leading to a number of chambers, sub-chambers, and catacombs. Thus I was not surprised to learn that the cell he mentioned was of the old-fashioned variety: a simple bare room with a straw pallet piled with fleeces for sleeping; a small table with a large old Bible bound in brittle leather, and a single, fat candle in an iron holder; a low, three-legged stool; in the corner a tiny round hearth with narrow stone chimney above; and, next to it, a supply of wood and kindling. Beside the hearth was a covered wooden stoup filled with water; a wooden ladle hung by its handle from a leather strap. Atop the stoup lay a cloth bundle. The rock walls were white-washed, and a simple wooden cross adorned the wall above the bedplace.
In all it was a clean little room, reached after a short candlelit walk along a passage which joined a flight of steps leading from the Star Chamber, which was itself below the chancel of the church. 'All the comforts of home,' Evans said, tipping his candle to the one on the table, 'but none of the distractions.'
'I've always wondered what it would be like to be a monk. Now I will find out.'
'You will enjoy your stay, Gordon.' He stepped to the doorway. 'There is food in the bundle, and you will find a latrine in the next cell along.' He bade me farewell then and left me to begin my time of preparation. I listened to his footfall recede down the passageway, and heard the door shut a moment later, and I was alone.
I occupied myself with setting a tidy little fire on the hearth. This I did as much for the light and the cheery company of the flames as the warmth provided. I unwrapped the bundle and saw that it contained three large round loaves of bread, a lump of hard cheese, a half-dozen apples, and three dried fish. Not only would I sleep like a monk, I would eat like one, too.
I tried the bed, stretching myself out on the fleeces; it was simple, but comfortable-the straw was fresh, and there was a rough woven coverlet, should I need it. I was not particularly tired, so I got up, took the candle, and had a look at the latrine-again, a simple but serviceable affair which would meet my basic requirements. Returning to the cell, I placed the candle on the table once more and took up the Bible. I perched on the edge of the bed, adjusted the candle so that I could see the pages and opened the cover -only to discover that what I had taken for a Bible was in fact a large, heavy, antique volume entitled, The Mark of the Rose.
Curiosity pricked, I turned the pages and examined the text. I am no expert in these things, but I had ploughed through enough musty, dusty old books in various legal libraries to recognize a hand-printed tome when I saw one. There was neither colophon, trademark nor printer's stamp that I could see. Judging from the antique typeface and the way the heavy pages were bound, I guessed it had been printed anywhere from the mid to late 1700s. Considering its age, the pages were in remarkably good condition-indicating, I assumed, a prolonged and conscientious effort at preservation.
I returned to the title page and found printed beneath the title the words: prepared from the manuscript of William St Clair, Earl of Orkney.
The choice of words was interesting. It did not say that William had written the manuscript, but merely implied ownership. From this, I deduced that the manuscript in question was an older document from which the book I now held had been produced.
Thoroughly intrigued, I began thumbing the pages indiscriminately, and before long began reading. My pulse raced as, one after another, I began encountering the old familiar names: Ranulf… Murdo… Ragna… Duncan… Caitriona… Sydoni… Padraig… Emlyn… and others whose lives had now become so intimately known to me that I thought of them as friends.
I understood then how I was to use the time I was being granted. Settling back on my bed, I pulled the table close and, propping the book on my knees, turned to the first page and began to read.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Twenty-six days out from Cyprus, Persephone passed the Pillars of Hercules, leaving the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean behind and entering the green-grey foam-traced depths of the cold Atlantic. Almost at once, the fair warm weather changed. Brilliant blue, cloudless skies gave way to low, heavy grey ceilings of endless overcast; cold winds gusted out of the north-west, kicking up a rough chop which hammered the prow and kept the ship pitching and lurching from crest to trough for days on end.
No stranger to heavy seas, Haemur reduced the sail-once, and then again-and kept a firm hand on the tiller and an experienced eye on the heavens. When the rain and mist finally cleared, the Iberian coast came into view. Two days later they sighted the entrance to the great shallow salt-water bay which the locals called the Sea of Straw.
Weary of the wind and rain and bouncing deck, Cait gladly gave the command to make landfall, and in a little while they came in sight of Lixbona, with its wide and busy harbour tucked into the curved arm of coastline on the Tagus river. The white Moorish city, rising on terraced hills, glistened in the sun with a fresh, rain-washed gleam. The air seemed sharper, more invigorating, too-heralding an early autumn, Cait thought.
Persephone's eager passengers stood on the deck as the ship passed through the narrows and into the bay, and watched the city grow larger as more of the gently undulating hills were revealed to them. 'There is the al- qasr,' said Abu Sharma, pointing to the citadel sitting square atop the steep promontory overlooking the harbour.
'Do you know this place?' wondered Rognvald.
'No,' he said, and explained that the word simply meant 'fortress' in Arabic. 'And, look, there is the central mosq.' He pointed to a large, domed building with a tall, pointed tower rising beside it like a finger pointing towards Heaven. But the tower, or minaret, as he called it, was topped by a large wooden cross, and another had been erected in the centre of the mosq's bulging dome. For when the city fell to the Christians there had been no gross destruction; instead, the practical people of Lixbona merely converted the Muslim buildings to new uses: the fortress became the king's palace, and the mosqs were made into churches.
Thus, Lixbona resembled a true Damascus of the north: wide marketplaces, covered bazaars, mosqs, synagogues, and chapels scattered among the tall, white-washed houses with their elaborate screened balconies and flat roofs, on which families gathered after the day's work was finished. And like Damascus, it was a city of brisk commerce, too. The rolling brown Tagus was a well-travelled road along which the people of the fertile southern valley shipped grain, meat, wine, and green produce all the way from the craggy Sintra mountains to the coast.
Upon reaching the great river harbour, Haemur could find no berths along the huge timber wharf, so took a place among the ships anchored in the bay; while the seamen made Persephone secure, the others prepared to go ashore. After a few attempts, the knights succeeded in attracting the attention of a ferryman, who took them to the wharf. It was the first landfall since leaving Cyprus and it took some time to get used to solid, unmoving ground beneath their feet. For the knights, the day began and ended at the first alehouse they encountered on the street leading up from the harbour. Meanwhile, Cait and Alethea, accompanied by Olvir and Otti, purchased fresh provisions to be delivered to the ship. That finished, and with no wish to hurry back, they walked along the market stalls and marvelled at the variety of goods. Feeling generous, Cait allowed Alethea to buy a sky-blue beaded shift and mantle, and gave Olvir and Otti a similar amount to spend on two used, but serviceable, daggers. Ever since the knights began their arms training, she had noticed how the seamen lusted after their Norse companions' handsome weapons, and considered it would be no bad thing to arm her sailors as well.
By evening, they were back aboard the ship, and remained in the harbour for the night. Having discovered the Norsemen's fondness for ale, Cait thought it best to move on as quickly as possible, putting out to sea again at first light the next morning to continue their journey north along the coast. The evening of the second day, they arrived at Porto Cales, where again they stopped for the night. Haemur's chart was good, but not so exact that he felt confident to navigate the treacherous, often lethal waters of the rock-strewn coast ahead; he wanted to talk to the local fishermen and find out all he could about their destination. So they put in for the night and, while Abu and Haemur, with chart in hand, spent most of the next day conversing with the boat owners and sailors of the town, the others prowled the marketplaces-except for Svein, Dag, and Yngvar, who prowled only as far as the waterfront inn and remained blissfully occupied drinking ale until Rognvald came and fetched them back to the ship.
'The best counsel, my lady,' reported Haemur on his return, 'is to go up coast to Pons Vetus and hire a guide for the way ahead.'
'There are many ways to Santiago de Compostela,' Abu put in. 'The entire city is a shrine to Saint James the
