Alais put her foot on to the ledge and climbed out on to the sill, her head spinning at the thought of what she was about to attempt.

You will fall.

If she did, what did it matter now? Her father was dead. Guilhem was lost to her. In the end, her father’s judgement of her husband’s character had proved to be true.

2›What more is there to lose? 2›

Taking a deep breath, Alais carefully lowered herself over the sill until her right foot found the tiles. Then, muttering a prayer, she braced her arms and legs and let go. She dropped with a small thump. Her feet slipped from under her. Alais hurled herself forward as she skidded down the tiles, desperately trying to gain purchase. Cracks in the tiles, gaps in the wall, anything to stop her plummeting down.

It seemed like she was falling forever. Suddenly, there was a violent jerk and Alais came to an abrupt halt. The hem of her dress had snagged on a nail and was holding her fast. She lay quite still, not daring to move. She feel the tension in the cloth. It was of good quality, but it was stretched as tight as a drum and could tear at any moment.

Alais glanced up at the nail. Even if she could reach up that high, it would take both hands to untangle the material, which had wrapped itself several times round the metal spike. She couldn’t risk letting go. The only option was to abandon the cloak and try to crawl back up the roof, which joined the outer wall of the Chateau Comtal on the western side. She should be able to squeeze through the wooden slats of the hourds. The gaps in the defences were narrow, but she was slight. It was worth trying.

Careful to make no sudden movements, Alais reached up and shredded material until it began to tear. She pulled, first one side, then the until she ripped a square from the skirt. Leaving a pocket of material behind, she was free once more.

Alais brought up one knee and pushed, then the other. She could feel of sweat forming at her temples and between her breasts, where she’d stowed the parchments. Her skin was sore from rubbing against the rough tiles.

Bit by bit, she pulled herself up until the ambans were in reach.

Alais put her hands out and grasped the wooden struts, which felt reassuringly solid between her fingers. Then she drew her knees up so that she was almost crouching on the roof, wedged into the corner between the battlements and the wall. The gap was smaller than she’d hoped, no deeper than the stretch of a man’s hand and perhaps three times as wide. Alais extended her right leg, twisted her left leg under to anchor herself firmly, then pulled herself up through the gap. The purse with the copies of the labyrinth parchments was awkward and kept tangling between her legs, but she kept going.

Ignoring her aching limbs, she quickly stood up and picked her way along the barricade. Although she knew the guards would not betray her to Oriane, the sooner she got out of the Chateau Comtal and to Sant-Nasari, the better.

Peering down to make sure there was no one at the bottom, Alais quickly shinned down the ladders to the ground. Her legs buckled under her as she jumped the last few rungs and she cracked down on her back, knocking every last gasp of air out of her.

She glanced towards the chapel. There was no sign of Oriane or Francois. Keeping close to the walls, Alais passed through the stables, pausing at Tatou’s stall. She was desperate to drink, to give her suffering mare water, but what little there was went only to the warhorses.

The streets were filled with refugees. Alais covered her mouth with her sleeve to keep out the stench of suffering and sickness that hung like a fog over the streets. Wounded men and women, the dispossessed cradling children in their arms, stared blankly up at her with hopeless eyes as she passed.

The square in front of Sant-Nasari was filled with people. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her, Alais opened the door and slipped inside. There were people sleeping in the nave. In their misery, they paid little attention.

Candles burned on the main altar. Alais hurried up the north transept to a little-visited side chapel with a small plain altar where her father had taken her. Mice ran for cover, their tiny claws scuttling over the flagstones.

Kneeling down, Alais reached around behind the altar, as he’d shown her. She paddled her fingers over the surface of the wall. A spider, its hiding place disturbed, darted over the exposed skin of her hand, then was gone.

There was a soft click. Alais slowly, carefully, eased out the stone and slid it to one side, then stretched her hand into the dusty recess behind. She found the long, thin key, the metal dull with age and disuse, and put it into the lock of the wooden latticed door. The hinges creaked as the wood scraped over the stone floor.

She felt her father’s presence strongly now. Alais bit her lip to stop herself breaking down.

This is all you can do for him now.

Alais reached in and pulled out the box, as she had seen him do. No bigger than a jewellery casket, it was plain and undecorated, with a simple clasp. She lifted the lid. Inside was a sheepskin pouch, as it had been when her father showed her this place. She gave a sigh of relief, only now realising how much she feared Oriane would somehow have been here before her.

Aware of what little time she had, Alais quickly concealed the book beneath her dress and then replaced everything exactly as it had been. If Oriane or Guilhem knew of the hiding place, it would at least delay them if they believed the casket was still in its place.

She ran back through the church, her head covered by her hood, then pushed open the heavy door and was swallowed up in the tide of suffering people milling aimlessly through the square. The sickness that had claimed her father spread quickly. The alleyways were filled with decaying and decomposing carcasses – sheep and goats, even cattle, their swollen bodies releasing foul-smelling gas into the foetid air.

Alais found herself heading for Esclarmonde’s house. There was no reason to hope she would find her there this time, having failed so many times in the past few days, but she could think of nowhere else to go.

Most of the houses in the southern quartier were shuttered and boarded, Esclarmonde’s included. Alais raised her hand and knocked on the door.

“Esclarmonde?”

Alais knocked again. She tried the door, but it was locked. “Sajhe”?“

This time she heard something. The sound of feet running and a bolt being shot.

“Dame Alais?”

“Sajhe, thank God. Quick, let me in.”

The door opened just wide enough to allow her to slip inside.

“Where have you been?” she said, hugging him tight. “What’s been happening? Where’s Esclarmonde?”

Alais felt Sajhe’s small hand slip into hers. “Come with me.”

He led her through the curtain to the room at the back of the house. A trap door was open in the floor. “You’ve been here all along?” she said. She peered down into the dark and saw a calelh was burning at the bottom of the ladder. “In the cellars? Has my sister been back-”

“It wasn’t her,” he said in a quavering voice. “Quick, Dame.”

Alais went down first. Sajhe released the catch and the trap door clattered shut above their heads. He scrambled down after her, jumping the last few rungs to the earth floor.

“This way.”

He led her along a damp tunnel into a small hollowed-out area, then held the lamp up so Alais could see Esclarmonde, who was lying motionless on a pile of furs and blankets.

“No!” she gasped, running to her side.

Her head was heavily bandaged. Alais lifted the corner of the padding and covered her mouth. Esclarmonde’s left eye was red, everything covered by a film of blood. There was a clean compress over the wound, but the skin flapped loose around the crushed socket.