The fair-haired man accepted this with a nod. 'Where is your home, boy?'

'Orkneyjar, my lord,' Murdo answered, and inwardly cringed. Why had he said that?

'Orkneyjar!' repeated the man, much impressed. 'I have lands in the Dark Isles, too. It seems we are fellow countrymen, you and I. Greetings and welcome, Murdo Bold-Eye.' He offered his hand in friendship.

Murdo grasped the offered hand, and grinned at his new name: Murdo Bold-Eye. He liked that very much.

'We Orkneyingar should watch out for one another, hey?'

'Just so,' agreed Murdo readily, forgetting his wariness.

'If you find yourself in trouble, just sing out for Orin Broad-Foot, and you will have a stout sword at your side before you can turn around.' The lord slapped him on the back, and bade him enter and partake of the welcome cup.

Murdo stumbled forward into the cool darkness of the room, feeling lost and confused. He had just accepted the friendship and protection of his avowed and hated enemy.

In the short time King Magnus had been in residence, the main room of the citadel's stables had been turned into something which at first sight more closely resembled a drinking hall than a horse barn. Seven long boards with benches either side had been erected in the centre of the great room, and the former stalls were filled with fresh straw to serve as sleeping places for the warriors.

Murdo sat at the end of the long board by himself, his head in his hands, his cup untouched. The realization that he had just pledged friendship to his worst enemy plunged Murdo into a sulky dejection. It would have been far easier to hate him if Orin Broad-Foot had revealed himself to be the pig-eyed, greedy, hump-backed brute Murdo had so often imagined him. That Lord Orin was a friendly and gracious-perhaps even honourable and trustworthy-nobleman would make it that much harder to betray him when the time came.

I have lands in Orkneyjar, too, Orin had said. Murdo groaned at his own stupidity. How could he have missed that? He knew he was coming into the enemy's lair. He had foreseen this day a thousand times since leaving home. He should have been on his guard; he should have been ready. Stupid, stupid, boy! Why, oh why, had he allowed himself to be taken in by the amiable lord?

It took all Murdo's considerable stubbornness and determination to rekindle some small remnant of his enmity. It was only when he reminded himself that he was now at long last among the very men who had conspired to steal his family's lands and deprive him of his birthright-it was only when he remembered Ragna, and the unthinkably barren future without her, that he was able to regain some portion of his former animosity.

Beware, Murdo! he told himself. These men are not your friends. They have robbed you and your family. Do not be distracted by their winsome ways. They would destroy you without a thought. Guard yourself against them. Remain vigilant. Your chance to avenge the wrong will come.

Still, he felt ill-used and vaguely cheated-as if he had been offered a boon of considerable comfort and value, but forced on principle to refuse it. He sat glumly by himself and watched the rest of the company as glad welcome turned into revel. He felt alone and angry with himself, and his hard circumstance.

The fact that his father and brothers were no longer in Antioch did not help improve his spirits. That hope had been dashed the very moment he set foot in the citadel stable, for Jon Wing, turning to Lord Orin entering behind him, had asked, 'Where are all the people? Is the city deserted then?'

'Almost,' replied Orin. 'Those who did not die in the battle were killed by the plague which followed the siege. We saw nothing of this, mind you – it was some months ago. The fighting and sickness was long over by the time we got here. The pilgrims were gone, too.'

'All of them?' wondered Jon. 'Who holds the city now? King Magnus?'

'Nay,' Orin replied, 'it belongs to one called Bohemond-a Prankish prince.' He then went on to explain how the crusaders had marched on to Jerusalem only a day or two before their arrival, and how this Bohemond had hired King Magnus and his men to help guard the city.

Murdo, hearing enough, had then slunk away to the end of the furthest bench where he now sat, gazing into his shallow cup as if it were the end of the world he saw glimmering dully within. He sat aloof from the others, and hardened himself against those he must now deceive for the sake of his vow. Brother Emlyn, seeing his friend sitting alone, begged him to come and join them. Murdo declined, saying that he was tired from the long walk, and wished only to rest.

'Come now, Murdo!' Fionn called, lofting the bowl. 'A wee sip of wine before lying down.'

Still, Murdo refused. Placing his spear beside the others lined against the wall, he dragged himself off to a quiet corner and collapsed into it. He closed his eyes and pressed his hot back and shoulders against the cool stone, feeling the delicious shock of the chill against his skin.

He sat for a while, listening to the clamour of voices across the vaulted room and wishing he could join in the revelry. Instead, he crossed his arms across his chest and pretended to sleep-all the while grinding his teeth against the malicious tricks of an indifferent God-always giving with one hand, while snatching away with the other. The injustice of this bitter observation occupied him until the members of the king's foraging party trooped noisily into the stables, bearing the day's findings: sacks of greens and flat bread. Close on their heels came the rest of the king's men-over two hundred in all – returning from their duties at the garrison in the lower city. In the commotion caused by their arrival, Murdo slipped out of the stable and into the dusky light of a dying day.

Though the sun had set in a murky white haze in the west, and the streets were sinking into shadow, heat still streamed from the pavements and stonework of the buildings all around. Murdo began walking, passing along a path so narrow he could have touched the buildings on either side with outstretched hands, and so low that the doors of the houses could only be reached by high stone steps set in the pavements. Shuttered windows fronted the street; the shutters were open now that the sun was gone, and strange smells reached him from open windows above; the scents of flowers, and food cooking, and fragrant smoke mingled to produce ineffably exotic aromas.

The street opened just ahead, and he soon came to a marketplace-deserted now, its only occupant a skinny dog nosing in a heap of dung and refuse off to one side of the square. The miserable dog slunk away the moment the lanky human appeared, head low, tail between its legs. And then Murdo had the place all to himself.

The square was bounded on one side by a stone breastwork, and Murdo wandered over to see the entire city of Antioch spread out beneath him in a haphazard jumble of rooftops: flat squares beyond number, all falling away in dizzying terraces down the steep-sloped streets towards the all-encompassing walls.

Softened by smoke and evening light, the colour fading into the gentler hues of night, the close-crowded chaos took on a friendlier aspect. On most of the rooftops he could see small trees and leafy shrubs growing, and even the smallest had a vine or two forming an arbour for shade; on many of the rooftops he saw people going about their chores, taking in the day's washing, perhaps, or cooking their evening meals; the smoke from the countless braziers drifted like silver threads in the still, heavy air. He could hear the voices of the people-shouts of children echoing unseen in the streets, and somewhere a baby was crying.

What must it be like, he wondered, to live so close to so many others? What manner of people built such cities as this? Did they never yearn for the clean, empty sweep of sea and sky, or the softly-rounded hills progressing in their gentle undulations towards the far distant horizon?