'Come along, Emlyn!' he cried, dashing a few steps ahead. 'My brothers are waiting! Hurry! We are soon there! Hurry!'

'I am hurrying,' the cleric insisted, lumbering into a stiff-legged trot. 'Patience is also a virtue, you know.'

They proceeded along the road through the valley beneath Jerusalem's high walls. When the path began to rise towards the hills, Murdo was persuaded to take a slower pace. 'If you did not believe in the pope's decree for the crusade, why did you come to Jerusalem?' he asked, falling into step beside his friend once more. 'If not for the crusade, why did you undertake the pilgrimage?'

'There are as many reasons for pilgrimage as there are paths and pilgrims,' answered Emlyn.

Murdo was not to be put off. 'What was your reason?'

Emlyn pursed his lips. 'We were…" he hesitated, 'commanded to come to Jerusalem.'

'By King Magnus,' Murdo assumed aloud. 'I remember.'

'No,' Emlyn answered. 'We were commanded in a vision. King Magnus' appeal came later.'

Murdo looked sideways at the monk to see if he had heard him correctly. 'What sort of vision was it?'

'A very ordinary sort, I believe,' the cleric said. 'We were commanded to come and wait upon God to tell us what to do.'

'Well?' demanded Murdo. 'Has God told you?'

'He has,' answered Emlyn. 'What we learned in Antioch confirmed our calling beyond all doubt.' When he appeared inclined to let the matter rest there, Murdo grew impatient with his reluctance.

'You said you were my friend,' Murdo reminded him. 'I have entrusted you with the shriving of my soul. I will not betray your secret.'

'We were commanded to rescue the lance.'

The reply was so far from what Murdo expected, it caught him out of step. 'The Holy Lance?' he said, as if there might be some other.

'To be sure,' answered the monk. 'We have been told to rescue the sacred relic from those who would make of it a curse and a blasphemy.'

'Who told you to do this?' inquired Murdo, already sensing the reply before it came.

'Saint Andrew,' Emlyn said, and explained that Ronan was the only one who had seen the saint. 'In a vision, as I say. Fionn and I trust Ronan's judgement in these matters. Brother Ronan is a most holy and devout man.'

'I do not doubt it,' Murdo replied, his heart burning within him. Should he tell Emlyn about his own encounter with the mysterious saint?

Before he could work up the courage to say anything, the monk sang out, 'There! On the hillside! I see Baldwin's camp.'

The Count of Edessa had established his camp atop the Mount of Olives, erecting his own tent on the crown of the hill. The campfires spread out on every side, spilling down the western slope overlooking the walls of the Holy City which rose straight and tall across the Vale of Kidron. As the night was warm, the fires of the soldiers were small-merely lights to illumine their faces while they talked and supped and drank the dark wine of Palestine.

Baldwin had brought four hundred knights and footmen, as many as he could spare from the defence of Edessa. They had arrived just after midday and he had proceeded into the city to hold close council with brother Godfrey, leaving his nobles to arrange the camp as they saw fit. As usually happened, the various groups-the Franks, Scots, Flemish, Normans, and others-had clumped together with their own kin and countrymen, pitching their tents together around a fire or two. Thus, it was a fairly simple matter for Murdo and Emlyn to locate the Dark Islanders.

'Pax Vobiscum, friends,' said Murdo, stepping up to the first group of soldiers they met. 'We are looking for the sons of Lord Ranulf of Orkneyjar. Can anyone here tell us where they might be found?'

This brought a few mumbled suggestions and much shrugging of shoulders, but no firm answer. Murdo thanked them and moved on. At the next clump of men, they received a better reception, and the information that the Orkney men were most likely with the Danes-although no one had seen them after arriving at Jerusalem. They might be camped anywhere, they said, why not try near the horse pickets?

The two proceeded to another campfire a little further on, and learned that the Danes were up at the top of the hill. 'They are near to the count's tents,' one of the knights told them. ‘I saw them there before dark.'

As the count's tents were closer, they decided to try there next. They climbed the hillside in the dark and came upon the count's encampment – a cluster of large tents before which stood the count's standard and those of two other noblemen, the gold and silver trim glimmering in the fireglow. Below the encampment was a group of smaller tents. Murdo and Emlyn heard laughter from the camp, but the mirth died away quickly as they approached.

'Pax Vobiscum, friends -' began Murdo once more, breaking off as two large soldiers rose from their places.

'Move on, move on. We need no priest here tonight,' said one of the men.

'Torf?' The soldier, his face half in shadow, glanced towards him. 'Torf-Einar,' said Murdo, coming into the firelight. 'It is me -Murdo.'

The soldier stared as recognition slowly transformed his scowl. 'Murdo?' he asked in amazement. 'Is it you?'

'Torf, I-'

'God bless us, it is Murdo!' cried another voice as a third man rose from among those hulking at the fire.

'Skuli!' cried Murdo, stepping quickly over the fire to join his brothers.

Torf slapped him on the back in rough welcome, and shouted to the others looking on. 'Here now! It is our brother come to join us!'

'Murdo what are you doing here?' asked Skuli, thumping his back happily. 'How did you find us?'

'Look at you now,' said Torf, breaking in. 'Almost as tall as me. I never guessed it was you. How did you get here?'

'Skuli… Torf,' replied Murdo, shaking his head. 'I am so glad I found you. Are you well?'

'When did you arrive?' asked Skuli. 'Have you been here long?'

'What news from home?' said Torf. 'Father is in Jerusalem. Did you know that?'

'Have you seen him?' said Skuli. 'We parted company at Ma'arra.'

'Where is Paul?' asked Murdo glancing around quickly. 'Is he here with you?'

Torf's smile faded. 'Paul did not make it to Edessa,' he explained. 'The fever at Antioch took him, and he died there. That was when we decided to join Count Baldwin.'

'Who is the priest?' wondered Skuli, brightening the mood once more. He turned towards Emlyn who stood looking on across the campfire.

'This is my friend, Brother Emlyn,' Murdo answered. 'We have been travelling together.'

'Murdo and a priest on pilgrimage together!' hooted Skuli. 'I never would have believed it. Do not tell me you have taken vows, Murdo. You hate priests more than Torf even.'

'No,' laughed Murdo, 'I never would. There are two others-they are counsellors to King Magnus. They allowed me to join them.'

'King Magnus is here, too?' asked Torf. 'How many men did he bring?'

'A fair many,' Murdo said. 'Nearly four hundred in all.'

'Then he should join Baldwin,' Torf said. 'The count is paying his soldiers well.'

Emlyn spoke up then, saying, 'Perhaps we might find a place to talk among ourselves. You all have much to say to one another, and I would like a drink after our long walk.'

'Yes!.Yes, to be sure,' agreed Torf. 'This way-there is a tree just here. Skuli, fetch us a jar and cup.' To Murdo and the priest, he said, 'It is wine only-there is no ale hereabouts, but we are growing used to it.'

'I have found a taste for wine,' the fat cleric remarked. 'It is wet, after all, and goes down tolerably well.'

Torf laughed at this, and led them away from the campfire to a twisted old olive tree a few paces away. The view across the valley to the Holy City-pale as bone in the moonlight, and silent as a tomb-brought the solemnity of his purpose to Murdo's mind once more.