'That is why it is best for you to stay with me tonight rather than in the town,' Nurmal explained.

Roupen frowned, unconvinced.

'At least it hurries us on our way,' I told him, 'and in a better fashion than we have enjoyed so far.'

Whatever misgivings he might have had about the arrangements were soon swept aside in the exuberance of mounting such excellent horses: spirited, intelligent, compliant without being dull, they were indeed a joy to ride. It had been a fair while since I had been on the back of a horse, but I know I had never sat astride one half so responsive and well-mannered.

We struck off along an old road leading up behind the town and into the quiet hills. The dusky air was cool and heavy with the scent of broom and sage. The sky grew slowly dark, and the moon rose. We rode along, content to remain silent as we passed through the night-dark land, climbing higher into the rough, empty hills until we came to a large walled villa tucked into the fold of a shallow valley and surrounded by stables and yards.

We dismounted in the yard and Nurmal made us welcome, saying, 'Tomorrow we embrace the rigours of the trail. But tonight,' his smile was a glint of white in the moonlight, 'we eat and sleep like kings. Come, the table is prepared. Want for nothing, my friends.'

Thus, we entered a house of such effortless liberality and friendliness that within the space of a simple, wholesome meal we each became monarchs of vast domain, and rose from the table refreshed and renewed for the journey ahead. As we went to our beds, Padraig confided, 'If hospitality was the saving of men, then I have no doubt that when the angels called us to the heavenly banqueting table, we would find Nurmal of Mamistra sitting at God's right hand.'

'Amen,' I replied happily. 'With Nurmal beside him, God could not ask for a more amiable dinner companion.'

It was still dark when we left that homely house. We stopped at sunrise to take the first drink of a long and thirsty day. The night sky grew milky grey, then yellow, and finally blue. Even as we watched the pale fingers of sunlight stretch along the valleys and separate the dark mass of rough hills one from another, we could feel the heat of the day spreading in waves over the land. We mounted up again at once and pushed on so as to get as far as possible along our journey before we were forced to stop and wait for the sun to set.

As I rode along, I thought of all those I had left behind in Scotland – of my mother and father, Abbot Emlyn, and the others-and you, dearest Gait, were foremost among them. I knew Murdo and Ragna were watching over you as well, nay better, than I would if I had been there. Still, I felt a pang of guilt for leaving you, and wished that I might have been a gull or an eagle that I could swoop down and see you and know, if only for an instant, what you were doing at that moment. I held you in my mind, and tried to imagine how you might have grown since I had last seen you. And then, my heart, I held you before the Throne of Grace and asked the High King of Heaven to send three angels to surround you and watch over you day and night until I could return.

Yes, on that rough road into those ragged, dusty, sage-covered hills, my thoughts turned towards going home. And I felt the gnawing agony of what Padraig calls the hiraeth, the home-yearning. I felt it like a sharp, clawing ache in my heart, as if a rip had opened up in the fabric of my soul and a blast of cold, bitter wind rushed through. For the first time since leaving Caithness, I wished I was on the homeward trail.

It was after midday before we found a place to water and rest through the long, hot wait until evening. The trees were short and scrubby little thorn-covered oaks large enough for one or two to squat beneath; the flies liked them, too, and worried us incessantly, but at least the dense, leathery leaves kept the sun off our heads. We tethered the horses to graze on whatever they might find to nibble, and then retreated to the shade.

I had not spoken to Yordanus privately for several days, and I had questions on my mind. So, I joined him as he reclined beneath his tree. He welcomed the company and we began to talk. 'There is something I have been wanting to ask you since leaving Famagusta,' I told him.

'An unanswered question is like a toothache that only heals with asking,' he said, turning his face towards me. 'What is vexing you, my friend?'

'Why are you doing this?' At his puzzled glance, I added, 'Ships, supplies, now horses-all this. Why are you helping us?'

'Ah, well,' he replied. 'Cannot a man help a friend in need?'

'Forgive me, Yordanus, but there must be more to it than that.' It came to me then that perhaps I was not the friend he meant. 'It is de Bracineaux,' I suggested. 'He sent us to you knowing you would do this. But why? What is between the two of you that you should take such personal interest in this affair?'

He sat with his back to the gnarled little bole, resting his head against the crinkled black bark and staring out across the narrow brown valley shimmering dully in the heat haze. The buzzing of the flies grew loud in the silence. I did not press him, but let him come to it in his own time.

At last he drew a long, low breath and said, in a voice full of mourning and melancholy, 'I am doing it for my son.'

'You mentioned him before,' I said, trying to make it easier for the old man to speak. 'I can see you loved him very much.'

'Julian was his name,' said Nurmal. Having overheard the beginning of our conversation, he had come to join us, bringing a water skin and a wooden cup. 'May I?'

'Please.' Yordanus nodded and patted the ground beside him, and Nurmal sat down. 'Julian was everything a father hopes for in the child who will carry on the family name and lineage,' Yordanus continued, pride edging into his voice. 'He was my hope and my joy.'

The old trader went on to describe the unhappy events of their last days in Damascus. The trouble all began, in his estimation, with the fall of Jerusalem, which shocked the Seljuqs and Saracens beyond all measure. Overnight all previous certainties collapsed and the world was pitched headlong into unimaginable turmoil. Out of the chaos new, and often dangerous, alliances emerged. Everywhere the rulers and potentates of the old order made the best bargains they could with anyone who offered the barest hope of protection from the burgeoning multitude of dangers, perils, and threats arising almost daily.

'It was no different in Damascus,' Yordanus told me. 'Atabeg Tughtigin held out as long as he could. In his prime he had been an able and fair-minded ruler, but in the end his age and health began to tell against him. He made alliance with the Fida'in.'

The word pricked my attention, and I recalled what Sydoni and Roupen had told me about this shadowy sect.

Yordanus saw that I recognized the name and said, 'You have heard of them, I see.'

'Sydoni mentioned them; she called them murderers and said they held a hidden faith, but she did not say what that faith might be.'

'They are Muslims,' Yordanus explained, 'but of a very strict and overzealous stripe. It is their all-consuming desire to unite the Muhammedans in a single observance of the Muslim faith. To do this they are willing to dare all things-even martyrdom.'

'Dangerous men,' I observed.

'Murderous,' Nurmal corrected. 'All the more because of the hashish.'

'The hashish?' I had never heard the word before, and asked what it might be.

'Oh, it is a very potent herb that can be used in various ways. The Fida'in eat it, or smoke the dried leaves in pipes. It is a powerful essence, and it makes them foolishly courageous. When they are in the grip of the hashish, they fear nothing,' declared Nurmal. 'For this reason some call them the Hashishin, a name they hate.'