not have been aboard the ship in the first place-except that when she found out that Duncan was planning to take Caitriona to the Holy Land to see all the places he and Padraig had visited during his long pilgrimage, the younger girl had moped and whined and sulked until her father relented and agreed to take her, too.
Cait sat listening to Alethea's deep, regular breathing for a moment, and then reached out and rested her hand on the girl's shoulder where the thin coverlet had slipped aside. The skin was warm beneath her palm, and Thea's face appeared so peaceful and content, Cait was loath to disturb her rest. No, she thought, let her enjoy the last serenity she will know for a very long time. The grieving will come soon enough.
She rose, moved silently to the sea chest at the foot of her bed, opened it, withdrew a clean mantle and small-clothes, and then left Alethea to her rest. She crossed the narrow companionway to her father's quarters and went inside. She stood for a long while, just looking at the room, but apart from the sea chest and a pair of boots in one corner, there was nothing of Duncan to be seen.
Cait lifted a large, shallow brass bowl from its peg and placed it on the sea chest, then filled it with water from the jar. She undressed then, and washed herself over the basin, letting the cool water sluice away the previous day's sweat and anguish and tears. The water felt good on her skin and she wished the bowl was big enough for her to submerge her entire body-like the great enamelled basins of the caliph's hareem her father had told her about once long ago.
When she finished, she dried herself with the linen cloth from the peg, and then, succumbing to her exhaustion at last, lay down in her father's bed. She moulded herself to the depression left by his body in the soft pine shavings of the box pallet, and closed her eyes on the grim nightmare of the day that had been.
But there was neither rest nor sleep, nor less yet any respite from the outrageous succession of misfortune that she had suffered in all that followed her father's death. To recall the stinging injustice of her predicament made her blood seethe.
For, presented with a corpse in their cathedral, the ecclesiastical authorities had fetched the scholae. When questioned by the leader of the troop, Cait had named the killer, and was immediately brought before a court magister, who listened politely to her story, and then conducted her forthwith to the Consul of Constantinople, a blunt, practical man with a short-shaved head of bristly grey hair. He sat in a throne-like chair beside a table prepared for his dinner, and listened while she repeated her charge; she told him everything, just as it happened-only to be informed that it was not remotely possible.
'You must be mistaken, woman,' the consul said frankly; his Greek, like that of the others she had spoken to, although different, could be understood readily enough. 'Renaud de Bracineaux is Grand Commander of the Templar Knights of Jerusalem. He is a priest of the church, a protector of pilgrims, upholder of the faith.'
'That may be,' Cait allowed. 'But I saw him with my own eyes. And my father named him before he died.'
'So you say. It is a pity your father died without repeating his accusation to anyone else-one of the priests, perhaps.' He glanced at the table, and stretched his hand towards his cup. 'I am sorry.'
'You mean that you intend to do nothing.' She felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her and she was plunging into a dark, bottomless pit, helpless to prevent it.
The consul gave her a thin, dismissive smile. 'Even if what you allege was in some way possible, I could not take action against this man based solely on what you have told me.'
'Because I am a woman.'
'Because you are alone.' The consul frowned, and then sighed with exasperated pity. 'Truly, I am sorry. But the law is clear: without the corroboration of at least two witnesses, I can do nothing.'
'The church was full of people,' Caitriona pointed out. 'Someone must have seen what happened.'
'Where are these people?' the consul enquired, lifting a hand to the empty chamber. 'Where are they to be found?'
'Do not mock me, sir!' snarled Cait, her voice growing cold. 'I know what I saw and there was no mistake.' Taking up the skirt of her mantle she spread it before her. 'This!' she said, shaking the cloth angrily. 'This is my father's blood I am wearing. De Bracineaux stabbed him. If you will not do anything about it, then I will.'
'I urge you to reconsider.' Angry now, the consul rose from his chair. 'Renaud de Bracineaux is a man of great esteem and even greater renown-a friend and favourite of both King Baldwin of Jerusalem and Emperor Manuel. He is a guest of the Basileus, and I would not presume to trouble him on the basis of the scant evidence you provide. Furthermore, I warn you: should you persist in repeating this accusation, you will certainly be dealt with most harshly.'
'Oh, I am through with accusations,' Cait informed the official icily. 'I may accept your judgement, but I will not suffer the injustice.'
With that, she turned her back and strode from the room. She wept in the street as she walked back to the cathedral, and then again as she sat with her dear father's body and waited for a hired cart to come and collect his remains, then to be taken to the church where he and Sydoni had been married. Following a short negotiation, an agreement was reached where, for a generous gift to the monastery, the brothers were persuaded to allow Duncan to be buried on holy ground-and according to Caitriona's specific conditions.
She left the body to be prepared for burial, and hired a chair and asked to be taken to Bucoleon Harbour; after waiting a considerable time, she had struck a bargain with the overbusy harbour master allowing her two days' berthing-again for a tidy fee.
Daylight was fading by that time, and so she returned to the Church of Christ Pantocrator to pray and wait with her father's corpse, which had been washed and wrapped in a clean linen shroud, and placed on a low board before the altar. She stayed through the night, lighting candles and listening to the monks chant the prayers for the dead. When the watch service was over, she left the church, waking the bearers she had paid to wait for her outside. They carried her through the still-dark streets down to the Venetian Quay where she roused a boatman who had ferried her to the waiting ship as day broke in the east.
Now she lay and listened to the sounds of the crewmen clumping around on deck as they set about moving the ship. She remembered the day Duncan had hired the hands-two brothers from Hordaland in West Norway. The elder, called Otti, was a large, hard-working fellow, rendered simple by a fearsome blow on the skull which, although cutting short his apprenticeship as a Viking, no doubt saved his life. The younger, called Olvir, was a dark, quiet, good-natured boy a year or so older than Alethea; since the death of their parents, he had the responsibility of keeping himself and his older sibling fed, clothed, and out of trouble.
After a time, she heard a splash, followed by the clunk of the anchor on to the deck, and soon sensed a change in the slow, rhythmical rocking of the ship. They were moving. For the briefest instant, she was tempted to go back on deck and order Haemur to sail for home… but no, not yet.
Soon, but not yet.
Cait slept for a while, but rose unsettled and unrested. She washed her face again, dressed in a clean undershift and mantle, and wrapped a handsome woven girdle around her waist; into this she tucked her father's purse, filled with silver, and a slender dagger which had once belonged to her great-grandmother, and which her grandfather Murdo had carried with him on the Great Pilgrimage. She then put on a gown of exquisite thin material-dark for mourning-and chose a long scarf which she folded over the crown of her head and wrapped around her throat so that the ends hung down her back. Then she went up on to the deck to break fast and wait for Alethea to rise and join her. But her sister was already awake. Little more than half-dressed as usual, Cait noticed sourly, she wore neither hat nor shoes, but merely a sleeveless shift which exposed her slender upper arms and shoulders. She was standing at the prow, tapping her palms on the rail in an attitude of agitation.
She whirled on her sister as Caitriona approached. 'Where is Papa? What's happened?' she demanded. 'Haemur would tell me nothing. Why are they moving the ship?'
'Thea,' said Caitriona, reaching towards her sister, 'listen -'
'Haemur said he was not to come with us,' she blurted, her face suddenly blotching with colour. 'Why would he say that?'
'Come and sit with me.' Cait put her hand to the young womans arm, and started towards the covered platform before the mast.
Alethea took two steps and then pulled away. 'No! Tell me now! Why are you doing this?' Her shout made the crewmen turn from their work to look at the two women.
'Please, Alethea, this is not seemly. Now, come and -'
'Tell me!' she demanded, crossing her arms over her breast.
'Very well,' Cait snapped, losing patience. 'Papa is not coming with us because he was attacked when we
