Too disheartened to speak, we lay there on the stony ground and slept the sleep of the dead. Indeed, a good few did not rise in the morning; and a fair few more who did begin the day's march did not finish.

That day cast the pattern for all the days to follow: our captors roused us at first light, prodding us awake with the butts of their spears. We were bound together two-by-two, each man to another with short cords around the ankles, and a slightly longer one around the neck; our hands were tied behind us. Then we were given a drink of water, and the army moved off, heading south. The main body of the Seljuq warhost rode on ahead; the captives travelled behind with the slower-moving baggage train.

We shuffled along, watching the dull sky brighten, trying to ignore the leather rope chafing our ankles with every step. Soon the sun broke above the surrounding hills and we began to feel the heat of the day to come. As the sun climbed higher in the empty white shell of the sky, the heat mounted and leeched away the little strength the night had restored to us. By midday, some of the worse off had reached their journey's end; they collapsed along the trail.

Our Arab masters were deaf to the cries of the suffering and dying. They pushed mercilessly, pausing only to give us enough water to keep us alive and moving-never enough to satisfy our parched and burning throats.

Hungry, thirsty, aching from our various wounds and injuries, we shuffled over the barren hills, our heads down, our hearts cold hard stone in our chests. Day after infernal day. We did not talk; there was nothing to say.

The sun blazed down on our naked heads with the heat-blast of a forge fire. Sweat streamed from us, stinging our eyes and dissipating our rapidly dwindling strength to the arid desert air. In this way, the decimated Christian army dragged itself across the scorching wastes staggering under the burden of its wounded. Muted curses and muttered Psalms ascended heavenward in equal measure, as the slow torture of heat and thirst began to exact a cruel tariff.

When men fell, the nearest Seljuq guard would ride to see whether any purpose might be served in getting the man back on his feet. If the crusader had life enough in him, those nearby were ordered to carry him. If not, he was simply left where he lay, and the death march moved on. Often those left behind cried out for the knife to end their misery, but these, like all other pleas, went unheeded.

The fourth day was the worst I have ever endured. Around midday, a badly wounded soldier collapsed directly in front of Girardus and myself, pulling down the man bound to him. The Seljuq guard rode up and, without bothering to dismount, commanded the three of us to get the unconscious man on his feet once more.

For this, we required the use of our hands, and so our bonds were loosed, which was a mercy in itself. The three of us were able to raise the wretch, but it was clear he could no longer walk unaided. So, we took it in turn to help him-with two holding him up between us and ail-but dragging him along while the third rested. When one of us became weary, the rested one would take his place, and so on.

Meanwhile, our suffering comrade drifted from bad to worse.

After a time, he could no longer move his feet, and so we carried him, taking his entire weight on our shoulders. Damnably awkward it was, and it very quickly exhausted us. Soon it became a trial merely to put one foot before the other and remain upright.

I set my jaw to the task, and trudged on and on through the interminable length of that endless day. After a time, the searing ache in my legs and arms eased as my limbs grew gradually numb. I could no longer feel the uneven ground beneath my feet, and this caused me to stumble over rocks. Each lurch and jostle brought a moan from our unconscious comrade, but his complaints grew gradually weaker and more infrequent.

The land was a barrens of broken rock and thorns; gnarled trees, white with dust and shrivelled by the merciless sun, twisted up from stony crevices. Everything in that godforsaken land was blasted, blighted and deformed. No less easy on the eye than underfoot, the harshness seared itself into the soul. Never did a scrap of green – or any other colour-relieve the limitless sameness.

Seeking refuge from the sun and blight, I turned in my mind to thoughts of Blessed Scotland, and the family waiting there; I brought the image of each face before my mind's eye, and prayed for the soul of every one I could recall. In this way, I withstood the rigours of that inhuman day.

When at last the sun began to fade behind the western hills, the Seljuqs stopped to make camp for the night. The three of us stiffly lowered our wounded comrade to the ground and collapsed beside him. We lay there panting like sun-scalded dogs, unmoving, sweat running in rivulets from our spent bodies to stain the dust beneath us.

The sun was almost down when one of the Seljuqs brought a waterskin and revived us with a few mouthfuls of water. After I drank, I drew myself up on my elbows to rouse our wounded comrade so he could get his share. It was then I discovered he was dead.

When he died, and how long we had carried his lifeless corpse, I cannot say. All I know is that his life passed from him silently, and without so much as a sigh. He lay with his mouth open and eyes closed as if asleep-asleep for ever more.

The guard noted the death with a shrug and turned away. We slept that night tied to a corpse and were only released the next morning when the guard cut us free so we could move on. I prayed I would not die like that wretch, unmourned, unknown, nothing more than an accursed burden to those around me.

We were wakened the next morning to begin another hellish day. My arms and legs felt cast of lead; my head ached and my mouth was coated with scum. Those of us left alive were given a fair ration of water, which we gulped down quickly lest the guards change their minds. I thanked God for every mouthful. Many there were who could not face the day, and refused to get up. The Seljuqs killed two unfortunates where they lay, and the rest, faced with a spear in the gut and an agonizing, lingering death, found the strength to rise once more.

The land grew rough and craggy; the trail degenerated into rugged little goat tracks through dry streams and over shattered hills, making the march yet more strenuous and difficult. Time and again the cry went up for water, food, or rest. We were given none of these things.

I kept myself alive with Psalms and prayers, reciting 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want… the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want… he makes me to lie down in pastures green… beside the still waters he leads me… though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death… Lord, I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, yet I no evil fear… no evil fear… no evil fear…'

Over and over and over again, I spoke these words and the rhythm of their speaking became a litany of life to me. For, as long as I could say them, I knew I would live-at least to the end of the Psalm.

The searing, relentless heat and lack of water began to claw at our numbers. All around me men collapsed and fell, and as the eternal day wore on and on with no end in sight, I began to regard these as the lucky ones.

Mumbling my Psalm, I moved in and out of dreams. I saw Padraig walking before me, and tried to hail him, but my throat was so dry I could not make a sound. When I looked again, it was just another captive crusader. I saw my father, Murdo, sitting on a rock beside the trail. He shook his head in pity as I passed, and I wanted to speak to him, to tell him how sorry I was to leave home without telling him, but he melted into the empty air before I could find voice to speak the words.

I smelled the clean salt air of the sea back home. I smelled the water, and heard the restless sea waves slapping the rocks and tumbling the smooth stones on the shingle. I heard the shrill keen of the seabirds wheeling in the bold blue cloud-dazzled sky-a sky never seen in the desert wilderness of the Holy Land.