'And God go with you too.' The priest was a skinny man, Robert saw, but with a pot-belly that spoke of indulgence. He studied Orm, who towered over him. 'Well, Viking. When did we last meet?'
'William's coronation. Nineteen years gone, or the best part of it.'
'I wish I could say I was glad to see you. But life is more complicated than that, isn't it? And this is your son.' He turned to Robert, grinning. 'The ardent pagan spawned a devout Christian. How amusing.' He laughed out loud.
Robert was irritated to be spoken of in this dismissive way.
But then Sihtric's daughter lifted her head and looked directly at Robert, and he forgot his irritation. Surely she was only a little older than he was. Her face was a perfect oval, the colour of honey, her lips full and red, her nose fine, and her eyes bright blue.
'Her name,' Sihtric said drily, 'is Moraima.'
Robert barely heard him. He was already lost.
II
They stayed a single night in Santiago de Compostela, and then formed up into a party to ride south. They planned to travel all the way to Cordoba, no longer the capital of a western caliphate, but still the beating heart of Muslim civilisation in Spain.
And, Robert learned, 'ride' was the correct word.
They would all be on horseback, their goods carried on the backs of two imperious-looking camels. When they set off, Ibn Hafsun led the way. Robert was expected to bring up the rear, with his eye on these camels. He quickly found it was no joy to plod along immersed in camel farts and hot dust, with nobody to speak to.
What was worse was that the girl, Moraima, rode at the front alongside Ibn Hafsun, never closer than two or three horse-lengths from Robert.
'For such an advanced civilisation,' Sihtric observed, 'the Moors are oddly reluctant to employ the wheel.'
Ibn Hafsun just grinned. 'Who needs wheels when Allah gave us camels?'