“You have my sword, Messire,” called one chevalier. “And mine,” cried another. One by one, men fell to their knees around the hall.

Smiling, Trencavel held up his hand.

“Your courage, your valor, honors us all,” he said. “My steward will inform those of you whose services are required. For now, my friends, I bid you grant me leave. I suggest you all return to your quarters to rest. We will meet at dinner.”

In the commotion that accompanied Viscount Trencavel’s departure from the Great Hall, nobody noticed a single figure in a long blue hooded cloak slide out of the shadows and slip away through the door.

The bell for Vespers had long since fallen silent by the time Pelletier finally emerged from the Tour Pinte.

Feeling every one of his fifty-two years, Pelletier lifted aside the curtain and walked back into the Great Hall. He rubbed his temples with tired hands, trying to ease the persistent, hammering ache in his head.

Viscount Trencavel had spent the time since the end of Council with the strongest of his allies, talking about how best to approach the count of Toulouse. Talking for hour upon hour. One by one, decisions had been taken and messengers had galloped out from the Chateau Comtal bearing letters not only to Raymond VI, but also to the papal legates, to the abbot of Citeaux and Trencavel’s consuls and viguiers in Beziers. The chevaliers who were to accompany the viscount had been informed. In the stables and the smithy, preparations were already in hand and would continue most of the night.

The chamber was filled with a hushed but expectant silence. Because of tomorrow’s early departure, instead of the planned banquet there was to be a more informal meal instead. Long trestle tables had been set out, unclothed, in rows running from north to south across the room. Candles flickered dimly in the center of each table. In the high wall sconces, the torches were already burning fiercely, setting the shadows dancing and flickering.

At the far end of the room, servants came in and out, carrying dishes that were more plentiful than ceremonial. Hart, venison, chicken drumsticks with capsicum, earthenware bowls filled with beans and sausage and freshly baked white bread, purple plums stewed in honey, rose-colored wine from the vineyards of the Corbieres and pitchers of ale for those with weaker heads.

Pelletier nodded his approval. He was pleased. In his absence, Francois had deputized well. Everything looked as it should and of a level of courtesy and hospitality Viscount Trencavel’s guests had the right to expect.

Francois was a good servant, despite his unfortunate start in life. His mother had been in the service of Pelletier’s French wife, Marguerite, and was hanged for a thief when Francois was no more than a boy. His father was unknown. When his wife had died nine years ago, Pelletier had taken Francois on, trained him and given him a position. From time to time, he allowed himself to feel satisfaction at how well Francois had turned out.

Pelletier walked out into the Cour d’Honneur. The air was cool here and he lingered a while in the doorway. Children were playing around the well, earning a slap on the legs from their nurses when the boisterous games got too rowdy. Older girls strolled arm in arm in the twilight, talking, whispering their secrets to one another.

At first he didn’t notice the small, dark-haired boy sitting crossed-legged on the wall by the chapel.

“Messire! Messire!” cried the boy, scrambling to his feet. “I got something for you.”

Pelletier took no notice. “Messire.” The boy persisted, tugging at his sleeve to attract his attention. “Intendant Pelletier, please. Important.”

He felt something being pushed into his hand. He looked down to see it was a letter written on heavy cream parchment. His heart lurched. On the outside was his own name, inscribed in a familiar, distinctive hand. Pelletier had persuaded himself he’d never see it again.

Pelletier grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck. “Where did you get this?” he demanded, shaking him roughly. “Speak.” The boy wriggled like a fish on a line, trying to get free. “Tell me. Quick, now.”

“A man gave it to me at the gate,” the boy whimpered. “Don’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing.”

Pelletier shook him harder. “What sort of man?”

“Just a man.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said harshly, his voice rising. “There’s a sol in it for you if you can tell me what I want to know. Was the man young? Old? Was he a soldier?” He paused. “A Jew?”

Pelletier fired question after question until he’d dragged the facts out of the boy. They didn’t amount to much. Pons told him he’d been playing with friends in the moat of the Chateau Comtal, trying to get across from one side of the bridge to the other without the guards catching them. At dusk, when the light was just beginning to fade, a man had approached them and asked if anybody knew Intendant Pelletier by sight. When Pons said he did, the man had given him a sol to deliver the letter. He said it was very important and very urgent.

There was nothing special about the man that marked him out. He was of middle years, neither old nor young. He was not especially dark, nor fair either. His face was unmarked, unblemished by either pox or battle. He hadn’t noticed if the man wore a ring, because his hands were concealed underneath his cloak.

Finally satisfied he had learned all he could, Pelletier reached into his purse and gave the boy a coin.

“Here. This is for your trouble. Now, go.”

Pons didn’t wait to be told a second time. He wriggled out of Pelletier’s grasp and ran, as fast as his legs would carry him.

Pelletier headed back inside, holding the letter tight to his chest. He registered no one as he swept through the corridor leading to his chamber.

The door was locked. Cursing his own caution, Pelletier fumbled with the keys, his haste making him clumsy. Francois had lit the calelhs, the oil lamps, and set his night tray with a jug of wine and two earthenware goblets on the table in the center of the room, as he did every night. The highly polished brass surface of the tray gleamed in the flickering golden light.

Pelletier poured himself a drink to steady his nerves, his head full of dusty images, memories of the Holy Land and the long, red shadows of the desert. Of the three books and the ancient secret contained within their pages.

The coarse wine was sour on his tongue and hit the back of this throat with a sting. He downed it in one, then refilled the goblet. Many times he’d tried to visualize how he would feel at this moment. Yet now it had finally come, he felt numb.

Pelletier sat down, placing the letter on the table between his outstretched hands. He knew what it said. It was the message he’d been both anticipating and dreading for many years, ever since he’d arrived in Carcassonne. In those days, the prosperous and tolerant lands of the Midi had seemed a safe hiding place.

As the seasons rolled one into the next, over time Pelletier’s expectations of being called upon diminished. Day-to-day life took over. Thoughts of the books faded from his mind. In the end, he had almost forgotten that he was waiting at all.

More than twenty years had passed since he’d last set eyes upon the author of the letter. Until this moment, he realized, he’d not even known if his teacher and mentor was still alive. It was Harif who had taught him to read in the shade of the olive groves on the hills outside Jerusalem. It was Harif who’d opened his senses to a world more glorious, more magnificent than anything Pelletier had ever known. It was Harif who’d taught him to see that Saracens, Jews and Christians were following but different paths to the one God. And it was Harif who’d revealed to him that beyond all that was known lay a truth far older, more ancient, more absolute than anything the modern world had to offer.