'Alas, yes – all of them,' admitted Raymond.

'In God's name, why?' demanded Dalassenus, his face darkening with rage. 'They were Christians, man! Priests! Monks!'

Raymond lowered his head and squared his shoulders to the envoy's wrath. He deeply rued the blind zeal of his fellow crusaders which had purged the Holy City of its entire population, but he did not see what could be done about it now. He had little choice but to meet the imperial ire head on. 'We are all aggrieved by the lamentable incident, to be sure.'

'Lamentable incident!' howled Theotokis, struggling forward. 'You slaughter fellow Christians out of hand, and call it a… a lamentable incident? Drawing himself up, he spat at the feet of the Latin lords. 'Barbarians!'

The western nobles, angered at such blatant disrespect, began shouting at the Byzantines. Some few started forth with curses and balled fists.

'Enough!' growled Dalassenus, quickly regaining his composure. To Raymond he said, 'We will make our camp outside the walls. In the name of the Emperor Alexius, I demand that you and the other lords and leaders of the pilgrimage convene in council tomorrow morning when we will discuss this, and other issues arising from the recapture of the city.'

Raymond, eyes hard under lowered brow, met the envoy's anger with flinty obstinance. 'As you will,' he muttered gruffly.

The imperial company withdrew to the Church of the Saint Mary on Mount Zion outside the southern wall, and made their camp within the grounds. Raymond and some of the lords returned to the citadel to drink and discuss the next day's council. Bewildered by the Byzantine response to their offered hospitality, they liberally doused their umbrage with the sweet dark wine of their conquered realm and, as the night wore on, vowed increasingly elaborate revenge on the slight.

For their part, the Greeks spent the night praying with the monks of Saint Mary's church for the souls of their murdered brothers, and for Jerusalem's Christians who had been slaughtered by their supposed liberators. After the prayer vigil, the envoy retired to the cell prepared for him by the monks. Dalassenus slept ill, his spirit troubled by the insidious ignorance and brutishness of the Latin pilgrims; he feared for the day ahead and the demands he must make on behalf of the emperor. The lords of the West had shown themselves truculent and untrustworthy guests, no better than the infidel.

He shuddered inwardly to think what Alexius would do when he learned what had happened at Jerusalem. It would be best for all concerned if the crusaders could be convinced to hand over the Holy City to the rule and governance of the emperor, and as quickly as possible – tomorrow would not be too soon.

Dalassenus had just lapsed into a fitful sleep when he was awakened by the arrival of several monks begging places for the night. It was strange, he thought, for the night was far gone and these were western clerics, but unlike any he had met before. He looked out from the door of his cell and saw them-three robed monks and a fourth, a tall, anxious-looking youth-as they were led across the church's inner yard. The young man started at seeing his face in the doorway, but the four hurried past, and Dalassenus went back to his short and troubled sleep.

While Raymond was meeting the emperor's envoy at the palace gates, Murdo and the monks were busy binding Lord Ranulf's treasure into corpse-like bundles. Using the rags Fionn had secured, they bound the various items of gold and silver together and stuffed the spaces between them with dried grass and straw-as much to keep the metal objects from clanking together as to fill out a roughly human shape which they then wrapped in a burial shroud.

They worked quickly, gathering and binding, wrapping and tying. At Fionn's urging, Murdo reluctantly withdrew six gold coins from the heap. 'You are not stealing it, Murdo,' the monk chided, 'merely using some of the first fruits to help save the harvest.'

As soon as the last knot was tied, they dragged the bundles from the tent lest anyone become suspicious of their activity. Lastly, Murdo retrieved his father's sword, shield, and hauberk before abandoning the tent to the use of some other wounded soldier. The three of them settled under a nearby olive tree to await Ronan's return.

'What can be keeping him?' wondered Murdo. He cast an anxious eye over the ungainly bundles, of which there were four-three large, which might pass for adults, and one somewhat smaller, which might be seen as a child. Throughout the camp, the monks and women went about their chores, tending to the wounded and dying. No one seemed to notice the little company waiting for the burial cart; Murdo, fearing they might be discovered at any moment, remained ever alert and watchful.

The baleful sun crossed the sky vault to extinguish itself in a blood-red haze, and still Ronan did not appear. 'I suspect camels are more difficult to obtain than horses or donkeys,' Fionn suggested. 'Ronan macDiarmuid will not fail us. Have faith, Murdo.'

'God is ever moving amidst the chaos,' Emlyn added grandly, 'his subtle purposes to perform. Trust not in the works of men, but in the Almighty whose designs are eternal, and whose deeds outlast the ages.'

Despite repeated entreaties from the two priests to calm himself, Murdo could not rest. Even after dark, he found no peace-for, though he was grateful for relief from the heat, the rising moon shed more than enough light for thieves to work. He looked at the night-dark sky. The stars, veiled by a high-blown haze of smoke, glowed like the eyes of skulking hounds caught by torchlight in the dark.

He drew a hand across his face and tried to wipe away the fatigue. He was hungry and tired, and sore, and the first seeds of sorrow were beginning to take root. Murdo did not mind the hunger, nor his scorched skin, nor his hurting feet; those were small pains compared to the sharp, gnawing ache growing in his heart. He missed his father, and he missed his home; he wanted to see the low green islands of Orkney, and feel the cool northern wind on his face again; he wanted to see Ragna, to hold her, and he wanted this miserable day to end.

Fionn nudged him gently. 'Someone is coming,' he whispered.

Murdo sat up. 'Where?'

'Down there.' Fionn pointed to the trail which wound through the valley below. He could see a grey shape moving on the tree-shadowed path, but it was still too far away to see clearly. Closer, the shape resolved itself into two parts, one large, one small. The large shape had long legs and a steeply-humped back; the smaller, walking beside it, was a man.

'It is Ronan,' Fionn confirmed. 'I told you he would not fail us.' Standing up quickly, he said, 'He will not know where to find us. I will bring him.'

Murdo watched as the monk hurried down the tree-covered hill, his pale form flitting in and out of the moonlight. Upon reaching the trail, he saw Fionn approach the elder priest, whereupon they both turned and proceeded towards them. The camel appeared to grow larger with every step; in fact, it was a far bigger animal than Murdo had realized. And it stank of rancid dung.

Indeed, it was one of the most repulsive creatures Murdo had ever seen. The beast was covered with a thick pelt of matted, mangy hair that hung in ragged clumps; bulging eyes gazed lazily out from a small, flat head perched atop a long, ungainly neck; huge flat feet splayed out from bony, scabrous legs, and its great hump sat like a shabby mountain above its distended belly. The thing shuffled when it walked, and folded itself awkwardly when it lay down-which it did as soon as Ronan stopped tugging on its rein rope.

'We must hurry,' Ronan said upon reaching them. From a yoke-shaped wooden frame he withdrew a wad of cloth which he handed to Murdo. 1 brought you some clothes.'