'Amen!' shouted the newly-recruited soldiers of Christ.

Murdo glared darkly at Torf and Skuli, who remained blissfully unaware of their younger brother's poisonous stare as they fingered the white cloth crosses and argued with Paul over whether it was best to wear them on the front or back. The interminable service finally over, Lord Ranulf led his family out of the church. Murdo shuffled after them, head down, defeated, and collided with Paul when the family was halted just outside the door by a monk in a brown robe. The cleric exchanged a brief word with Ranulf, who made a courteous reply, and then turned and announced, 'We have all been invited to observe the feast at the bishop's table.'

Murdo heard this and hope rekindled in his heart. The bishop's board was renowned throughout the isles, and second only to the jarl's table. Murdo allowed himself a smile at his unexpected good fortune. The bishop's table! Such lavish bounty, such wild abundance-who could have foreseen it?

The monk led them across the crowded courtyard, through an arched doorway, and into a sunny, cloistered square where at least ten long tables had been erected on the green. There were a good many people already gathered here and, to Murdo's increasing dismay, more, and still more guests, were arriving by way of other doors along the cloisters.

As no one had been given leave to sit, everyone swarmed onto the green, eagerly awaiting the summons to dine. There were so many! Had the bishop invited the entire congregation? By even the most casual estimation, Murdo reckoned he would be fortunate indeed to get so much as a gravy-soaked crust. And this, a true feast-day-in Murdo's regard, second only to the Christ Mass at Yuletide. All the other festal days, so far as Murdo could see, were unutterably dull and tedious, requiring, as they did, mass and prayers and obscure observances of various kinds. And anyway they were not true feasts at all since no special food was ever laid on, and chores still had to be done despite spending the whole day in church, which meant that he often ended up working in the dark, a thing Murdo loathed.

Saint John's day, however, was different. Though he still had to go to church, that hardship was made more endurable by the fact that, however long the services-and they could be bone-achingly endless – there was the promise of good meat and ale and cakes afterwards. Occasionally, one or another of the priests was invited to Ranulf's board-an invitation, Murdo noticed, that was never, ever declined – and this made the festivities even better. Though Murdo resented the clerical intrusion, at least when monks were present the lord and lady tended to offer more lavish fare. Also, folk from neighbouring farms often joined in, bringing food and drink with them so that the resulting feast was a celebration worthy of the name. What is more, falling as it did at midsummer, the festivities of this special day would inevitably extend far into the long-lingering twilight.

But now… now it was all ruined. Murdo watched the multitude assembling and his heart sank; he could not see how so many people could be fed, let alone feasted. There were not enough cakes and ale in all Orkneyjar to fill them. His stomach rumbled and he abandoned any hope of an adequate meal.

He was still occupied with this grim thought when he heard someone hail his father, and glumly looked around to see who might be joining them at the table. He saw a man he knew-Lord Brusi Maddardson-striding purposefully towards them across the green with his family straggling along in his wake.

Like Lord Ranulf, the Maddardson clan farmed a large estate on the island of Hrolfsey and consequently attended the same councils as Murdo's father. What is more, Murdo's mother and Lady Ragnhild were childhood companions, and had maintained a warm friendship over many years. The lord of Hrolfsey had three sons, the youngest of which was Torf's age, and one daughter, Ragna, who was only a year or two older than Murdo.

Owing to his age, Murdo had never been of interest to the brothers Maddardson, who always preferred the company of Torf and Skuli to the point of excluding Murdo entirely-not that Murdo minded overmuch, for he found the older boys frivolous and loud, interested only in fighting, boasting, and besting one another.

Ah, but Lord Brusi's daughter was as different from her brothers as moonbeams from muck. She was, in Murdo's opinion, the sole saving grace of the entire Maddardson tribe. And this day, with its relentless indignities and insults, he had need of the sweet solace he always felt in her presence. Indeed, but one glance at the golden-haired Ragna approaching across the greensward, and the low dark clouds of despair parted and the sun shone full on Murdo again.

Tall and willowy, and with a fair and shapely form, the smooth-skinned Ragna embodied Murdo's idea of female charm. She possessed a kindly disposition, but was neither overly timid, nor too fastidiously female for Murdo's liking. Intelligent, and with a ready tongue to match, she held her own in any company, and Murdo respected that. To Murdo, her forthright demeanour seemed more boyish than maidenly, and it always struck him anew whenever they met; on those rare occasions, he wondered if it resulted from the fact that she was raised in a family of men, or whether her nature was in some way ordained by her childhood deformity.

The way Murdo heard it, she had been but a toddling babe when Lord Brusi's swineherd, upon hearing a squealing commotion, discovered her lifeless body in a field the pigs were gleaning. Upon driving off a recently-farrowed sow, he scooped up the child and, thinking only to wash away the mud and blood from the little mauled corpse, plunged her into the water trough. The cold shock revived her, whereupon the astonished swineherd ran with the screaming babe all the way back to the house where her wounds were swiftly tended. The damage was done, however; her badly-mangled foot had never straightened, resulting in a stutter-step limp. The horrid gash to her mouth had healed in time, and was not usually noticed until she smiled: the hair-thin scar lifted the corner of her lip slightly, making her appear always somewhat sly and subtly mocking.

None of this mattered to Murdo; he had never considered these flaws to mar her beauty. To him, she was good and kind and smart, and far, far better than her brothers, or his own. Those few and infrequent times when they were together, he always came away with a craving for more – as if a feast had been spread before him and he had received but a single taste.

He looked at her now, dressed in a gown of pale green, with a yellow mantle, and he thought she had never looked so womanly. His heart quickened. He drank in the sight of her, and felt a quiver of joy leap up within him; and the ruin of the day receded.

Then he remembered he was not alone. Murdo's gaze shifted quickly to where Torf, Skuli, and Paul stood, as yet unaware that they were about to be joined by the Maddardson tribe. Good, he thought, and breathed easier; they had not seen her.

Then Torf looked up, saw the approaching clan, and nudged Skuli; Paul turned his gaze to where the others were looking, and Murdo watched beastly grins appear on all three faces. Skuli made a crude gesture with his thumb and fingers, and then all three sniggered obscenely. Murdo, embarrassed beyond words, wished the ground would open and swallow them whole.

For her part, Ragna gazed steadily and placidly ahead, her clear hazel eyes untroubled beneath the delicate arches of her fine brows, her lips neither smiling nor frowning, her elegant features impassive to all that occurred around her. Indeed, it seemed to Murdo that though their feet touched the common turf, Ragna walked in flowered fields far beyond the cathedral's cloistered walls. Obviously, the dull proceedings around her were unworthy of her regard. And why not? Ragna was finer than any mere princess, after all.