Alethea fell back in the snow. De Bracineaux pulled the blade from his neck and turned on her. He lurched forward, slashing wildly with the dagger as blood coursed freely from the hole in his throat.

Rognvald rushed in, sword ready.

Alethea lay where she had fallen, gazing up at him-neither trembling, nor cowering in fear, but with calm defiance. Commander de Bracineaux took one step and then another. Blood cascaded from his wound, staining his beard and soaking into his tunic. He reached for her, the knife gleaming red in the sun. But as he made to strike, de Bracineaux's legs buckled beneath him. He fell on his side, blood spewing a bright crimson arc in the snow.

Rognvald, crouching behind his sword, put himself between Alethea and the Templar. De Bracineaux hauled himself on to his knees, regarding Alethea dully, as if trying to understand how a nun could have done such a contemptible thing to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came out in a dark, bloody bubbling which gushed over his teeth and chin, and splashed down his white surcoat, blotting out the red Templar cross on his chest.

Alethea rose to her feet, pushed past Rognvald and stood over de Bracineaux, gazing down with pitiless indifference at her stricken enemy. Unable to speak, he lifted uncomprehending eyes to her impassive face; his jaw worked, forming a single word: why?

'Because,' she said, as the wounded Templar slumped lower in the snow, 'Lord Duncan had two daughters.'

Rognvald rushed to Cait's side and knelt beside her in the snow. Alethea took a quick step and kicked the dagger from de Bracineaux's slack grasp. She stooped and retrieved the Blessed Cup, backing away as the Templar made a last scrabbling grab for it.

'My lady,' said Rognvald, 'you are hurt.'

'No,' replied Cait as she tried to get up. 'I -' The pain made her gasp.

Rognvald eased her down once more. 'Rest a moment. Let me look at the wound.' Dropping his sword, he shook the glove from his hand and pressed his fingertips to the side of Cait's neck just below the jaw where blood was oozing in a thin crimson sheet down her throat. 'It is a nasty cut,' he observed, 'but not deep, I think.'

'Help me to my feet.'

He was just gathering her into his arms to lift her, when there came a sudden rush from behind. Rognvald glanced back to see Baron d'Anjou bearing down on them-a savage leer on his face and a knife in his hand. He ran with surprising quickness, closing the distance in an instant. Rognvald spun around; knowing, even as he reached for his blade, that he would be too late, he placed himself between d'Anjou and Caitriona, shielding her with his body.

Yngvar darted in from the side, flailing with his sword as d'Anjou passed. The blade slashed, went wide. D'Anjou dodged the blow easily. Closing on them, he prepared to strike. Cait saw the baron's arm draw back, and then halt, its forward progress abruptly halted. The baron spun around and into Svein's fierce, bone-bending embrace. D'Anjou gave a little cry of surprise and Cait saw his spine stiffen as the Norseman's blade slid in beneath his ribs. The baron roared in anger and pushed himself away, slashing wildly with the knife. Rognvald snatched up his sword, stepped in behind, and with the action of a man putting a mad dog out of its misery, made a quick chop at the base of the baron's neck. D'Anjou staggered, the dagger spinning from his hand. As his knees gave way beneath him, he looked up at Cait with an expression of mild reproach. 'Damn it all,' he sighed, then pitched forward on to the ground beside the dying Templar.

Then everything became confused for Cait. It seemed as if a dense cloud descended over her, muffling sight and sound. She felt Rognvald's strong arms beneath her, sensed movement, and guessed that he carried her to the church. Alethea was there, holding the Holy Chalice, and several nuns flew around her, fussing and clucking while they cleaned and bandaged the wound at her neck.

Prince Hasan was there, too, and some others, including Brother Timotheus. There were voices, movement, and then she felt fresh air on her face once more, and saw the mountains gleaming in the sun… dead bodies in the trampled bloody snow… wounded men holding their seeping wounds… nuns with white hands binding brown Moorish limbs… horses, long winter coats lathered and wet, heads down, noses to the ground in exhaustion, their flanks steaming in the cold sunlight… And then it grew dark and when she awoke she was no longer in the church; she had somehow been transported to Dominico's house, and there were people talking somewhere nearby but she could not see them.

She raised a hand to her injured throat and felt the cloth of her bandage. She made to rise and the movement started a fierce pain throbbing in her neck. She lay back down and waited for the pain to subside, and listened to the voices in the next room-sombre, subdued, earnest.

After a time, the throbbing eased to a raw ache; she tried again to rise, more carefully this time, and succeeded in holding her head in a way that did not aggravate the wound again. She was light-headed, and slightly wobbly on her feet, but she steadied herself by the bed and then walked slowly to the next room. Rognvald was there, together with Prince Hasan and Brother Timotheus, while Dominico and his family flitted around them preparing a meal. Yngvar and Svein sat on a bench against the far wall, their long legs stretched out in front of them. Dag and Rodrigo sat on stools nearby, jars in hand, drinking in great thirsty draughts until the ale ran down their beards.

To a man, all were so preoccupied that no one saw her standing in the doorway. She took a step forward, and Elantra, Dominico's wife, glanced up and ran to her side. The others noticed the sudden movement and looked around to see Cait walking gingerly, aided by the diminutive woman. 'My lady,' said Rognvald; he was on his feet and beside her in an instant. 'Come, sit down.' He took her elbow and led her to the table as Elantra scurried back to the hearth. 'How do you feel?'

'Well enough,' replied Cait, scarcely recognizing her own voice. She sounded as if she had been swallowing chips of flint, and it hurt to speak; but, aside from the ache in her throat and a brace of bruises on her arm, she felt tolerably hale and whole. 'It seems you shall not be rid of me just yet.'

'Nor, I hope, for a very long time to come,' he said, his voice low so that the others did not hear. She glanced up and saw in his eyes a warmth of regard she had not seen before.

'I am sorry, Ketmia,' said Prince Hasan, rising from his place as they arrived at the table. 'We came as soon as Lord Rognvald reached us with news of the Templars' arrival, but if we had been here sooner…'

Cait did not let him finish. 'It is /who should thank you, my lord.' Taking his hands in hers, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'That is small thanks, but it carries all my heart. My debt to you is great, and grows ever greater.'

Turning to Rognvald, she said, 'I owe you more than I can say. Thank you, good friend. One day, perhaps, I will find a way to repay you.' She kissed him, too, and then sat down in the offered seat. 'Where is Alethea?'

'She is helping the sisters who are caring for Archbishop Bertrano,' replied Brother Timotheus, his tone grave. He paused to swallow down his emotion. 'They are doing all they can, but…' His voice faltered and he left the rest unsaid.

'It is not good, Ketmia,' Hasan told her. 'Halhuli is with them. Whatever can be done for the priest, will be done. Yet I fear there is little anyone can do but pray.'

'We were just discussing it when you joined us,' Rognvald said. 'His death will-'

'Heaven forbid it!' Timotheus put in. 'We must not give up hope.'