'You were in Antioch,' Murdo said. 'I saw you there-in the chapel. You showed me how to find my way.'
'Did you find the way?' asked the white priest.
'I did,' answered Murdo. The air seemed to have become heavy and difficult to breathe. He stared at the monk, and noticed the torch burned with a silent flame which inexplicably produced no shadows. 'Are you the one called Andrew?'
The priest regarded him, his quick dark eyes gleaming with a disconcerting intensity. 'I am,' he said. He held his head to one side, as if listening. After a moment, he said, 'Night is far gone, and time grows short. Will you serve me, brother?'
Murdo swallowed hard. 'Forgive me, lord,' he said, 'I fear I must disappoint you, for I have no wish to become a monk.'
The priest laughed at this, and his voice echoed among the tiered ranks of bones and shrouds. Murdo felt a shock at the strangeness of such mirth in the silent realm of the dead. He glanced around quickly, as if fearing the sudden onslaught of that joyful sound might be enough to rouse the dead.
'I have monks enough, my friend,' the priest told him. 'But I need kings also.'
'I am no king,' Murdo replied, 'nor ever likely to be. Indeed, I am but a farmer.'
'A farmer without a farm?' Andrew mused. 'That is something new. But then all the world is turned upside down.' Holding Murdo with the strength of a gaze which pierced him to the quick, he said, 'But tell me now: when the king seizes the farmer's fields, may not the farmer assume the king's throne?'
Murdo shifted awkwardly under the intense scrutiny of the man's gaze.
'All you possess was given you for a purpose, brother. I ask you again: will you serve me?'
The question hung between them, demanding an answer. 'I will do what I can,' replied Murdo.
'If all men did as much,' the white monk declared, 'it would be more than enough.' He raised a hand to Murdo's shoulder. Murdo, fearing for his sunburn, winced in anticipation; yet, the touch was so gentle it caused no pain. Instead, as the monk's grip tightened on his shoulder, Murdo felt as if he were held in place by a mighty and exalted strength. Moreover, he sensed an ardent vitality of purpose flowing through the touch. Powerless to move or speak, Murdo could only watch and listen.
'Build me a kingdom, brother.' Brother Andrew gazed upon him, urging him, willing him to accept what he had heard, and believe. 'Establish a realm where my sheep may safely graze,' the earnest cleric continued, 'and make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.'
Before Murdo could think what to say to this extraordinary request, a voice called out from the catacomb entrance in the room beyond. 'Murdo! – are you there? We need the torch!'
'Ronan!' gasped Murdo. 'I forgot.' He turned towards the sound, and found that he could move again. He ran two steps, remembered himself, and looked back.
The priest was gone, the gallery lit with the light of Murdo's lone torch. The radiance of the vision had already vanished.
Murdo darted away; he ran down the narrow passage to the doorway which joined the two galleries. He ducked his head to pass through the low door, and ran back along the length of the first gallery to where Ronan was waiting at the entrance, holding a single torch.
'I am sorry,' Murdo said quickly. 'I was looking at some of the tombs.'
'Lead the way,' Ronan said. 'Our friends are anxious to return to their rest.'
At these words, Murdo glanced up and, looking behind Ronan, made out a line of monks stretching back up the steps to the crypt above. They were carrying the corpse-shaped bundles. Seeing Murdo's grimace of dismay, the elder priest bent his head towards him. 'The abbot insisted,' he whispered. 'I could not refuse. This way, we may finish before dawn.'
Straightening once more, Ronan called to those behind him. 'We are ready now. Follow on.' To Murdo he said, 'Go-I will stay here to light the passage.'
Retracing their footprints in the dust, Murdo led the line of monks to the gallery they had chosen. He did not like so many strangers entangled in his affairs, but with their help, the work of stowing the bundled treasure was quickly accomplished. When the others had been dismissed, Murdo and Ronan made certain the treasure was tucked well out of sight. Murdo then placed his father's shield below the niche to mark the place. When he was at last satisfied that nothing unusual could be seen by anyone, he allowed himself to be pulled away.
'Come along,' Ronan urged, 'it is getting on towards dawn, and we must return the camel to its owner.'
They quickly retraced their steps to the crypt and hurried out into the thin grey light of a fast-fading night. They crossed the yard, collected the camel and passed back through the gate, and it was not until they were well down the road that Emlyn noticed the smoothness and strength of Murdo's stride.
'Look at you now!' he exclaimed. 'You are running!'
Murdo had to admit that it did appear to be so; he could not explain it, but his feet no longer hurt him, and his sunburned skin was no longer painful to the touch. 'I suppose I am feeling much better,' he allowed.
'Oh, to be young again,' sighed Fionn, labouring along beside the disagreeable camel.
When they came again to the road leading past the Jaffa Gate, Fionn turned the animal westward and they began climbing towards a small cluster of farms nestled in the hills. Murdo fell into step beside the senior cleric. 'Are you truly an abbot?' he asked.
'Yes,' Ronan confirmed, 'but among our brotherhood, such distinctions are not so important that we make much of them.'
'What did you tell the priests?'
'Which priests?'
'Back there-at the monastery. They were not about to allow us to use their catacombs. But you spoke to the abbot. What did you tell them to make them change their minds?'
'The truth, Murdo,' replied Ronan. 'I simply told them the truth-that generally produces the most satisfactory result, I find.'
'You told them about the treasure?' cried Murdo, stopping in his tracks.
'Calm yourself,' the priest replied. 'Have a little faith, son. How could I have told them any such thing, when I vowed to uphold your secret? No. I simply said that these were the last remains of a very wealthy family, and that I had every confidence that you-the youngest surviving member of that noble family-would be most happy to give the monastery a handsome reward in exchange for keeping them safe until you return to take them away to your own country.' Ronan smiled. 'Was I wrong in any of this?'
Murdo shook his head at the priest's audacity. 'No,' he allowed, 'you were not wrong.'
At the first house they found a post in the yard, where they tethered the animal. They were just finishing this task when the farmer appeared in the doorway of the house. He shouted something at them, whereupon Ronan turned and spoke to him in his own language.
The man moved into the yard, clutching a stout wooden staff. Ronan spoke again, putting out his hand towards Murdo. The farmer stopped, regarded them coolly for a moment, and then answered, speaking quickly and harshly.
'What does he say?' asked Murdo.
'I have told him that we borrowed his beast, and have returned it. He does not believe me, however; he thinks we were trying to steal it.'
'Ask him if thieves pay for the things they take.' Murdo instructed.
Ronan obliged, and then said, 'He says the crusaders have taken everything else, and paid him nothing. Why should he think us better than the rest?'