CHAPTER TEN
'We are being followed.'
The voice stirred Cait from her brooding contemplation of the white, heat-bleached sky and the powder-dry road ahead. Cait lifted her hood and turned in the saddle to see that it was Rognvald who had addressed her.
'Forgive me. I would not intrude, my lady, but there is someone following us.' He addressed her in Norse, and his accent sounded, to Cait's ear, like the old fishermen who used to take refuge at Banvard when foul weather drove them into the bay. They were also from Norway, and the sound of the knight's voice reassured her; it made her feel as if she were speaking to some ancient relative.
'How many?' She cast a hasty glance over her shoulder-but saw nothing save the owner of the horses they had hired, and his two sons, bringing up the rear on their donkeys. Behind them the dust-dry track stretched back and back across the undulating hills to Damascus-now a small shimmering gleam in the heat-haze far behind them.
Rognvald said, 'Just one.' He regarded her curiously. 'Did you think there would be more?'
'Never mind what I thought,' she told him firmly.
'I believe,' he replied, 'you will have to tell me your secret sooner or later. Perhaps if you told me now, I could help you with it.'
'I have no secrets.' She looked back at the trail behind her and saw a small dark figure disappear swiftly over a faraway hilltop. 'At least none I care to discuss with you.'
'As you will.'
They rode on for a time, and Cait turned her thoughts next to the necessary steps ahead. Acquiring her bodyguard of knights was just the beginning. They would have to be properly clothed and armed, and they would need horses-all of which would be expensive; she would have to sell more, if not most, of the remaining valuables from her father's chest. She had offered to buy new clothes for them before leaving the city, but the knights preferred their rags to Saracen garb, which was all that Damascus had to offer. Nor could they buy any weapons- the Arabs were forbidden to sell to Christians under pain of death by a decree of Prince Mujir ed-Din. Cait had her dagger, but that thin blade was the only protection the party possessed. Once they reached Tyre, however, they could buy anything. The horses, at least, could wait.
'Why did you ransom us?' asked Rognvald.
'Hmm?' wondered Cait, half aware he had spoken to her. 'I already told you.'
'This pilgrimage of yours, yes. But as you will not tell me where we are going, I can only assume some deeper purpose.'
Cait thought for a moment. 'As a young man, my father visited the Holy Land,' she explained simply. 'He never reached Jerusalem, and always wanted to return and finish the pilgrimage. Last year he decided to do it, and to take Alethea and me with him; he wanted to show us the places he had visited.'
'Including prison?'
She frowned. 'My father was once a prisoner there.'
'So you said. Where is your father now?'
Cait's frown deepened. When she did not reply, Rognvald looked at her and saw her face clenched with concentration. She seemed to labour so long over the question that he drew breath to withdraw it; before he could speak, she said, 'We stopped in Constantinople to see the city and refresh our provisions. While we were there, one of Emperor Manuel's many nieces was married, and we went to the ceremony. It was held in the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, and thousands attended.'
She did not look at him when she spoke, but kept her eyes on the road ahead – although her sight had turned inward. And there was a softness to her voice that was not present before, a sadness.
'The service was over, and I followed the crowds out into the street to see the bride and groom away. My father remained inside, however, and when I returned, I saw him talking to a man. By the time I rejoined him, the man was gone and my father had been stabbed.'
'The man stabbed your father?' wondered Rognvald, incredulity creasing his brow. 'In a church?'
'He died in my arms,' affirmed Cait, nodding sadly. 'We buried him the next day in the graveyard of a monastery, and then sailed on to Damascus.'
'I see.' The knight nodded thoughtfully. 'So, in honour of your father's wishes, you are continuing the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.'
Cait frowned. 'No,' she said, then hesitated, unwilling to say more.
'Ah,' Rognvald guessed, 'here is where the secret arises.'
'There is no secret,' Cait insisted.
'Then tell me. Where are we going?' He regarded her with benign interest. 'Come, my reluctant lady, you have entrusted your life and that of your sister to us; you might as well entrust your secret.'
'I will tell you,' Cait decided at last, 'but not now. Once we are aboard ship-then I will tell you.'
Lord Rognvald accepted her decision. 'Agreed.' He smiled. 'I will look forward to hearing it.'
Cait turned to look behind again. 'What are we going to do about our follower?'
'There is a stream just ahead,' he said, pointing to a line of small, scrubby trees grey with dust. 'It is growing hot. We can rest there and see what comes.'
Cait agreed and the travelling party proceeded slowly to the line of trees. The stream turned out to be dry, the bed full of dusty rock and withered grass. But the patchy shade provided some relief from the heat and the savage onslaught of the sun. They dismounted and, while the owner of the horses and donkeys gave each of his beasts a handful of grain from a bag, the knights and seamen found places to rest under the trees. Rognvald rode a little apart and took up a position where he could watch the road.
Retrieving the waterskin from behind her saddle, Cait pulled the stopper and took a long draught; the water was warm, but it wet her lips and tongue, and washed the dust from her throat.
Owing to their long captivity, the knights were unaccustomed to the heat and sun, and unused to the saddle. They limped manfully to the little grove and flopped down, to lie exhausted in the mottled shade. After only half a day outside, their prison pallor was replaced by the radiant pink of sunburn. Cait watched them doubtfully; it would be weeks, she reckoned, rather than days, before they were back to fighting fitness. Thus, despite her impatience to hurry back to the ship, she resolved to adopt a slower pace for their sake.
Handing the waterskin to Otti, she told him to take a drink and pass it on, then sat down with her back to a treetrunk and closed her eyes. In a little while, she heard someone beside her and looked around to see Dag settling his lanky frame beneath the same tree.
'Why Stone-Breaker?' she asked after a time.
He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Well, now,' he said, 'I was born in Jutland, where there are a great many mounds and stones and such belonging to the Old Ones. It is a very fine place-sometimes a little cold, but the hunting is good. Once when I was out hunting with my brothers, we caught sight of an elk and gave chase. Even though I was the youngest, I was in the lead, ya?' He smiled at the memory, and Cait smiled, too, for he also sounded like the Norse fishermen whose voices rose and fell over the dips and crests of their words like a ship ploughing the ocean swell.
'Well, now,' he continued, 'as I raced along I passed one of these standing stones and as luck would have it my horse stumbled in a badger hole at that very moment, and I was thrown from my saddle. Well, I hit this stone, see.' He slammed his fist into his hand with a loud smack to demonstrate. 'I smashed into it head first and knocked it down. The stone fell and I fell. They thought I was dead, but when they came to look, they saw that I was still alive. And when they raised me up, they saw the stone was broken under me.' He grinned, his fine straight teeth a winning flash of white. 'I have been Dag Stone-Breaker from that day.'
Hearing their talk, Yngvar edged nearer to join them, and Svein, too. Cait noticed that Alethea, whose understanding of Norse was nowhere near as good as her own, was nevertheless listening with rapt attention to the handsome nobleman. 'Tell how you got your name, Svein,' said Dag with a nudge of his elbow.
'Nay,' he replied, 'it is never so exalted as Dag's tale.' But at the encouragement of the others, he sighed and said, 'My father kept hounds-every year he had to train up three good dogs to give King Sigurd in tribute. He had several fine bitches, but his favourite was a sweet-natured brown called Fala. A few months after I was born, Fala lost her litter. She was very disturbed over it, and would not eat or drink at all. My father gave her good meat on the bone, but still she would not eat.
