Murdo gaped in amazement. For there, heaped in a jumbled, gleaming mass beneath the dying man was a treasure trove of gold and silver objects, more valuable, more opulent, more wonderful than anything he could have dreamed.

Even in the ochre half-light of the tent, the treasure dazzled. Murdo filled his gaze with the glimmering objects: cups and bowls, plates and platters, armbands and bracelets, bejewelled chests and chalices, caskets, and boxes, necklaces, diadem, and chains of all kinds in heavy gold and fine silver. Scattered in amongst the valuables, like shells or pebbles on the beach, were golden coins, bezants bearing the emperor's image. Some of the surfaces gleamed with the quick bright fire of rubies, the rich green glow of emeralds, and the luxurious milky radiance of pearl. Unable to resist, Murdo reached into the heap and pulled out a gold-handled dagger in a sheath set with sapphires-the sheath alone was more valuable than anything he had ever touched.

Murdo cradled the knife as if it were the frail soul of his father to be snatched away from him at any instant. He held his breath, clutching the knife, trying to comprehend the meaning of such an immense amount of wealth: certainly it was more than Jarl Erlend ever possessed, and doubtless more than many a northern king would amass in a lifetime; probably more than King Magnus himself owned, including all his ships and lands.

'Is it truly ours?' asked Murdo at last, still struggling to take in the immensity of their fortune.

Ranulf, his eyes closed, breath raspy in his throat, gestured to his lips. Murdo retrieved the waterskin and applied it again to his father's mouth. The lord drank but a mouthful before pushing the skin away. 'Even before Nicaea we had decided that any plunder should be shared out equally among the nobles, for the lords to distribute as they saw fit. Everyone agreed. No one knew it could be so much. Nicaea… Dorylaeum… Antioch…' He coughed. 'What you see is all my share, which I saved. Take it, son,' gasped Ranulf. 'Use it for the increase of Hrafnbu.'

A pang of guilt and remorse pierced Murdo at the word. He could not now bring himself to tell his father that Hrafnbu was gone.

After a moment, Ranulf roused himself. 'Torf and Skuli… they have joined Baldwin at Edessa. They were not here when the battle commenced, but you can find them-find them and go home.'

Murdo nodded. 'I will find them, lord, and we will return to Dyrness.'

'Good.' Ranulf closed his eyes again and sank into the mat. 'Leave me now. Let me rest.'

'I will stay.'

'No, son. It is better you go.' He reached out his hand, which Murdo took in both of his. 'Remember what I said.'

'I will remember.' Murdo put the waterskin next to his father's side where he could reach it, and limped painfully to the entrance of the tent. 'I will be outside if you need anything.'

Lord Ranulf's lips framed a ghostly smile. 'I am glad you came, son.'

Murdo nodded, and pushed the tent flap aside. Emlyn was there to support him. Ronan and Fionn, sitting nearby, stood up and came to him. 'He is going to sleep now,' Murdo informed the monks. 'I told him I would stay nearby.'

The priests helped him to a comfortable position in the shadow of the tent. Then Fionn went to fetch the grass mat, and asked Ronan to bring some food and water for them all. Emlyn sat with Murdo, his eyes full of sorrow for his young friend's anguish.

They sat together in silence until they heard footsteps approaching. 'That will be Fionn returning,' said Emlyn rising. It was not Fionn who appeared, however, but a woman. She glanced at him, and hesitated, then saw Emlyn and said, 'Ah, it is you, brother. I am sorry to be so long.' She produced a small stone jar from a bag she carried on her shoulder. 'I have brought him another draught of the potion.'

'He is sleeping now,' the monk told her. 'This is his son,' he said, indicating Murdo.

The woman glanced at Murdo, and nodded. 'I will just put it nearby so he can have it when he wakes.' She pushed aside the flap and stepped into the tent.

'Genna has been caring for your father,' Emlyn explained. 'Her own husband was a knight killed at Antioch. They were on pilgrimage together and -' He broke off as Genna opened the tent flap.

'You should come,' she said simply.

Emlyn was on his feet at once. He stepped to the tent entrance, looked inside, then bent his head. After a moment, he turned to Murdo.

Murdo could tell from the monk's expression what he was going to say. 'Is my father dead?'

'Yes,' replied Emlyn. He stooped to raise Murdo to his feet, and helped him to the tent.

Lord Ranulf lay on his crude pallet as before, but now his features were relaxed and calm, and he was gazing up tranquilly as if contemplating a peaceful sky. He still clutched the waterskin, but it was empty now; he had drained it to the dregs, and the pain-numbing potion had done its final work.

Murdo stood for a long time, trying to make sense of the welter of his emotions, feeling angry, hurt, lost, and alone.

Emlyn stepped to the pallet and, placing a hand to the lord's face, drew down the eyelids. He then stretched his hand over the body, and began chanting softly. 'Our Father in Heaven, most holy is your name. Let your will be done on earth, as in your kingdom. Do not let us fall into the traps of the Evil One, but deliver us from all harm…'

Murdo heard the words-he had heard them countless times -but they meant nothing to him. Instead he observed how death had transformed his father's face, returning most of that which the fatal wound had taken from him. His features, gnawed thin and sharp by weeks of hunger and the last days of pain, were relaxed in repose: the tightness around the eyes and mouth eased, the pinched brow smoothed.

In a moment, the priest finished his prayer. He reached down and made the sign of the cross on Lord Ranulf's forehead. 'Sleep,' said Emlyn quietly, 'sleep, friend, in the calm of all calm. Death lies on thy brow, but Jesu of Grace has his arm around thee. Rest in God's peace.'

Genna retrieved the stone jar and turned away. 'I am sorry,' she said softly, then ducked quickly out of the tent.

Arriving a moment later, Fionn and Ronan entered, their faces solemn. 'The woman told us,' Ronan said gently. Fionn crossed to Murdo, and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. 'May God bless you, my friend, and enfold you in his mercy.'

'Brothers,' said Ronan, 'let us commend this pilgrim's soul to God.'

The three took their places around the bed-one at the foot, one at the head, and one beside. They then stretched out their hands over the body, and began to chant softly in a language Murdo did not know. He watched and listened, thinking that his mother would want to know every detail; no doubt she would recognize the words of the chant.

The Cele De repeated their song three times, and then, folding Ranulf's arms over his breast, they straightened his limbs and began readying the body for burial. The swiftness of the preparations alarmed Murdo. 'Must it be so soon?'

'We dare not delay any longer,' Fionn said, and added, '- owing to the heat, you see.'

'We will see him properly buried,' Ronan assured him. 'Emlyn will stay with you while Fionn and I prepare the grave. We will come for the body when we have finished.'

Emlyn settled down beside Murdo, and the two of them sat gazing at the body. 'It was good you could say farewell, at least,' the monk said after a while. 'I would that we had found him sooner.'

'You were searching for him all this time?' wondered Murdo.

'Aye, we were,' replied Emlyn. 'They told us in the camps that Duke Godfrey's troops had been first on the wall, and Duke Robert's army was with him. The fighting was fiercest there, they said, and those first on the wall had borne the brunt of the attack and suffered heavy losses. So,' the monk concluded sadly, 'we began searching here.'