“Oriane favours her mother,” he said shortly. “She has Marguerite’s looks and temperament.”

“It often happens like that. Sometimes the child is a good match to one parent, sometimes the other.” He paused. “She is married to Viscount Trencavel’s escrivan?

Pelletier sighed. “It is not a happy marriage. Congost is not young and is intolerant of her ways. But for all that, he is a man of position within the household.”

They walked a few steps more in silence. “If she favours Marguerite, she must be beautiful.”

“Oriane has charm and a grace that draws the eye. Many men would court her. Some make no secret of it.”

“Your daughters must be of great comfort to you.” Pelletier shot a glance at Simeon. “Alais, yes.” He hesitated. “I dare say I am to blame, but I find Oriane’s company less… I try to be evenhanded, but I fear there is little love lost between them.”

“A pity,” Simeon murmured.

They had arrived at the gates. Pelletier came to a halt.

“I wish I could persuade you to stay within the Ciutat. In Sant-Miquel at the very least. If our enemies are at hand, I will not be able to protect you outside the walls-”

Simeon put his hand on Pelletier’s arm. “You worry too much, my friend. My role is over now. I gave you the book entrusted to me. The other two books are also within these walls. You have Esclarmonde and Alais to help you. What business would anyone have with me now?” He fixed his friend with his dark glittering eyes. “My place is with my own people.”

There was something in Simeon’s tone that alarmed Pelletier.

“I will not accept there is anything final in this leave-taking,” he said fiercely. We’ll be drinking wine together before the month is out, mark my words.“

“It’s not your words I mistrust, my friend, but the swords of the French.”

By next spring I wager it will all be over. The French will have limped home with their tails between their legs, the Count of Toulouse will be seeking a new alliance, and you and I will be sitting reminiscing over our youth by the fire.“

“Pas a pas, se va luenh,” said Simeon, embracing him. “And give my fond regards to Harif. Tell him I’m still waiting for that game of chess he promised me thirty years ago!”

Pelletier raised his hand in farewell as Simeon walked out through the gates. He did not look back.

“Intendant Pelletier!”

Pelletier carried on looking into the crowd of people making their way towards the river, but he could no longer distinguish Simeon.

“Messire!‘ the messenger, red-faced and breathless, repeated.

What is it?“

“You are needed at the Porte Narbonnaise, Messire.”

Alais pushed open the door to her chamber and ran in.

“Guilhem?”

Even though she needed solitude and had no expectation it would be otherwise, she still was disappointed to find the room empty.

Alais locked the door, unhooked her purse from her waist, laid it on the table and removed the book from its protective covering. It was the size of a lady’s psalter. The outer wooden boards were covered with leather, completely plain and a little worn at the corners.

Alais undid the leather ties and let the book fall open in her hands, like a butterfly displaying its wings. The first page was empty apart from a tiny chalice in gold leaf in the centre, sparkling like a jewel on the heavy cream parchment. It was no bigger than the pattern that appeared on her father’s ring or the merel she’d had so briefly in her possession.

She turned the page. Four lines of black script looked up at her, written in an ornate and elegant hand. Around the edges were pictures and symbols, a repeated pattern like a running stitch around the hem of a cloak. Birds, animals, figures with long arms and sharp fingers. Alais caught her breath.

These are the faces and figures of my dreams.

One by one, she turned the pages. Each was covered with lines of I black script, with nothing on the reverse side. She recognised words of Simeon’s language, although she didn’t understand it. Most of the book was written in her own language. The first letter of each new page was illuminated, in red, blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise they were plain. No illustrations in the margins, no other letters picked out within the body of the text and the words following on one from the other with few gaps or indications to show where one thought ended and another began.

Alais reached the parchment concealed in the centre of the book. It was thicker and darker than the pages surrounding it, goatskin rather than vellum. Rather than symbols or illustrations, there were only a few words, accompanied by rows of numbers and measurements. It looked like some sort of a map.

She could just pick out tiny arrows pointing in different directions. A few of them were gold, but mostly they were black.

Alais tried reading the page from the top from left to right, but that didn’t make sense and she came to a dead end. Next she tried deciphering the page from bottom to top, right to left, like a stained-glass window in a church, but that didn’t make sense either. Finally she read alternate lines or picked out words from every third line, but still understood nothing.

Look beyond the visible images to the secrets concealed beneath.

She thought hard. To each guardian according to their skills and knowledge.

Esclarmonde had her ability to heal and cure, so to her Harif had entrusted the Book of Potions. Simeon was a scholar of an ancient Jewish system of numbers, to him the Book of Numbers.

What had led Harif to choose her father as the guardian of the Book of Words?

Deep in thought, Alais lit the lamp and went to her nightstand. She took out some parchment, ink and a quill. Pelletier had been determined his daughters should be taught to read and write, having learned the value of these things in the Holy Land. Oriane cared only for accomplishments appropriate to a lady of the household – dancing, singing, falconry and embroidery. Writing was, as she never stopped staying, for old men and priests. Alais, however, had grasped the opportunity with both hands. She had been quick to learn and, although there were few opportunities for her to use her skills, she held them close to her.

Alais spread her writing materials on the table. She didn’t understand the parchment, nor could she hope to replicate the exquisite workmanship, colours and style. But she could at least make a copy while she had the chance.

It took her some time, but at last she was finished and laid the parchment copy on the table to dry. Then, aware of how her father might return to the Chateau Comtal at any moment with the Book of Words, Alais quickly turned her attention to concealing the book as her father had suggested.

Her favourite red cloak was no good. The material was too delicate and the hem bulged. Instead she picked a heavy brown cloak. It was a winter garment, intended to be worn for hunting, but that couldn’t be helped.

With expert fingers, Alais unpicked the passementerie at the front until she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze the book inside. Next, she took the thread Sajhe had brought her from the market, which exactly matched the colour of the material, and sewed the book in place at the back, secure.

Alais held the cloak up and swung it over her shoulders. It was uneven at present but, once she had her father’s book too, it would be better balanced.

She had only one more task to accomplish. Leaving the cloak draped over the chair, Alais went back to the table to see if the ink was dry. Mindful that she could be interrupted at any moment, she folded the parchment and slipped it inside a lavender posy. She stitched the opening shut, so that no one could come upon it by accident, then placed it back under her pillow.