The most remarkable of these was an imposing white building which stood on one side of the market square. The market itself was a forlorn place on rainy winter market days; inasmuch as there was little produce to be had, few people bothered to come and, save for a few forlorn sellers of eggs and cheese, Murdo often had the place to himself.

On one of his rambles, he discovered that the quiet little town boasted an armourer. There were two other smiths, he knew, and both supplied the port and farming trade, making fittings for ships and ploughs, and such like. But the third smithy was on the other side of the town, away from the port and market. Murdo stumbled upon the place one day while trying to circumnavigate the town by way of the wall. Drawn by the gusty whoosh of the bellows and the ring of hammer on anvil, he had found a low, dark dwelling built into the old Roman wall. Once a gatehouse, the gate had long since been sealed with stone; the house – little more than a covered recess excavated in the wall-now served a man skilled in making weapons.

The smithy was a warm place to stop on a dark, windy day, and as the craftsmen did not seem to mind his presence, Murdo paused to watch.

'Here now!' called the smith upon noticing the tall young man loitering at the open door. 'You like to work with iron, eh? Maybe you want to be a smith like me.'

Murdo explained that he was a pilgrim in the company of a warband bound for the Holy Land. 'Our ship is wintering here,' he said. 'We will sail again in the spring.'

'Ah, you are from the longship!' answered the smith, his Latin crude, but expressive. 'Very fierce warriors, these Norsemen, I am told. Good weapons they have, too-but mine are better. Come, I will show you something.' He beckoned Murdo into the hut, which was almost completely filled by the enormous central hearth and forge. Taking a glowing stub of iron from the red coals, he said, 'This will be a sword. It does not look like much now, perhaps -but soon! Soon it will fit the hand of a lord in Avignon.'

Murdo learned that the smith-a blunt, sweaty, black-fingered man named Bezu-had two apprentices and, owing to the increased demand for arms and armour brought about by the pope's crusade, two was not enough. Bezu was looking for a third man to help him meet the rising flood of orders for his wares. 'A strong boy like you would make a good smith. I could teach you. I could talk to your father maybe; I think we might come to an agreement.'

Murdo politely declined the offer, but the smithy became the place he visited most often. Indeed, Murdo became such a familiar onlooker that one day they invited him to share their midday meal of salt beef, cheese, and bread; in return for this kindness, he stayed to help with some of the smaller chores. When they had finished for the day, Bezu told him he was welcome to come and work and eat with them the next day.

Murdo happily agreed, and was soon spending much of his time with the armourer and his apprentices. The three worked together in a convivial haze of heat and smoke and earthy conversation, and Murdo enjoyed their camaraderie as much as he enjoyed watching them hammer the glowing red iron into sword-blades, spearheads, and shield-bosses. Bezu let Murdo try his hand at the bellows, and when he professed to enjoy this labour, the smith asked him whether he would like to learn how to make a spear.

'First, we must select the iron,' Bezu said, pawing through a stack of long, flat lengths of the black metal, some almost as long as Murdo was high. This amazed Murdo, who had imagined the head of a spear to be more properly fashioned from a short, thick square.

'Ah, this is where you are wrong, young Murdo. We are making this lance in the old Roman way,' the armourer told him. Laying a finger beside his nose, he added, 'It is a secret my family has kept for ten generations.'

'And you will tell me?' wondered Murdo, flattered by this unexpected confidence. 'Why?'

Bezu shrugged. 'Perhaps I show you, and you change your mind and stay to learn my craft.' He smiled. 'Also, what good is a secret if you cannot tell it once in a while?' Bending to the stack of iron, he pulled out a long, thin strap, as wobbly as a snake. 'Here!' he cried, handing the iron to Murdo. 'This for you!'

Murdo grasped the cold shank of rusty metal, regarding the wobbly length dubiously. 'It does not seem much to you now maybe,' the armourer suggested. 'But soon-a spear fit for the hand of a lord.'

Bezu then began showing his new pupil the long process of shaping the strap of iron: heating it in the forge, flattening it, folding it, squaring it, and then gently rounding the upper half, a third portion of which was folded over upon itself, squared and flattened once more, leaving a ridge in the centre and flaring the edges to form a stubby, leaf-shaped blade. Murdo liked working the iron, but regarded his handiwork as more of a curiosity than a weapon. Certainly, an iron spear was too heavy to throw, and the blade was too short and blunt to do much more than puncture.

'Just wait until you put the shank into the wooden shaft,' Bezu told him, showing how the long iron core would be inserted into a shaped haft of ash or oak. 'Like so, eh? The blade cannot become separated from the shaft, and the core makes the shaft as strong as iron. When it is finished, you have a spear which cannot be broken! That is the Roman way.'

Thus, Murdo occupied the wet winter months, coming early to the smithy most days and working until dusk, often spending the night beside the hearth as well. When the closeness of the smithy stifled rather than warmed, Murdo would go out and perch himself on the old Roman harbour wall and spend the day wrapped in his cloak gazing out across the low-lying countryside towards the sea. Rain or sun-it made no difference to Murdo. The damp spates of wind and rain which the realm of Burgundy suffered were balmy as summer showers compared to the howling, spitting, bone-cracking winter storms of Orkneyjar.

On these occasions, and much of the rest of the time as well, he thought of Ragna, and what he would do when next he saw her; he thought about the two of them making love, making a home, making a life together. He thought of Hrafnbu, and how he and his father and brothers would win it back from the treacherous usurper Orin Broad-Foot. He thought of his mother, and he hoped she was well and not worrying about him. He took great solace from the fact that she was with Ragna; that the two of them should be together enjoying one another's company warmed his thoughts on dismal days.

As the wheel of the year turned slowly around to spring once more, he grew restless to resume the voyage. Day after day, he watched the low clouds sailing southward, and wondered when Jon Wing would summon the crew and cast off. He went to the harbour often and almost always found the sea lord and two or three crewmen tending to small chores: braiding ropes, mending the sail, repairing oars, and such like. Murdo guessed the time was fast approaching when they would leave, yet whenever he asked, the ship's master would squint up at the sky, taste the breeze, and announce, 'Not today.' Jon would shake his head slowly. 'Tomorrow maybe. You have one more day on dry land.'

Tomorrow would come and the answer would be the same. Then, just when Murdo was beginning to think they would never sail again, Jon looked at the sky and pointed to the north-flying clouds. 'Today we buy provisions. Tomorrow we sail.' He then ordered Murdo to go and fetch the crew from whatever hall or brothel they were to be found, and bring them to the ship.

The chore was quickly accomplished; most of the men, having squandered all their silver long ago, were now eager to sail on. Brothers Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn were dragged from the cathedral cloisters where they were holding forth, and were despatched to the grain merchant, brewer, and butcher for provisions-this was because no wheedling tradesman ever got the better of the shrewd clerics when it came to striking a bargain.