For many years, in those hollow hours between dusk and dawn, as her sister lay sleeping beside her, her father had talked and talked, setting her demons to flight. He had not allowed the black cowls or the Catholic priests to come near, with their superstitions and false symbols.

His words had saved her.

“Guilhem?” she whispered.

Her husband was deeply asleep, his arms flung out claiming ownership of most of the bed. His long dark hair, smelling of smoke and wine and the stables, was fanned across the pillow. Moonlight fell through the open window, the shutter pinned back to let the cool night air into the chamber. In the gathering light, Alais could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin. The chain Guilhem wore around his neck shimmered and glinted as he shifted position in his sleep.

Alais wanted him to wake and tell her that everything was all right, that she didn’t have to be afraid any more. But he did not stir and it did not occur to her to wake him. Fearless in all other things, she was inexperienced in the ways of marriage and cautious with him still, so she contented herself with running her fingers down his smooth, tanned arms and across his shoulders, firm and broad from the hours spent practising with sword and quintain for the Joust. Alais could feel the life moving beneath his skin even as he slept. And when she remembered how they had spent the early part of the night, she blushed, even though there was no one there to see.

Alais was overwhelmed by the sensations Guilhem aroused in her. She delighted in the way her heart leapt when she caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted beneath her feet when he smiled at her. At the same time, she did not like the feeling of powerlessness. She feared love was making her weak, giddy. She did not doubt she loved Guilhem and yet she knew she was keeping a little of herself back.

Alais sighed. All she could hope was that, with time, it would become easier.

There was something in the quality of the light, black fading to grey, and the occasional hint of birdsong from the trees in the courtyard, which told her that dawn was not far away. She knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep now.

Alais slipped out between the curtains and tiptoed across to the wardrobe that stood in the far corner of the chamber. The flagstones were cold under her feet and the rush matting scratched her toes. She opened the lid, removed the lavender bag from the top of the pile, and took out a plain, dark green dress. Shivering a little, she stepped into it, threading her arms into the narrow sleeves. She pulled the material, slightly damp, over her undershift, then fastened the girdle tightly.

Alais was seventeen and had been married for six months, but she had not yet acquired the softness and sway of a woman. The dress hung shapelessly on her narrow frame, as if it didn’t belong to her. Steadying herself with her hand on the table, she pushed her feet into soft leather slippers and took her favourite red cloak from the back of the chair. Its edges and hem were embroidered with an intricate blue and green pattern of squares and diamonds, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers, which she had designed herself for her wedding day. It had taken her weeks and weeks to sew. All through November and December she had worked at it, her fingers growing sore and stiff with cold as she hurried to have it finished in time.

Alais turned her attention to her panier, which stood on the floor beside the wardrobe. She checked her herb pouch and purse were there, together with the strips of cloth for wrapping plants and roots and her tools for digging and cutting. Finally, she fixed her cloak firmly at her neck with a ribbon, slipped her knife into its sheath at her waist, pulled her hood up over her head to cover her long, unbraided hair, then quietly crept across the chamber and out into the deserted corridor. The door closed with a thud behind her.

It was not yet Prime, so there was nobody about in the living quarters. Alais walked quickly along the corridor, her cloak swishing softly against the stone floor, heading for the steep and narrow stairs. She stepped over a serving boy slumped asleep against a wall outside the door to the room her sister Oriane shared with her husband.

As she descended lower, the sound of voices floated up to meet her from the kitchens in the basement. The servants were already hard at work. Alais heard a slap, closely followed by a yell, as an unlucky boy started the day with the cook’s heavy hand on the back of his head.

A scullion came staggering towards her, struggling with a massive half-barrel of water he had drawn from the well.

Alais smiled. “Bonjorn.”

“Bonjorn, Dame,” he answered cautiously.

“Here,” she said, going down the stairs before him to open the door.

“Merce, Dame,” he said, a little less timid now. “Grand merce.”

The kitchen was alive with hustle and bustle. Great billows of steam were already rising from the huge payrola, the cauldron, hanging on a hook over the open fire. An older servant took the water from the scullion, emptied it into the pot, and then shoved the barrel back at him without saying a word. The boy rolled his eyes at Alais as he headed out and back up to the well once more.

Capons, lentils and cabbage in sealed earthenware jars stood waiting to be cooked on the big table in the centre of the room, together with pots containing salt mullet, eel and pike. At one end were fogaca puddings in cloth bags, goose pate and slabs of salted pork. At the other, trays of raisins, quinces, figs and cherries. A boy of nine or ten was standing with his elbows propped on the table, the scowl on his face making it clear how much he was looking forward to another hot and sweaty day at the turnspit, watching the meat roast. Next to the hearth, the brushwood was burning fiercely inside the dome-shaped bread oven. The first batch of pan de blat, wheat bread, was already standing on the table to cool. The smell made Alais hungry.

“May I have one of those?”

The cook looked up, furious at the intrusion of a woman into his kitchen. Then he saw who it was and his bad-tempered face creased into a cock-eyed smile revealing a row of rotten teeth.

“Dame Alais,” he said with delight, wiping his hands on his apron. “Benvenguda. What an honour! You’ve not come to visit us for quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Jacques,” she said warmly. “I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“In my way, you!” he laughed. “How could you ever be in my way?” As a child, Alais had spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, watching and learning, the only girl Jacques had ever allowed across the threshold into his male domain. “Now, Dame Alais, what can I get you?”

“Just a little bread, Jacques, some wine too, if you can spare it?”

A frown appeared on his face.

“Forgive me, but you’re not going down to the river? Not at this time of day, unaccompanied? A lady of your position… it’s not even light. I hear things, stories of…”

Alais laid a hand on his arm. “You are kind to concern yourself, Jacques, and I know you have my best interests at heart, but I will be fine. I give you my word. It’s nearly dawn. I know exactly where I’m going. I’ll be there and back before anyone even notices I’ve gone, really.”

“Does your father know?”

She put a conspiratorial finger to her lips. “You know what he does not, but please, keep it our secret. I will take great care.”

Jacques looked far from convinced, but feeling he’d said as much as he dared, he did not argue. He walked slowly over to the table and wrapped a round loaf in a white linen cloth and ordered a scullion to fetch a jar of wine. Alais watched, feeling a tug at her heart. He was moving more slowly these days and he was limping heavily on his left side.