‘Not yet. But he is so badly injured he soon will be, that’s for sure.’ Robert told them what had happened. ‘I got him out of the water - I tied off the damaged arm. I tried to save him, Father.’

Orm stood. ‘We must sort this out,’ he said to Sihtric.

‘Of course,’ Sihtric said. ‘But, Robert, nobody will blame you if you tried to save this boy. And besides, the doctors here are better than you can imagine. Don’t despair - leave that to me.’ He winked at Orm. ‘Let’s go!’

They ran to their horses, and the three of them galloped away, leaving the scholars to clear away the drinks, to wipe the horse-raised dust from their plans and models and tables, and to return to their patient work on the tremendous arbalest.

XV

XV

Ibn Tufayl had ordered a hospital to be set up for his court in the ruined palace at Madinat az-Zahra. It was just a collection of tents, erected in the shelter of the walls of roofless rooms. Here Robert had to wait with Orm while Sihtric made inquiries about Ghalib.

After the hasty ride back from the arbalest, Robert was hot, dirty, his clothes still stinking of river-bottom mire and soaked through by Ghalib’s blood. He tried to think.

How would it be if Ghalib died? Of course it wasn’t his fault that Ghalib had fallen - it wasn’t his fault that Ghalib had been mucking about on the waterwheel in the first place, and he had risked his own neck by dragging Ghalib out of the water. But the fact was he had been flirting with Moraima, a Muslim girl, and the two boys wouldn’t have trailed around after them if not for that. Robert didn’t want the death of Ghalib on his conscience. And he didn’t want his burgeoning relationship with Moraima, such as it was, to be hauled into the light.

This was going to take some sorting out the next time he was in a confessional box.

Sihtric beckoned, and led them into one of the tents.

Robert was hugely relieved, if astonished, to find Ghalib sitting up in a chair. But his right arm terminated just below the elbow, a stump wrapped in clean white bandages. The boy looked pale, his gaze wandering; perhaps he was drugged. But he was alive, indeed he was conscious, and he didn’t seem to be in any pain. And when he saw Robert, Ghalib’s eyes filled with shame and anger.