While the monks were gathering the necessary victuals, the rest of the crew undertook to make certain the longship was sea-worthy. The mild winter had left the hull in fine condition-with no water freezing in the joints and ropes, and no raging gales to batter the mast and rudder-so only scrubbing and cleaning was needed. They raised the tent over the platform behind the mast, and by the end of the day, when the casks and bags and boxes of provisions began arriving at the quay, the ship was fit for the seas once more.

Jon Wing, pleased with the work, released the crew to the drinking hall for one last revel in port, and Murdo went off with them. He did not go to the nearby hall, however, but to the smithy to bid farewell to his friends.

'If you stayed a little longer,' Bezu told him, 'we might have made an armourer of you yet.' Producing Murdo's spear, he gave it to him, saying, 'I think you might have need of this where you are going.'

'But I have nothing to give you for it.'

'No matter,' Bezu replied. 'It is my gift to you.'

'I meant to finish it,' Murdo said, regarding the naked length of hammered iron. Crudely worked, and lacking any appearance of lethal power, it was, in Murdo's estimation, handsome nonetheless. 'I wish I had something to give you.'

'Take it – finish it,' the armourer insisted. 'And when men ask you where you came by such a fine and fearsome weapon, you will tell them Bezu, the Master Armourer of Aries, will make them one just as good. Agreed?'

'Agreed.' Murdo thanked him for the gift, and told them all that if they ever came to Orkneyjar, they would receive a hearty welcome. Bezu walked with him part way down the street, and then, looking up at the sky, eyes asquint in the quickly fading daylight, wished him a good journey and hurried back to his hovel. Murdo retraced his steps to the harbour and climbed aboard the longship.

'What is that you have there?' asked Jon Wing as he clambered aboard.

'It is a spear I've been making,' Murdo answered, holding the length of black iron out for admiration.

'Is it?' chuckled Jon. 'It does not look much like a spear. Are you sure it is not a pole for prodding pigs?'

'It is not finished yet,' Murdo replied sourly. 'It needs wood for the shaft, and then it must be sharpened.'

The seaman laughed. 'So this is what you have been doing all this time! I thought you had a girl in the town.' Pointing at the lance, he said, 'From the looks of this, maybe you should try your luck with the girls next time.'

Not caring to provoke any more mirth at his own expense, Murdo retreated to his customary place at the prow where he quickly tucked the unfinished weapon up under the ship's rail before anyone else should see it. The crewmen returned late that night, and the next morning at dawn Jon Wing roused them and gave the command to cast off. The longship was rowed into the bay and down the river. Once past the headland, they raised the sail and caught the first wind; the sail snapped taut, bellied out, and the Skidbladnir, as if delighted to be free once more, surged forward, cleaving the waves and throwing spray either side of the prow.

The journey resumed, and so too the search for King Magnus' ships. Murdo was certain that any day they would find the king's fleet-only the pilgrimage would be over and the ships would be sailing home. Nevertheless, as they slowly worked their way along the coast, pushing ever east and south, they began hearing news of the crusaders' progress. The Genoese, whose ships supplied the armies, brought back stories, and these were passed on in the ports where they stopped for water and supplies.

Although they always asked if anyone had seen the Norse fleet, the answer was always negative: no one had seen or heard of King Magnus or his ships. One scrap of information did prove useful, however. They learned from the harbour master in Trapani that the crusaders were not in Jerusalem at all, but on their way to Antioch, an inland city some distance to the north of the Holy Land. What is more, this report, he said, was very recent: not more than eight or ten weeks old.

'Antioch!' Murdo exclaimed when he found out. He had heard the name once or twice before and, though he had no idea where it might be, it sounded like a needless delay to him. 'Why would they go there? It must be a mistake.'

'Not at all,' Ronan corrected gently. 'Antioch is a great city, with formidable defences. Any war host moving overland would have to pass Antioch in order to reach Jerusalem. Indeed, the merchants have been supplying grain and wine to the camps, and they are saying the crusader armies are encamped before the walls of Antioch even now.'

'Antioch is closer than Jerusalem,' Fionn said. 'No doubt we will find King Magnus there.'

They sailed on, and the days grew longer. The sea, deep blue and alive with porpoises and small fish that skittered over the waves, grew warmer, and the islands smaller and more numerous. To Murdo, who was used to the low, smooth, green humps of the Dark Islands, the isles of the Middle Sea seemed to be mostly sharp escarpments of bare rock with tufts of grey-green thorny brush clinging precariously to life. Consequently, the arid islands, with their glistening white towns glimpsed among the blue coves and vine-covered clefts of valleys, held little appeal for him; he thought them impossibly dry, dust-filled, and sleepy, and could not imagine anything of interest ever happening. Unlike the monks, who enjoyed wandering around the tiny, fly-blown settlements, talking Greek to the inhabitants, Murdo considered every moment spent ashore a moment wasted. He could not wait to get to Antioch to find his father.

Some weeks later, they heard from a fisherman in Paphos on the island of Greta, who had heard from another fisherman, who had heard from an olive oil merchant who conducted trade between several of the many islands, that some Norse ships had indeed been seen in southern waters. Although he could not be certain, it was thought the fleet of ships was making for Cyprus.

They heard no more about this until reaching Kyrenia on the island of Cyprus, when this story was confirmed. 'They say the longships passed by here two or three weeks ago,' Ronan explained. 'One of the traders said he heard a fleet of Norse ships put in for water and supplies a few leagues up the coast on the mainland-at a place called Korykos.'

Jon Wing nodded. 'Three weeks ago,' he mused, looking at the cloudless sky and stroking his beard thoughtfully. 'They will have joined the siege, I think.'

'Indeed,' the elder cleric agreed, 'the merchant said it is but two or three days from here-four at most, if the wind is contrary.'

Murdo heard this and his heart beat faster. He could be with his father in two or three days!

Having come so far, to be this close-it was all he could do to contain himself while Jon Wing and Ronan walked down the quayside to consult the master of one of the trading vessels about the best way to reach Antioch. They returned after a lengthy conversation, and Jon began shouting orders to the crew sitting and lying on the wharf. In an effort to speed their departure, Murdo dashed everywhere at once, helping with the ropes, readying the sails, unbinding the oars. Ronan, meanwhile, retraced his steps into the town to summon his brother priests, who were lingering in the marketplace.

Soon Skidbladnir was ready to push away from the wharf, and Murdo had just volunteered to go in search of the monks, when they appeared, hastening for the ship as fast as their burdens of wine, goat's cheese, and olives allowed. They handed their bundles down, and dropped into the boat. Taking up an oar, Murdo helped push away from the wharf, and then settled himself on a rowing bench and rowed as if he would single-handedly propel the ship from the harbour. As soon as they were clear of the other craft, Jon called 'up sails,' and Murdo was there to lend a hand with that, too.