The moon was rising above the line of the hills so he had a good view of the bay spreading out before him. Directly ahead, no more than half a league distant, stood the nearest walls of Jaffa. To his right, there were more dunes, marching off along the coast in staggered ranks that formed a series of little valleys whose mouths opened towards the sea. Away on his left, he saw the silver arc of the coastline beyond the city, gleaming in the moonlight.
As he stood looking, he heard the unmistakable sound of a battle taking place far away to the south. So! he thought, Bohemond has found the Seljuqs. Before he knew it, his feet were moving towards the fight.
He moved along at an easy dog-trot, alert to the sounds around him. Though it would have been easier to walk along the water's edge, he considered he would be too easily seen, so Murdo decided to keep close to the dunes where he would be more difficult to spot and catch. After a while, he came to a place where the coast bent sharply to the right. As he could not see around this bend, he decided to climb up one of the nearby hills to discover what he could of the way ahead.
The moment he crested the hilltop, he knew what he would find-the battle sounds grew instantly louder as he stepped up to look over the top. Stretching below him was the long outward curve of the shoreline and the flats of a shallow beach. Midway between the glittering water and the sandhills was a dark swirling mass of men and horses where the battle was taking place. The sound of the clash echoed up from the sand, making it seem as if there were battles taking place in every wrinkled hollow and fold.
Uncertain what to do next, he hunkered down in the long seagrass to watch and wait. While watching, he became aware of a movement on the sands below-a company of men on horseback was fleeing the fight and riding directly towards him. Murdo lay down on his stomach in the tall grass and waited.
Closer, this dark shape resolved into a band of warriors-perhaps twenty in all-riding hard for the dunes. From the sheen of moonlight on their plumed helms, and from the quickness of their horses, Murdo could tell they were Turks. He pressed himself still closer to the sand and held his breath.
The enemy warriors raced by, disappearing into one of the little valleys between the sandy hills-only a few hundred paces further on from where Murdo was hiding. He watched and waited, and when the Turks did not appear again, he decided to find out what they were doing.
Creeping slowly, he moved along the sandy ridges, pausing to listen every few steps, until reaching the place where he had seen the enemy vanish. There he stopped. Down in the valley between the dunes, he could make out the large dark mass of something hidden in the shadows. No sound came from the object; nothing moved.
'The Arabs are a wandering people,' his father had told him. 'So they always travel with their tents and treasure-even in battle they keep their treasure with them.'
There were a dozen or more horses picketed directly beneath him, and he first thought the warriors must have quickly dismounted and tethered their animals there. Yet, upon glancing quickly to the valley entrance, he saw that the warriors themselves were still mounted. The Turks' backs were to him, they all appeared to be watching the battle taking place further up the beach.
Murdo gazed at the dark object hidden in the valley-with the extra horses ready and waiting-and knew he had found the amir's treasure tent.
When he was certain no one else lurked nearby, Murdo slid over the crown of the dune and down the other side. He crossed to the tent quickly, flitting out of the moonlight and into the shadow to squat before the odd-shaped tent-like a great black wing resting on the sand-its entrance rising to a single opening tall enough for a man to enter standing up.
He stepped cautiously to the opening and peered inside; from the little he could see, the interior seemed to be filled with boxes and chests of various sizes and shapes. He paused, listening for a moment, and then went in, nearly falling over a wooden chest just inside the entrance. The chest was large and bound with an iron chain which rattled slightly. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out still more articles in the gloom-rolls of cloth, numerous jars and basins, and caskets. Fumbling over these, he found a box that was not chained, opened it, and reached inside.
His fist closed on a quantity of coins. He withdrew a handful and held them before his face. They were golden bezants, and the chest was full to overflowing with them.
Straining into the darkness of the tent, Murdo began searching for the Holy Lance. The amir's plunder had been thrown into the tent in haste, and lay in a haphazard jumble. Crouching, crawling, Murdo picked his way among the chests and caskets, praying he would know the lance when he found it, all the time working his way slowly towards the back of the tent where he discovered a shambling mound of hastily-stored loot taken from the crusaders. His hopes rose as he waded in and began carefully pulling mail hauberks and long swords from the heap.
The voices outside the tent took Murdo by surprise.
Mind whirling, he ducked down and glanced towards the tent entrance and saw the dark shapes of horses moving outside. Murdo squeezed himself further back in the tent, hoping against hope that they would not come inside.
As Murdo shrank away from the entrance however, one of the guards entered, took up a box and backed out quickly; another guard followed and likewise took up a chest, and backed out of the tent.
Murdo's heart fell. The Turks had begun loading the treasure, preparing to carry it away. He edged further back into the tent, his mind whirling furiously, trying to think how he would escape.
Four more guards entered the tent in rapid succession and retreated with boxes, which they took to waiting pack horses. There came a little space while the chests were bound into place on the pack frames.
Murdo realized what this meant: of the twenty or so guards protecting the treasure, only six were loading and packing it. Judging from all the boxes and chests, it would take them a fair while before they worked their way to the back of the tent. Murdo steadied his faltering courage; he still had time to work.
The guards returned for more chests; Murdo counted them off one by one and, when the sixth had gone, sprang into action. Feeling with his hands in the dark, he seized upon various objects-bowls and cups, bags of coins, silken garments, banners, small aromatic boxes rattling with loose gemstones-discarding them even as he touched them. All the while, he listened to the Turks talking outside, trying to discern from the sound of their voices when they would return to the tent for more treasure.
The third time the guards returned, he heard their steps in time to hide again; but the fourth time, he had no warning at all. He had worked his way towards the centre of the tent, and was on his knees, feeling among the boxes, when the first of the guards entered the tent.
He froze in place, hoping he would not be seen in the dark. The man stooped, picked up a chest and backed out. Murdo crouched swiftly, trying to hide before the next guard entered. As he went down, his elbow knocked against a long rod-like object which was leaning against the top of the chest beside him. The thing slid down and struck against a box with a solid thump. Murdo's hand snaked out and caught the staff as it fell.
The slender object, cold and hard under its splendid winding cloth, filled his hand with such a familiar weight that he knew, even without looking beneath the silken cloth and braided cord, that he had found the Iron Lance. In the same instant, the Turks outside stopped talking. Murdo's heart clenched in his chest. Had they heard him?