'Our blessing,' echoed Alexius, smelling a trap, but unable to discern what it might be. 'Of course, Prince Bohemond, we ever offer prayers and blessings for the success of God's endeavours, and for those who carry out our Heavenly Father's designs on earth. What form might this blessing take?'

Bohemond's smile widened even further, showing his strong white teeth. 'Mere words,' the prince replied. 'A title only.'

'Have you a title in mind?' inquired the emperor, suspicion making him wary.

'Since you ask, it would please me to become Grand Domestic of the Imperial Armies.' Bohemond spoke simply, humbly-as if this were a thing of no consequence which had only just come into his mind.

The emperor felt the full implications of the request instantly. 'You are a bold schemer, Bohemond. Any man who doubts it does so to his regret and dismay.'

The shrewd prince watched the emperor carefully. 'Do you refuse my request?'

'We do not,' answered Alexius, choosing his words carefully. He knew full well the danger of denying Bohemond; at the same time, he could not possibly give the prince authority over the crusader armies. 'On the contrary, Bold Prince, we deem it a sound and sensible appointment. We doubt the leadership of the pilgrim forces could be placed in better hands. Indeed, we are only sorry that we cannot accede to your desires at this very moment. You will understand the difficulty if we are seen to favour one nobleman over another before all have arrived. Still, we are happy to offer you every assurance that when the time becomes appropriate, the title you seek will be swiftly granted.'

Bohemond, much to the emperor's relief and gratitude, accepted this answer with good grace. 'I leave it to your discretion, Emperor Alexius. When the time is ripe, you will find me eager to take up my new responsibilities.'

'We will await the day with keen anticipation. Until then,' said the emperor, almost hugging himself with joy for the way in which he had brought the difficult prince to heel, 'please accept the bowl as a small emblem of the treasures awaiting those who persevere in faith and,' he added pointedly, 'loyalty.'

Murdo glowered at the white-haired monk before him. Why did it have to be priests, he wondered, and nosey ones at that? 'I was hoping to go to Jerusalem with King Magnus,' he muttered thickly, 'but I did not reach the ships in time.' The thought of sharing ship space with them filled him with despair-and all the way to Jerusalem!

'How extraordinary!' remarked the tallest of the three clerics. Somewhat older than the others, he appeared to be the leader of the group. His curly white hair was thick and close cut, making him appear to be wearing a fleece on his head.

'Extraordinary!' agreed the other two, regarding Murdo with a benign interest that made his skin crawl.

'That is exactly what happened to us,' the tall monk said. 'It took longer to reach Inbhir Ness than we knew. We arrived too late and missed the king's fleet.' The three fell to squabbling about how narrowly they had missed the boat-was it one day, or two, or more? They could not agree; but then, agreement seemed the furthest thing from their intentions.

Without a doubt, Murdo reflected sourly, these were the least likely churchmen he had ever encountered: dressed in long robes of undyed wool, the hems of which were tattered and bedraggled with mud; the hoods of their cowls hung down their backs almost touching the ground, and their sleeves were absurdly wide and ample. They were bare-footed, dirty-fingered, and reeking with the odour of lamb fat which Murdo could smell from where he stood.

Huge, worn, leather satchels hung at their sides from straps over their shoulders and, although they were aboard a ship in the middle of the sea, each one carried a well-worn wooden staff made from a rowan sapling. Their foreheads were shaved from ear to ear, save for a thin circlet of close-cropped hair resembling a crown at the brow.

Despite his aversion to clerics, Murdo could not take his eyes from them. as he looked on, it occurred to him that they were like ancient Druids – those weird and mysterious figures who inhabited the tales his grandmother used to tell. 'The druid-kind are wise and powerful seers, Murdo-boy,' she would tell him. 'They know all things men can know, for they do peer through the veil of time. They know the pathways that lead beyond the walls of this world and, as we might go to Kirkjuvagr, they roam the Otherworld.'

Could they be druids? Murdo wondered. But then he saw the large wooden crosses on leather loops around their necks, and decided that, perhaps they were priests after all-but of some obscure variety unknown to him. One tall and rangy, one narrow-faced and round-shouldered, one short and fat, with their filthy and dishevelled appearance, battered satchels and absurd staffs and chunky wooden crosses, they were, if possible, even more odious than the ordinary kind Murdo knew and loathed. Had he possessed a lump of dung, Murdo would have cheerfully pelted them with it.

It was just past dawn, and all the rest of the ship's crew, save the pilot – a grizzled hank of bone and hair named Gorm Far-Seer -were still asleep. Murdo had just woken from his place at the prow, when the three emerged from the tented platform behind the mast where they had, apparently, been sleeping off the effects of too much Inbhir Ness ale. They then proceeded to hobble up one side of the ship and down the other-not once only, but three times-slowly. They walked with their rowan staffs in their right hands, left hands raised above their foreheads, chanting with high reedy voices in a language that Murdo could not understand.

Upon the completion of their third circuit of the ship, they had come to stand before Murdo to greet him and make his acquaintance. He had not encouraged their questions, but these strange clerics seemed oblivious to his resentment.