The scents and sounds caused me to imagine the faces of those I loved, and I heard the babble of their voices filling my ears. I tried to make out what they said, but in their joy at having me among them once more they spoke over one another so that I could not understand them.

Holding up my hands, I made to speak and forced out a ragged croak, and this made them excited. They rushed to me and I was pulled this way and that, and I realized they were dragging me down to the sea. Stiff-legged, I tried to resist. My strength was gone and I was shoved down to the water.

I felt the blessed wetness lapping around my feet and legs; I heard others splashing in behind me, and turned to see the dusty faces of my fellow pilgrims floundering into the sea. How, I wondered, had they come to be in Scotland? Had they followed me there? Had we walked all the way?

And then people began throwing water over me. The cold shock restored me to my mind. Water! I sank down to my knees and began scooping it up in my hands, throwing it into my mouth and gulping it down, choking on it, and gulping down more.

The water revived me. I raised my eyes and looked around. Gone the cold ocean bay, and gone the prosperous holding snug amongst the dazzling green hills. Before me was a sun-baked settlement shaded by a few scruffy trees and forlorn palms on the bare earth banks of a muddy, but very real lake. The people there were not my beloved friends and family, but Muhammedan shepherds. My heart writhed within me as the dull realization seeped into my sun-dazed awareness: I was alive still, and far, far from home.

We stayed there that night. Revived by the water, and blessed with a moment's respite from the day's heat as evening drew near, the captives began to appraise their chances of survival. And they began to talk.

I soon learned what had happened after Padraig, Roupen, and I had fled Antioch. Commander Renaud had not allowed the Templar garrison to be used to aid Prince Bohemond's ruinous folly. In defiance of the prince, he had refused to send the Poor Soldiers of Christ into battle against other Christians. Opinion among the captives divided sharply over whether this was good or bad.

'If the Templars had been with us, by Christ,' one soldier swore, 'we would not have been defeated.'

"That just shows how stupid you are, Thomas Villery,' growled the man next to him. 'If the Templars had been there they would have been killed along with all the rest.'

'Yes,' agreed another, 'it is for the best. At least this way we have a hope of rescue.'

'What makes you think anyone will rescue us? No one cares,' concluded another gloomily. His head sank onto his chest. 'God has given us over to destruction. His hand is against us. We are dead men-each and every one of us. There is no hope.'

'Has the turd turned philosopher now?' scoffed the soldier called Thomas. 'When the garrison learns that Bohemond's army has been captured, they will ride at once to the rescue.'

'And who is going to tell them, eh?' demanded another soldier, struggling to rise. He had been slashed on the arm, and the wound showing through the blood-crusted rag of his sleeve was grey and watery with pus. 'Idiot! Who is going to ride to Antioch to tell them? Eh?' He glared furiously around the ring of grim faces. 'Gaston is right, we are all dead men.'

'What!' demanded the one called Thomas. 'When they learn the rood has been captured, they will come, by God.'

'Do not speak to me of God, or the rood,' muttered Gaston. 'If the rood goes before us, we cannot lose-so they said. It is God's good pleasure to lead us to victory, they said. Where is the victory now?' He glared around daring anyone to challenge him. 'Damn them! Damn their lies!'

'Forgive me, brother,' I said, breaking into their conversation, 'is it the Holy Cross you mean?'

'Aye,' he agreed dubiously, 'is there any other?'

'The Black Rood,' one of them muttered, 'taken by the cursed heathen Seljuqs.' He spat. 'Much good may it do them. God knows it has done no good for us.'

'Shut your stinking gob, Matthias!' charged Thomas. 'Maybe it is for blasphemers like you that the Almighty gave us up to defeat. Did you ever think of that?'

'How dare you come the high and holy with me!' snarled the offended Matthias. 'I was well and truly shriven ere we left the city-we all were. You'll not go laying the blame for this at my feet, so help me -'

'Where is it?' I asked, interrupting their argument.

'The rood? Why, the Turks have taken it,' answered Matthias. 'They will have it with the rest of the plunder. Christ alone knows what they will do with it, the heathens.'

'They'll burn it,' suggested Girardus dolefully. 'By God they will, for they are godless devil worshippers every hell-cursed one.'

The discussion moved on to speculation about what would happen to us when we reached Damascus, but as no one had any notion, I turned instead to pondering what I had learned: the Holy Rood was here… somewhere.

I determined then and there that if the High King of Heaven allowed me to remain alive, I would resume my quest: somehow I would find the Holy Rood, and I would save it. This I vowed to do.

We stayed four days at Kadiriq, a baked-mud settlement on the banks of the stagnant lake, regaining our strength for the days ahead. I suspect the march from Anazarbus had been made as tortuous as possible to kill off the weak and wounded. The Seljuqs wanted slaves to sell and only those strong enough to survive the ordeal would bring a price worth the trouble of keeping them alive.

I slept nearly all of the first day, and the second I spent lying in the shade of a gnarled little tree beside the lake -1 could not bear to be out of sight of the water, and several times went in swimming to cool off. The sight of this white-skinned foreigner thrashing around in the shallows produced great amusement for the children of Kadiriq, who had come out to examine the conquered captives.

That night we were given food for the first time since the battle: flat bread-thin and dry, and tough as parchment-and lentils cooked in beef broth. The second night we were given bread and beans again, and some leathery scraps of goat meat.

On the third day, Amir Ghazi arrived. He travelled in caravan -that is to say, with his entire retinue of advisors, liegemen, and a bodyguard of three hundred or more warriors-all mounted, and leading a long train of pack animals, mostly horses. However, moving with a strange, swaying gait, I saw the odd, ungainly desert creatures called camels. With their steep-humped backs, long necks and small, flat heads, they seemed to tower above the surrounding turmoil with lordly sufferance.

The newcomers arrived leading a few dozen more prisoners. Rumours spread among the captives that the main Seljuq army had taken the town of Marash on the border, allowing the amir to enrich himself still further with Christian slaves and plundered treasure.

Ghazi set up his camp on the other side of the lake. I counted over a hundred tents before losing interest. The townspeople were overjoyed to have the honour of hosting the amir, and that night there was a feast in his name. A dozen cows were slaughtered for the spit, and a score of sheep and goats. The festive mood overflowed the town and even spilled out into the captives' camp, to the extent that we were given a humble share of the feast. That night, along with our bread – a soft, thick flat bread flavoured with anise – we were also given lamb stewed with figs. It was very good, and there was not a man among us who did not lick the wooden bowl clean. We were also given a drink of fermented goat's milk – slightly salty, with a rancid sour taste which failed to seduce many to its charms.