Not to be dissuaded, I paid no heed to the call, but struggled ahead in all determination. In a moment, I heard the splash of footsteps in the water as Padraig pursued me. Not wishing to be caught, or dissuaded from the course before me, I made no answer and pushed deeper into the water.

'Duncan!' he shouted. 'Here, Duncan, I have something for you!'

Ignoring him, I continued on. The water was up to my throat, and the swell of the waves tugged at me, raising me off my feet. He shouted after me again, and then I heard another voice – a child's voice, frightened, crying. Casting a backward glance over my shoulder, I saw him striding after me, holding Caitriona in his arms. So unexpected was the sight of her, I stopped and turned around.

'What do you mean by this?' I shouted. 'Get her away from here.'

He waded nearer and, dearest Gait, your tiny face was twisted in fear and your hands were reaching out to me to help you, to save you – from the water, and the night, and the strangeness of what was happening.

'Come now,' Padraig called. 'Would you leave without saying farewell to your daughter? Better still, why not take her with you?' Stretching his arms, he held the child out to me.

'Take her back to shore, you fool!' I shouted angrily.

He merely shook his head.

I glared at him. 'Have you gone mad?'

'Here,' he said, holding her out to me again. Gait began to shriek as the cold water splashed around her legs. 'Take her now and make an end of it. It will be a kindness.'

'You are mad,' I growled.

'Perhaps,' he allowed. 'Still, it would be better, I think, to have died in the arms of your loving father than to lose both parents before you are old enough to remember either of them. As you mean to end your life, so be it. You might as well end her life, too.'

Enraged, I strode forwards and snatched the dear babe from his arms. 'Stupid priest! You know nothing about children.'

'True,' he agreed placidly. 'But I know this water is freezing and night is far gone, and I miss my warm bed. Could we go back now, do you think?'

Cradling my squalling child in my arms, I started towards the shore. We walked back to the dun in silence; Gait had ceased crying by the time we reached the house. Padraig bade me farewell and I went in, wrapped my darling girl in one of her mother's warm mantles and put her in her bed. I sat with her until she was asleep. I slept as well and woke the next morning when I heard voices outside. Thinking Padraig must have told someone what had taken place in the night, I grew embarrassed, and went outside to face the stares of disapproval and reproach. But it was just some women from the settlement coming to bring me and little Caitriona some food. They gave me the baskets and departed, saying how they would be glad to help look after the bairn whenever I needed them.

The women went their way then, but all day long I kept thinking someone would mention the previous night's incident. No one did.

After vespers that evening, I saw Padraig leaving the chapel and went to thank him for not breathing a word to anyone about my shameful behaviour of the night before. He looked at me curiously. 'Behaviour? What shameful behaviour could that be?' he said.

'You know,' I muttered, irritated that he would make me speak it out so bluntly. 'I went walking down by the sea.'

'How very strange,' he said mildly, his face betraying no hint of guile. 'I too went walking in my sleep last night. Now, try as I might, I can remember very little about it.' Leaning close, he said, 'Between ourselves, I would consider it a kindness if you would not tell the abbot. We are not supposed to leave the monastery after prayers.'

'Well,' I told him, 'you can trust me to keep your secret. Only see that it does not happen again.'

'Oh, I have repented of it a hundred times already.' He gave me a look of shrewd appraisal. 'I do not think I will have occasion to sleepwalk again.'

That concluded the matter and nothing else was ever said, either by Padraig or anyone else. Let me tell you, I, also, have repented of that night a hundred times since then. Nevertheless, God is good; out of that disgraceful incident he brought a friendship which is beyond all price. For, from that night Padraig became my dearest companion and spiritual advisor-my anam cam as he calls it, my soul friend.

Another result of that night's folly was that I began to consider what I might do to make amends for my cowardly lapse-a self-imposed penance. While some might consider it overly pious, or even rank sanctimony, let them think what they will: I know how close I came to throwing away God's inestimable gift that night. Had I drowned myself, Cait, I would have condemned myself to an eternity of misery. That, I know. Instead, the Gifting Giver has blessed me beyond measure. Though I sit in splendoured captivity awaiting the death decree, I am yet the most grateful of men for having known the love of true friends, and the graceful, happy child that is my daughter, and for having been allowed to dare and do much for the advancement of my saviour's Invisible Kingdom.

Ah, well, make of it what you will. Whatever the workings of the mysterious inner heart, I began to contemplate some mighty work of atonement that I might do. As I pondered on what form this great deed might take, I found release from the shock and sorrow of my Rhona's sad death. My zeal and appetite for life returned and, along with it, a fresh desire for the things of the spirit.

Padraig noticed my newfound devotion. One night after vespers while we talked together over a bowl of ale, he said, 'Beware, Duncan, you will be wanting to become a priest next.'

'What would be wrong with that?' I replied, defiance hardening my voice. 'Do you think it above me? My brother is a priest, remember. I know well enough what would be required. I could -'

'I surrender!' He held up his hands. 'I spoke in jest. You would make a fine priest, of that I have no doubt.'

Despite his words, I heard the reservation in his tone. 'And yet?'

He put out his lip, and regarded me thoughtfully, but made no reply.

'Come now, what is in your mind?'

'Far be it from me to discourage anyone from seeking the priesthood…'

'And yet you would discourage me-hey? Well, that is a fine thing.'

'You misunderstand,' he said quickly. 'There are many priests among the Cele De, but few noblemen. Our Lord has blessed you richly, Duncan. If you would do something to honour him, let it be in the manner whereby he has created you.'

'As a nobleman, you mean.'

He spread his hands. 'Look at all your father has accomplished for the good of the Cele De. Do you imagine it would be half so much if he had been a monk?'

A trifling thing, a few simple words lightly spoken; but it started me thinking in a new way. I thought about what my father had done as a young man-much younger than myself, he was, when he followed the Great Pilgrimage. These thoughts grew to fill my every waking moment, and soon I could think of nothing else. Could it be, I wondered, that I, too, was being called to join the pilgrim way?

Some few nights later, I happened to mention my musings to my father. We were at table for our evening meal; as always in Murdo's hall, there were a number of vassals and friends gathered around the board. Some of the stonemasons working on the new church had been invited to sup with us that night, so the ale and conversation flowed liberally.

Talk turned to Torf-Einar's return, and how he had fared in the Holy Land. Someone said he had heard that Torf left an enormous fortune in the East, and others began speculating on how much this unknown wealth could be, and whether it was in gold or silver. Their ignorance and frivolity vexed me, and I said, 'Perhaps I will go to the Holy Land myself and claim this fortune and become King of Edessa.'