For a moment, Alais thought her heart had stopped beating. Then shock and fear hit her in equal measure. She spun round and started to run back through the water, sliding, slipping in the mud, instinct telling her to put as much distance as possible between her and the body. Already she was soaking from the waist down. Her dress, swollen and heavy with water, tangled itself around her legs, nearly pulling her under.

The river seemed twice as wide as before, but she kept going, making it to the safety of the bank before nausea overwhelmed her and she was violently sick. Wine, undigested bread, river water.

Half-crawling, half-dragging herself on all fours, she managed to pull herself higher up, before collapsing on the ground in the shadows of the trees. Her head was spinning, her mouth was dry and sour, but she had to get away. Alai’s tried to stand, but her legs felt hollow and wouldn’t hold her. Trying not to cry, she wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking hand, then tried to stand again, using the trunk of a tree to support her.

This time, she stayed on her feet. Pulling her cloak from the branch with desperate fingers, Alai’s managed to push her filthy feet into her slippers. Then, abandoning everything else, she started to run back through the woods, as if the Devil himself was at her heels.

The heat hit Alai’s the moment she emerged from the trees into the open marshland. The sun pinched at her cheeks and neck, taunting her. The heat had brought out the biting insects and mosquitoes in swarms above the stagnant pools which flanked the path, as Alai’s stumbled forward, on through the inhospitable landscape.

Her exhausted legs screamed in protest and her breath burned ragged in her throat and chest, but she kept running, running. All she was conscious of was the need to get as far away from the body as possible and to tell her father.

Rather than going back the way shed come, which might be locked, Alai’s instinctively headed for Sant-Vicens and the Porte de Rodez, which connected the suburb to Carcassonne.

The streets were busy and Alai’s had to push her way through. The hum and buzz of the world coming to life got louder and louder, more intrusive, the closer she came to the entrance into the Cite. Alais tried to stop her ears and think only of getting to the gate. Praying her weak legs would not give way, Alai’s pushed her way to the front.

A woman tapped her shoulder.

“Your head, Dame,” she said quietly. Her voice was kind, but it seemed to be coming from a long way away.

Realizing that her hair was hanging loose and disheveled, Alais quickly threw her cloak over her shoulders and pulled up her hood, with hands that trembled as much from exhaustion as shock. She edged forward, wrapping the material across the front of her dress, hoping to conceal the stains of mud, vomit and green river weed.

Everybody was jostling, barging, shouting. Alais thought she was going to faint. She put out her hand and steadied herself against the wall. The guards on duty at the Porte de Rodez were nodding most local people through without question, but stopping vagabonds and beggars, gypsies, Saracens and Jews, demanding to know their business in Carcassonne, and searching their belongings more roughly than necessary until small jugs of ale or coins changed hands and they moved on to the next victim.

They let Alais through with barely a glance.

The narrow streets of the Cite were now flooded with hawkers, merchants, livestock, soldiers, farriers, jongleurs, wives of the consuls and their servants and preachers. Alais kept her head bowed as if she was walking into a biting north wind, not wishing to be recognized.

At last, she saw the familiar outline of the Tour du Major, followed by the Tour des Casernes, then the double towers of the Eastern Gate as the Chateau Comtal came into full view.

Relief caught in her throat. Fierce tears welled up in her eyes. Furious at her weakness, Alais bit down on her lip hard, drawing blood. She was ashamed to be so distressed and determined not to humiliate herself farther by crying where her lack of courage might be witnessed.

All she wanted was her father.

Intendant Pelletier was in one of the storerooms in the basements next to the kitchen, having just finished his weekly check of the grain and flour supplies. He was relieved to discover that none of the stock was moldy.

Bertrand Pelletier had served Viscount Trencavel for more than eighteen years. It was early in the cold new year of 1191 that he had been summoned to return to his native Carcassonne, to take up the position of intendant- steward-to the nine-year-old Raymond-Roger, heir to the Trencavel dominions. It was a message he had been waiting for and he had come willingly, bringing his pregnant French wife and two-year-old daughter with him. The cold and wet of Chartres had never been to his liking.

What he had found was a boy old beyond his years, grieving for the loss of his parents and struggling to cope with the responsibility thrust on his young shoulders. Pelletier had been with Viscount Trencavel ever since, first within the household of Raymond-Roger’s guardian, Bertrand of Saissac, then under the protection of the count of Foix. When Raymond-Roger reached his majority and returned to the Chateau Comtal to take up his rightful place as viscount of Carcassonne, Beziers and Albi, Pelletier had been at his side.

As steward, Pelletier was responsible for the smooth running of the household. He concerned himself also with administration, justice and the levying of taxes carried out on the viscount’s behalf by the consuls who ran the affairs of Carcassonne between them. More significantly, he was the viscount’s acknowledged confidant, advisor and friend. His influence was second to none.

The Chateau Comtal was full of distinguished guests and more were arriving each day. The seigneurs of the most important chateaux within the Trencavel lands and their wives, as well as the most valiant, most celebrated chevaliers of the Midi. The finest minstrels and troubadours had been invited to the traditional summer joust to celebrate the Feast Day of Sant-Nasari at the end of July. Given the shadow of war that had been hanging over them for a year or more, the viscount was determined that his guests should enjoy themselves and that it would be the most memorable tournament of his rule.

In his turn, Pelletier was determined nothing should be left to chance. He locked the door to the grain store with one of the many heavy keys he carried on a metal hoop around his waist and set off down the corridor.

“The wine store next,” he said to his manservant, Francois. “The last barrel was sour.”

Pelletier strode down the corridor, pausing to look on other rooms as they passed. The linen store smelled of lavender and thyme and was empty, as if it was waiting for someone to come and bring it back to life.

“Are those tablecloths washed and ready for table?”

“Or, Messire”

In the cellar opposite the wine store at the foot of the stairs, men were rolling sides of meat in the salting box. Some cuts were being strung up on the metal hooks that dangled from the ceiling. Others were stored in barrels for another day. In a corner, a man was threading mushrooms, garlic and onions on to strings and hanging them up to dry.

Everybody stopped what they were doing and fell silent when Pelletier walked in. A few of the younger servants got awkwardly to their feet. He said nothing, just gazed around, taking in the whole room with his sharp eyes, before nodding his approval and moving on.

Pelletier was unlocking the door to the wine store when he heard shouting and the sound of running footsteps on the floor above.