So there should be no confusion over his intentions, Alexius continued, adding, 'We would have each nobleman here bear witness to our gratitude in accepting the return of this city to the empire. So that you may speedily continue on your way, we will reassume its administration and relieve you of its protection.'

He then granted the sultana and her servants and children safe conduct to Constantinople until word could be taken to Qilij Arslan, asking the sultan where he wished his wife to join him. The western lords were aghast at this extraordinary charity to an enemy. Lest the pilgrims harbour hard feelings over this settlement, Alexius promptly gave orders for the sultan's treasury to be opened and the entire contents shared out in equal measure among the crusade leaders; and further, that all the grain and produce of the markets to be distributed to the troops. The emperor took nothing for himself, save Nicaea.

While the emperor concerned himself with restoring the much valued city, the crusaders resumed their journey to the Holy Land in good spirits. Following the council in Raymond's tent, they departed Nicaea the next morning with highest hopes for a swift completion of the crusade – despite repeated warnings from Taticius and his guides that they had not seen the last of Sultan Arslan.

In the days to follow, they passed through deserted villages and abandoned towns-places that had once been flourishing market towns and important centres of local trade. The empty hills were strewn with ruined farms, and all along the road the habitations had been burned to their foundations. Wells and vineyards, fields and forests, had all been destroyed; bridges had been broken, and cisterns and dams smashed, left to bleed out their life-giving contents to the desert-parched land. The few stream beds they encountered were dust-dry, rock-filled ditches. The further they journeyed inland, the more arid the ground became.

After only five days the water supply began to dwindle, and it was decided that the army must be split into two divisions in order to lessen the burden on the foraging parties which were having to range ever greater distances to find fodder and water. One division-consisting of the combined troops of Godfrey and Baldwin, Hugh, and all the Franks, under the leadership of Count Raymond-would range north of the road; the other-comprised of the armies of Robert of Flanders, and Robert of Normandy, Tancred and Stephen, along with the rest of the Normans and English, under the leadership of Prince Bohemond – would assume a parallel course seven miles to the south of the road.

This they did, and advanced through the low Bythinian mountains, encountering nothing more fierce than a few Seljuq raiding parties, which they promptly chased away without incident. Once through the mountains, Prince Bohemond's division found itself on a broad upland plain of low, rolling hills in sight of the Thymbres River, and a short distance from the ancient and now-ruined city of Dorylaeum.

Almost delirious with thirst, the parched pilgrims flocked in droves to the riverside. They threw themselves headlong down the banks and stumbled into the water, sinking to their knees in the cool mud. They jostled one another to put their faces into the water, the last climbing over the first, and all of them sucking down the life-giving liquid. The horses, getting the scent in their nostrils, plunged chest-deep into the river where they stood with their noses sunk in the water.

When every last pilgrim had drunk as much as he could hold, they all turned their attention to replenishing every cask and butt and skin with fresh water. Then the children were joined by their elders as they bathed and frolicked in the shallows, splashing cool water over their blistered, sun-burnt bodies, making the nearby ruins echo with glad shouts and the sound of laughter.

As the meadow was full and green-the first good pasturage they had seen since leaving Constantinople-Prince Bohemond gave the order to halt and make camp. They grazed the animals on the wide rivermead and enjoyed a comfortable night. The next morning, after another swim and soak in the river, the crusaders moved on reluctantly.

They had only just reformed the line and begun the day's march when Sultan Arslan and the massed Seljuq warhost attacked and cut the crusader army to small, bloody pieces.

January 16, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland

Caitlin and I were married in the spring of 1871. A few weeks after Angus and Libby were wed, my lovely Cait and I tied the knot and began a long and mostly sunny life together. I still saw Angus at the office, of course, and we still went to the club on the rare occasion, but we were both soon too preoccupied with the demands-financial and otherwise-of our burgeoning families to resume our old bachelor ways.

Our second wedding anniversaries saw two couples very much in love, and looking hopefully towards a prosperous and happy future. Then, only three short months later, Angus was dead.

Like so many others, he succumbed to the influenza epidemic which swept all of Europe that year. I knew nothing about his illness. I vaguely recall that he did not appear at work on Friday, and I did not see him over the week's end. By Monday morning, he was gone, having passed in the early hours of the night.

I was devastated. My best friend, gone for ever, and I never had the chance to say good-bye, to tell him how much his friendship meant to me. After the funeral, Libby and the child-they had a little girl less than a year old-moved back to Perth, where her mother and father lived; and though she and Caitlin kept up a regular correspondence, it was never to be the same.

I bring all this up now, because, as I think on it, Angus' funeral was the turning point. I took part in the service, naturally, and as I read out the eulogy, I happened to look up from my reading to see someone standing alone at the back of the chapel. It was Pemberton. Grim and tall in a black suit, his coat over his shoulders like a cape, he was standing with his hands folded before him, his eyes downcast.

But just as I noticed him, he raised his head slowly and looked at me. Not, I mean, as one does when being addressed from a pulpit-I was delivering the eulogy, after all-but… and how can I describe this? He raised his eyes and fixed me with a most extraordinary stare. Although he was at the back of the chapel and I at the front, his gaze penetrated straight to my very soul and filled me with such sadness that I was instantly overcome and was forced to break off my prepared speech. I fear I muttered something incomprehensible in conclusion and sat down as a great crushing wave of grief washed over me.

Afterwards, when I had collected myself somewhat, I looked for Pemberton at the reception, but he failed to appear. Six months later we met again. Caitlin had taken the sprog-we now had a delightful little cherub named Annie to amuse and amaze us-to her aunt's house for a summer visit. I could not get away from the office to go with them, so stayed home, fending for myself. I was sitting in the smoking room at the club, reading the paper, and waiting for the dinner gong, when I became aware that someone was watching me. Glancing up, I saw Pemberton sitting across from me, and looking very much the way he had looked the day I'd seen him at the funeral.

'Are you alone this evening?' he asked, politely, but without preamble.

'Mr Pemberton,' I said, 'what a pleasant surprise. I did not hear you sit down. Yes, I am dining alone this evening-wife off to the country for a fortnight. I'm sick of my own cooking, so thought I might pop round to see if the Old Stag still provides a decent haunch of an evening.'

'Oh, excellent as ever, I assure you,' he replied. 'In fact, I would be most gratified if you would join me for dinner. I have been wanting to talk to you for some time.'