He thought it over. ‘My time in Spain - I didn’t know what to expect. That journey down through the country, the emptiness, the heat . . .’ He was shy about this, but he tried to express himself. ‘And when I walk into these marvellous places, the mosque, the palace - something inside me - it’s like a bird fluttering in my chest.’

She astonished him by placing her hand over his. ‘My father said you would be like this. You have your father’s muscles, but the soul of your mother.’

‘Whose soul does he say you have?’

‘His sister’s. My aunt, Godgifu, who died before either of us was born. And who loved your father, Orm.’

That was a shock. ‘I knew nothing of that.’

She looked at him directly. ‘Do you think love can cross generations?’

Confused, he turned away. ‘I didn’t come here for love. I came here because of my father’s business with yours.’

‘Yes. Our fathers are both veterans of Hastings, and I suppose something like that shapes you for ever. But the past is dead, gone, and they are old men. Who cares about our fathers’ business? We are young. We are the future.’

He looked at her. ‘You’re talking about us.’

‘What about us?’

He sighed, faintly irritated. ‘There you go again. You drop hints, and when I respond you turn away and go all coy.’

She smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t like it. Would you like there to be an us?’

He gazed at her, hot in his tunic of English wool. ‘You know I would, or you wouldn’t talk like this.’

She said, ‘But . . .’

‘But we’re so different. Muslim and Christian!’

‘There are ways around that. The People of the Book are tolerated here.’

He grunted. ‘Not in England, they’re not. And you’re becoming a scholar, as far as I can see. While I will never be anything but a soldier.’

‘There’s plenty of work for soldiers in Spain,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘Let’s keep it simple. Do you think it would be a sin before God or Allah if I kissed you?’

‘We could always find out.’ She stepped towards him. Her skin was the smoothest surface he had ever seen, utterly flawless, and as her full lips parted he could smell the subtlest spice, a pepper perhaps.

But there was a rude cry. ‘Hey, Christian! Take a look!’ It was Ghalib.

XII

XII

Orm paced out the mighty weapon.

The body of the shaft was forty paces long, perhaps two wide, and mounted on three axles. The bow itself, twenty paces from tip to tip, was made of wood layers, finely cut and polished, that ran in smooth, pleasing curves, gleaming in the intense sunlight. It was like a section of a boat, perhaps, or a monstrous piece of furniture.

‘You’ve used arbalests,’ Sihtric called. ‘Tell me about them.’