With the resilience and optimism of youth, Viscount Trencavel was in good spirits, exchanging lighthearted anecdotes and listening to tales of past exploits. He argued with his men about the best hunting dogs, greyhounds or mastiffs, about the price of a good brood bitch these days, gossiped about who had wagered what at darts or dice.

Nobody talked of the purpose of the expedition, nor of what would happen if the viscount failed in his petitions to his uncle.

A raucous shout from the back of the line drew Pelletier’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder. Guilhem du Mas was riding three abreast with Alzeu de Preixan and Thierry Cazanon, chevaliers who’d also trained in Carcassonne and been dubbed the same Passiontide.

Aware of the older man’s critical scrutiny, Guilhem raised his head and met his gaze with an insolent stare. For a moment they held each other fixed. Then, the younger man inclined his head slightly, an insincere acknowledgment, and turned away. Pelletier felt his blood grow hot, all the worse for knowing there was nothing he could do.

For hour after hour they rode across the plains. The conversation faltered, then petered out as the excitement that had accompanied their departure from the Cite gave way to apprehension.

The sun climbed ever higher in the sky. The churchmen suffered the most in their black worsted habits. Rivulets of sweat were dripping down the bishop’s forehead and Jehan Congost’s spongy face had turned an unpleasant blotchy red, the color of foxgloves. Bees, crickets and cicadas rattled and hummed in the brown grass. Mosquitoes pricked at their wrists and hands, and flies tormented the horses, causing them to switch their manes and tails in irritation.

Only when the sun was full overheard did Viscount Trencavel lead them off the road to rest awhile. They settled on a glade beside a slow-flowing stream, having established the grazing was safe. The ecuyers unsaddled the horses and cooled their coats with willow leaves dipped in the water. Cuts and bites were treated with dock leaves or mustard poultices.

The chevaliers removed their traveling armor and boots, washing the dust and sweat from their hands and necks. A small contingent of servants was dispatched to the nearest farm, returning some time later with bread and sausage, white goat’s cheese, olives and strong, local wine.

As the news spread that Viscount Trencavel was camped nearby, a steady stream of farmers and peasants, old men and young women, weavers and brewers started to make their way to their humble camp under the trees, carrying gifts for their seigneur: baskets of cherries and newly fallen plums, a goose, salt and fish.

Pelletier was uneasy. It would delay them and use up precious time. They had a great deal of ground to cover before the evening shadows lengthened and they pitched camp for the night. But, like his father and mother before him, Raymond-Roger enjoyed meeting his subjects and would have none turned away.

“It is for this that we swallow our pride and go to make peace with my uncle,” he said quietly. “To protect all that is good and innocent and true in our way of life, e? And, if necessary, we shall fight for it.”

Like an ancient warrior king, Viscount Trencavel held court in the shade of the holm oak trees. He accepted all the tributes offered to him with grace and charm and dignity. He knew that this day would become a story to be treasured, woven into the life of the village.

One of the last to approach was a pretty, dark-skinned girl of five or six, with bright eyes the color of blackberries, who gave a brief curtsey and offered a posey of wild orchids, white sneezewort and meadow honeysuckle. Her hands were shaking.

Bending down to the girl’s level, Viscount Trencavel pulled a linen handkerchief from his belt and offered it to her. Even Pelletier smiled as the tiny fingers reached out timidly and took the crisp white square of cloth.

“And what is your name, Madomaisela,” he asked.

“Ernestine, Messire,” she whispered.

Trencavel nodded. “Well, Madomaisela Ernestine,” he said, plucking a pink bloom from the bunch of flowers and fixing it to his tunic, “I shall wear this for good luck. And to remind me of the kindness of the people of Puicheric.”

Only when the last of the visitors had left the camp, did Raymond-Roger Trencavel unbuckle his sword and sit down to eat. When hunger was satisfied, one by one, man and boy stretched out on the soft grass or leaned back against the trunk of a tree and dozed, their bellies full of wine and their heads thick with the afternoon heat.

Pelletier alone did not settle. Once he was certain Viscount Trencavel had no need of him for the time being, he set off to walk by the stream, desiring solitude.

Waterboatmen skated over the water and brightly colored dragon-flies skimmed the surface, shimmering, darting and slipping through the heavy air.

As soon as he was out of sight of the camp, Pelletier sat down on a blackened trunk of a fallen tree and took Harif’s letter from his pocket. He didn’t read it. He didn’t even open it, just held it tight between his forefinger and thumb, like a talisman.

He could not stop thinking of Alai’s. His thoughts rocked backward and forward like a balance. At one moment he regretted confiding in her at all. But if not Alai’s, then who? There was no one else he could trust. The next moment, he feared he had told her too little.

God willing, all would be well. If their petition to the count of Toulouse was favorably received, before the month was out, they would be returning to Carcassonne in triumph without a drop of blood being spilled. For Pelletier’s own part, he would find Simeon in Beziers and learn the identity of the “sister” of whom Harif had written.

If destiny willed it so.

Pelletier sighed. He looked out over the tranquil scene spread out before him and saw in his imagination the opposite. Instead of the old world, unchanged and unchanging, he saw chaos and devastation and destruction. The end of all things.

He bowed his head. He could not have done other than he had. If he did not return to Carcassonne, then at least he would die in the knowledge that he had done his best to protect the Trilogy. Alai’s would fulfill his obligations. His vows would become her vows. The secret would not be lost in the pandemonium of battle or left to rot in a French gaol.

The sounds of the camp stirring brought Pelletier back to the present. It was time to move on. There were many more hours of riding before sunset.

Pelletier returned Harif’s letter to his pouch and walked quickly back to the camp, aware that such moments of peace and quiet contemplation might be in short supply in the days ahead.

When Alai’s woke again, she was lying between linen sheets, not on grass. There was a low, dull whistling in her ears, like an autumn wind echoing through the trees. Her body felt curiously heavy and weighted down, as if it didn’t belong to her. She had been dreaming that Esclarmonde was there with her, putting her cool hand on her brow to draw the fever out.

Her eyes fluttered open. Above her head was the familiar wooden canopy of her own bed, the dark blue night-curtains tied back. The chamber was suffused with the soft, golden light of dusk. The air, although still hot and heavy, carried in it the promise of night. She caught the faint aroma of freshly burned herbs. Rosemary and the scent of lavender.

She could hear women’s voices too, coarse and low, somewhere close by. They were whispering as if trying not to disturb her. Their words hissed like fat dripping from a spit onto a fire. Slowly, Alai’s turned her head on her pillow toward the noise. Alziette, the unpopular wife of the head groom, and Ranier, a sly and spiteful gossip with an uncouth, boorish husband, both troublemakers, were sitting by the empty fireplace like a pair of old crows. Her sister, Oriane, used them often for errands, but Alai’s mistrusted them and could not account for how they came to be in her room. Her father would never have allowed it.