'No food. No water. The pilgrims were starving, and fever broke out. Men were dying by the score, and the army was growing weaker with each passing day. Many gathered in the church to pray God's deliverance. They prayed three days and nights, and during the night one of the priests in Count Raymond's retinue-Peter Bartholomew by name-was visited by a vision in which he was instructed to search for the Lance of Christ.'

'Who told him?' asked Murdo, a queasy feeling beginning to steal over him. 'Did they tell him where to search?'

'It seems Peter was visited by a young priest dressed all in white-he did not know who it was at that time-and this white priest told him that when they found the Holy Lance, the crusaders should carry it before them into battle, and their faith would be rewarded by a very great victory.'

At the mention of the white priest, Murdo's scalp prickled.

'It seems Brother Peter duly reported his vision to the count,' Emlyn said.

'And that was when they started searching?'

'Alas, no,' the monk answered. 'Count Raymond ignored him. Some people are always having visions, you know, and unfortunately Peter is one of these. No one listened to him. And the more he insisted, the less they believed him.'

'Then how -

'If you will keep your tongue from flapping, I will tell you,' the priest chided. 'As it happens, two nights later another pilgrim had the same vision-then the lords began to take an interest. This second man-by name of Stephen of Valence, a chaplain to one of the lords, and by all accounts as humble, pious, and upright as Brother Peter is rascal-decides to hold a prayer vigil in the church, to seek holy wisdom. He gathers with some of the faithful in the Church of Saint Peter, and, lo and behold! in the middle of the night he is visited by an unknown monk dressed in white. "Dig!" urges the White Monk. "Dig and find! O, men of small belief, do you not know that victory is assured if you carry the Lance of Christ before you into battle?"

'So now, how can he keep this to himself? At once he runs to his lord and says that he, too, has seen the mysterious priest in white who tells him the battle will be won if only they recover the Holy Lance. The lord demands to know where they should search for the spear. "Seek the lance in the Church of Saint Peter. That is where it will be found." That is what he tells them.

'So, they begin searching. But can they find it? No, they cannot. They look here and there; they search the vaults and catacombs, they begin to dig beneath the floor. Three days they dig! Some of the lords abandon the search-they did not believe anyway. And even Raymond, who has faith, tires of the search and says they must desist, for the troops are growing discouraged. He turns from the excavation-they have begun digging beneath the altar-and walks to the door. He is not well; the fever has got hold of him. Raymond reaches the threshold and what should he hear?

'Here it is! We have found it! He turns and sees Brother Peter standing in the trench, pointing to the discovery. Lord Hugh of Vermandois is there; he leaps down into the pit and, while the object is yet embedded in the earth, presses his lips to the Holy Lance. Then Brother Peter raises up the spear.'

'What does it look like?'

'It is a Roman spear,' answered the monk, wiping the sweat from his face. 'Those who have seen it say it is a long, thin piece of hand-forged iron with a short, narrow blade. A wooden haft would have encased the lower portion, and indeed, the remnant of just such a wooden haft still clings to the base of the spear. But, mostly, all that is left is the rusted iron blade and shaft.'

'Where is it now?'

'Patience, boy,' the monk told him. 'All in good time. Where was I?'

'They take up the lance.'

'Yes, yes, they lay hold of the lance. But finding the spear is only half of the vision-now they must make their attack. The lords met that very night and battle plan was decided. At dawn the next morning, they rode out from the main gate and routed the Seljuqs. Forty thousand were slain, and the rest driven off. It was a magnificent victory, just as the vision foretold.'

Emlyn gulped a breath, his flabby chin shaking with excitement. 'Think of it, Murdo! The most valuable treasure of our faith has been recovered, and even now goes before us into Jerusalem to prepare the way for the restoration of the Holy City. The defeat of our enemies is certain. We will return the Sacred Lance to its rightful place in the sepulchre of Our Lord. Who could have imagined such a thing when we first began?'

Murdo agreed that it was a very miracle. 'But what of this vision?' he asked. 'You said the chaplain saw a priest in white who spoke to him. Did he say who this might have been?'

'Did I not say it already? It was none other than Saint Andrew, the apostle, brother to Saint Peter, and the same who as a tireless missionary sowed the seeds of many churches, including the church at Constantinople.'

'Saint Andrew…' Murdo murmured, and wondered whether he should tell Emlyn that he had seen a white priest, too.

But no, he decided, his encounter had been no dream in the night; it had happened in the clear light of day. Lost and confused, he had stumbled on the little chapel purely by accident-inasmuch as he could not find the street to the market, why wonder that he could not find the chapel again when he looked for it? The streets were baffling, the city strange and unknown, and he, desperate to escape the harassment of the beggars and merchants had not been looking where he was going. Where was the mystery in that?

'You have become very quiet, Murdo,' observed Emlyn. 'Do you doubt the tale even now?'

'No-no,' Murdo replied quickly. 'I was only thinking. By Heaven, it is hot though!' he said quickly. 'My feet are on fire already, and we have only begun.'

'Verily,' answered Emlyn, puffing out his cheeks. 'If it were not for the sake of Jerusalem, I do not think I could endure this heat.'

Murdo then suggested that perhaps it was better to conserve their strength and talk no more. In truth, he wanted a space to contemplate what he had just heard. He loped along, head down, his long legs swinging easily. Gradually, the monk fell further and further behind, and Murdo was alone with his thoughts.

By the time they reached the little fishing village on the coast, he had convinced himself that the discovery of the Holy Lance, however it might have happened, was nothing to do with him. Moreover, nothing else mattered but that he should find his father at the first opportunity.

The monks followed Lord Magnus onto his ship and, since no one told him otherwise, Murdo followed the monks. One of the crusaders now, he joined in with a will. He picked up an oar and rowed, desperate now to be in Jerusalem. All around him, men talked about the battles and, from the things they said, he gathered that the pilgrims had suffered greatly in their skirmishes with the enemy. Of all those who had begun the pilgrimage, they said, fewer than half now remained.

Murdo did not allow himself to contemplate the possibility that his father might be among the dead. Instead, he clung to the certainty that Ranulf was alive. I will find him, Murdo vowed with every stroke of the oar. I will bring him home.

The Norsemen used the days aboard ship to prepare their weapons and armour for battle. They honed, sharpened, and stropped their swords, spearblades, and axes; burnished their shield rims, war helms, and hauberks; repaired or renewed all the leather fastenings, bindings, straps, and ties; then polished everything until, upon reaching the port town of Jaffa on the Palestinian coast, King Magnus' war band – nearly four hundred fearsome Vikings-fairly gleamed and glittered with battle-keen ferocity.

Magnus secured his fleet in the Jaffa harbour, newly reconquered by the sailors of the Genoese merchant guild, which the wily king paid to keep watch over his ships so that he would not have to leave any men behind. They paused only long enough to assemble the wagons and load the supplies and water casks, then set off for the Holy City, two days' march inland.