'Do not be afraid,' the monk said, lifting his hand in a consoling gesture. 'You are safe here. Tell me, what is it you seek?'

Murdo swallowed, and his voice returned. 'I seem to have lost my way,' he said simply. 'I am trying to find the citadel.'

The priest smiled. 'Take heart. You are closer than you know.'

He stepped nearer. 'Come, I will show you.' The priest brushed past him, and Murdo felt a peculiar sensation on his skin-like the tingling he felt when watching a storm sweeping in off the sea-and he caught a faint whiff of icy, storm-riven air. It was as if something of his homeland had touched him, however fleetingly, and was gone just as quickly.

The white monk led him outside into the street once more. Pointing to the pathway on the right, he said, 'This is the way you must go. At the end of the street, you will find the market and the citadel is beyond.'

Murdo nodded, his heart sinking. He had tried this pathway before-twice, at least-and had not come within shouting distance of the square. Nevertheless, he thanked the monk and made to take his leave.

'Remember: the True Path is narrow, and few enter there,' the priest told him, and oh, the look in those keen dark eyes was like lightning flashing from a clear sky. 'But fortunate are you among men. For to you is given the Holy Light to guide your way. Go with God, my friend.'

Murdo gaped in amazement, unable to comprehend what the mysterious priest had just said to him. The white monk made the sign of the cross over him, and then moved back into the chapel. The door closed and, overcome with the strangeness of the incident, Murdo began walking quickly down the path. Before he knew it the tiny street ended and he was standing at the edge of the busy market square.

He stopped and looked back. The distance was so small-a matter of a few hundred paces. On a sudden impulse, he carefully retraced his steps, and soon arrived at the little crossroads once more. He saw the wider street leading away before him, and the other path which formed the divide angling off on the opposite side. But the chapel was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was the empty stone water basin he had seen before.

He stood for a moment, gazing at the dry basin, a queasy sensation snaking through his bowels. He could not have taken another wrong turning! What had become of the chapel?

And then his eye fell upon something he had not noticed before: a stone plaque set in the wall above the basin, bearing the image of a cross, and on one side of the cross was what appeared to be a spear, and on the other side was a footed bowl. Murdo stared at the image, and traced it with his fingers. Once again, he caught the scent of frigid, storm-driven, rain-washed northern air.

'Take heart,' he whispered, repeating the white monk's words, 'you are closer than you know.' Then, overcome by the strangeness of what had happened to him, he turned and ran back to the square, through the market, and did not stop running until he reached the citadel.

Murdo returned to the citadel to find the place in turmoil. The streets outside the fortress were awash with men and horses and wagons. Soldiers-mostly Franks, by the look of them, but a good few Norsemen as well-were scurrying everywhere, carrying armfuls of weapons, sacks of grain, baskets of foodstuffs; wagons were being readied, and horses saddled, and everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Dodging through the tumult, Murdo pushed his way into the stables.

'There you are!' cried Emlyn as he stepped inside. 'I have been looking for you, Murdo.'

'I walked to the market,' he explained. Indicating the confusion around him, he asked, 'Are we under attack?'

'Magnus is moving the fleet to Jaffa,' the monk said quickly. He made to dart away again. 'We are all making ready to leave.'

'I thought we must stay here to help defend the city,' Murdo pointed out. 'You said-'

'Yes, yes,' replied Emlyn impatiently, 'but Prince Bohemond has been summoned to Jerusalem.'

'Why?'

'The siege has begun. The liberation of the Holy City is at hand!' the cleric proclaimed, raising his hands in praise. 'Let all Heaven and Earth rejoice!'

In spite of himself, Murdo felt a shiver of excitement. At long last… Jerusalem!

'We leave at once,' explained the monk. 'It is a ten-day march overland, but only five days by ship. If we hurry, we can get back to the fleet before sunset, and sail tonight. There is Fionn!' the priest declared, and rushed away to speak to his brother monk.

Remembering the long hot walk from the harbour at Saint Symeon, Murdo prepared himself for the return as best he could. He filled a bowl with water and drank it down, then filled and drank another. He then fell in with the others, helping to make ready their departure. The tumult around him resolved itself quickly; the Norsemen were soon pushing through the massed chaos around the citadel and were trooping noisily down the broad colonnaded central street to the gate. With Magnus in the lead, the king's war band crossed the bridge and walked out onto the plain, past the road leading down to the port of Saint Symeon, and on until striking the footpath by which they had come; they were soon climbing the arid, scrub-covered hills, and leaving the city behind.

Upon reaching the top of the first hill, Murdo paused for a last look at Antioch; he gazed back across the valley at the city, its great stone walls white and shimmering in the summer heat. 'Ah, it is a splendid sight,' sighed Emlyn, toiling up beside him. 'I would have liked a few more days to know the place better. Mark me, there are mighty things taking place in that city. God is working there.'

'Did you learn anything more of the miracle?' Murdo asked, more out of idle curiosity than interest.

'Did we learn anything?' hooted Emlyn gently. His face was glistening with sweat, and his breath came in quick gasps, but his stride was easy and strong. He stabbed at the path ahead with his tall rowan staff, the leather pouch swinging at his side. 'We heard a wonder, my doubting young friend. What is more, we heard it all from men who were there-men who saw it with their own eyes.'

'What did they see?' demanded Murdo.

'They saw…' said the monk, lifting his eyes towards the sky, as if he might also glimpse a miracle, 'they saw the Holy Lance.'

'What Holy Lance?'

'The spear of the crucifixion!' answered the monk, aghast that Murdo should even wonder, let alone ask such a thing. 'Do you not know of it?'

'I know of it,' he answered, his tone implying that he had been expecting something slightly more remarkable.

'It is nothing less than the spear which pierced Our Lord's precious side and proved before the world and all his enemies that the Blessed Jesu was dead. That is the Holy Lance I mean, and it is the holiest, most sacred relic to come down to us,' Emlyn intoned solemnly, 'save one thing alone.'

'What is that?'

'The cup of the Passover Supper,' said the priest. 'That is more holy still. But it is lost long since, and only the spear remains.'

'I suppose that makes the spear the most holy thing after all,' observed Murdo.

Emlyn did not deign to notice the remark. 'The spear was lost, too, until they found it-only a few months ago.'

'They found it?'

'Is that not what I am telling you, Murdo?'

'You are telling very little it seems to me,' Murdo protested. 'First you said they only saw it-now you say they found it. Which is it?'

Emlyn drew a deep breath. 'I will begin again.'

'And start from the beginning this time,' Murdo instructed.

'Yes, yes,' the monk agreed. 'One of the Roman soldiers present at the execution of our Lord was a centurion by the name of Longinus. As the commander of the execution, it was his duty to see the crucifixion carried out properly and in accordance with the law of the day.