Alais put her hand on his arm. “I know, I know,” she said softly. “But really there’s no need to worry. I can take care of myself. Besides…” – She let her eyes slide sideways to the other guard, who was now picking his nose and wiping his fingers on his sleeve – “what trials I might face at the river could hardly be worse than those you endure here!”

Berenger laughed. “Promise me you will be careful, e`?”

Alais nodded, opening her cloak a fraction to show him the hunting knife at her waist. “I will. I give you my word.”

There were two doors to negotiate. Berenger unbolted them in turn, then lifted the heavy beam of oak securing the outer door and pulled it open just wide enough for Alais to slip through. Smiling her thanks, she ducked under his arm and stepped out into the world.

Alai’s felt her heart lift as she emerged from the shadows between the gate towers. She was free. For a while at least.

A movable wooden walkway linked the gatehouse to the flat stone bridge that connected the Chateau Comtal to the streets of Carcassonne. The grass in the dry moat way beneath the bridge was glistening with dew in the shimmering purple light. There was still a moon, although it was fading against the gathering dawn.

Alai’s walked quickly, her cloak leaving swirling patterns in the dust, wanting to avoid questions from the guards on duty on the far side. She was lucky. They were slumbering at their posts and did not see her pass. She hurried over the open ground and ducked into a network of narrow alleyways, heading for a postern by the Tour du Moulin dAvar, the oldest part of the walls. The gate gave straight onto the vegetable gardens and faratjah, the pastures that occupied the land surrounding the Cite and the northern suburb of Sant-Vicens. At this time of day, it was the quickest way down to the river without being seen.

Holding up her skirts, Alai’s picked her way carefully through the evidence of another riotous night in the taberna Sant Joan dels Evangelis. Bruised apples, half-eaten pears, gnawed meat bones and shattered ale pots lay discarded in the dirt. A little farther along, a beggar was huddled asleep in a doorway, his arm resting along the back of a huge, bedraggled old dog. Three men were slumped against the well, grunting and snoring loud enough to drown out the birds.

The sentry on duty at the postern was miserable, coughing and spluttering and wrapped up in his cloak so that only the tip of his nose and his eyebrows were visible. He didn’t want to be disturbed. At first he refused to acknowledge her presence. Alai’s dug into her purse and produced a coin. Without even looking at her, he snatched it with a filthy hand, tested it between his teeth, then shot the bolts and opened the postern gate a crack to let her slide through.

The path down to the barbican was steep and rocky. It ran between the two high, protective wooden palisade walls and it was hard to see anything. But Alai’s had taken this route out of the Cite many times, knew every dip and rise of the land, and she climbed down without difficulty. She skirted the foot of the squat, round wooden tower, following the path of the fast-flowing water where it sped, like a mill race, through the barbican.

The brambles scratched sharp at her legs and the thorns snagged her dress. By the time she reached the bottom, the hem of her cloak was a deep crimson and soaking wet from skimming the grass. The tips of her leather slippers were stained dark.

Alai’s felt her spirits soar the moment she stepped out of the shadow of the palisade into the wide, open world. In the distance, a white July mist was hovering above the Montagne Noire. The breaking sky on the horizon was slashed through with pink and purple.

As she stood looking out over the perfect patchwork of fields of barley, corn and wheat and the woodlands that stretched farther than her eye could see, Alai’s felt the presence of the past all around her, embracing her. Spirits, friends and ghosts who held out their hands and whispered of their lives, and shared their secrets with her. They connected her to all those who had stood on this hill before-and all who were yet to stand here- dreaming of what life might hold.

Alai’s had never traveled beyond Viscount Trencavel’s lands. She found it hard to picture the gray cities of the north, Paris, Amiens or Chartres, where her mother had been born. They were just names, words with no color or warmth, as harsh as the language, the langue d’oil, they spoke there. But even though she had little to compare it with, she could not believe that anywhere else was as beautiful as the enduring, timeless landscape of Carcassonne.

Alai’s set off down the hill, weaving her way through the scrub and the coarse bushes until she reached the flat marshlands on the southern banks of the river Aude. Her sodden skirts kept twisting themselves around the backs of her legs and she stumbled from time to time. She felt uneasy, she realized, watchful, and was walking faster than usual. It wasn’t that Jacques or Berenger had alarmed her, she told herself. They were always anxious on her behalf. But today she felt isolated and vulnerable.

Her hand moved to the dagger at her waist as she remembered the story of the merchant who claimed to have seen a wolf on the opposite bank, just last week. Everybody thought he was exaggerating. At this time of year, it was probably just a fox or a wild dog. But now that she was out here on her own, the tale seemed more believable. The cold hilt was reassuring.

For a moment, Alais was tempted to turn back. Do not be so cowardly. She carried on. Once or twice she turned, startled, by noises nearby that turned out to be no more than the flapping of a bird’s wing or the slither and splash of a yellow river eel in the shallows.

Gradually, as she followed her familiar path, her nerves melted away. The river Aude was wide and shallow, with several tributaries leading off it, like veins on the back of a hand. A dawn mist shimmered translucent above the surface of the water. During the winter, the river flowed fast and furiously, swollen by the icy streams from the mountains. But it had been a dry summer so the water was low and still. The salt mills barely moved in the current. Secured to the banks by thick ropes, they formed a wooden spine up the center of the river.

It was too early for the flies and mosquitoes that would hover like black clouds over the pools as the heat intensified, so Alais took the shortcut over the mud flats. The path was marked by little heaps of white stones to help people from slipping into the treacherous sludge. She followed it carefully until she arrived at the edge of the woods that lay immediately below the western section of the Cite walls.

Her destination was a small, secluded glade, where the best plants grew in the partially shaded shallows. As soon as she reached the shelter of the trees, Alais slowed her pace and began to enjoy herself. She pushed aside the tendrils of ivy that overhung her path and breathed in the rich, earthy smell of leaf and moss.

Although there was no sign of human activity, the wood was alive with color and sound. The air was filled with the shriek and twitter of starlings, wrens and linnets. Twigs and leaves crackled and snapped beneath her feet. Rabbits scampered through the undergrowth, their white tails bobbing as they dived for cover among the clusters of yellow, purple and blue summer flowers. High in the spreading branches of the pines, red-coated squirrels cracked the cones’ shells apart, sending thin, aromatic needles showering down on the ground below.

Alais was shot by the time she arrived at the glade, a small island of land with an open space that led down to the river. With relief, she put down her panier, rubbing the inside of her elbow where the handle had cut into her skin. She removed her heavy cloak and hung it over a low-hanging branch of a white willow, before wiping her face and neck with a handkerchief. She put the wine in the hollow of a tree to keep it cool.