It took a while for the wind to find them, but as they came out of the windshadow of the headland to the west, the sails rippled and filled, and the dragonhead prow began to slice blue water once again. They shipped their oars and bound them once more, and Murdo found himself at the rail searching the horizon with an air of expectation he had not felt in many, many days. Emlyn, moving back to the tented platform behind the mast, passed by him; in his exuberance, Murdo remarked aloud, 'In three days we will be in Antioch, and I will find my father.'

'So I have heard,' Emlyn replied; he stopped and leaned against the rail. 'I am glad for you. It has been a very long trip-a good one, but very long.' He paused, regarding Murdo amiably. 'Have you thought about how you will go about finding your father and brothers?'

'That will not be difficult,' Murdo answered confidently. 'They are with the Duke of Normandy. As the city is under siege, I have only to look for the duke's camp and that is where they will be.'

The hills rising from the sea, misty purple in the dawnlight, showed no sign of either port or harbour-less yet a city besieged by a hundred thousand warrior pilgrims. Although Murdo had been told that Antioch lay a few leagues inland, he still hoped he might catch a glimpse of it from the sea. Instead, the empty, rock-filled coast stretched out to either side-no towns, no settlements, no holdings of any kind, much less anything resembling the great and ancient city of Antioch. Neither did he see the port of Saint Symeon, which Ronan had said they would find upon reaching the mainland coast.

He folded his arms across his chest and stared out upon the all but featureless coastline. Somewhere on the barren stretch of pale grey rock and dust-coloured brush ahead, King Magnus had put ashore. The best harbourage, they had been told, was to be found at the port town of Saint Symeon. But, save for a single tiny fishing village now glinting small and white in the early morning sun, there was no other human habitation anywhere.

Stepping over the sleeping bodies of his shipmates, Murdo made his way back to the tiller to speak to Sturli, who had taken the last watch on the helm. 'We must have strayed in the night,' Murdo observed sourly. 'There is no port here.'

'Hey-hey,' agreed Sturli. 'But I do not think we drifted off course.'

'We should be able to see the harbour by now,' Murdo told him. He shoved a hand towards the empty hills, now pink in the rising sun. 'Do you see a city anywhere?'

'Nay,' said Sturli, unperturbed by the apparent mistake. 'But I do not think we drifted off course.'

'We must have!' Murdo insisted.

'I do not think so,' Sturli replied, shaking his head. 'We had a clear night and good stars. I know how to steer a ship. Maybe it is you that is mistaken, hey?'

Murdo – angry now, as well as disappointed-stomped away and slumped onto his bench once more. He hung over the rail and watched the dull hillscape draw slowly closer, and his mind began to wander; he thought about the journey. It had, as Emlyn said, been a good voyage, all in all. Still, the wheel of the year had turned round once already, and there was still no sight of Jerusalem! It would be another year at least before he would see Ragna again.

The thought proved so discouraging, he pushed it firmly from him, and turned instead to thinking about the triumphant day when he and Lord Ranulf would stride boldly into the bishop's lair, and obtain the return of their lands. He imagined the larcenous old cleric down on his knees, weeping his repentance and pleading for his life. He could feel the swordblade in his hand as the point pressed into the thieving bishop's fat throat.

This vision consoled him for a long time as the ship turned and began making its way slowly along the coast. A little while later, they passed a jutting promontory, whereupon Sturli shouted from the tiller, 'The king's ships!'

Murdo was on his feet in an instant, straining for a glimpse of King Magnus' fleet. He scanned the shoreline to the right and left, but saw nothing. 'Where?' he demanded of Hallvard, the sailor beside him on the rail.

'There! The king's ships! I see them!' cried Nial, his arm around the throat of the dragon. He stood on the rail, stabbing a finger at a small cluster of gleaming white buildings clinging to the hillside above a small, rock-sided bay. Murdo squinted his eyes and saw what appeared to be a dark mass on the shining water of the little bay below the town. Rising from this dark mass, like so many headless spears, were the masts of the longships. At long last, they had caught the ever-elusive fleet. Where there were longships, Norsemen could not be far away.

By the time Skidbladnir slid into the cove, Murdo was more than ready to face the entire Saracen warhost all by himself. He did not wait for the keel to bump the small stone quay at the end of the village, but jumped into the shallow water and waded to shore.

'There is no one here,' he called to the others splashing up onto the strand behind him. Jon Wing and the three monks came ashore at the quay, and Murdo ran to where they stood. 'The place is deserted.'

The seaman scanned the quiet village's empty footpaths and byways and replied, 'We shall see.'

Proceeding on, they paused at the place where the town's single street met the harbour path. Putting two fingers into his mouth, Jon gave a long, shrill whistle. He whistled twice more, and on the third, a door opened at one of the nearby houses and a tall, fair-haired Norseman staggered out. He took one look at the newcomers and shouted something over his shoulder to someone inside the house, then came running down to the shore to meet them.

'Olvar Three-Toes!' shouted Jon Wing. 'We find you at last.'

'Hey-hey,' replied the Norseman, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 'You have found us, Jon Wing. What has taken you so long?'

'We can only sail as fast as the wind allows,' replied Jon.

'No doubt you have stopped for plunder in every town you passed,' replied the sailor named Olvar with a smile. 'This is what has taken you so long, I think.'

'Nay,' answered Jon Wing happily. 'We have these monks with us,' he. indicated Ronan, Fionn, and Emlyn coming up behind him, 'so we could not plunder a single town.'

Three more Norsemen emerged from the house and made their way down to the shore, calling noisy greetings to the crewmen they knew. 'Is it just the four of you, then?' asked Jon.

'Hey-hey,' replied Olvar. 'Us four, and six others. We drew lots, and the losers had to stay behind to guard the ships. All the rest have gone to join the siege.'

'Is the city far?' asked Ronan.

'Three leagues-maybe a little more.' Olvar shrugged. 'That is what I heard.'

'What of the villagers here?' asked Emlyn. 'Are they friendly?'

'I think so. Most of them have gone to tend the fields up in the hills. Only a few old ones are left behind, and they keep to themselves mostly, but they give us eggs and cheese.'

'Have you seen any Saracens?' wondered Fionn, staring at the dry, brush-covered hills rising behind the village.

'Nay,' replied Olvar. 'They have all run to the mountains to hide. They are Greeks here anyway.' Turning back to Jon, he said, 'Did you bring any ol? They have only wine in this place, and we are thirsty.'

Jon expressed his regrets, and said that he did not have any ale, either. He then called to some of his crewmen to bring the arms and armour ashore, secure the boat, and prepare to set off.

'You are not staying?' Olvar said, disappointment darkening his sunny features.

'We must hurry to Antioch before the city is taken,' replied Jon, 'otherwise we will get no plunder. Also, the king is waiting for his counsellors.'