The dogs burst out of the cover of the trees behind her, barking, snarling. Their breath clouded the air as their jaws snapped, drools of spit and blood hanging from their teeth. In the gathering dusk, the tips of the huntsmen’s spears glinted brightly. Their eyes were filled with hate, with excitement. She could hear them whispering, jeering, taunting her.

“Heretique, heretique.”

In that split second, the decision was made. If it was her time to die, it would not be at the hands of such men. Alice lifted her arms wide and jumped, commending her body to the air.

Straight away, the world fell silent.

Time ceased to have any meaning as she fell, slowly and gently, her green skirts billowing out around her. Now she realized there was something pinned to her back, a piece of material in the shape of a star. No, not a star but a cross. A yellow cross. Kouelle. As the unfamiliar word drifted in and then out of her mind, the cross came loose and floated away from her, like a leaf dropping from a tree in autumn.

The ground came no nearer. Alice was no longer afraid. For even as the dream images started to splinter and break apart, her subconscious mind understood what her conscious mind could not. That it was not her- Alice-who fell, but another.

And this was not a dream, but a memory. A fragment from a life lived a long, long time ago.

Carcassona

JULHE I209

Twigs and leaves cracked as Alais shifted position.

There was a rich smell of moss, lichen and earth in her nose, her mouth. Something sharp pierced the back of her hand, the tiniest jab that immediately began to sting. A mosquito or an ant. She could feel the poison seeping into her blood. Alais moved to brush the insect away. The movement made her retch.

Where am I?

The answer, like an echo. Defora. Outside.

She was lying facedown on the ground. Her skin was clammy, slightly chill from the dew. Daybreak or dusk? Her clothes, tangled around her, were damp. Taking it slowly, Alais managed to lever herself into a sitting position, leaning against the trunk of a beech tree to keep herself steady.

Docament. Softly, carefully.

Through the trees at the top of the slope she could see the sky was white, strengthening to pink on the horizon. Flat clouds floated like ships becalmed. She could make out the black outlines of weeping willows. Behind her were pear and cherry trees, drab and naked of color this late in the season.

Dawn, then. Alais tried to focus on her surroundings. It seemed very bright, blinding, even though there was no sun. She could hear water not far off, shallow and moving lazily over the stones. In the distance, the distinctive kveck-kveck of an eagle owl coming back from his night’s hunting.

Alais glanced down at her arms, which were marked with small, angry red bites. She examined the scratches and cuts on her legs too. As well as insect bites, her ankles were ringed with dried blood. She held her hands up close to her face. Her knuckles were bruised and sore. Lines of rust-red streaks between the fingers.

A memory. Of being dragged, arms trailing along the ground.

No, before that.

Walking across the courtyard. Lights in the upper windows.

Fear pricked the back of her neck. Footsteps in the dark, the callused hand across her mouth, then the blow.

Perilhos. Danger.

She raised her hand to her head and then winced as her fingers connected with the sticky mass of blood and hair behind her ear. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of the hands crawling over her like rats. Two men. A commonplace smell, of horses, ale and straw.

Did they find the merel?

Alai’s struggled to stand. She had to tell her father what had happened. He was going to Montpellier, that much she could remember. She had to speak with him first. She tried to get up, but her legs would not hold her. Her head was spinning again and she was falling, falling, slipping back into a weightless sleep. She tried to fight it and stay conscious, but it was no use. Past and present and future were part of an infinite time now, stretching out white before her. Color and sound and light ceased to have any meaning.

With a final, anxious glance back over his shoulder, Bertrand Pelletier rode out of the Eastern Gate at Viscount Trencavel’s side. He could not understand why Alai’s had not come to see them off.

Pelletier rode in silence, lost in his own thoughts, hearing little of the inconsequential chatter going on around him. His spirits were troubled at her absence from the Cour d’Honneur to see them off and wish the expedition well. Surprised, disappointed too, if he could bring himself to admit it. He wished now he had sent Francois to wake her.

Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets were lined with people waving and cheering. Only the finest horses had been chosen. Palfreys whose resilience and stamina could be relied upon, as well as the strongest geldings and mares from the stables of the Chateau Comtal picked for speed and endurance. Raymond-Roger Trencavel rode his favorite bay stallion, a horse he’d trained himself from a colt. Its coat was the color of a fox in winter and on its muzzle was a distinctive white blaze, the exact shape, or so it was said, of the Trencavel lands.

Every shield displayed the Trencavel ensign. The crest was embroidered on every flag and the vest each chevalier wore over his traveling armor. The rising sun glanced off the shining helmets, swords and bridles. Even the saddlebags of the pack horses had been polished until the grooms could see their faces reflected in the leather.

It had taken some time to decide how large the envoi should be. Too small and Trencavel would seem an unworthy and unimpressive ally and they would be easy pickings on the road. Too large and it would look like a declaration of war.

Finally, sixteen chevaliers had been chosen, Guilhem du Mas among them, despite Pelletier’s objections. With their ecuyers, a handful of servants and churchmen, Jehan Congost and a smith for working repairs to the horses’ shoes en route, the party numbered some thirty in total.

Their destination was Montpellier, the principal city within the domains of the viscount of Nimes and the birthplace of Raymond-Roger’s wife, Dame Agnes. Like Trencavel, Nimes was a vassal of the king of Aragon, Pedro II, so even though Montpellier was a Catholic city-and Pedro himself a staunch and energetic persecutor of heresy-there was reason to expect they would have safe passage.

They had allowed three days to ride from Carcassonne. It was anybody’s guess as to which of them, Trencavel or the count of Toulouse, would arrive in the city first.

At first they headed east, following the course of the Aude toward the rising sun. At Trebes, they turned northwest into the lands of the Minervois, following the old Roman road that ran through La Redorte, the fortified hill town of Azille, and on to Olonzac.

The best land was given over to the canabieres, the hemp fields, which stretched as far as the eye could see. To their right were vines, some pruned, others growing wild and untended at the side of the track behind vigorous hedgerows. To their left was a sea of emerald-green stalks of the barley fields, which would turn to gold by harvest time. Peasants, their wide-brimmed straw hats obscuring their faces, were already hard at work, reaping the last of the season’s wheat. The iron curve of their scythes catching the rising sun from time to time.

Beyond the river bank, lined with oak trees and marsh willow, were the deep and silent forests where the wild eagles flew. Stag, lynx and bear were plentiful, wolves and foxes too in the winter. Towering above the lowland woods and coppice were the dark forests of the Montagne Noire where the wild boar was king.