'That is precisely why we must get it back,' de Bracineaux pointed out.

'Why?' The baron picked his teeth with the point of the knife.

'Before someone else finds the letter and realizes its worth. My God, d'Anjou,' he blurted in frustration, 'what have we been talking about?'

The Baron of Anjou sniffed. He stabbed a fig and raised it on the end of his knife. 'All the more reason to forget the girl and go for the treasure instead-before someone else gets there first.'

The commander regarded his fair-haired companion for a long moment. There was definitely something unnatural about him. In all the time Renaud had known him, he had never seen Felix d'Anjou sweat. The sun might scorch like an oven, but the pallid baron seemed always at his ease. By the same token, nothing ever rankled him; nothing ever perturbed, bothered, aggravated, or upset him. He seemed to have no feelings at all, but met each and every trial with the same unassailable equanimity. Some might consider such supreme and disciplined poise to be courage or confidence, but de Bracineaux knew it was neither.

'Unless, of course, you merely wish to gratify your deep desire to punish the slut for trespassing on your good nature,' d'Anjou continued, 'then I could quite understand such a pointless preoccupation.' The baron took a bite of the fig, then flipped it over his shoulder and sent it spinning into the garden to join the pear. 'But with things as they are, I daresay you would be better employed pursuing this Mysterious Rose Blossom, or whatever you call it.'

'God's wounds, d'Anjou,' replied de Bracineaux slowly, 'but I begin to see a sort of sense in what you say.'

He splashed some more of the chilled lemon water into the tall silver beaker in front of him, lifted it and rubbed the cool metal over his forehead before gulping down the sweet-sour liquid.

'We could leave as soon as troops arrive from Jerusalem,' said the baron. His blade hovered above the fruit bowl ready to strike. 'The weather will stay good. We can reach Asturia-or wherever this cleric may be – well before autumn.'

'As to that,' the Templar commander rejoined, 'I have twenty men garrisoned in the city. That is a force of sufficient strength. I cannot imagine we would need more. We can depart as soon as provisions are put aboard. We can leave tomorrow morning.'

'Better still.' D'Anjou's dagger flashed down, splitting the smooth skin of a plum. He raised the fruit; red juice trickled down the blade like blood. 'What of the emperor?'

'We will simply tell our host that we have been called away on urgent Church business, and beg his leave to depart at once. I am certain his niece and her new husband will find ways to amuse themselves until we return. Anyway, the Poor Soldiers of Christ have better things to do than provide escort for over-pampered newlywed royals.' He sipped from his cup, adding, 'It is beneath us.'

De Bracineaux set down the beaker and rose as if he would set off for the harbour that very moment. He looked at the white sunlight beating down on the rooftops of the surrounding wings of the palace. The heat shimmered in waves before his eyes. He promptly sat down again. 'Gislebert!'

He had to shout twice more before rousing the sergeant from his nap in the next room. 'There you are. Fetch me a runner, sergeant. I have a message for the emperor.'

Emperor Manuel Comnenus reclined on a couch beneath a sunshade of blue silk stretched between gilded poles. The thin fabric rippled in the light breeze of the garden as he lay with his hands folded over his compact, well-muscled chest, listening with half-closed eyes as a robed official read to him from a large scroll entitled Ecloga Justinian. The aged courtier's thin, nasal voice droned in the quiet of the sun-soaked garden, keeping the emperor from his midday sleep. Two small, half-naked children splashed in a fountain under the watchful eye of a white-robed servant in a broad-brimmed red hat.

At the approach of the papias he roused himself, rolling up on to his elbow. The official bowed low, his chain of office almost touching the ground. 'Well?' demanded Manuel irritably.

'Grand Commander de Bracineaux has arrived, Basileus.'

'Good. Let him wait on the terrace.'

'Basileus,' said the courtier, 'the sun…'

'Yes? What of the sun?'

'It is very hot on the terrace, your majesty.'

'Let him wear a hat.'

'Of course, Basileus.'

The old man had stopped reading while this exchange took place, and as the papias departed, the emperor turned to the reader and said, 'Pray do not stop, Murzuphlus, even for a moment, else we shall never get through this.'

He returned to his reclining position and listened for a while longer, and then, when he was ready to hold audience, he rose and thanked the old man, saying, 'We will return to this tomorrow.' Calling an order to the white-robed servant to take the children inside out of the sun, he then proceeded to the terrace. As he entered the gallery, he was met by two courtiers-the protovestiarius and the silentarius. The first held out a long sleeveless robe of purple with pomegranates embroidered in thread of crimson and gold; Manuel drew on the robe and stood patiently while the laces were tied. Meanwhile, the second offered him a blue peaked hat with a brim like the prow of a ship in front, which the emperor allowed to be placed on his head.

The silentarius bowed and then, walking backwards while holding aloft his ebony rod of office, he led the emperor to the terrace where an extremely hot and uncomfortable de Bracineaux was waiting.

'Ah, there you are, commander,' said the emperor; he made it sound as if he had been searching for the Templar for most of the day.

De Bracineaux swallowed down his annoyance. 'It is a pleasure, Basileus, as always.' He smiled, sweat streaming from his red face.

'It is very pleasant out here,' Manuel said, walking to the terrace rail. Below the city walls he could see the Golden Horn gleaming like beaten metal in the hot sunlight. He watched the boats which ceaselessly worked the wide stretch of water. 'We never grow tired of the view.'

'It is a fine view, Basileus.'

'It is, yes.' The emperor stood at the rail, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out across the water to the hazy blue hills beyond, lost, so it seemed, in a reverie.

De Bracineaux waited a few moments, but when the emperor appeared to have forgotten him, he cleared his throat and said, 'You wished to see me, Basileus, I believe.'

'Did we?' wondered the emperor. He turned to the commander and regarded him mildly. 'You should put off that heavy surcoat, commander,' he observed. 'You look like an ox on the spit.'

'It is warm, yes, Basileus,' agreed the sweating Templar. The sun beat down on his red, uncovered head.

Manuel smiled. 'We received a message that you wished to leave Constantinople.'

'With your kind permission, Basileus. A matter of some importance has arisen which requires my presence elsewhere.'

The emperor accepted this. 'Are we to know the nature of this important matter?' His glance became keen as he watched the Templar commander try to avoid answering the question.

'It is a procedural matter, Basileus,' replied de Bracineaux with slight hesitation. 'I would not presume to inflict the minutiae of our Order on you, your highness.'

'Procedure can be fatiguing, we find.' The emperor drew breath and turned once more to the folded hills rising above the wide sweep of the Golden Horn. 'Nevertheless, you may consider that we have matters of importance which require your presence here, Grand Commander de Bracineaux.'

'But your highness -' de Bracineaux started to object.

The emperor cut off his protest with a wave of his hand. Without looking at his visitor he said, 'My niece and her new husband will be returning to Tripoli in a few days. You agreed to escort them, and we are inclined to hold you to your agreement.'