He gazed out across the jumbled rooftops. Countless domes bulged among and above the flat roofs of the houses. Some of the domes boasted odd round towers beside them; from the tops of these he could see curious standards in the shape of crescent moons. Many more of the domes, however, bore crosses, identifying them as churches; Murdo began counting the crosses, but soon lost count and turned his attention instead to the many-towered walls and the land beyond. A handful of stars glimmered low in the swiftly-darkening skies above the Tarsus mountains to the north. Away to the west lay the sea, and to the east, the dark meandering thread of the dull Orontes river.

It was not a place he would choose to live, he decided. Even in such an enormous place as Antioch, Murdo felt the great walls looming, pressing in; the closeness of the city's houses and churches seemed to clutch at him. Feeling suddenly cramped and confined, he turned and walked from the square, returning to the citadel as the last light faded from the sky overhead.

The sound of raucous laughter spilled out from inside the stables and Murdo entered, hoping to creep back into his corner unnoticed. It was not to be, however, for Orin Broad-Foot saw him and called out, 'Come, Murdo! I would have you meet your lord and king.'

Murdo took a deep breath, turned, and crossed the room to where the king and his noblemen sat at table. Jon Wing sat at the king's right hand, and Orin Broad-Foot on the left; the three monks, happy to be reunited with their benefactor, sat beaming beside Jon, and others Murdo did not know filled the rest of the places. But it was the sovereign alone who held Murdo's interest.

King Magnus, while not as tall as Orin, nor as well-muscled as Jon Wing, nevertheless possessed a powerful presence that commanded the regard, if not the respect, of all who came under his sway. His beard and hair were plaited, the dark braids oiled so they glistened; his eyes were pale as the Skandian sky, alert and intelligent.

His smile was a sunflash of brilliant goodwill, and his manner at once casual and dignified.

As Murdo approached, taking the measure of the Norse king, he heard Orin say, 'Here now, my lord, I give you one of your own -an Orkneyingar by the name of Murdo Bold-Eye.'

'So!' cried the king in good-natured surprise. 'Hail and welcome, friend. How is it that one so young is to be numbered among my warrior host?'

Murdo was saved having to give an explanation by Jon Wing, who at that very moment leapt up from his chair and climbed onto the table, his cup in his hand. 'Hear! Hear!' he called, lofting his cup. 'Hail, King Magnus!' he cried, and began loudly pledging his loyalty to the king while the men all around pounded the boards with their fists, or the handles of their knives. The newcomers all drank the health of the king, whereupon others, not to be outdone, also rose to renew their vows of fealty and offer up compliments to the king.

Murdo did not stand waiting long, but took the first opportunity to slink away. He found a place at one of the tables and settled in between Tiggi and Arnor. There was bread in baskets before him, and soup in a small tun. Taking up an empty bowl, he dipped it into the tun, helped himself to a piece of flat bread, and began to eat. The soup, made from the greens collected earlier, was thin and tasteless, and the bread tough; still, after the day's walk, he was glad to get something warm inside him. He ate two bowls of soup, and three pieces of bread before stealing away again to one of the stalls to sleep.

He had just scraped together enough straw to make a bed when Emlyn appeared with a bowl, which he pressed into his hands. The wine was sweet and pleasantly cool. Murdo drank a deep draught, thanked the priest and handed back the cup, whereupon Emlyn sat down beside him. 'Ah, mo croidh,' he sighed. 'I do not think I will last very long in this land. All the saints bear witness, it is so hot!'

'You would not feel it so much if you were not so fat,' Murdo told him.

'Have you heard what they are saying?' asked the monk, sipping from the cup. 'They are saying a miracle happened here.'

'What kind of miracle?' Murdo took the cup and drank again.

'Something to do with an earthquake, and the discovery of the Holy Lance,' the priest replied. 'They say that was how they were able to defeat the Saracens, but inasmuch as none of them were here at the time, they cannot say more.'

The comment did not seem to require any reply from Murdo, so he lifted the cup to his mouth and drank some more. Miracles, so far as he could tell, always happened to someone else at some other time and in some other place.

'Also,' the breathless monk continued, 'it seems the Patriarch of Antioch has been restored to his position, and the church of Saint Peter has been reconsecrated. We are going there tomorrow, so we will ask the priests what they know of this miracle. Come with us, Murdo. It is a very ancient and venerable church. You should see it.'

Murdo shrugged. 'I have seen old churches before.' He drank again.

'Antioch, Murdo!' the monk exclaimed suddenly. 'This is the city where the followers of Jesu received the name Christian. Think of it! Here the apostle Paul and the blessed Barnabas preached and taught in the earliest days of our faith. Saint Peter himself ordained the first bishop, and commanded the church to be built on the very place where Paul stood in the market and proclaimed the Risen Lord to the Greeks and Jews of this land. It is a very holy place.'

Murdo nodded and passed the cup to Emlyn, and leaned his head against the cool wall. 'How long must we stay here?'

'Who can say?' replied the priest. 'King Magnus has agreed to help Prince Bohemond defend the city. In return he has been given a hundred thousand marks in silver, and this,' he gestured expansively to the room, 'the former stables, for his retinue. The king has rooms above, and-'

'Why does this Prince Bohemond need the king's help?' Murdo interrupted. He could see no reason why they should not simply press on to Jerusalem.

The monk explained that, owing to the cruel predations of the Syrian campaign, Prince Bohemond now found himself in desperate need of mercenaries to help hold his newly-won city. So many of his own knights and footmen had succumbed to starvation, plague, and Seljuq arrows, that his formerly great army was reduced in size to that of a merely respectable regiment.

'Indeed, they are saying that more than twenty thousand followed the prince from Taranto, but only nine hundred remain,' Emlyn told him, adding that many of these were yet recovering from the fever that had swept the city in the wake of the crusader victory. Hence, fit fighting men were of such value, the wily prince had granted the lately-arrived Norsemen not only a vast quantity of silver, but also the best of food and shelter he had to offer as well-all in exchange for their vaunted battleskill and eagerness for plunder.

'I thought now that we were all together, we would go on to Jerusalem to join the pilgrimage.'

'I suppose we shall,' answered Emlyn. 'But there is a time for everything, Murdo, and a season for every purpose under Heaven. We will get to Jerusalem in God's good time, never fear. But we are here now – so enjoy!' The monk raised the cup and drained it in a long, guzzling swallow.

Murdo frowned. The whole world, it seemed, was travelling to Jerusalem and here he was, stranded in Antioch. It beggared belief.

'This cup is empty,' Emlyn declared. Heaving himself onto unsteady legs, he staggered off in search of more wine.

'Enjoy,' muttered Murdo darkly.

Despite the merrymaking, the day's exertion and the wine combined to give Murdo a good night's sleep. He awoke early-just in time to see the three monks leaving for their dawn service. He kept his head down until they left so he would not have to decline the inevitable invitation to go with them, then rose quickly and hurried off, intending to stay out of the king's sight as much as possible to save having to explain his presence.