mount to a trot, and came abreast of him. The slope of the hill dropped away to form a the rim of a bowl-shaped valley. There below them, in the centre of the bowl, lay a lake, its surface smooth and dark as polished jet. At the far side of the valley rose the mountain, not golden now, but brooding and dark, its top obscured by the clouds, its lower slopes covered with a dense forest of pine-each bough of every tree now bending beneath the heavy weight of snow.
'This is the place,' said Cait, hardly daring to speak aloud for fear that it would vanish mysteriously, leaving them no closer than before.
'Maybe we will not have to sleep in tents tonight,' Yngvar said, pointing away across the valley to the far side of the lake.
Cait looked where he indicated and saw a cluster of buildings and a few enclosures for cattle-little more than a smoke-grey smudge in a field of white. She turned and called behind her to Rognvald and the others who were just coming up to the crest of the hill. 'There is a settlement!'
Without waiting for the others, Cait started down into the valley, keeping her eye on the tiny village which was already fading into the gloom of twilight. She had reached the side of the lake and started around when Rognvald caught her. 'Do you think Alethea is there?'
'I pray she is,' Cait replied. 'But I hardly dare believe it might be true.'
'Then I will believe it for both of us,' replied Rognvald.
'Do you never grow tired?' she asked.
'Tired of the trail?'
'Tired of the search-the endless riding and riding, always searching, never finding. The futility of it all… I am weary to the bone with it and I would to God it were over. One way or another, I wish it would just end.' She looked at his face, a pale softness in the winter gloaming, unmoved by her sudden outpouring of despair. 'I suppose now you despise me for being a weak and flighty woman.'
'My lady,' he said, his voice low. He did not turn his eyes from the snow-covered trail ahead. 'You are the most stalwart woman I know.'
That was all he said, and they spoke no more. But it gave Cait a warm feeling that lasted long into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It was dark and the snow was deep by the time they reached the settlement. If not for the faint glow of light from the windows of several of the houses, they would have been lost in the snowy void of night. Rognvald halted a few dozen paces from the nearest dwelling: a low hovel built of turf and timber and thatched with tight-bundled reeds from the lake.
There was a small window covered with oiled sheepskin and set deep under the drooping eaves. A fine ruddy glow showed in the window and under the edge of the rough door. 'It is a cow-byre,' said Dag, regarding the rustic house. 'But there is a fire, at least.' The others remarked that they did not care if it was a hole in the ground so long as it was a dry hole.
'Let us see if they are of a mind to receive us,' said Cait, and Rognvald dismounted and walked to the house. He stooped to the door and rapped on the planking. He waited, rapped again, and called out.
When nothing happened, he pulled the leather strap which lifted the wooden latch, pushed open the door, and looked inside. Warm golden light spilled out on to the snow, making the new whiteness glisten like fine samite.
'There is no one here,' he reported to the others who sat looking on.
'Do you think they saw us coming and have gone into hiding?' said Yngvar.
'He would be a blind man who saw you coming and did not hide,' replied Svein.
'Listen,' said Rognvald, holding up his hand for silence.
From somewhere in the village there came the distant, bell-like sound of voices lifted in song. The words seemed to come drifting down out of the sky with the falling snow-as if angels were singing, the notes clear and ringing in the softly silent air. Cait listened to the slow, majestic strains and her breath caught in her throat: it was a song she had sung at home in Caithness every Yuletide since she was old enough to remember the words.
The realization brought tears to her eyes; before she knew it they were running freely down her cheeks. Here, she thought, in this place. How could it be? Quickly, lest the others see her, she rubbed them away with the backs of her hands.
'Do you hear?' said Rognvald.
'It cannot be Latin,' said Svein. 'Or Arabic.'
'And it is not Danish or Norwegian,' added Yngvar.
'Nor Spanish, I think,' offered Dag, none too certain. Rodrigo shook his head.
'No,' Cait told them, 'it is Gaelic.'
'You know it, my lady?' asked Svein.
'I know it well.' She raised her face to the falling snow and sang:
'lompaim siar go dti Goiroias,
an Chathair Tintri,
Dun an tSolais,
Dun Gleadhrach Gloir,
Dun Feasa,
Baile don Tiarna loldanach…'
Her voice, gentle and melodious in the snow-smothered silence, wrought a magical change in the knights. They stared at Cait with rapt, almost ecstatic expressions of amazement-as if she had suddenly sprouted wings.
'What does it mean?' asked Rognvald when she finished.
'It is an old invocation,' she replied. 'It means:
I am turning towards the West,
towards Goirais, the Fiery City,
Fortress of Light,
Fortress of Blazing Glory,
Fortress of Wisdom,
Home of the Many-Gifted Lord…'
She broke off suddenly, aware of the wondering stares of the knights. 'It is part of a Yuletide ritual performed by the Cele De,' she explained.
'Yuletide,' remarked Svein. 'Can it be the Christ Mass?'
'This way,' Dag said, starting off along the path leading into the settlement. The others followed, and they shortly arrived at a small village green. At the end of the green was an odd round building of rough mountain stone. Larger than any of the surrounding houses and barns, it was roofed with turf, and topped by a wooden cross. A round window above the chapel door allowed light to stream out into the darkness-along with the clear, poignant strains of the song the congregation was singing.
The knights, so rapt in their fascination with the song, remained motionless in their saddles, listening as the last notes of the graceful melody faded away.
'If it is the Christ Mass,' said Yngvar, breaking the silence at last. 'Let us go in and join the celebration.'
Svein and Dag were out of the saddle and hurrying towards the door before he finished speaking. Rodrigo and Yngvar followed. 'Lady,' said Rognvald, 'it seems we are going to church.'
'So it seems, my lord, and not before time.'
As they dismounted, the congregation inside the chapel began singing again. Recognition caused Cait's heart to beat faster; she halted in midstep to listen.
'A Fionnghil,
A Lonraigh,
A Feasaigh… Tiana anocht… Tiana, Naofa Leanbh, anocht
