'We are ready,' she told him when he opened the door. Indicating the chest, she said, 'I would be grateful if you would have your men bring the box.'

'Certainly, my lady.'

The two started towards the door. Ragna, unsteady after childbirth and three days in bed, swayed on her feet and staggered backwards. The knight was beside her in two strides. 'Would you allow me?' he asked, holding out his hands for the child.

Niamh took the infant and gave him to the warrior. He turned and started from the room. 'Wait,' said Niamh; she stooped and retrieved a sheep's fleece from the hearth, crossed to the knight, and wrapped the sheepskin around the babe. 'Go,' she said. 'We will follow.'

Together the two women made their way slowly down the stairs and outside to the waiting wagon. A watery grey dawnlight glowed low on the horizon, and a few flakes of snow fluttered on the gusting wind. A group of vassals were standing in the yard, one of them bleeding from his nose and forehead; some of the women were crying. A few of them called out to Ragna as she was helped into the wagon, but, unable to bring herself to answer them, she raised her hand in silent farewell instead.

The two men bearing the chest came out into the yard. As they made to heave the wooden box into the wagon, the priest emerged from the house and stopped them, demanding to know what the chest contained. 'Open it!' he ordered. 'The bishop has commanded that nothing is to be removed from this place.'

Handing the infant to Ragna, Hakon turned to the priest. 'Leave it alone.'

'They might be taking valuables.'

The knight grabbed hold of the monk's robes and pulled him up close. 'You take the roof over their heads in the dead of winter, priest. Do you begrudge them the clothes on their backs as well?'

The priest made to reply, thought better of it and held his tongue.

Hakon released the priest and, to the men holding the chest, shouted, 'On the wagon with it.' Then, taking the horse by the bridle, he led the wagon from the yard and down the path to the waiting ship.

Murdo roamed aimlessly around the walls of Jerusalem, oblivious to his surroundings. The burning sun scorched his flesh, and the thorns of the desert brush scratched his bare legs bloody. Upon leaving the Holy City, he had stripped off his blood-stained clothes and thrown them away, keeping only his knife and belt, which he carried over his shoulder. He neither ate nor drank, nor stopped to rest, but walked day and night, his mind filled with horrific visions of carnage and butchery.

This is how Brother Emlyn found him two days later: naked and lost, his legs and feet bleeding, his red, inflamed skin blistered and peeling from his shoulders, forehead, and lips, dazed, unable to speak.

'Murdo!' cried the priest, running up to him. 'Oh, fy enaid, what have they done to you?'

Removing his own mantle, the much-relieved monk spread the garment gently over Murdo's sunburned shoulders. 'Here, now, let us get you out of the heat. Come, the hospital is just beyond that hill-not far. Can you walk, or should I carry you? Oh, Murdo, what has happened? No, do not say a word. There will be time to talk later. Save your strength. Come with me, my son; you are safe now. I will take care of you.'

Gently, gently, the good brother turned Murdo and led him by the hand up the hill to a nearby olive grove where the crusader lords had established a camp for the care of the wounded and sick. There, in the shade of the olive trees, priests and women-the wives and widows of the soldiers-moved quietly among the rows of tents, tending their charges. Despite the calming presence of the monks, the camp throbbed like a restless sea with uneasy sounds: the ceaseless moaning of the wounded over their injuries, the cries and whimpers of the dying, the juddering shrieks of the afflicted in their nightmares.

Emlyn led the unresisting Murdo to a place on the edge of the camp, and sat him down beneath the leafy branches of a low-growing tree. 'Rest here, and do not move,' he instructed. 'I will bring you some water.'

The cleric hastened away, and returned a few moments later, red-faced and puffing, bearing a gourd full of water, which he lifted to Murdo's mouth. 'Drink you now. Open your mouth, and wet your tongue.' Murdo did as he was told. 'Here now, drink a little.'

The water filled his mouth and he swallowed it down, and then began to drink in long, gasping, greedy draughts. 'Slowly, slowly now,' Emlyn warned, pulling the gourd away. 'Take your time, lad; there is plenty.'

Murdo put his hand to the gourd and brought it back to his mouth. 'The Saracens have poisoned every well and spring for many leagues around the city,' Emlyn told him. 'Until yesterday, the water must be fetched from the heights of Palestine, and beyond. We can get it from the city now, so drink it all.'

When at last Murdo pushed the gourd away, the monk sat back on his heels. 'Look at you, my friend. What has happened to you? Ronan and Fionn will be happy to know that you are safe once more. We worried when you did not return with the others after the city was taken. I shall tell them the glad news as soon as they return-they are with King Magnus at the council. I was given leave to search for you. Are you hurt?' Without waiting for a reply, he began examining Murdo's limbs and torso. 'I do not see any serious injuries -' he announced at last, 'save that you have been too long in the sun. I can make something for that, I think.'

Laying the gourd aside, Emlyn hurried off once more. Murdo leaned back, felt the cool shade on his sun-beaten head. All at once the water he'd drunk came surging up once more; he felt it swirl inside him and then it filled his mouth. He leaned forward on his hands and vomited. He felt better instantly and lay back, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Though it seemed only a moment, when he awoke again the grove was in deep shade. Across the valley, the walls of the Holy City glowed with the golden light of the westering sun. Murdo lay for a time, unable to think where he was, or what had happened to him. But as he gazed at the shining walls and the dark smoke billowing up in gilded columns, the whole terrible ordeal came winging back to him as if from a very great distance.

The tears came at once to his eyes, and Murdo wept. He saw again the poor drowned child, the helpless murdered babies, the burned Jews in their temple, and tears flowed down his cheeks and splashed onto his stomach and thighs. He gasped for breath and tried to stem the flood of sorrow, but it bore him up and carried him away, and he was powerless to resist. His body began to shake, and he was convulsed by loud racking sobs which tore up from his throat as if loosed from the bottomless black pit that was his soul. Great ocean waves of grief and shame rolled over him, and he, a rag tossed up and dragged under with each new surge, wept and wept-until oblivion claimed him once more, and he slept again.

It was late the next day when Murdo woke and looked up through the leafy branches of the olive tree to a yellowing sky. He yawned and wondered how long he had been asleep-one day? Two? He had a vague memory of being roused from time to time and made to drink sweetened water, but no real sense of how much time had passed. As he pondered this, he became aware of a peculiar sound and realized it had awakened him: a droning, incessant, sharp-edged crackle falling from somewhere high above.

Turning his eyes to the sky, he saw that the crackling sound came from an enormous whirling dark cloud across the valley: thousands upon thousands of crows and ravens and, higher still, innumerable vultures and eagles.

Murdo gazed in awe at the endlessly swirling, squawking mass. He followed the downward spiral of their flight to a triple-peaked mound beside the road-the corpses of the crusaders' victims heaped into a pale mountain outside the northern wall. The mountain was alive with carrion birds.