'Murdo!' cried the priest, running up to him. 'Oh, fy enaid, what have they done to you?'
Removing his own mantle, the much-relieved monk spread the garment gently over Murdo's sunburned shoulders. 'Here, now, let us get you out of the heat. Come, the hospital is just beyond that hill-not far. Can you walk, or should I carry you? Oh, Murdo, what has happened? No, do not say a word. There will be time to talk later. Save your strength. Come with me, my son; you are safe now. I will take care of you.'
Gently, gently, the good brother turned Murdo and led him by the hand up the hill to a nearby olive grove where the crusader lords had established a camp for the care of the wounded and sick. There, in the shade of the olive trees, priests and women-the wives and widows of the soldiers-moved quietly among the rows of tents, tending their charges. Despite the calming presence of the monks, the camp throbbed like a restless sea with uneasy sounds: the ceaseless moaning of the wounded over their injuries, the cries and whimpers of the dying, the juddering shrieks of the afflicted in their nightmares.
Emlyn led the unresisting Murdo to a place on the edge of the camp, and sat him down beneath the leafy branches of a low-growing tree. 'Rest here, and do not move,' he instructed. 'I will bring you some water.'
The cleric hastened away, and returned a few moments later, red-faced and puffing, bearing a gourd full of water, which he lifted to Murdo's mouth. 'Drink you now. Open your mouth, and wet your tongue.' Murdo did as he was told. 'Here now, drink a little.'
The water filled his mouth and he swallowed it down, and then began to drink in long, gasping, greedy draughts. 'Slowly, slowly now,' Emlyn warned, pulling the gourd away. 'Take your time, lad; there is plenty.'
Murdo put his hand to the gourd and brought it back to his mouth. 'The Saracens have poisoned every well and spring for many leagues around the city,' Emlyn told him. 'Until yesterday, the water must be fetched from the heights of Palestine, and beyond. We can get it from the city now, so drink it all.'
When at last Murdo pushed the gourd away, the monk sat back on his heels. 'Look at you, my friend. What has happened to you? Ronan and Fionn will be happy to know that you are safe once more. We worried when you did not return with the others after the city was taken. I shall tell them the glad news as soon as they return-they are with King Magnus at the council. I was given leave to search for you. Are you hurt?' Without waiting for a reply, he began examining Murdo's limbs and torso. 'I do not see any serious injuries -' he announced at last, 'save that you have been too long in the sun. I can make something for that, I think.'
Laying the gourd aside, Emlyn hurried off once more. Murdo leaned back, felt the cool shade on his sun-beaten head. All at once the water he'd drunk came surging up once more; he felt it swirl inside him and then it filled his mouth. He leaned forward on his hands and vomited. He felt better instantly and lay back, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Though it seemed only a moment, when he awoke again the grove was in deep shade. Across the valley, the walls of the Holy City glowed with the golden light of the westering sun. Murdo lay for a time, unable to think where he was, or what had happened to him. But as he gazed at the shining walls and the dark smoke billowing up in gilded columns, the whole terrible ordeal came winging back to him as if from a very great distance.
The tears came at once to his eyes, and Murdo wept. He saw again the poor drowned child, the helpless murdered babies, the burned Jews in their temple, and tears flowed down his cheeks and splashed onto his stomach and thighs. He gasped for breath and tried to stem the flood of sorrow, but it bore him up and carried him away, and he was powerless to resist. His body began to shake, and he was convulsed by loud racking sobs which tore up from his throat as if loosed from the bottomless black pit that was his soul. Great ocean waves of grief and shame rolled over him, and he, a rag tossed up and dragged under with each new surge, wept and wept-until oblivion claimed him once more, and he slept again.
It was late the next day when Murdo woke and looked up through the leafy branches of the olive tree to a yellowing sky. He yawned and wondered how long he had been asleep-one day? Two? He had a vague memory of being roused from time to time and made to drink sweetened water, but no real sense of how much time had passed. As he pondered this, he became aware of a peculiar sound and realized it had awakened him: a droning, incessant, sharp-edged crackle falling from somewhere high above.
Turning his eyes to the sky, he saw that the crackling sound came from an enormous whirling dark cloud across the valley: thousands upon thousands of crows and ravens and, higher still, innumerable vultures and eagles.
Murdo gazed in awe at the endlessly swirling, squawking mass. He followed the downward spiral of their flight to a triple-peaked mound beside the road-the corpses of the crusaders' victims heaped into a pale mountain outside the northern wall. The mountain was alive with carrion birds.
Turning away from the sight, he sat up-wincing from the pain of his blistered skin. He touched his chest, and his fingertips came away slick and greasy. Looking around, he discovered that he lay on a mat of woven grass, naked beneath a thin cloth; his belt and knife lay beside him-along with Emlyn's mantle, neatly folded, and a gourd full of water which he took up at once and drained in long gulps.
His back and shoulders felt as if he had been scourged and then dragged by wild horses through flaming coals. There was a gnawing ache in his empty stomach, and his eyes and lips throbbed. But it was not until he tried to stand up, that the fiery pain in his feet burst upon him. He fell back whimpering; the soles of his feet were gashed and torn, the skin hanging from them in shreds.
He groaned, squeezing his eyes tight against the pain and breathing in quick, panting gasps. This awakened Emlyn, who was lying behind him on the other side of the olive tree. 'Murdo!' he cried, rolling to his knees. 'You have come back to us! How do you feel?'
Before he could answer, the priest said, 'Are you hungry? There is bread and broth; I will get some for you.' He darted away before Murdo could think to call him back.
Unable to lie down again for the pain, Murdo leaned on his elbow and looked out towards the city. The shadow of the hillside stretched across the valley, and the ferocious heat of the day was abating. He could see men and wagons moving on the roads outside the city. Although he could remember all too vividly what he had witnessed in Jerusalem, he could not recall what had happened when he left the city, nor how he had come to be in the olive grove.
He pondered this until Emlyn returned a little while later, bearing a big wooden bowl and two flat loaves under his arm. 'The pilgrims here have been starving for months,' he said, 'but now that the city is free, food is more plentiful.'
Yes, thought Murdo grimly, and I know why: the dead eat very little.
Settling himself beside the tree, the monk helped Murdo sit up, and placed the bowl in his lap. Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, he put it in the broth to soften it. 'Ronan and Fionn were here for a while today. They helped me prepare the unguent for your burns and cuts.'
'Where are my clothes?' Murdo asked in a voice as dry and rough as gravel. Taking up the spoon, he began to eat.
Emlyn shook his head. 'God knows,' he said. 'You are as I found you. I feared you had been set upon by Saracens. You were dazed by the sun, I think, and could not speak.' The priest looked at him with large, sympathetic eyes. 'Were you attacked?'