I never saw Spaventa again. He died in the hands of his questioners, but not before yielding names. Atenulf and Wilfred were arrested and racked in their turn, as also was the Lombard mosaic-worker who had set the scaffolding in place. Gerbert succeeded in escaping to Swabia, where he was well-received and later became Father Confessor to Prince Otto.

These things I learned only later. I was still keeping to my rooms. I wanted no company, the feelings of weakness and illness were increasing on me.

Two days later the royal summons came, brought to me in person by Stephen Fitzherbert, Steward of the King's Household, which was already a sign that I was well-viewed, as was also Fitzherbert's extreme affability towards me. He was a weather-vane of a man, always turning in the breeze of the King's favour. Had the occasion been different he would no doubt have sneered at the poverty of my dwelling.

He waited below while I made ready. I had neglected to shave for a good many days now and had a short beard, which I decided to keep as not unbecoming – vanity persisted in me despite my wretchedness. Now it was only a question of choosing clothes that were not presumptuous in finery, but sober and of good quality, not such a difficult choice but one that seemed heavy to me that day. The uncertainty of balance I had felt on learning the manner of Yusuf's death still visited me from time to time, as did the sensation of nausea I had experienced then. I was prey to sudden chills that made me shiver, even in that August weather, and my eyes were giving me trouble, I had a sense of some obtrusion at the outer edges of my vision, there was sometimes a strange distortion, with things stretching or contracting slightly, changing shape.

There was more to my reluctance than this. There were clothes in my chest that I could hardly bear to look at, let alone put on, those I had worn on my first visit to Favara, for example. And anything in which I had once taken pride bore in its folds the sound of Yusuf's voice and the look of his face when he complimented me on my appearance. Finally I chose a suit of dark brown velvet, unadorned with tassels or brocade, one I had possessed for a good while and was gone a little out of fashion, with pads on the shoulders and a waist that was gathered in.

Fitzherbert rode with me, talking all the while in his high voice, interspersing Sicilian phrases with his French – it was the practice now at court to use Sicilian in this way, for a colloquial effect. He was full of compliments for me. It seemed that my disabling of Spaventa had not been the fear-stricken blundering that I remembered, but intrepid and heroic and extraordinarily quick-witted and prompt. "To see the threat that no other saw, to make that leap of mind, it was brilliant, everybody says so," he gushed. "And then to confront him in that manner, single-handed, and wrestle with him and throw him down, such courage and readiness, everybody says so."

By everybody he meant those at court who had learned of it. But I was glad for his talking in this strain, it kept him from reference to Yusuf. I said little in reply, but he did not mind this, being highly content with the sound of his own voice. When we reached the palace I was delivered to the care of the Household Guard, who escorted me to an anteroom in the royal apartments, and here I waited some while. It was Giovanni dei Segni, the King's notary and close adviser, who came for me, and he too smiled upon me and his smile was blurred, as if seen under water, and Yusuf's death was in it. I was led, with the guards still flanking me, through the portals of the audience chamber, and I saw the seated figure in the high chair on the dais at the far end of the long room, saw the gleam of the circlet round his head, the scarlet and gold of his mantle.

I stopped in the doorway and made a reverence that brought my forehead not far above the marble of the floor. And I heard the King's voice, loud, with some hoarseness in it: "Let him come forward alone."

He spoke in French but it was not the language of my fathers, it had the accents of the south. The guards fell back from me, but still for some moments I remained where I was, body inclined and eyes cast down.

"Come forward, Thurstan Beauchamp." The voice was softer now. "Come forward here to me."

I walked forward and rarely have I felt so alone as on that walk, as if I were in some desert place, under a vast and empty sky. I stood at the foot of the steps and still I did not look at him, but glanced beyond to the figures behind him and saw Gilbert of Bolsavo there, Master Constable Designate, whom I had last seen riding behind the King into the castle of Potenza. There were two with him, very splendid in the livery of his retainers, and one of these bore a sheathed sword laid flat in his gloved hands.

"Closer yet," the voice said.

It was not awe that kept my gaze from his face, though he would have taken it for such. I think it was a kind of fear, not of his person or his power, but of finding confirmed the misgivings I harboured in my heart. The plans that had been laid for my entrapment and my coercion into treachery, these he would not know – they were the devices of the spiders. But Yusuf's death, the manner of it and the haste, these things he must surely know, just as he must know the long and faithful service Yusuf had given him. With his full knowledge and consent this thing had been done. For a brief while, as I stood there below him, my soul was placed in peril by the Evil One, I was tempted to set all down to the mystery of the King's power, to restore him, serene in majesty, to his silver barge, gliding over the dark waters below which the creatures feasted and fought. Perhaps it was to save myself from this surrender of reason that I looked up to his face now, saw it for a moment only, sharp-eyed and fleshy below the coronet, a moment only but there was time enough to see the marks that the anguish of fear and pride had made, time enough for me to know, finally and for ever, that there had never been a silver barge to keep afloat, that this my King to whom I had vowed my service, was a man with a face like other faces I had seen, the face of one who lived with us in the dark water, among the other creatures feasting and fighting there. And in that same moment, as this knowledge came to me, my sight failed, the face of Roger of Hauteville slipped and distended and lost its form and I lowered my eyes to the glow of the ruby that hung on his breast.

"My beloved subject, up here to me," he said, and he raised a hand and beckoned.

I mounted the steps until I was immediately below him. Here I knelt – it was too close for standing. How often I had dreamed of kneeling thus before him, to hear at last his praise for my devotion and feel my soul absolved by this praise for all the things I had said and done in his service.

"We thank you from a full heart," the voice said above me. "We have been told of your courage and your quickness of mind. If all his subjects were of your temper, the King would need have no fear of foes." His voice had broken slightly on these last words and when he spoke again it was more quickly and warmly. "Thou hast earned the King's gratitude and he will not forget."

I had not raised my eyes again to his face after that slipping and distortion. I was looking at his hands, which were broad in the palm and had black hair on the knuckles. I saw them make a very quick and sudden movement upwards, saw them go behind his neck to the silver chain that held the ruby. He leaned forward and placed the pendant round my neck and I felt the touch of his hands as he fastened it. His face was close to my own and there was a sweetness to his breath like that which comes from keeping sugared comfits in the mouth.

"You will learn what it means, the King's gratitude," he said, in tones more sonorous and measured now. "This that I place round your neck is but a token."