Some of the wounded men watched him with sick, pain-filled eyes as he passed, but for the most part each pilgrim was too preoccupied with his own dying to notice anyone else. No one spoke and, save for the constant murmur of moans or the occasional death rattle, the hospital camp was unnaturally quiet.

Fionn led them to a small tent near the top of the hill. At their arrival, Brother Ronan stepped from the tent, his face solemn. 'Good,' he said. 'I have told him you were coming. He is anxious to speak to you, Murdo. Are you ready?'

Murdo nodded, and the monks helped him dismount from the donkey; Emlyn took his arm and supported him as he hobbled inside. The sick-sweet stink of a festering wound permeated the close air of the tent. Murdo gagged and choked back bile as the good brothers lowered him down next to a raised pallet covered by a crudely-made matt of grass. On this bed lay a man Murdo did not know.

'We will stay near,' said Ronan as the monks left the tent. 'You have but to call out if you need us.'

Murdo made to protest that they had brought him to the wrong man, when the body next to him said, 'Is it you, Murdo?'

He looked again, and with a shock recognized in the pale, haggard face of the wretch beside him, the much-altered visage of his father. 'My lord?'

'I have been praying one of my sons would come,' Ranulf said, his voice both raw and hushed-little more than a croaking whisper. 'I did not know it would be you, Murdo. How is it you are here?'

'I have been searching for you,' Murdo told him. His eyes fell to the stump of his father's right arm. Bound in bloody rags, the arm was missing below the elbow; the stench emanating from the wound gave Murdo to know that it was rotten. Bleak despair swarmed over him and he felt a sensation like falling. 'Is it bad?'

'Bad enough…' he closed his eyes, then opened them again, suddenly agitated. 'You must hear it!' Ranulf said, rising from his pallet. He seized Murdo by the shoulder. Murdo winced from the pain to his sunburned skin. 'You must hear it, and tell others how it was. Take word back to the islands-tell them what happened.'

'I am listening,' Murdo said, trying to soothe. 'Rest now. I am here.'

He made to remove his father's hand, but Ranulf clung on, squeezing hard. 'Promise me, boy. Promise you will tell them.'

'I will tell them,' Murdo replied. He turned his head to call to the priests, but his father released him and slumped back, breathing hard, exhausted.

'Good,' he said, his breath coming in clotted gasps. 'Good.' With the tip of his finger, he indicated a waterskin on the ground beside the pallet.

Murdo took it up and gave him to suck at the opening, watching him as he drank. The face of his father was deeply lined, the eyes sunken, the flesh pale and yellow like old linen. The high, noble brow was waxy and damp, the dark eyes fevered. The once-strong jaw was grey with whiskers, and the lips were dry and cracked, the features pinched with pain.

But the lines eased as the lord drank and the pain released its grip; the fever-bright eyes dulled. Murdo guessed there was some kind of drug in the water. Turning his face from the waterskin, he regarded Murdo for a moment, and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. Ranulf seemed to improve somewhat. 'I never thought to see you again, Murdo. But here you are.'

'Yes, lord.'

'I am glad,' he said. A spasm of pain coursed through him and he stiffened against it. After a moment the pain passed, and he said, 'Listen to me, now. You must tell them… everything.' His voice grew sharp with insistence. 'Everything-hear?'

'I am listening,' Murdo answered, swallowing the lump in his throat. 'And I will tell them, never fear.'

His father lay his head back and appeared to compose himself, marshalling his strength. Murdo waited, leaning forward to catch each word as it came to his father's lips, fearing these would be the last. After a moment, Lord Ranulf began to speak.

'It was bad for us at Antioch,' Ranulf said, 'but Dorylaeum was worse. By God, it was worse.'

Murdo had not heard of the place, but committed the name to memory, repeating it softly to himself. 'Dorylaeum.'

'Duke Robert's army was the last to arrive in Constantinople,' Ranulf continued, 'and the last to cross the Bosphorus. We were put aboard the ships so fast we got but a bare glance at the Golden City, and then we were on the march again.

'Nicaea was already under siege by the time we got there, and indeed, fell the next day, no thanks to us. Seeing how Amir Kerbogha was away and most of the city's defenders with him, the infidel governor surrendered without a fight. We secured the city and returned it to the emperor's rule, as we were foresworn to do, for all we were that eager to move on to Jerusalem.

'They told us we would be in Jerusalem before summer. Six weeks, they said. Blessed Jesu, it took a year!'

The outburst brought on such a fit of coughing that Murdo pleaded with his father to break off his recitation. 'Here, rest a little,' he said. 'You can tell me more later.'

Ranulf refused, saying, 'It passes… it passes.' He swallowed some more of his elixir and continued. 'So that is that. We leave Nicaea to the emperor and we march on. What do we find? The Turks have destroyed everything: settlements deserted, towns and farms abandoned. Whole forests have been burned, and any source of water has been spoiled -no well, but what it has been fouled; no stream, but what it has been filled with rocks. Truly, it is a God-forsaken place.

'It is not so long-a few days only-and our water is already gone, for we have not been able to get fresh water anywhere. So, it is decided to make two divisions, and each will fend for itself. We draw lots, and it falls that one division will be under Raymond's authority-that is Godfrey, Baldwin, Hugh, and the rest of the Franks-and this one will fare seven miles north of the road.

'The other division is to be led by Prince Bohemond-that is, all the rest of us-and we fare south of the road. We make good marches, meeting no resistance. God help us, but it is dry! We thirst, and people begin to talk of turning back. The commanders push on, and the ranging parties cannot find provender or water-the little they find disappears too quickly, and we are no better for it.

'We come to the mountains-they are small mountains only, not too rough, or too high-and it is a little better for us. The air is not so hot, and we can find a few rock springs still dripping from the rains. There are Turks in the mountains, too, but they cannot get at us with their arrows, so mostly they leave us alone.

'And then all at once the mountains give way to a plain that stretches as far as the eye can see. This plain is full of hills and, God be praised, a river!

'There are no Turks around, so we make for the river as fast as we can, and come upon the ruins of Dorylaeum-it is all broken walls and heaps of rubble so there is nothing to fear. As soon as Bohemond gives the order to halt and make camp, we all flock like geese to the riverside to drink our fill, and oh! the water is sweet and good. We wallow like pigs in it, and spend the rest of the day filling casks and butts and skins with fresh water. We tether the horses on the meadow and spend a peaceful night.'

Lord Ranulf paused, and swallowed hard. The pain came back into his eyes as he continued, 'Next morning, we break camp. We have not seen Count Raymond's division, but he cannot be far away. No doubt they have seen the river, too, and stopped to refresh themselves as we have done. One of the lords says, "We should wait for them." Another says, "We should send scouts to find them." Bohemond will not hear it; he is all for pushing on before it gets too hot. We move on.