That night, when the column of Crusaders had made camp, Richard of Warwick made his way through the throng of camp followers. As well as those who looked after the oxen that pulled the baggage train, there were the others without whom an army could not function. Smiths plied their trade over hot coals: repairing armour and shoeing horses. Squires ran messages for their masters or hung around in small groups, gossiping away like village maids. Bakers crowded around their camp ovens, baking loaves for the days to come. Priests offered confession and penance. And then there were the others - those whose function was not quite so clear cut. It was amongst those that Richard, the Golden Knight, sought the person he was looking for.

Eventually, at the southern edge of the camp, Richard came across a tatty tent made of patched canvas. It was lit from within by the flickering light of a single tallow candle. The knight looked around, making sure that nobody was following him, before pulling the tent flap aside.

"Emrys Wledig?" Richard asked, his tongue mangling the ancient British syllables.

"Almost," came the reply. "And who are you being?"

The interior of the tent was filled scrolls and books. These had not been scattered haphazardly around the shelter. Instead, they were arranged in some form of order - but not one that Richard could fathom. A small cot had been placed in the middle of the tent; an old man was perched on the edge of the cot, his bald head bent low over a scribes lectern. When the old man looked up, it felt to Richard as if his soul was being laid bare by the gleam in the old man's eyes.

"I am Richard of Warwick - ."

"Also known as the Golden Knight," the old man completed. "I am aware of you, young Richard." The old man glanced up and down the knight. "You are not quite as I expected, though. Still, one must allow for some exaggeration in the songs sung by the bards."

Richard felt his ears grow hot. "There are many fantastic tales that have been told of me."

"And some of it may even be true." The old man took a deep breath. "I am Emrys."

"Did I not say that?" Richard asked hesitantly.

"No. But do not worry. Many Normans have mangled it worse." The old man rearranged himself on his cot. "Now, for what reason do you seek me?"

"I have been told that you speak many languages."

"And read them, aye." Emrys tapped at a pyramid of scrolls at his left-hand side.

"Do you speak the language of the tribes that dwell in these lands?"

Emrys laughed. "There are many tongues used here. There are the Jews, the Bedouin, the Turcomen, the ... ."

From the expression on his face, it looked to Richard like the old man would be content to name every group of people within a hundred miles of the camp. Richard lifted his hand. "Please. I only need to know what this means."

The scholar nodded. "This?"

"Al faris al dhahabiu." Richard stumbled over the words, trying to remember how the warriors in the desert had pronounced them during his brief encounter.

"You have mangled that as badly as you have mangled my name," Emrys scolded him.

"But you understand it?"

"Hmmph. Of course. It is the lingua franca used by most of the tribes here. I believe that the phrase is particularly appropriate."

Richard suppressed the urge to shake the truth from the old man. "Why?"

"It means 'the warrior of gold'." Emrys smiled at his visitor. "As I said, most apposite." The scholar's expression changed from mocking to thoughtful. "And now, if I may, why do you ask?"

"I heard it today." Richard found himself telling the old man about the skirmish that had occurred earlier in the day. Emrys listened to the tale.

"I understand why you are concerned," the scholar said when Richard had finished. "But, it seems that your reputation will do you nought but good. After all, if your enemies are more inclined to flee than to fight?" He raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose at the knight.

"It is still worrying."

"Put your mind at rest. Now, go." Emrys waved his hands in a shooing gesture. "I have studies to continue." He bent over his lectern once more. Richard opened his mouth to speak, to protest against the treatment that the old man was meting him, but it was obvious that it would do him no good. Instead, Richard left the tent.

"What use was that?" Richard grumbled. "Yes - he answered my question, but that was it. He did not tell me anything. How would those ... ." The knight stopped his tirade. There was something out of place in the atmosphere of the camp - something that worried his warrior instincts. He looked around, trying to place what it was that worried him. There - slipping through the gathering darkness, avoiding the pools of light cast by the torches and hearths - was a grey-shrouded figure. The figure ducked behind the tent that Richard had just left: the tent of Emrys Wledig. The Golden Knight gripped the pommel of his sword, surreptitiously drawing the blade from it scabbard, then followed the mysterious figure.

The figure was crouched at the rear of Emery's tent, out of sight from the rest of the camp. In the dim, yellow light, Richard saw the sallow face of one of the desert tribesmen. The intruder drew a dagger from within its cloak and, with a swift motion, cut through the patched fabric of the tent.

Richard moved quickly, without thinking. He raised his blade, then brought it down on the back of the crouched figure. The sharp edge sliced through cloth, flesh and bone in a deadly arc. For a moment, the figure stiffened before collapsing into the dirt.

"What was that?" Emrys fumbled at the slit in the tent, pulling it aside. Richard pointed with his sword at the fallen corpse.

"You had a visitor."

"I see." The scholar reached down and, with a singular lack of concern, pulled the dagger from the hands of the mysterious intruder. As he held it up in the candlelight, Richard saw that the weapon had a handle that was shaped like a flame. The scholar examined the dagger, turning it over in his hands, and nodded. "And a most interesting one at that."