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All Things Are Lights

by Robert J. Shea

Note: This work is released under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike license. You are free to distribute and modify this work as long as you do so without commercial gain, share the results under this same license, and attribute the original work to Robert J. Shea.

"How much jousting have you done?"

"A little," replied the young troubadour.

"A little!" the Templar said ironically. "In tournaments all over Europe, Count Amalric has bested hundreds of knights. Many times he has killed men. Of course, it is against the rules. But he is a master at making it look like an accident." He looked at Roland with an almost fatherly kindness. "Indeed, Messire, the best advice I could give you would be not to enter the tournament at all."

Roland laughed. "Such cautious advice from a Templar?"

"We fight for God, Messire. Have you as great a motive?"

"Yes, I do," said Roland, seeing Nicolette's eyes shining in the darkness before him. "I fight for love."

Creative Commons License

This work is released under a Cretive Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike license. You are free to copy, distribute, display, perform and make derivative works of this work. You must attribute the work to the original author, Robert J. Shea. You may not use this work for commercial purposes. If you alter, transform, or build upon this work, you may distribute the resulting work only under a license identical to this one. For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. Any of these conditions can be waived if you get permission from the copyright holder, Michael E. Shea (mike@mikeshea.net).

A full description of this license can be found at the end of this work.

Folio V from Illuminated Manuscript of King Rene's "LeCueur d'A-mour Esptis" with permission from the National Library, Vienna, Austria.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: May 1986

Acknowledgments

Many people helped me with the writing of this book in a great many different ways. I would especially like to express my gratitude to Jeanne Bernkopf, Bernadette Bosky, Frances C. Bremseth, Gerald Bremseth, Ric Erickson, Christine Hayes, Dave Hickey, Dr. Joseph R. Kraft, Mary Kaye Kraft, Neal Rest, Michael Erik Shea, Morrison Swift, Robert Anton Wilson, and Al Zuckerman.

I

ROLAND NARROWED HIS EYES AND STARED UPWARD INTO THE DARKNESS, across the top of Mont Segur toward the Cathar fortress. Standing on a high walkway of planks behind the palisade of the crusaders' small wooden fort, he heard faraway voices and saw torches moving on the Cathar rampart.

The two men on watch with him that night, a sergeant from Champagne and a young man-at-arms from Brittany, were talking in low tones about the women to be had far below, at the foot of the mountain. They seemed not to see the activity about the Cathar stronghold on the upper peak of the mountaintop opposite their own fort. But Roland, knowing Diane was in the besieged fortress, could not take his eyes from it.

He knew he had to act soon. Each day the crusaders grew stronger and the Cathars weaker. Once the Cathar stronghold fell, the crusaders would slaughter all within, including Diane. The sergeant, chuckling, was offering his young companion a wineskin. The Breton never received it.

From behind the Cathar wall came the sound of a huge thump, as if a giant's fist had pounded Mont Segur. Roland recognized the sound, and fought panic as he thrust his arms out, trying to push the other two men toward the ladder. But there was no time for them to climb down to safety. The thump was the counter-weight of a stone-caster, and the whistling noise that followed fast upon it was the rock it had thrown.

A shape as big as a wine barrel blotted out the stars. The stone hit the parapet beside Roland, and the whole palisade shuddered. Roland caught a glimpse of the sergeant's horrified face and heard his scream as the boulder struck him, crushing him to the ground.

Roland and the young man-at-arms clung to the wooden wall, saving themselves from falling twenty feet to the yard below. Right beside them was the gaping hole in the palisade left by the stone.

Roland knew more stones would soon follow, and wanted desperately to jump for the ladder. But he forced himself to stand still long enough to see what was happening at the Cathar fortress. He watched the wide main gateway swing open. A blaze of red torchlight gleamed on helmets and spear-points -- fighting men were pouring out on the run. He waited a moment, counting. A hundred or more.

His breathing quickened and his heart pounded. Here was the diversion he needed.

He shouted down into the darkness, adding his cry to the shouts of men waking up within the crusader fort. "To arms! To arms! The Cathars are attacking!"

Pushing the man-at-arms before him, he hurried down the ladder. The young Breton was blubbering.

"Alain. The damned Bougres got Alain."

"Mourn him later," Roland advised. "Just try to keep yourself alive. "

Roland hesitated at the foot of the steps. The stone had knocked the logs apart, leaving an opening at the base of the wall wide enough for a man to step through.

"I am going out there to get a better look at them," Roland said, sliding the two-handed sword, almost as long as his leg, out of its scabbard. "You report to the commander."

"God go with you, Sire Orlando," the man-at-arms said to him.

Roland hurried out into the darkness, alone with his excitement and fear.

The ground shook as a second Cathar boulder landed somewhere inside the fort. He heard splintering wood and shrieks of pain and terror. Then came another massive thump, this time a counterweight of the crusaders', sending a huge stone screaming overhead to answer the heretic missiles. Behind him rose the clamor of the French knights struggling into hauberks, buckling on swords, shouting names of their patron saints and their crusader war cry, "God wills it!"

A cruel God, if He wills this, Roland thought.

The Cathars had to cross a rock-strewn ridge, barely wide enough for two men abreast, that connected their stronghold on the main peak of Mont Segur to the lower peak, where the crusaders had their hastily built siege fort. If any Cathars had spied Roland coming out, by the time they got to this spot, he would be hidden among the boulders farther down the slope. Having no intention of fighting the Cathars, he sheathed his sword. He took his sword belt off and buckled it across his shoulder and chest, so that sword and dagger hung down his back.

With the tips of his fingers Roland touched the red silk cross on the left breast of his black surcoat, wishing he could tear away the symbol he hated. But only by joining the crusaders had he been able to get here. And this night he would bring Diane out safely, or he would die.

He stood in the darkness breathing deeply, gathering himself for the effort. Despite his chain mail and his helmet, he felt vulnerable, frightened.

Crouching, he slipped away to the left. Beyond the narrow rim of the ridge, the slope fell steeply. A misstep would send him hurtling to the rocks below. He made his way down carefully, painstakingly, over the large boulders for long minutes until he arrived at a narrow ledge about thirty feet below the top of the ridge. He took cover behind a row of charred huts where Cathar hermits had dwelt before the siege began. This whole mountain stank of burnt wood. As he began to work his way around to the other peak, from behind him issued shouts in the dialect of Languedoc: the Cathars, raising their war cries. They must have reached the crusader fort. How wonderful if they managed to drive the crusaders off the mountaintop!

The sharp rocks jabbed and bruised Roland's feet through the thin leather of his boot soles. He wore as little mail as he dared. As it was, the work of clambering around a peak in the Pyrenees weighed down by his fifty-pound shirt of steel mesh was bound to exhaust him soon. His best protection, he hoped, was the black cloak that would hide his movements from the men of either side.

The battle cries of northern crusaders and Languedoc Cathars were now so mingled that Roland could not tell one from the other. Swords boomed on wooden shields and rang on steel helmets. Screams pierced the night, some fading into the darkness below as men plunged off the mountaintop to their deaths.

But the clamor of battle diminished as Roland on his ledge crossed to the north side. The limestone wall of the fortress glowed faintly under the stars, rising above Roland like the hull of a ship. Like the Ark atop Mount Ararat, he thought. Only this ark could not save those who sought refuge in her. Against the pale background of the wall a sloping boulder stuck out, huge and black. Roland's father, who had visited this place years ago, had written him saying, "The top of the great stone is only ten feet below the top of the parapet, and an agile man can make it over the wall there. You should be able to do it, if you have not let the wine and women of France ruin your body ere now."

Roland could make out cracks and crevices in the century-old wall where he might dig in with fingers and toes. Still, it would be a far more fearsome climb than his father had made it sound. Taking a running start, Roland scrambled up the huge rock. Atop the boulder, he threw himself flat against the wall and reached up high, finding a fissure that afforded him a grip. Then he felt about with his right toe until it slipped into a crack between stones. Maybe now he would have the leverage to push himself upward. His limbs ached from clinging to the wall, but he could only inch his way up. He dared not look over his shoulder. Behind and below him, he knew, was black, empty space. Right hand up, right foot, left hand up, left foot, he crawled upward until at last the palm of his hand touched the blessed flatness of the top. He let out the breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding. He raised himself up a little further and slid both arms over the wall and hauled himself to lie flat along the top.

Now at last he could let himself look down into the chasm. Hundreds of fires flickered like stars in the crusaders' main camp at the base of the mountain. The dots of brightness wavered before his eyes. Dizziness swept over him. Fright made his heart thud like a stone-caster, and he gripped the wall under him so hard that his fingernails broke. He had to use all his remaining strength to force himself up to a kneeling position. He made no effort to conceal himself.

He heard at once a shrill cry of alarm from the darkness within the wall. A woman's voice. He could just barely see a wooden platform about four feet below. He dropped to it and raised his empty hands as three dark figures approached.

"I am one man, not the crusader army, Madame," he called. "I come in amity."

He heard a murmur of women's voices and strained to look about him, but the only light came from a vertical slit in a stone building some distance away. A shift in the breeze brought an animal stench that assaulted him. How these people have suffered, Roland thought, overwhelmed with pity even as the smell made him almost ill. Under siege for nearly a year, the Cathars could spare no water for bathing.

"May I come down?" Roland called to the huddled figures he could faintly descry in the darkness below.

"Drop your weapons to us and we will let you live a bit longer, at least," one of the women called.

Roland unbuckled and dangled the heavy weapons over the side of the platform. A slender figure stepped out of the shadows and caught the longsword's scabbard. Roland found a ladder and moved gingerly down it until his feet met flat paving stones. He turned and stood with his back to the wall, facing a row of low wooden buildings a few feet away.

Three gaunt women gathered around him. Two brought the points of their spears within inches of his face. Another aimed a crossbow at him. A twitch of her finger and that bolt would pierce him through as if his hauberk were no more than a cotton shirt. More danger here than clinging by his fingernails on the face of the mountain.

He stood very still, towering over the women, staring down at them. They looked aged, probably far beyond their years. Their eyes glittered with hate.

The crossbow woman spoke. "If you are a friend, why are you not out there fighting beside our men? Why are you wearing the sign of a crusader?" She hissed the last word.

"There is someone here whom I have come to rescue."

"Rescue? Nonsense," another said contemptuously. "We are going to die very soon now. Any among us who hoped for escape gave it up months ago. Death is our escape - from the power of the Evil One."

"Still, I want to try." Inwardly he reproached himself. He'd imagined they would welcome him like a hero. He should have anticipated how they would feel.

"Liar!" the second woman spat. "Spy!" Her spear point was almost at his right eye. He had to call on all his strength of will to keep from flinching back. Were all his pains to reach Diane going to end, absurdly, here?

"How can we know that you are telling the truth?" said the woman with the crossbow.

"Look within yourself," Roland said, keeping his voice calm, though inside he was in turmoil. "All things that are, are lights. The light shines in each man and each woman."

He noticed the spear points wavering a little, and a deep gratitude flowed from him to Diane. She had long ago taught him those sayings.

"Satan himself can quote the inspired word," the first woman said. "What do you know of the true meaning of what you are saying?"

Roland shrugged. "I know it expresses one of the deepest teachings of your faith."

"Is it not also your faith, then?" asked the woman. "Are you not one of us??

"If I were a liar and a spy as you think, I would claim to be one of you. But since I am an honest man and a friend, I tell you I was raised as a Catholic. I am Roland de Vency, born here in Languedoc. You may have heard of my father, Arnaut de Vency."

"De Vency? The Sire Arnaut? I remember him. A Catholic, but as fierce a fighter against the crusaders as any of our own men." The woman lowered her crossbow.

Roland expelled a long, relieved breath. "My father loved Languedoc," he said. "So do I. The crusaders are our enemies, too. And I am here because I love a woman here."

"Let us take him to the perfecti, Corba," said the second woman. "They shall decide. But, Sire de Vency, if you make a single move that puts us in doubt of you, we will run you through."

They walked through an alley between darkened wooden buildings. The suffocating odor and an eerie silence told Roland that behind the shut doorways people were listening, waiting.

He saw no guard at the entrance to the stone keep. Doubtless every able man had joined the attack on the crusaders. Roland's escorts leaned their weapons beside a tall double door and pulled it open. As he stepped within, he blinked. Only a few candles lit the room, but his eyes had gotten used to the night's darkness.

The keep of Mont Segur, he knew, was a most sacred place of the Cathar church. Yet, as Roland looked around the large room, he could see no adornments anywhere, save for white candles in black wrought-iron candelabra. As a place of religion it seemed strangely bare. He was used to churches resplendent with brightly painted statues. Yet the plainness spoke of humility and peace.

The room was crowded with men and women, intermingled, standing with heads bowed. Some prayed aloud, some silently. All were bareheaded and wore black robes. Roland was awestruck. He had seen Cathar perfecti many times before, but never so many in one place. His parents, though they were Catholics, had taught him to admire the holy ones of the other religion as saints, almost angels, because of their heroic virtue and simplicity of life. The spectacle of so many of these good men and women gathered together was overwhelming.

Even though the room was full of people, the smell of unbathed bodies was fainter here. Roland did not doubt that the perfecti shared the hardships of all within this fortress, but their austerity seemed to have purified their flesh.

Roland saw beyond them, at the far end, an ancient, white-haired man who sat in a plain wooden chair on a stone dais. Roland knew he must be their spiritual leader, Bishop Bertran d'en Marti, sometimes called the Pope of the Cathar church.

Diane would not be here, Roland thought. She probably would be out there in the wooden building with the credentes, those men and women who had not taken holy vows and who were seeing to the defense of the stronghold. The perfecti, Roland knew, never bore arms.

A young man came over, his black robe swirling around a body that seemed no thicker than a lance pole. The woman called Corba told him about Roland's climbing over the wall. The perfectus stared at the cross on Roland's chest.

Roland sensed his revulsion. "Forgive me for offending you. I had to wear this to get through to you." He dug his ragged fingernails in under the red silk and tore away the cross. The sound of ripping cloth in the quiet room made heads turn. Roland dropped the strips of silk to the floor.

"Who is that?" said Bertran d'en Marti in a voice that was soft yet carried across the room. "Does he bring news?"

Roland strode across the room before anyone could stop him and knelt at Bishop Bertran's sandaled feet. He reached for the old man's hand. It was as light and small as a bird's wing, and Roland's large fingers held it with care as he pressed his lips to the shiny knuckles. When he was growing up, Roland had often heard stories of Bishop Bertran, especially how, years ago, he had debated and won against the famous Catholic preacher Saint Dominic. The bishop must be over ninety, Roland thought. His face was skeletal and wreathed by wisps of white hair. His dark brown eyes glowed with an inner illumination.

"I wish you had not treated the cross with such scorn, young man," Bishop Bertran said in a voice that was like the rustling of parchment. "Our greatest failing has been disrespect for the religion of our opponents. We cannot build a sound church on hatred. Who are you, my son?"

"Your Holiness, I am Roland de Vency. I am a troubadour and a knight. I have also been a faidit, an exile from this land. My parents, my sister, and I fled with a price on our heads. Now I have come back to Languedoc."

The bishop's penetrating eyes held Roland's "You are dark and have a Roman face, like our southern people. But you are tall and blue-eyed like the men of the north. I sense in you a mixture, a union of north and south, of Frank and Gaul. A tormented union, even as this land is tortured by war between northern and southern Frenchmen. You are a sorrowful man ? you wear somber colors, for a troubadour. You have trouble living with yourself, my son. You do not know who you are."

Roland's chest ached at this reminder of the secret shame of his birth. And he felt fear as well, at the power of this mind that could so easily penetrate his heart.

"Doubtless you are named for the ancient hero Roland, whom The Song of Roland tells us died fighting Saracens in these very mountains," the bishop went on. "And the name, perhaps, has inspired you to perilous deeds. Why have you come to this place, Roland de Vency?"

"Your Holiness, I seek the woman I love, Diane de Combret."

A buzzing murmur came from behind Roland, and the bishop's eyes widened.

"Diane is of your faith, Your Holiness, and I was raised a Catholic, but before I fled into exile we loved each other and were betrothed. The war tore us apart. I took a new name and came back to look for her, but it was as if she had vanished. Then I learned that she is here, and pretended to join the crusaders. I entered the camp of my enemies so that I could rescue her from them." He spread his arms wide. "If I could save all here, I would. But I am only one knight. If all the gallant warriors who defend this place cannot defeat your enemies, can I? But perhaps I can save this one woman's life, which is precious to me above all others."

Bishop Bertran gazed kindly and sadly at him. "Diane. She is here, my son. She has heard all of your brave speech." He gestured with a frail hand.

Roland felt himself starting to tremble. Diane, here in this room? Unsteadily he rose from his knees and turned.

He saw her before him, tall, pale in a long black robe. The candlelight suddenly seemed to grow brighter. The subtle flush in her cheeks, her long shining hair, her huge eyes - Diane had appeared, and color was reborn in the world.

"Roland, Roland," she said. "How did you get here? Roland, I am so happy to see you."

The sound of her voice came to him like the most beautiful of songs played on a well-seasoned vielle. He could not speak. He was stunned, yet more fully conscious than he had ever been.

Diane was crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached out to embrace him.

Then she checked herself. With an obvious effort, she pulled her arms down to her sides and stepped back, her eyes still fixed on his but now full of misery.

He fell to his knees. "Diane, I love you." The crowd of perfecti was watching him, but he didn't care.

"It is no longer possible" - she shook her head - "for you to speak so."

He knelt there, desolate. His mind had finally grasped what had already penetrated his heart.

He knew now what he had suspected from her presence here. She had taken the consolamentum. She was a perfecta. She could no longer know human love.

His heart weighted his chest like a lump of iron. Pain spread from that crushing center to fill his body and limbs with anguish.

He stood up. "Your people's stone-caster just missed me a while ago. I wish it had not."

"Oh, Roland, if only I could share my joy with you," she said softly. "No man could have won me away from you. Every day I heard your voice singing in my heart. But even your songs could not rival the sweetness of God's own music."

Diane wore no ornament, but her long red-gold hair, hanging in ringlets to her shoulders, adorned her more gloriously than any jewelry might have. Her eyes, neither blue nor brown, were a mixture, a catlike green. Her face had always been fine-boned; now months of fasting had put shadows in her cheeks that made her look like an angel on a cathedral pillar.

"I must bow to what you have done, Diane," he said. "But if you will not come with me as my beloved, come as a perfecta. I can smuggle you through the crusader lines. Let me save your life."

Before Diane could answer, the door crashed open. The shrieks and wails of women assailed his ears. From a distance came the shouts of men in combat. The stone floor under Roland's feet vibrated, and he heard the crashing of rock on wood.

A group of women staggered in bearing a wounded man wrapped in a blue cloak. Roland stepped aside as the women laid their burden gently before the bishop. The cloak fell away, and Roland saw that a sword had cleft the man's shoulder. His arm hung by a thread. The women tried to staunch the flow of blood by pressing cloths against the wound.

"Your Holiness," the dying man gasped. "I beg the consolamentum."

"You shall be saved, Arnald my son, and return to the One Light." The bishop got up from his chair with surprising agility, then knelt. He pressed his hand to the dying man's forehead and whispered words over him.

Roland felt himself moved by the simplicity of the ritual. Yet this was the very sacrament, he thought with bitterness, that had taken Diane from him.

"Arnald de Lantar," Diane whispered to Roland. "One of our best."

Roland felt pity for the dying man. That could be me. I could take this man's place. I could join these people in their good fight. I could kill many a crusader, and joyfully.

But more good would I do if I saved this one lady.

When the bishop's soft words ceased, Arnald de Lantar spoke again through his pain. "I am sorry, Your Holiness. We have failed you. Bernart Roainh and Peire Ferrier... killed. Our men... many fell. Fell from the mountain as we retreated. Too many crusaders ... too strong." His eyes closed.

One of the women put her hand on his heart. Then, weeping, the women who had brought him in rose up and carried the body away.

Bishop Bertran turned to Diane with a sigh. "My child, do you wish to go with Sire Roland? I fear these are our final free moments."

"No, Your Holiness," Diane said firmly.

Roland felt himself slump in despair.

"Please, dear Bishop Bertran," she went on. "To leave here, to be safe, while my brethren are dying? It would destroy me. It would hurt me as much as if I were to commit the gravest of sins."

"How can it be a sin to want to live?" Roland pleaded.

"For us death is victory," said Diane, her green eyes shining.

"But if the life of anyone should be saved, there are many of more value than mine. Your talk of spiriting me through the crusader lines is only a frivolous troubadour fancy." She turned away as again the doors to the keep opened.

Roland stood alone, burning with shame and anger. More wounded were carried in and laid in rows on the floor. Calmly, lovingly, the black-robed perfecti, Diane among them, moved along the lines of fallen men. Bishop Bertran walked slowly past them, giving instructions. "Treat this wound at once," he said. "That man will be all right for a time." To those who appeared near death he gave the consolamentum and walked on. Any of the perfecti could have administered the Sacrament, but Roland sensed that it was a special joy for these dying men to receive it from the bishop's hands.

Watching Diane attend the wounded, Roland brooded. He had come all the way from Paris, risking his life over and over again for her, giving up all other women for her - including the beautiful Countess Nicolette. How could she scorn his effort? How could she dismiss his plan because a troubadour thought of it? Yes, he was a troubadour, a maker of songs, and proud of his art. She had loved his songs once.

How old had he been when Peire Cardenal came to Chateau Combret?

It had been August of the year after the eighth King Louis died and the ninth was crowned. That would make it one thousand two hundred twenty-seven. Seventeen years ago, so Roland was ten - two years younger than the new boy-king. Roland's family, in flight from the crusaders who had invaded Languedoc, had been guests of the de Combrets, a prosperous Cathar family, for many months. Their chateau was in Provence, east of Languedoc, where the crusade and the persecutions had not yet penetrated. A score or more people, the de Combrets and the de Vencys and their retainers and gentlefolk from the countryside around, sat at tables in the great hall. Dozens of candles lighted the hall for the occasion.

Diane usually sat beside Roland's sister, Fiorela, but tonight, for some reason, she had placed her chair next to Roland's. He was aware of a tingling excitement in his limbs.

It was partly anticipation of the songs of the great troubadour, Cardenal. But Roland knew these strange feelings had also to do with the slender girl, only nine years old, who sat beside him, her hair so red that it seemed afire.

"Will you sing for Peire Cardenal?" she asked him.

He felt as though a rock from a stone gun had gone right through him.

"Why would the greatest troubadour in the land want to hear me?" Roland shrank his skinny frame down behind the trestle table, as if someone had already called on him to play. "I am lucky just to be hearing him." The Combret jongleur, Guacelm, who had taught him the lute and promised to start him on the vielle had said Roland's was a gift from God. But how much could Guacelm know? He was only a jongleur, not a troubadour.

Roland worked as hard as he could under Guacelm, but he never admitted, even to his teacher, that sometimes, alone in the hills, singing to rocks and trees, he dreamed of being a troubadour. He saw himself commanding words and verses as kings commanded their barons, holding seigneurs and their ladies fascinated by the power of his voice, drawing intricate music from lute and lyre and gittern by the skill in his fingers. Sometimes he forgot he was the son of a hunted outlaw and imagined himself welcomed and honored everywhere.

"I think your music is lovely." Diane's green eyes held his. He loved Diane as much as he loved Fiorela. She was another sister to him, a sister whose fragile beauty inspired protectiveness. But more: when he looked at Diane he understood why men wanted to be knights.

His sister would grow up and marry and part from him. Diane need never part from him.

The servants had cleared away the bread and meats and were bringing around silver basins so that all could wash their hands after dinner.

The Sire Etienne de Combret asked Peire Cardenal, seated at his right at the high table, if he would favor them with a song. Cardenal took his place in the center of the hall. He was a stocky man with iron-gray hair and a battered nose that spread over his seamed face. He beckoned, and Guacelm came out and sat with a vielle between his knees. The hall fell silent, and Cardenal sang a lament for a lady who had died young. The sweet notes of his voice soared above Guacelm's bowed accompaniment, and when the song died away at last, Roland glanced at Diane and saw there were tears in her eyes.

The applause was vigorous, but Cardenal smiled and cleared his throat. "I get merrier as we go along," he said, and everyone laughed.

And he did. He sang songs of heroic deeds in battle, and comic songs. A servant placed a silver goblet set with jewels on the table within his reach and kept it refilled, Cardenal drinking deeply after each song. He began to sing sirventes about happenings of the day, about the rumor that the widowed Queen Mother of the present King of France had taken the Count of Champagne as a lover, about the Pope threatening to excommunicate Frederic, the Holy Roman Emperor, for failing to lead a crusade to the Holy Land. He sang a tenson with Guacelm, a debate on whether a man could truly love two women at once. Cardenal took the affirmative, and the applause of the de Combrets' guests declared him the winner. Much as he admired Cardenal, Roland, who shyly abstained from applauding either side, was sure that a man could love - truly love - only one woman. Roland's own father, he knew, had never loved anyone but his mother.

The wine affected Cardenal's singing not at all. If anything, it sweetened his baritone voice. He sang a duet with Diane's mother, Madame Maretta, who wrote poems of her own and had taught the forms of rhyme and meter to Roland.

Then Cardenal sang of love, songs which, Roland knew, were of his own making. He sang of love that lasted forever, love that defied human laws and even the commands of God, love that consumed men and women like a fire, love that blinded with its light.

Roland found his hand tightly gripping Diane's delicate fingers.

When Cardenal had sung his last song, the applause was muted, but only because all were so moved. Roland felt limp, drained. His hand, still holding Diane's, trembled. Reluctantly he released her, afraid someone might see, and tease him.

After a silence Sire Etienne pushed the jeweled goblet across the table toward Cardenal.

"Drink from this tonight and keep it with you always, Master Peire. A poor thing, compared to your music. But a remembrance of one of the most beautiful evenings of my life."

Cardenal bowed. "A handsome present, monseigneur."

What a power he has, Roland thought. He must have sung for hours, and everybody wishes he would go on for the rest of the night. I could never hold people spellbound like that. It is foolish of me to dabble in music.

The diners stirred. Sire Etienne, Sire Arnaut, and Cardenal stood talking at the table. Guacelm, the jongleur, joined them. And then Roland saw that Guacelm was pointing down the table at him. The terror came back, and he wanted to run out of the room.

Arnaut de Vency, his dark face creased in a smile, beckoned. Roland sat paralyzed.

"Go, Roland," Diane whispered. "You must go."

Dragging his feet, he went to where the men stood. Peire Cardenal fixed him with fierce eyes.

"I am told you are learning to sing and play, my lad. Are you any good at it?"

"Indifferent, Monseigneur," said Roland in a small voice.

"Do not 'Monseigneur' me, boy," Cardenal growled. "I am a baker's son, nothing more. What claim to respect I have is here and here." He touched his hand to his forehead and his throat.

"To me, that means a good deal more than gentle birth," said Arnaut de Vency. Embarrassed, Roland could not look at his father.

"Too many of our good troubadours spend their lives ? and lose their lives - fighting the so-called crusaders who have invaded Languedoc," said Cardenal. "There are but two or three practicing the art now. We need new blood. Let us hear what you can do, boy."

Roland's mother, Dame Adalys, joined the group. "Roland, sing a song of your own - the one about the pines."

Roland thought he would rather face a host of Frankish crusaders with drawn swords.

Sire Etienne called for silence, and everyone sat down to listen. Guacelm thrust the lute and a plectrum into Roland's hands, and his father gave him a gentle tug, starting him toward the center of the floor. He had to walk around the table. He passed Diane.

She squeezed his arm and whispered, "You will be wonderful!"

In a semi-trance he walked out into the center of the room, the lute big and heavy in his hands. With his head lifted as Cardenal had held himself moments ago, he stood briefly silent as he strove to collect his wits. He prayed he would remember all the words to his own song. He had sung it, mostly without audience, many times, but still he felt unsure. He let the melody begin rippling through his mind. Then, holding the plectrum tight between thumb and forefinger, he picked out the introductory notes.

He looked at Diane, her green eyes shining in the candlelight. He took a deep breath and began to sing. His fingers moved on the lute of their own accord. His soprano voice vibrated in his throat. He let his gaze sweep the room, but he sang for Diane alone.

"The trees on the mountains in summer are green But are stripped of their robes in the fall. When the snow shrouds the hills, Then the whole world seems dead, But the pines remain green through it all."

It was a short song, only three verses, and even as he sang them he felt he could hear with Cardenal's ears the echoes of other tunes, the trite lyrics. But when he thought he could not go on, he looked at Diane and felt better about his song.

The applause and cheers were louder and longer than he had expected. They are kind to me because am Arnaut's son, he told himself. He bowed deeply.

He left the lute and plectrum on the table. He was too embarrassed to face even Guacelm. People were starting to talk to one another again. Mercifully, his song was forgotten.

He hurried through a side door and up a spiral stair to a battlemented lookout tower two stories above the main hall. There he went out and breathed deeply of the cool air, scented of the sea whose shore was not far from Chateau de Combret. He leaned against the hard edge of a merlon.

The oak door creaked behind him. A broad figure appeared in the starlight.

"Well, what the devil did you rush off like that for, boy? Think yourself too good for us?"

Roland shrank inside. "I could never be as good as you, Master Peire. "

"To the devil with comparisons. I do not know how good I am, and neither do you. The thing is to know yourself good enough to be a troubadour."

"But how can I know that?"

Cardenal's face came close to Roland's, and Roland smelled the wine on his breath. "You know you are because I tell you, and it takes a troubadour to recognize another troubadour."

The stocky man clapped him on the shoulder. The heavy blow hurt, but it made him think of the moment when, at the touch of his seigneur's sword, a squire becomes a knight.

"I could be a troubadour?" Roland felt light-headed, as if he were floating above the balcony, drifting toward the stars.

Cardenal snorted. "Do not be so quickly overjoyed, boy. It is not an easy life. Singing for your supper, that is what it comes down to."

"Yes," said Roland in a small voice, wanting to disagree but afraid to.

"There is something more important to a troubadour than singing and playing," Cardenal went on.

"What is that?"

"Love. Even before he is a maker of songs, a troubadour is a man in love. You are too young to know love. But you will, and your love will be as vast as the ocean. Sometimes it will hurt worse than the torments of the damned. Love unlocks the deepest places of the heart. You need a lady, a goddess, to inspire you. Without her, you will be nothing."

Roland had heard countless love songs, had sung them himself. He had some sense of what it was that drew men and women to each other. But this talk of Cardenal's confused him. He said nothing.

"In love is the highest happiness known to man," Cardenal said. "And it is given to troubadours, of all men, to see deepest into this mystery whose laws have been in the keeping of women since time out of memory. Remember what I say, but think no more about it for now. Your father will tell you when you are ready."

Moments later, Roland wandered through the darkened great hall on his way to bed, his head a melee of thoughts, frightening and joyful. I must love always, he thought. Yes, I understand that much. A troubadour is a man in love.

He saw in his mind a girl-child with red hair and transparent skin looking at him and saying, "You will be wonderful!"

Yes, he thought. It is Diane. I may be too young, but I love her even now, and when we are older I will tell her. I will be her troubadour, and I will love her for all of my life.

But now Diane had taken herself from him, had chosen to become one with those who lived between this world and heaven. Her choice was the consolamentum, not the song of the troubadour. And as he watched her moving among the last of the wounded, he realized how much finer her goal was. He had no right to feel any claim upon her now.

His attention was draw to the bishop, who had finished his ministrations and returned to his chair. Spreading out his arms, he beckoned the men and women who were the flower of his church.

"My children, this battle we have lost tonight must be our last. The time for fighting has past, if ever there was such a time. Our people should never have taken up arms. It only provoked our enemies to greater violence. Now I intend to order our knights to surrender. "

From everywhere around him Roland heard sighs, groans, quiet weeping. But he heard no protest. They have accepted their fate, he thought. Perhaps they even welcome it.

With a sad smile Bishop Bertran looked about the hall. "Diane. Please come to me, my child."

She approached, lovely and stately, and Roland felt the breath stop in his throat. She bowed her head, her flame-red hair glowing.

"Diane," he said softly, "perhaps God has sent this brave man for a purpose. There are messages we must send to the outside world. We have hidden much of the wealth of our church, and word of the hiding place must be carried to our brethren who will survive us. You must carry it, Diane."

Diane opened her mouth to protest, but Bishop Bertran silenced her with a gentle wave of his hand. "You will also take with you our Holy Vessel and the ancient books that were brought to us from the East. Prepare to leave, my child."

Diane again bent her head. "Your will must prevail over mine, good bishop. But I envy you your martyrdom. And perhaps because I envy you I am not worthy of dying with you."

But Roland's heart gave a mighty leap. Diane would be coming with him.

II

DIANE'S HEART FELT LEADEN AS SHE PREPARED TO LEAVE. EACH FACE she looked at, she knew she was seeing for the last time. As if she were dying and they all were going to live on. Oh, why must I leave? Now, when all of you are about to put on the martyr's crown, how can you cast me out? I want to die with you. I do not want to go on, stumbling through this world alone.

For years these people had been her only family. When she was a child, her faith was preached and practiced openly all over the south of France. The crusade was already twenty years old then, but the perfecti still taught crowds of people in the streets of great cities like Toulouse and Beziers, still won converts away from the Church of Rome. From the lords and ladies in their castles to the peasants on the mountainsides, over half the people were Cathars. Now this year, one thousand two hundred forty-four, might come to be remembered as the year Catharism in France disappeared. From now on there would be nothing but a remnant in hiding, having to sneak about. No, she didn't want to live that way. She longed to throw herself down and beg Bishop Bertran once again to let her stay. But duty pressed down upon her like a mail shirt. It was burdensome, but it protected her from error. She quietly made ready.

Before long, Diane and Roland were standing on the northeast wall amid a group of perfecti. From a family that had taken refuge on Mont Segur had come a red and green costume for Diane, the tunic and hose of a well-to-do boy, an equerry. They had cut her hair short and tucked it under a cap topped with a long partridge feather. They had sewn the red cross back on Roland's black surcoat, and had made one for Diane's tunic from a gentlewoman's crimson scarf. A rope to form a sling was tied around her waist and another around her knees. Roland was similarly tied.

"I am as helpless as a baby," he whispered to her with that one-sided grin she remembered so well.

Tears welled up in her as she looked at the black-robed men and women here to bid her farewell. Dear Bishop Bertran reached up to her. She bent, made awkward by the ropes, and kissed the back of his hand, her tears falling on his white skin.

"I do not want to leave you. I want to die with you."

"Your death will come to you when it is time. May it be a happy one. Go with grace, my child."

Diane felt Roland reach out and squeeze her hand. His firm strength comforted her. But his touching her was against the rule by which she lived. A new anxiety chilled her. She was in Roland's care now. What would happen? What might being close to him do to her? She had loved him greatly. If he had not fled, become a faidit, she might never have taken the consolamentum. She had to be vigilant.

Roland tugged at the separate ropes that held them, making sure they were secure. Then he gave her a gentle push. She felt a choking fear. Whispering the Lord's Prayer to hold her terror at bay, she stepped off into the emptiness beyond the mountaintop. She could see no lights below to show her where the bottom was.

Her life was in the hands of those above holding the rope and slowly paying it out. The rope cut into her waist and thighs. To ease its bite she pulled her body upward with her hands, thankful for the deerskin gloves that would save her hands from being rubbed raw. Her arms ached. She was fortunate, she knew, that she carried very little extra weight. Only a small pack strapped to her back for the plain gold chalice called the Holy Vessel. A most sacred object, it could be borne only by one of the perfecti.

She looked up and, against the torchlight cast from above, saw Roland descending with his weapons and his mail shirt and the large pack holding two big books. He must be in much greater pain than she. And what a dreadful weight, too, for those above to hold, with their starvation-weakened arms. She prayed they would not drop him. She prayed, too, for God to give Roland and her the fortitude to bear whatever might befall them.

As she swung farther down she could barely see Roland. She tried to stay close to him and called softly to him from time to time. She felt better whenever she heard his deep voice answering.

Gradually she could discern, outlined by a diminishing field of stars, the black shapes of other peaks surrounding Mont Segur rising over their heads. She felt as if she were being lowered into the pit of Hell itself.

She pictured herself hanging in midair, hundreds of feet above the forest in the valley, and her stomach clenched. Her body swung slowly from side to side, and she hugged the creaking rope with desperate terror. Stabbing pains in her wrists and arms made her doubt she could cling to it much longer.

From above, she could still faintly hear crashing and clanging, screams and shouts. At any moment the crusaders might break through and find the perfecti holding these ropes, while Roland and she dangled helpless above the rocks.

She pictured her brethren being cut down by those huge longswords, their blood running out over the sacred stones. She sobbed aloud. She heard Roland say something in a low voice, some word of comfort, no doubt, but she could not make out the words.

She lost track of time. It seemed just minutes ago that she had said her goodbyes. And, equally, it seemed an eternity. Would they never reach bottom? The rope around her waist felt as if it might cut her in two.

Suddenly her feet kicked loose rocks and then struck solid ground. Her legs were too weak to hold her up, as if there were no blood in them, and she collapsed. But she didn't mind the bruising fall, so good did it feel to have the earth under her. Roland, who had also fallen to his hands and knees, crawled over and knelt beside her. She wanted him to hold her, but she was terrified of his arms.

Then she looked up and saw that the mountain peak wore a crown of flame. "Oh, dear God, no," she whispered. The fire arrows of the crusaders must have ignited the wooden buildings.

"We called it Mont Segur, the Safe Mountain," she said to Roland, gazing up at the fire. "We thought God would protect us up there. We should have remembered that God - the true God - does not rule this world. His Adversary does."

Unwillingly, she looked up again and saw that the flames had grown paler, and the sky beyond them was not black, but violet. A rose glow, not fire but the rising sun, appeared behind the tops of the pine-covered hills east of Mont Segur. Their long descent from the mountaintop, she realized, had taken from the middle of the night until dawn.

Under her thin silk tunic she trembled, partly from the cold. She rubbed her hands together to warm them, and when she blew on them her breath was a frosty cloud. Spring was still a few weeks away, but the people on the mountaintop would never see it.

With cramped fingers she began to undo the knots around her waist and knees. Roland helped her, and she quivered anew at his touch.

"Come away, Diane. Do not look up there anymore. We need your eyes on the path ahead."

She forced herself to stand. She looked at Roland and could see in the faint dawn light that he, too, looked exhausted. But she knew it would do them no good to stay still in this cold when they were soaked with sweat.

"You know this forest," he said. "The crusaders' camp lies beside the village at the base of the mountain. You must lead the way."

She sighed and gestured to him to follow her.

As they turned their backs on the heights from which they had just descended, the ropes came whistling down, coil upon coil. There was little chance that the crusaders would venture down here and come upon these ropes at the edge of the forest; they would never know anyone had escaped from Mont Segur. Gratitude welled up in her to the faithful ones above who had held those ropes till they were safely down.

She walked beside Roland into the deep pine forest. She glanced over at him. His face was darker than she remembered, and bonier. The nose seemed as sharp and thin as an ax blade. He had pushed his helmet back, and his thick black hair ringed his face. He turned and looked at her, and his vivid blue eyes, so startling in his dark face, sent a thrill through her. My God, she thought despairingly, help me. This is going to be so very hard.

"Why must we go to the crusader camp, Roland?"

"My tent and my jongleur are there. I really had to join their army, you see. It was the only way I could get up there." He gestured toward the mountain.

The thought of being among the crusaders filled her with dread. "Roland, I cannot."

"You will be safe there. No one would expect to find a Cathar in the midst of that army." His tone soured. "Especially not a perfecta. "

He will never understand what my faith means to me, she thought sadly.

They walked along in silence for a time. The air was filled with the fragrance of pines. Her lungs drank it in. She had almost forgotten, after nearly a year trapped in the fortress, the sweet smell of clean air. But that her lost people could not share in even this small pleasure only redoubled her pain.

She moved on, holding branches for Roland so they would not fly back in his face. She stepped nimbly over roots and rocks. Her body moved briskly, but her soul was heavy.

"You walk so surely," Roland said suddenly. "Like a deer. And going down the side of the mountain - few women could endure such an ordeal. When I last saw you, Diane, you were a delicate lady. Now you are a mountaineer."

His words made her feel a glow inside. "Among us there are no ladies. Women work the same as men. The holy work, too. Before the siege I was traveling all over Languedoc. I preached, Roland. I brought the Sacrament to people who needed it."

He stared at her in wonder. "How do your mother and father feel about the work you do now?"

She halted abruptly. Roland, startled, stopped just behind her. She turned to face him.

"I am sure they are very happy about me. They both died, you see, last year. The inquisitors made them wear the yellow cross of heretics and turned them out on the roads to beg. They were too old to survive the winter. But they had a good death. I reached them in time and gave them each the consolamentum."

"Oh, Diane!" He held his arms out to her.

She managed a backward step and a warning gesture, despite her grief.

He turned his back on her, his hands to his face. "Will you not let me comfort you?" he cried.

"It is all right." She felt choked all through. "It is all right. Let us walk on. "

She pushed on before him for at least an hour. Boughs slapped her face, and she slipped sometimes on patches of snow that remained in the cold, low places of the forest. Her leather boots were soaked through, and her toes were numb with cold. Just when she thought she could not take another step, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Roland, tired out, too, gestured toward a fallen tree trunk, and she sat down.

She took off her cap, wiped her forehead, and shook out what was left of her chopped-off hair. Her head felt strange and light. She shrugged out of her pack and set it on the ground with gentle reverence. Roland did the same.

She looked at him and saw a yearning in his eyes that frightened her. It reminded her of days when he and she were much younger. She remembered a mountain meadow and white poppies, the taste of his lips. And a poem he wrote for her:

?That which delights both woman and man Is praise to Him who made them.?

She was swept by a sudden wave of longing, and with it came the unbidden thought: If only I could be that girl of fifteen again.

The strength of her feelings shocked her. She had always been proud of her maturity, felt blessed that she had been able to grasp the deep truths of her faith and to turn her back on this world. In Roland's presence, was she succumbing again to illusion?

Surely I would be better off facing death on the mountain, she thought.

She laid her head on her folded arms and wondered what was happening to all those she loved on Mont Segur. Perhaps even now they were being tied to stakes for burning. She wanted to weep, but she reminded herself that those who died were fortunate. The body was like a clay vessel inside which a ray of pure light was trapped. Death was the breaking of the clay and the liberating of the light.

"Are you crying, dear one?" Roland said gently.

"For those who must die up there on the mountain," she said, with a catch in her voice. "And for myself, because I will not die with them."

She looked up at Roland as she said this and saw the look of exasperation on his face. It is true, he cannot understand, she thought sadly. Never. I must leave him as soon as I can.

"Why do you want so much to sacrifice yourself?"

It was hopeless. He believed God made his body, that it was precious. He was a troubadour - devoted to love expressed through the body. His years as a faidit seemed to have left him unchanged.

"I am not sacrificing myself at all, Roland. Everything I do is for myself. Death is only going back to the Light we came from. When I see the Light, as I do from time to time, I am as happy as anyone can be. Such happiness... you cannot imagine how great it is. "

"Greater than Love?"

She remembered how he had tried to instruct her in l'amour courtois, the religion of Love, before he and his family fled. If he had stayed, she wondered, what would I be now? How fortunate that I was left free to discover the Holy Light.

"Yes, the happiness I have found through my faith is greater than what you call Love. "

"I do not believe that." He shook his head angrily. "By calling yourself a perfecta you pretend you are not human."

"I know how very human I am, and that word is a burden for me - for all of us," she answered gravely. "We do not claim to be perfect, but we try to live as if we were free of all attachment to the material world. And if we fail to live so, there is no forgiveness for us, no second chance."

He closed his eyes in pain, then turned them on her again, burning. "I cannot believe that God wants people to live like statues - or bodiless spirits. This life you have chosen, what is it but fear and hiding, knowing one day those pigs will catch you and burn you alive? Diane, I will take you anywhere you want. You will be safe with me. I will take you away from this war, to Italy. It is beautiful in Italy. There are places there where the Inquisition has no power. You can live as you like. Think of the children we could have."

Despite herself, again she yearned to stretch out her arms to him. More memories came back to her - listening to him sing and play the vielle in her father's great hall, roaming the pine-scented countryside with him, their kisses by a mountain stream. She fought down the sweet wave of tenderness.

"Roland, no. Never. I have taken a vow never to touch a man except, if need be, to save his life, or his soul. "

His blue eyes stared at her, bright as the heart of a flame. If she kept looking into them, she feared, they would melt her. Her own soul was in peril.

"You made that vow not knowing that we would meet again. Be just to yourself."

"Even if I could change my mind, I would not want to." She put into her voice all the finality she could muster.

She saw his lips press together and his eyes grow moist.

She reached out to touch his shoulder, then drew back her hand before it came to rest.

"It is true I never thought I would see you again. Believe me, Roland, when I saw you standing there in the fortress I felt almost as much joy as in moments with the Light. The last I heard, you were in Avignon. Where have you been?"

"In Italy, in Sicily mostly." Roland's voice sounded as if he were dragging himself up out of a deep well of sadness. "The Inquisition was about to catch up with us at Avignon, so my mother and father and sister and I all journeyed on donkey back along the coast into Lombardy. From there we took ship to Palermo, where my father found work with Emperor Frederic."

A fond smile warmed Roland's sharp features. "The Emperor needs men who can read and write well, yet are not members of the clergy, to serve him in his endless quarrel with the Pope. So my father rose quickly in his service. He now holds high rank in the Imperia Chancery. He is very busy, but he finds time to write me many letters."

"I am glad for him," Diane said with feeling, though she thought again of her own father's death in a shepherd's hut. "What of your sister, dear Fiorela?"

"She married well, after I left them, to one of Frederic's noblemen, a Lorenzo Celino, knight of the Holy Roman Empire. My mother writes that he is a thoroughly virtuous man, which is rare for one of the Emperor's courtiers."

She had heard bad and good of Emperor Frederic - that he was dissolute, but that he allowed people to speak their minds.

"And you?" she asked with a smile. "Were you thoroughly virtuous while you were at the Emperor's court?"

He smiled back and shrugged. "I did what I like to do best. I had brought that dear old lute with me, the one I played before Peire Cardenal. I set myself to become a master troubadour. The Emperor has surrounded himself with some of the greatest poets and singers of our time, and I offered myself to them as a humble apprentice. They thought they could teach me something, and soon enough they had me performing my work before Frederic himself. I must have been a success, because after that I dined more often with the Emperor than my father did."

Diane remembered how many times Roland had sung to her alone, how his voice had seemed to draw her soul out of her body. So it was not love alone, she thought. If Emperor Frederic liked him, he really must be very good.

"Was it not hard for you," she said, "keeping up your skill while traveling from place to place?"

He shrugged. "Traveling is what troubadours do most. And wherever we stopped for any length of time, I made it my business to meet any other troubadour who might be in the district and to try to learn from him."

"And so at last the Emperor made you part of his court?"

Roland's face darkened. "He made use of me in other ways as well. Now that he rules southern Italy and Germany, he seeks to control northern Italy as well, and the Pope is determined to prevent him. I fought in the cities of Italy as one of the Emperor's Ghibellines in their battles against the Papal Guelphs. Frederic even knighted me himself. But even when I was in the thick of battle, lines of poetry were always springing into my mind. I would have been happier if I could have just written my music and sung it. The world would not let me do that. Any more than it will let you practice your faith."

"But surely you were better off at the Emperor's court than you are here. Why did you not stay there?"

"I love you," he said glumly.

Her heart wept for his pain.

"I love my country, too," he went on. "I dreamed constantly both of you and of Languedoc. I came back, and the first thing I did was look for you. But all my friends were dead or in exile, and people even told me that you were dead."

"Protecting me," she said. "The Inquisition is everywhere in the south of France. Picking the perfecti off one by one."

He nodded. "It was impossible even to find out whether you were alive, and sooner or later the inquisitors would have found out that Arnaut de Vency's son was back in Languedoc. So I moved up to Paris, where the inquisitors are not plying their trade as yet. And there I am known as Orlando of Perugia, an Italian knight. Trying to make my way as a troubadour. Then a letter came from my father. The Emperor had received an appeal for help from Mont Segur. It gave names of those trapped there. Your name was on the list. My father, who knows this country well, also wrote how I might get into the fortress. I joined the Albigensian Crusade for you. And now I have found you again, and lost you. All I have left are my songs."

He stood up suddenly. "If we meet any crusaders here in the forest they will question us, and it will be hard to think of good answers. We must get to the camp, and that will take us most of the day."

His voice was bleak, Diane thought, that of a man trying to hide his feelings, perhaps even from himself.

Diane, terrified of going into the midst of thousands of enemy soldiers, felt an urge to run from Roland and hide herself in the depths of the forest. But she steeled herself to remember: God is within me, and I need fear nothing.

Many hours later, as they walked onward through the valley in the deep shadow of late afternoon, Diane looked up at the peaks to the west of Mont Segur. They were jagged black silhouettes. Turning her eyes to the besieged mountain itself, she saw its top glowing golden in the light of the setting sun. Now Roland was leading the way, and they followed along the banks of a little mountain creek. The last time she had seen it, it had been clear as spring water. Now she was revolted by its brown color and the stench it gave off, like a town gutter.

She spied figures moving in the woods and froze.

"It is all right," said Roland. "That is just the camp of the rabble: the merchants and whores and thieves. They live on the army as fleas live on a dog."

Only partly reassured, she stooped and picked up some dirt and rubbed it over her face, roughening her skin to make it appear more like a man's. She insisted, too, on taking the heavy pack from Roland. It would seem odd for a knight to be burdened with anything other than his weapons.

Farther on, a lank-haired girl standing ankle-deep in the stream stared at Diane with glazed eyes. She thinks I am a man, Diane realized. The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen, but her belly bulged under her torn skirt. She pulled open her blouse to display pregnancy-swollen breasts in pathetic invitation. Diane turned away, unable to bear the sight. Life had crushed the child's spirit and left her little more than an animal. Could there be a worse crime than to get such a creature with child, forcing her to bring a baby into this suffering world? She heard a jingle and looked back at Roland. He had taken a silver denier from his belt, and tossed it to the girl.

After they had walked on, he said, "My mother might have been such a one as that if Arnaut de Vency had not rescued her. Carrying some crusader's get."

She heard the torment in his voice and pitied him. She knew the source of his pain. In the old days, when he had been courting her, he had confided that his natural father was not Arnaut de Vency but a crusader lord who had raped Adalys, Roland's mother, and left her pregnant. Hating his origin, Roland seemed at times to hate himself.

"Do not speak so of yourself, Roland," she said to him now. "All of us are born of shame, whether our parents are married or not."

Roland eyed her angrily. "And so that is why you perfecti despise human love. Sometimes I do not wonder that the Catholics persecute you."

She felt as if he had struck her.

She walked behind him in silence, apprehensive over the increasing noise in the distance: men's rough voices, the whinnying of horses, the clatter of steel. When, following him, she stepped out from the shelter of the trees, she stopped, her heart pounding with terror.

She was facing the power of the Evil One.

Before her rose a high wall of sharp-pointed logs. A forest of banners of silk and rich samite fluttered above and beyond it. Many of them bore blood-red crosses, some thin and long, some stout and square, some tipped with multiple points. Other banners displayed the arms of the nations and baronies that had joined together at the Pope's call for an Albigensian Crusade, to make war on Diane's religion.

Men in steel helmets wearing long coats of mail strode back and forth before the wooden wall or exercised huge war-horses covered in brightly colored silk coats. The palisade seemed to enclose leagues of rolling hills. On the hills, stretching as far as Diane could see, tents were massed - thousands of them, their pointed roofs clustered together on the hilltops, the biggest tents at the very top of the hills, the smaller ones of the poorer knights lower down.

Thick columns of smoke from cooking fires spiraled up through the clear mountain air, and Diane's stomach turned over as the odor of roasting sheep reached her. Forbidden by her vows to eat meat, she had come to loathe its smell.

The noise was terrifying now, thousands of voices echoing against the walls of the valley in a raucous, deafening clamor. How could she force herself to walk into that camp?

Roland led the way to the main gate, and she made herself follow. A sergeant with a long black mustache came forward to challenge them.

"I am Sire Orlando of Perugia," Roland said.

The sergeant touched his hand to his pointed helmet in deference to Roland's knighthood. "And this young man with you, Messire? He spoke in the Langue d' Oil, the harsh speech of the north.

"My equerry, of course," said Roland airily. "Guibert de Saint-Fleur. "

Diane gave the sergeant a perfunctory bow.

"Why did your seigneur allow you to leave camp?" asked the sentry. "Were you not told that Monseigneur the Count de Gobignon ordered everyone in the camp to stand to arms?" He studied Roland with narrowed eyes.

Diane's heart pounded against the wall of her chest. She prayed that the guard would not look too closely at her. Every-thing she feared about the crusaders was now embodied in this one mustachioed man.

"Why a general alert." Roland asked, his voice incredibly calm.

"Something is happening up on the mountain, Messire." The sergeant gestured to Mont Segur, towering above them. "Nobody knows what. We may be winning, or the Bougres may be counter-attacking."

Diane restrained an urge to wince. They are always making up names for us, she thought. Calling us Bougres - what an ugly sound it has! - because our faith came to us through Bulgaria; or Albigensians, because our first center in Languedoc was the city of Albi. As if to name us gives them power over us. They do not like what we call ourselves - Cathars - the purified ones.

"The Count himself has gone up there, but we have no news," the sentry went on. "It takes half a day to get up."

How well we know! Diane said to herself bitterly, overcome with weariness.

"This is the first I've heard of any of this." Roland smiled. "I was in a place where no heralds could reach me, visiting the daughter of a little local seigneur. She lost all her suitors in the war. Now she is past marrying age and hungers for a man. It was my duty to try to make her happy. Report me if you will. I will take my punishment. Honor forbids me to reveal her name."

How easily Roland lies, Diane thought. Would the sergeant believe him, or would he suddenly arrest them?

But the sergeant only grinned. "Your knightly pursuits are between you and your confessor, Messire. What is your man carrying in those packs?"

"Trinkets the lady pressed upon me." Roland again smiled. "One sometimes finds that unmarried ladies of uncertain age are very grateful."

Dear God, thought Diane, what will I do if he asks me to open the packs?

The sergeant laughed. "Well, it does me good to see our gallant knights prosper. It is no wonder the women hereabouts need real men. All those damned Bougres giving it to each other up the arse."

Diane felt her face flush hot with anger.

The guard stepped back and bowed Roland into the camp.

"Sorry," Roland said when they were beyond the man's hearing. "You are going to hear many a vile remark about your people."

Roland led her along a winding, muddy path through the tall, four-sided tents, each topped with a pointed pennon bearing the badge of the knight who dwelt in it. The tents were arranged helter-skelter, each knight's set up wherever it pleased him.

At the sound of chanting, Roland seized her arm and pulled her off the path.

Soon she saw a dozen priests of the Roman Church in red vestments carrying gilded crosses and silken banners. Young boys in black-and-white robes followed them down the path, ringing bells and swinging smoking, incense-filled thuribles. The robes of the priests looked hideously gaudy to Diane.

She felt overwhelmed with hatred. Priests such as these had instigated forty years of bloodshed in Languedoc. They believed they were serving God, but she was convinced they were doing the work of the Adversary. She listened to what they were singing, Salve Regina. They were praying for victory over her people with a hymn to the Virgin Mary. How could God have a material mother? Blasphemous!

She felt a tugging on her arm and saw that Roland had dropped to his knees in the mud. She resisted. She would never bend her knee to such priests. But if she refused she risked being found out. If only she'd been allowed to go openly to death as a Cathar! She swallowed hard, knelt, and made the sign of the cross.

After the procession passed on, she struggled to her feet, shouldered the two packs, and trudged beside Roland along the twisting path. But she was overcome with fear, convinced that every one of the thousands of men around her could see right through her disguise. Roland pointed out the different companies they passed: Normans, Bretons, knights from the Ile de France, England, Flanders, Germany. But she kept her eyes on the ground, not daring to look up at the cruel faces of the crusaders, and she stumbled along half a step behind Roland, terrified of being separated from him.

"Many of these men are second-generation crusaders," Roland said in a low voice, trying, she sensed, to distract her from her fear. "Their fathers came when the Pope first called for war, and their sons are still at it. Count Amalric de Gobignon is himself one."

"Who?" she managed to ask in a strangled voice.

"You look frightened to death. Try to walk more as if you belonged here. De Gobignon is the commander of this army. But look - here is where the knights from Italy and Aragon have pitched their tents. There are even some few knights of Languedoc camped hereabouts, who have made the crusader cause their own."

The sound of a strong voice singing interrupted Roland. The voice was mellow, and there was laughter in it. Even in her terror, it made Diane feel better.

She followed Roland through a circle of closely spaced tents and then saw an open area, a low hill covered with men seated on the trampled grass. Small fires burned against the February chill. All the men had their swords buckled on, their helmets by their sides.

Only a small part of this army was up on Mount Segur, she suddenly realized. The entire host was huge; this Count de Gobignon had not even begun to throw his men into the fight. It had always been hopeless.

Now she spied the singer, a short, stocky young man with curly blond hair. The golden wood of his lute gleamed in the late afternoon sun. He was standing before a plain black tent. Above its pointed roof a small black pennant flew, bearing a silver griffin pawing the air.

The song he sang was a rollicking one:

"The King of Cats cried, 'Where is that mouse? He has left no virgins in our land.' 'In the palace,' the Pussycat Princess cried, 'Sinning, like Onan, with his hand.' "

The crowd howled with glee, but their shouts renewed Diane's terror, and the heavy smell of wine sickened her.

Roland had stopped and stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the grinning jongleur.

Why are we staying here? she thought. Why don't we go on to some place where it is safe? Someone in the crowd handed the jongleur a wineskin, and he squirted a red stream into his throat. Then Diane saw his eyes flicker in their direction, first at Roland, then at her. The jongleur's face lost its gaiety and became apprehensive.

Diane hurried after Roland as he stepped forward. The men hastily got out of his way. Something about him frightens them, she thought. Perhaps his height, or the long black cape he wears. The men moved away to fires around the side of the hill as he strode through them.

The jongleur bowed to Roland. "I thought it would be a kindness to entertain these fellows, master, while we wait for news." He looked curiously at Diane.

"Did I ask for an explanation?" Roland snapped. "Come inside, quickly."

Diane followed Roland into the black tent. It was as stark within as without. Its main furnishing was a chest of reddish-brown wood studded with brass nails.

No Cathar, but Roland keeps himself as simply as we do, she thought.

Roland silently stretched out his hand, and the jongleur gave him the lute. Roland smiled at it, strumming it lightly with his long fingers and stroking its polished wood, before he wrapped it in its white silk cloth. Diane was unable to take her eyes off his hands. They were still as beautiful as she had remembered them.

The jongleur threw himself on his knees.

"Master! Thank God you made it back safely. I could not sleep for worrying about you. That is why I was out there singing for those louts, to take my mind off my fears." He glanced again at Diane.

Does he know who I am? Diane wondered. Should I fear him, or is he a friend?

Roland seized the young man's arms affectionately, drew him to his feet, and hugged him. "I am glad to see you again, Perrin. But why these fears for my welfare? Have you no faith in me?" Before the youth could answer, Roland turned to Diane.

"This is Perrin. He really is from Saint-Fleur. He sometimes accompanies me when I sing. Also acts as my equerry, and little help he is. Just now, for example, he should realize that we have been climbing down the mountain all night and walking all day, and that he should immediately spread out a blanket for you."

Perrin smiled tentatively at her. "Is this -"

"Yes, Perrin, this is the lady we were expecting, Madame Diane de Combret."

"Excellent disguise, Madame." Perrin smiled, quickly unfolding a blanket and patting it smooth for her. "Pray sit here. Also, please forgive me if my song offended you."

Roland laughed. "It is loyal of you to take the blame. I wrote the song, Diane."

She saw no shame in Roland's eyes. Bawdry amuses him, she thought. He is at home in this world and in his body.

"But how marvelous, master." Perrin was shaking his head. "You actually crossed the battle line, got into the Cathar stronghold, and whisked out your beloved. What a song this deed will make!"

Diane felt her cheeks burn at being called Roland's beloved, and immediately felt further shame in remembering how she had tried to belittle the same deed Perrin praised.

"If need be, you will lay down your life for hers, Perrin," said Roland. He was a head taller than Perrin, Diane noticed, and he stared gravely down into the jongleur's eyes. Roland is taller than everybody else in this world, she thought.

"Madame." Perrin bowed. "Let me tell you in all honesty that I do not hold with heresy. But I would die for this man, and he has risked death to bring you here. I shall not only die, I shall let my immortal soul be damned to help you, if I must."

Now she felt her body grow rigid with anger. Damnation in helping her? How dare he? Heresy, indeed! It is Rome that is rotten with error.

Without answering she took off her cap and laid it beside her on the chest. She combed her fingers through what was left of her hair. They had cut it so it fell just short of her shoulders, like a man's. She heard Perrin sigh and looked up to see him staring. She knew many men found her hair beautiful, but that no longer pleased her.

"I find such wild talk of damning souls troublesome," she said coolly.

Perrin blushed and turned away.

Roland stared at her angrily. "When a man lays his soul at your feet, do not be so quick to spurn it, Diane. He who would save his soul must lose it. That could be true for you, too."

Diane's face grew hot, and tears stung her eyelids. She felt ashamed. How could I speak rudely to these two, who are risking their lives for me? I am guilty of pride. I do not deserve to be called perfecta.

Roland turned away and held out his arms before Perrin, who helped him off with his surcoat and began to unlace the mail hauberk. The equerry hung the heavy coat of mail on a rack beside the chest. Roland gave a deep sigh and flexed his arms appreciatively in his quilted shirt.

She felt sudden panic. Is he going to take his shirt off, too? Then she wondered why that should frighten her. Diane had lived much in close quarters and seen many partly clad men. But she knew the reason for her fear. Somewhere inside her she felt a hunger to see his body. She stood up and turned from Roland in shame.

"I know how filled with sorrow and pain you must be, Diane," Roland said gently. "Yet you have not uttered a word of complaint. There is true steel in you. Forgive me for speaking harshly to you just now."

Diane was on the verge of tears. "There is nothing to forgive. I deserved it."

She started at a sudden commotion outside, men bellowing, cheering. Oh, dear God, it must be the worst.

"Sounds like a crier going through," Roland said. "Perrin?"

After the young jongleur had left, Roland said, "Diane, you can trust that man as you would your brother. Do not get a wrong notion of him because you heard him singing a coarse song. He has a conscience as strong as a war-horse."

"If you say I can trust him, Roland, I will trust him."

"Good. You will have to, because I am sending you with him up to Paris immediately. I have a small house outside the walls of the city, in the faubourgs, where you will be safe. The sooner you leave here, where they thirst for Cathar blood, the better. I must stay or be charged with desertion."

She saw pain in his eyes and knew that he did not want her to go.

Roland turned away from her, undid the laces of his shirt, and stripped it off. She commanded herself to turn away, but she could not. As he walked over to the rack and hung the shirt over his hauberk, her eyes devoured the wiry muscles that moved smoothly under his olive skin.

He turned to face her. A white scar ran like a streak of lightning from his right shoulder across his chest and belly. She gave a little gasp. He smiled at her, raising only the left corner of his mouth. That crooked smile she knew so well.

And loved.

Yes. Her body went cold and her heart fluttered. She tried to make herself picture the blackness of Hell, the abode of the Adversary. If I break my vow I am lost forever.

"Diane," he said softly.

"Please, Roland," she choked, "do not destroy me." She turned her back to him.

There was a long silence. She trembled, dreading his touch and longing for it.

"I have done nothing to you and I will do nothing," he said.

"I am weak," she said. "I did not know how weak I was. I am at your mercy."

She heard him move behind her, and tensed.

"Look at me, Diane."

Slowly she turned. He had thrown his cape over his shoulders. She saw suffering in every line of his face.

"I, too, have my code. As long as I love you, your will must be my will. If you believe that yielding to me would be weakness, that accepting my love would destroy you, I will not touch you. You must come to me with the whole of your will, or not at all."

Relief - and disappointment - swept through her. She sat down again on the chest.

Perrin pushed his way through the tent flap. "The news has just come down from the mountaintop." His eyes, full of pity, met Diane's. "The Cathars sent men out to parley this morning. Terms are agreed. Mont Segur has surrendered."

Diane put her head on her arms and began to whisper the Lord's Prayer. She had known when she left the mountaintop with Roland that this terrible news would come to her.

She felt Roland's comforting hand on her shoulder, and she left it there, for in her grief she desperately needed a human touch.

In her prayer she came to the phrase "Lead us not into temptation," and she whispered it fiercely to herself.

Then she wept, not only for the fall of Mont Segur, but in confusion and despair over her own plight.

III

ROLAND HELD HIS BODY STIFF AS HE FACED THE CATHAR FORTRESS and watched the tall wooden doors swing open. He saw now that the fire of that final night's battle, now fifteen days past, had left no structure standing but the stone keep. Inside the limestone walls stood forlorn, crude shelters made of tent cloths spread over blackened beams.

Cries of farewell and loud wailing came from the battlements above and from the open gateway, as the condemned emerged from the fortress, a long line of men and women in black. Roland's heartbeat broke its rhythm.

During the fifteen days of grace granted under the terms of surrender, he had waited in camp with the other crusaders. Now that Diane and Perrin were safely off on the road to Paris, he felt impelled to be with the Cathars in their final moments, to bear witness. He had volunteered, despite his dread, to help escort the prisoners to their execution. Those Cathars who joined the Catholic religion would now be allowed to leave in peace, though they would be forced to give everything they owned to the Church and wear the yellow crosses for the rest of their lives. But those who clung to their faith would die.

As the Cathars emerged, a man-at-arms directed each to stop at a table beside the doorway, where two Dominican friars sat with parchment scrolls. The friars recorded the name of each person about to die. This meticulous record-keeping, Roland thought, was one source of the Inquisition's power.

At the head of the procession was the Cathar bishop. Bertran d'en Marti's head glowed with the red-gold rays of the low afternoon sun striking his white hair, as if it were already enveloped in flames.

"Form around them," called the leader of Roland's party.

Roland reluctantly stepped forward with the other crusaders. His longsword and dagger swung heavy at his waist. He wore them only because, as a knight, he was expected to. He had left his helmet and mail shirt back in his tent. To escort these perfecti, he knew, he would need no weapons or armor. And they were all perfecti now, the believers who chose to stay and die having received the consolamentum.

Roland and the crusaders fell in beside the doomed people as they began to climb down the western face. At first Roland kept his eyes on the ground. He could not look at the Cathars. Walking with them, hurting for them, he felt ashamed that he was to live while his own countrymen died.

He heard little but the shuffling of hundreds of pairs of feet over rocks and gravel. He listened intently as now and then a voice was raised in prayer or a hymn.

When finally he did raise his eyes to look at the procession, he found himself staring with shock into eyes he recognized. They belonged to the woman called Corba, who had greeted him with a crossbow when he had scaled the wall. She was walking hand in hand with an elderly lady and a severely limping young girl whose long hair veiled her face. Images of Roland's own mother and sister rose before him, and tears burned his eyes.

Is this, he asked silently, the terrible enemy against whom Pope after Pope has called out all the knights of Christendom? Roland looked at the perfecti, fragile, black-robed, many of them women, many old men. Catharism, he thought, is really too gentle for this world.

As Roland watched the prisoners pick their way down the steep, rock-studded path descending from ledge to ledge, he admired the way they helped each other. A strong young man swept the lame girl up in his arms and carried her. That young man and that girl could have long lives ahead of them, Roland thought. Lord, why must they give their young bodies to be burned?

Roland looked downward toward the meadow that would soon hold all the perfecti. In the final days of the grace period, he had watched, sickened, as crusaders built a fence of logs about six feet high around the edge of the meadow. Within it they had heaped bundles of wood cut from the forest. Though the wood was still damp from winter, the bales of straw the soldiers had mixed with it and the pitch they had poured over it would, he thought bitterly, ensure a fine bonfire.

Roland stared down at the fighting men and clergy who had gathered around the fence and who thronged over the mountainside below it. They are happy, he told himself. Here is the fulfillment of their outpouring of toil, treasure, and blood, of nearly a year of siege.

A small group, arrayed in tunics and caps of blue, purple, and red, detached itself from the crowd and began to climb to meet the descending procession. The great seigneurs, thought Roland, the masters of these revels. For what they do this day may they all burn in Hell.

One of those approaching was taller than all who accompanied him. Though powerfully built, almost burly, he moved with ease up the precarious path. As Roland recognized the man, the hairs prickled on the back of his neck. His fingers twitched and his muscles contracted. Amalric, Count de Gobignon, head of this army, destroyer of Languedoc.

The knight in command of Roland's party hurried down the mountainside to meet the Count and bend the knee before him. Amalric stood with his thumbs hooked in his jeweled belt, and they exchanged a few words. The ash-blond hair that fell in waves to Amalric's shoulders was as beautiful as a woman's, but his long, straight nose and square jaw gave him a strong, manly look.

After de Gobignon had spoken, the knight he had addressed scrambled back up the slope. Amalric and his party followed at a leisurely pace.

Upon rejoining Roland's group, the officer raised a hand to halt the Cathar procession and its knightly escort. "Monseigneur the Count requires that the prisoners be roped together and their hands and feet bound."

Roland felt a surge of anger.

"Many of these people," he spoke out, "are old and ill. All are weak from lack of food. This is a steep path. How can they manage it if we bind them?"

He sensed the others of the escort party staring at him.

The officer did not look Roland in the eye. "Monseigneur requires that the prisoners be roped together and dragged the rest of the way."

Roland was stunned. He looked at the long line of Cathars patiently standing on the mountainside. His gaze met Bishop Bertran's. Was there a warning look in the old man's eye? No matter. He could not draw back now.

"What contemptible cruelty.'" he said loudly.

Amalric heard the protest and a hot wave of anger swept through him. How dare a lowly knight question an order of his! But he knew that a good leader does not act on impulse. Begin easily, he told himself. Find out what is happening here before you make a move in front of the whole army.

Continuing his climb up the slope, he inquired almost pleasantly, "Who is it who calls my command contemptible?"

Though he had reined in his anger, he felt the pleasant stirring in the blood he always enjoyed before combat, great or small.

Now he saw a knight step boldly out from among his fellows in the escort. Amalric sized him up. Tall. Might even be as tall as I. But stringy. I've got the weight on him. The face looked swarthy, and so thin that the large, curved beak of a nose seemed huge. Probably Spanish or Italian, perhaps even from around here.

Amalric prided himself on knowing as many of the men under his command as possible. This man, he was sure, he had never seen before. Whoever he was, he was no one of importance. That was obvious from the thinness of his black cape, his torn, dusty black tunic, and his unadorned belt and sword hilt. A thin, dark, purseless fellow, thought Amalric. A shadow of a knight. Amalric studied the knight's bearing. He held his head and shoulders proudly, daring to regard Amalric as if they were equals. And those eyes - they were surprising. Bright blue. As blue as my own, Amalric thought. They do not seem to belong in that brown face. It was as if another man looked out at Amalric through a mask. And the look in those blue eyes was more than defiance. Was there hatred in it?

"Who are you, Messire?" he said, keeping his voice low.

"I am Orlando of Perugia," answered the knight, firmly and calmly. He made no obeisance, addressing Amalric as an equal. Amalric felt his body turn hot. He had heard of the knight-troubadour Orlando. He cursed himself for having neglected to go over the rolls of his army of late. If he had known, he would have dealt with the man before today.

So this is the man who had the audacity to address a song to my wife.

Amalric smarted, recalling the letter he had received months ago in his tent at the base of Mont Segur, from the steward of his town house in Paris. At the beginning of winter, Amalric learned, a man had appeared outside the garden wall just before dawn, singing. When the guards went out to drive him off, he was gone. Later an equerry came to the house bearing a copy of the song for Countess Nicolette. But it fell into the hands of a steward loyal to Amalric, and the man quickly dispatched agents to follow the equerry. They tracked him to Orlando of Perugia, a troubadour newly arrived in Paris. The steward sent the song on to Amalric. It was titled "In Praise of Fair Nicolette," and Amalric had torn it to bits without reading it.

He had resolved to punish the man when the campaign was over. And now here was the same Orlando standing before him, ridiculing his orders.

"I do not give orders lightly, Orlando of Perugia. What is your objection to my command?"

"These people are going to their deaths peaceably. Why add needless suffering to their final moments?"

Amalric glanced at the long line of heretics extending from this spot on the slope almost to the gate of the fortress that had sheltered them. By Saint Dominic, how he loathed those Albigensians! They were like a flock of vultures, with their sharp faces and black robes. He could bear to look at them only because he knew he would shortly destroy them. He wished he could go among them swinging his sword like a harvester in a field of wheat, cutting down each and every man and woman himself. They could never be made to suffer enough to pay for the harm they had done to Christendom.

And to me. For it was creatures like these who killed my father.

"Mercy becomes a chivalrous knight, Sire Orlando. But these heretics deserve not your pity. Most of them are the so-called perfecti, the preachers and leaders who seduced countless others from the true faith. They are worse than murderers. They are killers of souls. To let them keep their dignity in death would give them a last opportunity to mislead their foolish followers. Do we want people from all over Languedoc to hear that these Bougres strolled down the mountain, laid themselves on the pyre, and serenely gave up their lives, just as if they were honest Christian martyrs? No, let it be said that they had to be dragged to their deaths and thrown upon the faggots."

"Men are often cruel in the heat of anger," said Orlando, his voice trembling as if he himself were possessed by fury. "But the foulest cruelty of all is deliberate, calculated cruelty."

"You have had your explanation, Messire Troubadour, which is more than you deserve. Why such tender concern for these imps of Satan?" Amalric grinned contemptuously. "What sort of man is it who prefers simpering with a lute to wielding a sword? I have heard somewhat of your sweet songs, but naught of your brave deeds. Perhaps you feel a kinship with that old Bougre sodomite there?" Amalric pointed to the black-robed ancient at the head of the line of Cathars, their so-called bishop.

As he intended, his words brought guffaws from the listening knights.

"What sort of man is it," Orlando said slowly and clearly, "who takes delight in tormenting helpless, unresisting old men, women, sick people, starving people? Perhaps I will write a song about the brave deed you do this day."

Amalric felt rage rise in him. As his lips drew back from his teeth, he raised his gauntleted fist and lunged at Orlando.

The troubadour seemed to step into the blow, yet it did little more than graze his cheek as he grabbed Amalric's wrist and elbow. A twist of his body, and the troubadour held Amalric's forearm locked tight.

Amalric felt a surge of panic, sensing that the bone was about to give. He was forced to drop to his knees.

Suddenly he felt himself released. The troubadour stepped quickly away from him.

He scrambled to his feet, staring into the astonished faces of a circle of knights. His own face burned with shame.

"Shall we kill him, Monseigneur?" Amalric's aide, Guy d'Etampes, called out.

"Do you need others to settle your quarrels for you?" the troubadour taunted.

"No one has ever spoken so of me," said Amalric. "Let it be trial by combat. I am commander of this army, and by the power vested in me I will mete out swift and final justice." He drew his dagger, a three-edged basilard of Toledo steel, ten inches from its triangular base to its needle point, and began to stalk the troubadour.

Slowly Amalric circled to the troubadour's left, expecting that the dark man would draw his own dagger with his right hand. Amalric moved on the rock-strewn slope so that he was on higher ground than the troubadour. He felt strength and agility flowing through him.

He saw a spot of sunlight, reflected from his basilard, dance on the troubadour's black cape. He shifted the dagger slightly so that the beam of light struck Orlando's eyes. The troubadour winced and sidestepped, but Amalric caught him in the eyes with the light again.

He crouched, shifting the basilard from hand to hand, and gathered himself to rush his enemy.

The troubadour, with the setting sun behind him, was a featureless shadow.

Amalric saw his opponent undo the clasp of his cape and wrap it around his right arm.

"Draw dagger or sword, Messire, I care not which," Amalric said. "I would not strike down an empty-handed man."

"I am as well armed with my hands empty as you are with that skewer," the troubadour mocked.

Amalric felt his face burn with fury.

He sprang at Orlando.

The troubadour raised his cape-wrapped right arm, but Amalric shifted the direction of his thrust and drove the basilard in under the right arm straight toward his enemy's chest.

The troubadour tried to shield himself with his left arm.

Amalric grunted with satisfaction as he felt the steel sink deep into flesh. Snarling, tugging hard, he yanked the dagger out of the troubadour's arm.

The troubadour, his face stiff with pain, stumbled over a rock and fell to one knee. As if searching for a friend, he looked up at the ring of crusaders that had gathered to watch the fight. No one spoke to encourage him; no one moved to help him. His sword and dagger were still sheathed.

"Draw your sword, God damn you."' Amalric roared, making sure all onlookers could hear.

Instead of reaching for a weapon, the troubadour unwrapped the cape from his right arm.

Amalric rushed him.

He saw the troubadour's hand flick and the cape fly out.

He felt something wrap itself around his ankles. Helpless, horrified, he knew that he was falling. He had just time to turn the point of his basilard away from his body before he went down on his face.

By Saint Dominic, the cape was a weapon. It had weights in its corners.

He felt pain stabbing all through him as his enemy landed heavily on his back, the troubadour's knee grinding between his shoulder blades, the sharp rocks on which he lay pressing into his chest.

Amalric raised his arm to strike with the dagger, and felt the troubadour clutch at his wrist, but the man's hand was slippery with blood, and Amalric pulled his arm free.

A burst of pain shot through Amalric's right hand and arm and he bellowed in agony. A big rock, in the troubadour's other hand, had crashed down on his knuckles.

Amalric's hand was empty, and he felt the sharp point of his basilard pressing against his throat.

"I can kill you now," said the voice above him.

"Go ahead."

"I do not wish to," the troubadour said. "Your comrades would surely repay me in kind. But if you move I will cut your throat. I shall release you on one condition, that the Cathars are permitted to go to their deaths on their feet like human beings. Give me your word of honor."

Amalric turned his face to look up at the troubadour. He had no choice unless he wished to die, that steel spike driven into his throat. His hatred burned his enemy's hawklike face into his memory.

"You have my word, but know that what is between us only begins here."

"It began long ago," the troubadour almost whispered.

Amalric felt the man's weight lifted from his back. Slowly Amalric pushed himself to his feet, favoring his right hand, which hurt abominably.

The troubadour had already turned his back on him and was walking away, blood dripping from his left arm.

Without looking at Amalric he let the basilard fall, clattering on the stony ground. D'Etampes hurried to pick it up and brought it to Amalric.

Weighing the dagger in his hand, Amalric thought, I could have him killed now. No, not in front of all these men. It would not seem knightly.

He watched the troubadour go. One day, he thought, I will have that man flayed alive. Slowly he sheathed the basilard.

But a small, cold question, coiling like a worm at the base of his brain, unsettled him. Why has he done so much to make me hate him? Who is this man to me?

Roland walked away slowly. His left arm felt numb. Blood from his fingertips spattered on the rocks. Men moved grudgingly aside, their hands on their sword hilts. At a word from Amalric, they would cut him down. Roland sensed their hatred for the upstart knight who had defeated Count Amalric with outlandish tactics. He had never in his life felt so alone.

He continued to walk amid the heavy silence, tensely waiting for an attack, watching from the corners of his eyes for sudden movement. But none came. Instead, Roland heard Amalric speaking in a low voice and then heard his aides call orders for the procession again to get under way. He heard no further word about binding the prisoners. The Cathars at least were going to be permitted to walk to their deaths under their own power.

The black-robed men and women avoided looking at Roland as they made their painful way past him down the mountainside. They understood that to show him any gratitude would put him in still more danger. He felt a wave of love, as palpable as the crusaders' hatred, from these people who were so soon to be destroyed.

I should go down to the camp now, saddle my horse, and get out of here, Roland thought. I am badly hurt. I need help, and I will get none here. Once Amalric has done these poor people to death, he will turn his full attention to me.

Yet Roland could not bring himself to leave. He had to be able to tell Diane how these people died. But more than that, he felt there ought to be one friend to the victims here in their last moments, even if his love and grief must remain hidden in his heart.

With his own dagger he cut two strips of cloth from his cape and bound one around the wound and one above it to slow the bleeding. His arm was throbbing from wrist to shoulder.

He looked down to the field of martyrdom. The long line of dark figures now extended almost to the stockade. Roland slid down the slope awkwardly, cradling his wounded arm to keep it from striking rocks.

Some of the men in the crowd recognized him and moved away as he came near, but most of them were too interested in what was about to happen to pay him heed. He took a position against the wall of rough-hewn timber, near the gateway.

Not ten feet from where he stood a bonfire of big logs crackled. He could feel its heat. Around it stood a circle of men holding unlit torches.

The Cathar procession stopped as they neared the open gate, and they clustered together in a large group. Roland saw Bishop Bertran, still in the forefront of his people. On a low hill looking down at the Cathars stood a row of men in dazzling vestments, a few with tall, gilded miters on their heads. Those, he knew, were prelates of the Roman Church. The fat one in gorgeously embroidered purple, with two or three jeweled rings on each finger, must be the Bishop of Albi, who had commanded troops in the siege. This must be a special triumph for him, since the heresy was said to be so strong in his city.

In the midst of all the red and purple finery one man caught Roland's eye. His black woolen cloak and white tunic were almost as stark as the robes of the perfecti. Roland recognized the garb of the Dominicans, the leading inquisitors. Pale, shining blond hair wreathed the Dominican's thin face, and the top of his head had been shaved in the priestly tonsure. He approached the Cathars alone, then stood a moment in silent prayer, his eyes gazing heavenward. Roland had seen him before and been told that he was Friar Hugues, the younger brother of Amalric de Gobignon.

As the young Dominican began to speak to the assembled Cathars, Roland watched them intently. Were they grateful for the few additional moments of life this sermon provided, or did this just prolong their suffering?

"Though you have denied God all your lives long, He still loves you, even at this moment," Friar Hugues said pleadingly.

As he went on, he showed himself a mighty preacher, roaring like a lion, whispering like gentle breeze. He was so enthralling, Roland almost forgot the pain in his arm and the suffering in his heart.

Darkness was falling, and the sun had dipped below the western peaks when Friar Hugues, his face lit by the flickering glow of the bonfire, ended.

"It is a painful death you are condemned to. You know, of course, that it is not the Church that punishes you. The Holy Inquisition has merely proven that you are guilty of heresy. It is the secular authorities who will decree that you must be burned to ashes."

Like Pilate washing his hands of the blood of Jesus, Roland thought.

"Yet this death by fire is not imposed out of cruelty," Hugues went on. "We permit the State to burn your bodies as a sign that the Church must be utterly cleansed of false teaching. Think again about your heresy. Search your hearts. Are you so very sure you are doing the right thing in choosing the flames? Is there not one among you who feels some doubt? Do not be afraid. That doubt is the voice of God in your heart. He is trying to save you. Come forward now. Come Forward, come to God. Save yourself, for His greater glory. This is your last chance. I beg you. Jesus Christ begs you. Come forward." Weeping, Friar Hugues dropped to his knees, repeating his pleas.

Among the Cathars no one moved or spoke.

Shivers ran across Roland's back. What a people, who could withstand such a sermon, with the sight of torches before them and the tarry smell of pitch in their nostrils.

Friar Hugues fell on his face on the trampled grass of the meadow, sobbing.

Now another voice rose above the crackling of the bonfire.

"You have said the Church must be cleansed."

Realizing that the voice came from among the Cathars, Roland looked there and saw that it was Bishop Bertran speaking. His voice was not faint, as it had been when Roland last met him, but strong, clear, as it must have been forty years ago, when he debated Saint Dominic.

"The Church shall be cleansed," the Cathar bishop went on. "From the flames you light today will fly sparks that will kindle a great fire of purification. The corruption and tyranny and superstition of the Church of Rome will be burned away."

The Bishop of Albi waved fat fingers glittering with rings. "We have not come here to listen to heretical sermons. You have wasted your last chance to repent. You are hereby delivered to the secular power." He turned to a young friar seated at a table, scribbling industriously on a roll of parchment. "Let it be recorded that the accused died unrepentant."

The Bishop held out a jeweled hand. Roland's eyes followed the gesture, and he saw Amalric, seated on a big chestnut horse, holding a roll of parchment. The Count's silver coronet and his purple and gold mantle proclaimed his power, the power to put two hundred people to death by fire.

Amalric read the sentence of death for all the perfecti, pronounced in the name of Louis, King of the Franks, with a cold serenity that was more chilling than any outburst of passionate hatred could have been.

Men with spears began pushing the condemned through the gateway of the palisade. Roland's heart beat hard with the dread of what he was about to see. Even in peril of his own life, facing an enemy's naked steel, he had never felt such tormenting fear.

He looked up at Mont Segur. The broken Cathar fortress and the crusaders' wooden fort, now abandoned, were still bathed in sunlight, though the shadows of the nearby mountains had crept over the meadow here below. Roland saw small figures standing atop the walls of the fortress. They were those who had chosen to renounce their faith and live, those who would now be left behind. This must be worse for them to witness than it is for me, he thought pityingly.

He turned back to the Cathars in the stockade. As when they were descending the mountain, they helped each other to take their places for death. Within the stockade the bundles of brushwood were piled high, higher than the height of a tall man. Bishop Bertran and the other elderly perfecti were pulled and lifted to the top of the pile by younger perfecti in black robes. Then, crawling over the mass of faggots that shifted and quaked under their weight, they moved to make room for those who came after. Having to burn so many at once, the crusaders had not bothered to erect stakes.

For Roland it was still hard to believe this really was happening. He had heard of people being killed by the thousands, but that was after sieges, when the blood lust of battle was still on men. Here there had been a respite after the siege. The crusaders and inquisitors had had time for calm reflection, and this is what they had chosen to do. It was the deliberateness of all this that made him despair of humankind.

Roland saw the woman called Corba tenderly lift the elderly woman she had been walking with to the top of the pile. Then Corba and the soldierly young man supported the lame girl as she climbed up. There was a family resemblance among the three women. Were they grandmother, mother, and daughter? Roland felt tears burn his eyes and a sob gather in his throat. His helplessness was maddening.

I should have killed Amalric.

That would not have stopped this.

When all the perfecti were inside the palisade, six men-at-arms pushed the gate of half-logs shut and propped more logs against it to keep it closed. Men carrying burning torches of pine soaked with pitch, climbed ladders leaning against the wooden walls. The red flames glowed in the twilight. From within the enclosure rose the sound of over two hundred voices reciting the Lord's Prayer in unison.

Roland looked at de Gobignon. His handsome face composed, Amalric lifted his bare right hand. Even at this distance Roland could see, with a faint satisfaction, that the Count's hand was swollen and purple. Amalric dropped his hand again, decisively. The men on the ladders threw their torches into the stockade.

For a moment the Lord's Prayer could still be heard. Then the flames shot up with a roar. Roland heard screams, for though they were called perfecti, these were human beings, and they would die with cries of pain. The gold banners of fire leaped so high they hid Mont Segur behind them.

As it grew, devouring its victims, the fire was merciful to the executioners and onlookers. Most of the screams were drowned out by the deafening clamor of the ever-fattening flames, like the continuous thunder of a huge waterfall, and the thick black smoke drifted upward into the windless violet sky, so that the dreadful stench of burning flesh was fast carried away.

Roland heard no word from the men around him. As the log wall itself caught fire, the onlookers backed slowly away. The heat was fierce on Roland's face and hands, but he knew it was nothing to the fire claiming the bodies of the Cathars.

Roland looked at Hugues. The friar's face was wet with tears. Is he really grieving for those he thinks of as lost souls?

Bishop Bertran, the lady Corba, all those good people whom Roland had known too briefly, must already be dead.

Overcome, he sank to the ground and, sitting, buried his face in his hands and began to sob. The pain of the wound in his arm, forgotten for a time in the horror of what he was seeing, overwhelmed him, piercing the whole left side of his body, as if a lance had impaled him.

"If you are so damned sorry for them, why not jump into the fire with them?" said a harsh voice above him. Roland stood up wearily. He felt a sudden urge to draw his dagger and strike. The impulse vanished as quickly as it came, drowned by another wave of grief.

Roland reached out with his wounded arm and touched the man's shoulder gently. "You do not know what you have done," he said.

The man shrank from him.

Roland turned his back on the great fire and walked away. He could not bear to watch any longer. How can I ever know a moment's joy in my life again? How can I love another human being, when I know that men can do this?

As he stumbled down the mountainside toward the main camp, the hideous image of three charred skeletons Corba and her mother and daughter - arms entwined, arose in his mind and made him feel faint. He was dizzy, too, from the pain in his arm. He knew he could lose his left arm, or even die, if this wound was not treated. But there was no one in the camp he could trust to help him.

I must get to my horse, try to get help for my arm on the road. Maybe find people who remember my father. Now, before Amalric sends his men after me.

In his despair, though, he walked slowly, because he could not make himself care whether he died of his wound or whether Amalric killed him.

Diane wanted to stay here and die. I did not understand you, Diane. But I do now.

He spoke also to the dead: I vow to your memory that I will do whatever I can to put an end to such evils as this.

A hopeless quest, perhaps. But if I cannot live for Diane, and if life is to continue in me, this is a good purpose for it.

An armed man stepped into his path.

Roland tensed himself defensively.

The man looked like any other crusader, but when he spoke it was in the Langue d'Oc. "Your wound needs attention, Sire Roland. There are those who wish to help you, as you have helped those they loved. Will you come with me?"

"I have many enemies," Roland said, realizing that the man had called him by his true name.

"You have friends as well. All things that are, are lights."

Looking closer, Roland saw that tears were running from the man's eyes. He must be one of the many spiritual children of the perfecti left orphaned by this day's horror.

Despite the darkness of this moment, he felt despair give way a little. Yes, there were armies that could put people to death mercilessly, led by barons like Amalric and priests like Hugues. But there were men like this as well, and people such as the burnt ones had been.

Now, Diane, I, too, have a vow to live by.

Feeling stronger, he said, "Yes. I will go with you."

IV

COUNTESS NICOLETTE DE GOBIGNON PRESSED A WET CLOTH TO THE King's brow. Though he lay there helpless, still she found him an awesome figure, like a fallen cathedral tower.

Only two other men are as tall, she thought. Amalric and Orlando.

She felt a pang of guilt. How could she be thinking about the troubadour here where her royal master lay slowly dying?

She fixed her eyes on Louis, and on the ivory and wood crucifix that rose and fell on his chest with his labored breathing.

Nicolette felt as if she, too, could hardly breathe. Across the crowded room a fire roared in a huge stone-lined fireplace. The air was stifling. She resented all that made it so, down to the woolen draperies and wall hangings and the thick carpets that sealed in the heat. But she knew that this northern chateau, Pontoise-les-Noyons, a day's ride from Paris, had had to be built to withstand cold, its walls thick and its windows tiny ? so totally unlike the bright, airy Languedoc manor she had grown up in.

Sweat trickled down her brow and stung her eyes. Her breath was coming in little gasps. She felt as if she would faint if she couldn't go outside soon.

Dozens of people, the King's family and courtiers, had packed themselves uselessly into the room, making it even more suffocating. Their whispers, like the buzzing of mosquitoes, irritated Nicolette.

Almost all of them, she was sure, worried more about their own welfare than about the King's. And even Louis's wife and mother, though they grieved for him, were too distracted to do much to alleviate his suffering.

She saw the King's lips quiver, and quickly she bent close to him. Any last words could be terribly important.

"Jerusalem," he mumbled. "Towers - golden. Gates of pearl. Crystal waters." Then he panted heavily.

"Hush, sire," she whispered. "Rest easy."

Louis's heavy eyelids lifted slightly, showing only the whites of his eyes, as if he were already dead. He's delirious, she thought.

"The trees bear fruit all year round." He said this distinctly. Then he lapsed into wordless muttering, and then silence.

She took a fresh wet linen cloth from the silver basin beside her, squeezed out the lukewarm water, and laid it on Louis's high forehead.

Why Jerusalem? The Jerusalem he was mumbling about, she knew, existed only in his fevered mind. She had listened to Crusaders who had been there. There were no golden towers or gates of pearl. There were no towers or gates at all now, because the Turks had destroyed them.

She caught her breath. Perhaps it is not an earthly Jerusalem. Could he already be seeing Heaven?

Her body turned cold and her stomach churned as she imagined Louis closing his eyes forever. As a girl, she had seen the village near her father's chateau burned to the ground by marauding knights. Now she saw those flames again; heard the screams of bleeding men, terrified children, women being raped. What had been happening in Languedoc all these years would happen now all over France. War. War had killed her dear father, trapped her in marriage to an enemy. What horrors would she have to endure this time?

There would be factions, and she would have to decide which to join. What side would Amalric take? She had no idea. And where should she go - stay here in Paris, flee north to Chateau Gobignon, or try to get back home to Languedoc?

She felt the urge to weep for Louis as if he were already dead. She liked him so much. When she had first come to court, a stranger and almost a foreigner, he had gone out of his way to be kind to her. And how gentle he was with his Marguerite.

So good not only to those close to him, she thought, but to everyone - merchants, townsfolk, peasants. How they cheered for him as he passed by! What would become of them all if he died?

Amalric should be here at a time like this.

But he considered it more important to visit the properties the Church had awarded him after his victory over the Cathars, take inventory of each one, put down any local disorder, and appoint men to occupy and govern each chateau and town for him. All the spring, summer, and autumn he had been journeying about Languedoc. It might be dangerous for him to be away from Paris and his own holdings if the King died, but he also stood to lose a great deal if he did not fully secure his new lands. He was always at the edge of a precipice, always juggling one danger against another. And how he enjoyed it all!

But not all men were like Amalric.

A wave of grief washed over her, darker than the sorrow she felt for dying King Louis. She had hoped for so much from Orlando. She had loved him so. And now that love was dead.

It hurt to think about him now. But perhaps it was better to feel pain than to feel nothing. The King was quiet as she sat by his bed. He breathed evenly, seemingly sleeping, and as she sat with her eyes fixed on him, her mind wandered. She let herself dream.

* * *

How she had trembled when her eyes first met the troubadour's. His sky-blue eyes, so strange against his dark complexion, compelled her to look at him, as if he were a magician and had her under a spell. It had been early in September, over a year ago, and the King and Queen were holding court in a field outside the chateau at Chinon. Amalric was far away, having begun his siege of Mont Segur.

The troubadour's first words were not to her, but to the King.

"If it please you, sire, I will sing a ballad of Peire Cardenal's."

Even as he spoke, his eyes flickered to her, and he seemed to be asking for her approval as well as the King's. She felt herself nodding and smiling before she knew what she was doing.

He sang, and his voice washed over her, a warm, rich baritone. She felt full of a sweet confusion, certain that it was really to her he was singing. She watched his long, slender fingers on the strings of his lute, and it was as if those fingers were holding her hand and stroking her.

Her gaze lingered on his glossy black hair, memorized his high, narrow forehead, his brilliant blue eyes, his large, slightly hooked nose and sharp chin. No, she thought, not the features of a handsome man, as convention would have it; but having seen him, her idea of handsomeness abruptly changed.

Rapt, she kept her eyes fixed on him all through the song. And her heartbeat quickened with delight each time his gaze strayed to meet hers.

She was filled with a longing that was intensely painful, yet somehow she felt happier than she had been in a long time. She wanted to hug the world to her, as if until this moment she had been sleeping, and now for the first time she was awake and fully alive. And as she listened, she found herself imagining him singing to her alone, songs he would create for her. His lyrics would speak to her of a secret kingdom of love. There she would be the ruler and he the adoring subject. She envisioned herself in some secret silken place lying in his arms.

All too soon for her he finished his song. He bowed deeply - and how gracefully, she thought - to King Louis and Queen Marguerite, and accepted their praise and thanks. Then he walked, with the proud carriage of an Arabian stallion, across the open grass, to stand among the courtiers.

It was only then that she realized she had not heard his name. She whispered to her friend Marguerite, "Who is he?"

Marguerite looked over to where the troubadour stood and back at Nicolette and smiled. "He looks as if he could be a countryman of ours, does he not? A man of Languedoc. Very handsome. If I did not love Louis so much, I could almost be attracted to him myself."

"But who is he?" Nicolette demanded again.

"He is called Orlando of Perugia," said Marguerite with a sigh. "Where is Perugia? Northern Italy, I think. A pity he is not a genuine Languedoc troubadour."

From then on, as the feasting continued at trestle tables set in the meadow, Nicolette's eyes sought him out again and again.

She said "Orlando" silently to herself many times that afternoon, and discovered that in shaping the name slowly, languorously with her lips, they moved as they might if she were kissing him.

But she did not dare try to speak to him. Amalric had his retainers, relations, and favor-seekers scattered all through this festive assemblage, and any interest she showed in another man would surely be reported to him. How fortunate at least that Louis's mother, Queen Blanche, who watched over the younger women of the court as a falcon watches hares, was not with the royal party that day.

Nicolette had been deeply thankful, too, that Amalric was away at war.

At the end of the festive day, when the King and Queen were ready to retire, the troubadour gave her one last burning look before he left the meadow.

She was ecstatic. After eleven lonely years of a marriage she had entered into only to save her mother and sisters, she might have found her true love.

But when would she receive a message from him?

The very next day her personal maid, Agnes, handed her a roll of vellum tied with a black ribbon, and she cried out with delight. He had worn black.

She tore the ribbon loose and devoured his words:

?When I beheld you yesterday You were all that I could see, So bright your beauty shone. It made the castle fade away, And by some wondrous sorcery We two seemed quite alone.?

Five stanzas. In her eagerness she read the lines over and over again. And what delicious pleasure she felt that they were written in her own native language, the southern Langue d'Oc.

* * *

Now, sitting by the dying King's bedside, she remembered the first time Orlando had sung only for her. It had been a year ago, just at the start of winter, after the King and Queen had returned to Paris. She was in bed in the de Gobignon town house on the Right Bank. She had fallen asleep thinking about her troubadour, and she'd been dreaming of him, as she often did.

She must still be dreaming, she thought when she first heard his voice. But suddenly she was wide awake, realizing that he was singing in the garden outside her window.

He sang an aubade, a dawn song of Languedoc, about the agony of lovers parting while a friend on watch warns of approaching morning. She slowly rose from the bed and tiptoed to the window. Though she was barefoot and wore only her shift, she hardly felt the December cold. She struggled with the fastenings of the shutters, yearning to see him.

Then she heard angry voices below, Amalric's men-at-arms up and about, and she froze in terror.

"Oh, no, let him be safe!" she prayed.

She heard running feet and the clatter of steel weapons.

In dread she pressed her hands to her breast. But then there was silence.

She went back to her bed and wept, terrified that something awful had befallen her troubadour.

Later that morning Agnes reported with a twinkling eye that the men-at-arms had chased a prowler, but he had gotten away.

Nicolette all but fainted in her relief.

A week later, Agnes handed her a folded parchment, and again she was aglow with excitement. It was, as she had expected, a plea for a tryst:

?To the lady who is always in my thoughts: We are two rays of light shed by a single sun. The Goddess whom we both serve forbids us to remain apart. I beg you to join your light with mine that both of us may shine the brighter. Entrust your reply to him who brings you this.?

And no signature.

"His man wants to know if there will be an answer, Madame," Agnes said with an amused smile.

Nicolette trusted Agnes, who had been with her since they both were children. The same age as her mistress, Agnes had proved her loyalty by giving up her home and family to accompany Nicolette when she had been compelled to marry Amalric. Both felt out of place in this northern country, and they shared an abiding love for the sweet customs of ladies and troubadours.

"Not now," said Nicolette. "I shall have to think about it."

All that day she tried to decide what to write back. She would take a worn piece of scrap parchment, start a letter, rub it out with pumice, and try again. She must have done it a dozen times.

It is too soon for a meeting, she told herself. If he has been properly instructed in courtly love, he must know that as well as I do. No, first he must woo me at a distance with songs and sweet messages. Then, after a year or so, I shall arrange a very brief secret meeting. That will show whether I can trust him to do only what I allow. Then I may let him kiss me. And then we will proceed ever so gradually, over months and years, from kissing to touching, to lying together clothed, and then with no clothing, and at last, when I have tested him fully and totally, the final sacrament of Love.

But at the thought of that union of their bodies, she could all but feel his arms around her, his hard, lean body pressed against hers. Her hands tensed, as if they clutched his shoulders, drawing him closer still.

Why must I wait? Why must I draw it out as they do in the old romances? In a week or a month he could die, and then I would never know the glory of lying in his arms.

How awful!

She took a fresh piece of parchment and began to write, inviting him to set a time and place for a rendezvous.

It was hard for her, though, to hold the quill firmly, because suddenly she was hearing the voice of her mother, dead these three years, exhorting her.

"You will want to yield to him at once, because to sleep with a man you love is the closest thing to Heaven we can know here on Earth." Her mother had held up a warning finger. "But do not do it. If you give yourself to him right away, the love he feels for you will lose its force sooner than you would think possible. You must use the power of unfulfilled desire - his and yours - to teach him. In the world, man rules woman, but in the kingdom of Love the man must call the lady mi dons, 'my lord,' because he is ruled by her. So my mother told me, and so, in our tradition, mother has taught daughter, in secret, since before the time of Christ. And I know it is true, because I have lived it. Remember, when it happens to you, you are not the first woman to feel this way - although it will seem that way to you. This teaching has stood the test of many generations. You will never know the true magic of Love unless you follow its rules."

Since her marriage at thirteen Nicolette had known what bodily union with a man was like. She even remembered a spring night, two years after her marriage, when, after an evening of merry dancing, she had been able to forget her resentment of Amalric, forget who her husband was, and had enjoyed his body so thoroughly that she had been left trembling from head to foot, exhausted with pleasure.

But she knew deep down that Love could be far more than that. From what her mother had told her, from what friends whispered, from innumerable poems, she knew what glories Love promised. At its best Love could carry lovers to heights of bliss that the priests claimed were reserved for the saints in Heaven.

She clenched her fist so hard she broke the quill and left a big blotch on the parchment.

She might have only this one chance in all her life. Twenty-four was no longer young. Still, the happiness they would know in the end would be worth the delay. She wrote:

?Messire: Press me not for favors yet. I must know if you are true, and only time can tell me that. Desire is overhasty, but Love is patient.?

Days followed days, stretching into lonely weeks. But no answer came back to her. She grew sorry, then bitter. Why had she not acted on her first impulse and arranged a secret meeting? At home and at court she went through her routine with a constant, aching hollow in her stomach. The thought that she might have ruined it all filled her with anguish.

She shared her pain with Marguerite, who insisted that Nicolette had done absolutely the right thing in postponing a rendezvous. But what did it matter whether she had done the right thing if she had lost Orlando forever?

She worked hard to convince herself that if he really cared about her, one such note from her should only have spurred him to greater ardor. She repeated to herself again and again what she had said in her reply to him, wondering if he had perhaps misunderstood her chiding tone and taken offense.

One day she saw that the ice in the Seine was melting. Winter was ending. The word from the south was that Mont Segur must soon fall. Then perhaps Amalric would be back, and a meeting might then be impossible. And still there was no word from her troubadour. She stood on the riverbank and prayed to the Goddess of Love that she would hear from him.

When the trees in Paris were budding, she overheard gossip at court. The troubadour had ridden off to Languedoc. She felt as wretched as if the inquisitors had pronounced her death sentence.

Why? Had he fled Paris to forget her? Was he, as she suspected, a man of Languedoc only pretending to be Italian, and had he gone to fight against the crusaders?

She felt his loss constantly, but oddly this pain made her happier than she had ever been since she married.

For she continued to hope. One day he would come back from his mysterious journey. One day she would see him again. Whatever she had done wrong, whatever had cut him off from her, she would not make the same mistake twice.

During the summer that had followed, as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Marguerite, she had again accompanied the royal couple and their court on a tour of the kingdom.

Because Louis was unwilling to burden his subjects with a huge expense, his retinue was a small one, as such parties went - the King and Queen and a dozen noble companions, two dozen equerries and pages, twenty or so clergymen (so that Louis should not lack for the theological conversation he loved), and fifty servants headed up by Isambert, the palace cook. The King felt such trust in his subjects that only a hundred knights escorted him. At each chateau and abbey where the royal party stopped they were lavishly feasted and entertained, and their mounts stabled and fed. Every man and many of the women of the entourage took three horses. There were mule-carried litters for the ladies, but Nicolette and Marguerite both preferred horseback.

They journeyed through the northeastern lands - Champagne, Picardy, Artois, and Flanders - and, along with other castles, they visited Chateau Gobignon.

Amalric, flushed with pride in his conquest of Mont Segur, made a special trip north to play host to the royal party. Nicolette's private reunion with him was bleak and empty of feeling. When the King and Queen moved on, and she with them, she was relieved. So, she suspected, was Amalric, who hurried back to oversee his new holdings in Languedoc.

Summer in the north of France was usually the happiest season for Nicolette, because then it was most like home. But that summer, almost a year after she first saw the troubadour, there was a veil of sorrow between her and the warmth of the sun and the green of field and forest.

"There is news from Paris, Nicolette," Marguerite said gravely one morning at Troyes when Nicolette had come into the Queen's bedchamber to help her dress for the day. "A certain troubadour has returned."

Nicolette's body went hot, then cold. Why was Marguerite reporting this good news so solemnly?

"Tell me everything you know!" she cried.

"There are ill tidings, and much that only a friend who shares your secrets would dare to tell you."

"Why?" The dark look on Marguerite's oval face frightened Nicolette. Something terrible had happened.

"It involves your husband."

In her surprise Nicolette dropped the necklace she was trying to clasp around Marguerite's neck. "Amalric! Does he know?"

"It is possible," said Marguerite, catching the necklace as it slid over her bosom and fastening it on herself. "Here, sit down."

Nicolette stared into Marguerite's large brown eyes, trying to guess what she was going to tell her.

"An equerry who was carrying letters to Louis from Paris says that Orlando returned to his house in the faubourgs badly wounded, deathly ill. Hurt as he was, the equerry said, he had ridden all alone the whole way from the Pyrenees to Paris."

Nicolette felt dizzy.

The man she loved - yes, loved - deathly ill. Would he die? Would she never see him again? It was unbearable.

"What happened to him? How was he wounded? Tell me quickly."

"He had been with the army besieging Mont Segur under your husband's command." Marguerite put her hand over Nicolette's.

Her troubadour, ravaging Languedoc? Nicolette felt as if she had been stabbed.

"I do not know what he was doing there, but it was Amalric who wounded him, Nicolette. They fought with daggers, in front of the whole army."

The room seemed to spin around.

Amalric and Orlando fighting? Was Orlando fighting against the crusaders? Or was it because of me? Is this why I have heard nothing from him? She pressed a hand to her throbbing forehead.

And Amalric. He had said nothing at Chateau Gobignon about this, nothing at all.

"But why were they fighting?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"It was over an order the troubadour did not wish to obey, something of that sort. Perhaps that was only an excuse. Perhaps they really fought because your husband knows of the troubadour's attentions to you."

An order? Of Amalric's? Then Orlando had joined the crusader army. Oh, how could he!

"How badly" Nicolette whispered, "did Amalric hurt him?"

"He stabbed him in the arm, I am told. But your troubadour gave a good account of himself. He had Amalric down and had a knife to his throat. He could have killed him, but he had the sense to hold his hand."

Nicolette shut her eyes, as blackness seemed to fall around her like a curtain. She felt as if she were an earthenware figure someone had smashed to bits with a hammer. Surely Orlando was now lost to her. Amalric, until he was avenged, would never rest. And how could she and Orlando ever meet, now that Amalric would be watching him, hating him? If the troubadour had escaped death at Mont Segur, it was only death briefly deferred.

Then her mood abruptly changed. Anger blazed up in her, and she felt her body grow hot. How could Orlando do this to her? Rage drove out grief. She clenched her fists in her lap.

What kind of man was this troubadour that he would first woo her, then turn his back on her to take part in a war against her homeland? How could he be such a fool as to challenge her husband? No, no, no, he is not worthy of Love, she told herself.

But then an image of the lean, dark face, the dazzling blue eyes, and their soul-searching gaze came to her. And she felt herself aching with longing.

Marguerite tried to console Nicolette. "Orlando was a fool. You will be much happier if you forget him. Besides, all troubadours are mad."

Nicolette pretended to take her seriously, but within she kept asking herself, How can I see him?

It was only later that Nicolette realized, with amazement, that if the fight had gone otherwise, she would now be a widow. The thought of such freedom sent a small thrill through her. Then she felt ashamed. How monstrous, to wish her husband, her children's father, dead. And how would she live, a widow with three daughters, dependent on Amalric's family? Would that be an escape, or a trap far worse than her marriage?

The prospect of death...

It brought her mind back to the long figure on the bed before her. Louis was only thirty. What a shame. It seemed terribly unfair to Nicolette that Louis should die so young. France needs him. There is no one else.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, she thought: Christmas, one thousand two hundred forty-four. But there was no Christmas gaiety here at Pontoise among those gathered at the royal bedside. People stood around the huge bed, watching the King with foreboding, watching one another with suspicion. Nicolette felt uneasy among them. She felt their presence almost as a physical pressure at her back. They were breathing the good air the King needed, air she herself needed.

Closest to the bedside were Queen Marguerite, whom Nicolette loved and pitied, and Queen Blanche of Castile, whom Nicolette feared. Near the two queens stood Louis's three younger brothers, Robert, Charles, and Alphonse. They were strong young men, but Nicolette felt none of them had the ability of their elder brother. A bit farther away were the highest officials of the court. Beyond them were bishops, barons, abbots, the heads of religious orders. And in an outermost circle were still others, more than could fit into the room. Almost all the great ones of the realm had come to pay homage and witness Louis's passing. A king, Nicolette had heard it said, never dies alone.

She sensed a stirring on the bed. The King's large eyes opened, and he stared up at her. Gasping with the effort, he levered himself into a sitting position, pushing back the tentative hand she put forth to hold him down. His forehead glistened with sweat, and he trembled under his white shirt as he held up the heavy wooden crucifix, clutching it with both hands.

The buzz of the crowd faded, and a silence fell over the room.

"Jerusalem is lost," he said in a voice that was now loud and firm, no longer a delirious murmur.

"Jerusalem is lost," he repeated, "and I have seen my duty." Now he seemed to stare at the fire in the huge hearth across the room.

Why does he keep talking about Jerusalem? Nicolette wondered. Behind her she heard people whispering the same question to one another. An uneasiness came over her; a premonition that something strange and terrible might soon happen.

"Peace, my son, peace," said Queen Blanche, moving to stand beside him, a tall, thin woman in a gown of white satin. She had been wearing white, the color of mourning for queens, ever since the death of Louis's father, and people called her the white Queen. She had ruled France all alone for ten years, until Louis came of age.

Nicolette was terrified of Blanche. She would never forget what had happened last year, when Louis's first son was born, a terrible childbirth that had almost killed Marguerite. Louis had been visiting Marguerite. Nicolette, too, had been there, at her friend's bedside. Suddenly Blanche had burst in and demanded that her son leave and come with her at once, claiming pressing state business.

"Alas," Marguerite had wept. "Can I not have him with me even when I am dying?"

Blanche had whirled and stared coldly at her daughter-in-law.

"You have provided us with a royal heir. My son no longer needs you."

Blanche frightened most members of the court. She was a harsh woman of strong opinions, quick to find fault and totally unforgiving.

"What duty do you speak of, sire?" Marguerite now asked Louis as she leaned over the bedside.

"There will be time enough to talk of duty when you are better," said Queen Blanche, glaring at her daughter-in-law from under heavy eyebrows.

"Jerusalem," the King again intoned, his pale blue eyes fixed on the fireplace as if in its glow he was seeing those golden towers and crystal waters.

Nicolette wondered, had the fever made him mad?

"Louis, please," his mother begged.

"Let him speak!" Marguerite cried.

The clash of the two women closest to him seemed to draw the King down from his feverish exaltation, and he spoke more calmly. "I am going to take the crusader's cross, Mother. As I lay almost dead just now, I promised God that if He would let me live I would lead a crusade to liberate Jerusalem."

Nicolette heard the whispers start up again throughout the room. He is better, they were saying. He promised God he would go on crusade, and now he is sitting up and talking. She heard the word "miracle" uttered by more than one person.

No, someone else said gloomily, fever victims are often lucid before the end.

But this was not the end.

Sitting by the King, Nicolette could see with amazement and joy that those who spoke of a miracle were closer to the truth. His color was coming back; his eyes were sparkling. He was not on the brink of death but was moving farther away from it with every passing moment. And the change was so sudden! The moment he started speaking of Jerusalem the healing had begun.

Jerusalem. Despite the heat of the room Nicolette felt as if a blast of icy wind had blown through it. She shuddered. When had there last been a crusade, a real crusade, not like this Albigensian Crusade, this war of Christian against Christian in Languedoc? Not in her lifetime, thank God, had men taken the cross and marched off to Outremer - the land beyond the sea. She had heard tales from some of the old veterans - of great armies going out and only a handful of men returning. Of plagues, famines, droughts. Of the fury of the Saracen Turks, slaughtering knights by the thousands. Crusading to Outremer, her father had often said, was one madness, at least, that had gone out of fashion. "And thank God for that!" Guilhem de Lumel had always added.

Yet he had once said about the invaders of Languedoc, "those so-called crusaders" against whom he had fought all his life, "I just hope that before I am through they will wish they had gone to war against the Turks instead of their own countrymen." A few weeks later he had fallen in battle, against ?so-called crusaders?.

Within only a month after they brought back her father's body, slung over his war-horse, Amalric strode into her life. He was everything she expected a crusader to be - overbearing, bigoted, in love with the spilling of blood. To save her family's property from being seized by the Church she had married him, but she had felt herself no more than a prisoner of war. Little wonder that the very word crusade filled her with loathing.

And now the King? God forbid!

Blanche shook her head, looking to her other sons for support. "It is the fever that speaks."

Marguerite, too, looked shocked. "A crusade. Oh, no, Louis. You must not say such a thing."

The King now spoke with solemnity and without a trace of feverishness. "Look at me, Mother. Can you not see I am better? God has spared me. He wants me to rescue Jerusalem for Him."

"It is true!" cried the King's brother Robert, drawing a black look from Blanche. "The fever is broken."

"Praise be to God!" cried the Archbishop of Sens, raising his beringed hands prayerfully. At this, a murmur of wonder and joy rippled around the room. Some even fell upon their knees.

Despite her sadness and fear, Nicolette, too, felt relief burst forth in her like a mountain spring. It does almost seem like a miracle, she thought. He will not die, and the kingdom will be preserved.

Blanche peered more closely at her son. Her eyes widened, and Nicolette saw joy fleetingly appear in her pale face. She clasped her hands together convulsively.

"Thank God!" she whispered. "Oh Louis..." She reached out toward him, but before she could embrace him, she drew back. She would not, Nicolette realized, show her love for her son in front of all these people.

When she spoke again her voice was firm, decisive. "You are right, Louis. God has spared your life. But you can serve Him best by fighting the heretics here at home."

Has there not already been enough killing in Languedoc? Nicolette thought angrily.

"Catharism is finished, Mother," Louis said. "Its last leaders died at Mont Segur. I want to bring peace to Languedoc."

"Amen to that," said Marguerite with deep feeling.

Nicolette felt such warmth toward Marguerite that tears rushed to her eyes. We are children of Languedoc, she thought, more like sisters than friends.

"What we need is a purpose that will draw all Frenchmen together, north and south," Louis said. "Let our young men stop fighting one another and fight to free Jerusalem."

To die in Outremer instead of in their homeland, Nicolette thought, is that so much better?

Blanche sighed. "If God wanted us to have Jerusalem, He would not have let the Saracens capture it. What has Christendom gained from all the blood and treasure that has already been spent trying to hold Jerusalem?"

"Mother, the Egyptian general, Baibars the Panther, captured Jerusalem only last June. Do you think God intends him to hold it forever? If we were to give up trying to deliver Jerusalem, that would cause more Christians to doubt their faith than were ever converted by the Cathars. "

Blanche turned and walked away, shaking her head.

The atmosphere in the room had changed, Nicolette saw. It was no longer a death watch. The King was sitting up, talking excitedly. It really did seem as if his decision to crusade had made him better.

Nicolette's heart felt another cold touch of fear. If the men go to war in the East, what will become of me? Will Amalric go, and will I have to? She remembered hearing that the kings of France and the great barons had usually taken their wives. How could she survive those burning wastes filled with savage Muslims?

But then a deeper pain seemed to blot out this new fear. She had lost Orlando, her one hope of happiness. So what matter if she were to die in the East?

Marguerite broke into the circle around the bed and held Louis's hand tightly in both of hers.

"Louis, Louis, if you had died it would have killed me, too. I thank God for your life, whatever His reason for giving you back to me. If your promise to take the cross saved you, it saved me as well. But, mark you well, I may still forbid you to go on crusade." She said this with a smile, and the King smiled fondly back at her. Nicolette saw the love between them and felt envious.

Now she could see the pink coming back into his cheeks. How powerful Love is, Nicolette thought.

"You would forbid the King?" Louis said.

"Yes, sire. Unless you promise to take me to Outremer with you."

For answer Louis reached out to her and drew her against his chest.

The White Queen turned purple as a turnip. "This is madness," Blanche fumed. "I would rather see you dead right now, my son, than to destroy yourself and the kingdom in Outremer."

What really incensed her, Nicolette knew, was the sight of Louis embracing Marguerite.

Blanche marched out of the room, eyes blazing. The lords, ladies, and prelates shrank back from her. Then they all turned to the King to see how he would deal with his mother's fury. Louis only shook his head ruefully, called for the chest of maps that always traveled with him, and began to make plans with his brothers.

Nicolette, seeing that she was no longer needed, went back to the small room she shared with Agnes on a lower floor of the chateau.

Agnes was waiting for her, a peculiar smile on her face.

"Agnes, the king has declared that he is going on a crusade."

"I know, Madame. The servants are all abuzz about it. But everyone says it will take years before the King and his army will be ready to leave, and between now and then much could happen to change his mind. Right now I have something to show you." She held out her hand. Nicolette saw in it a roll of parchment tied with a black ribbon.

Her heart leaped for joy.

He had written. He was well enough to write.

Love was alive.

Feeling almost too weak to hold the scroll, she reached out for it and said in a small voice, "Please..."

Agnes understood and left her alone.

Nicolette sat on the edge of her bed and began to read.

Again the words were in the Langue d'Oc. They began:

?Parted from you, I wither in my need; A flower too long hidden from the light. On your clear heavenly brightness must I feed.?

The King's recovery - could that be a sign? Nicolette wondered when she finished the last verse. I thought he was going to die, and he did not. I thought Love, too, was dead, but perhaps it is not. His love for me must be alive, or he would not have written so to me.

She checked herself. No, I cannot trust in him. He is a fool who will not live long. I am sure to lose him, and the suffering will be more than I can bear. I am no silly maiden. I have three children. I am a countess. I have paid dearly for the title. My husband is one of the greatest landholders in the kingdom. Am I to risk all that?

Within her a voice whispered, yes.

She looked down at the poem unrolled in her lap, and she hungered to hold in her arms the man who had written it. Without him, nothing is important to me.

If I die - if Amalric kills me because I bind myself to Orlando - will that be worse than having to live without him? What Mother told me long ago is true: life without Love is a living death. I need him as I need air to breathe.

And I have not the power to command Love to go away. It possesses me, and I am far too weak to disobey.

She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with excitement. She was suddenly acutely aware of her breasts moving against the silk of her shift.

She stood up, rolled the poem tightly, and slipped it into a secret pocket in the crimson samite belt that hung low about her hips.

I will not make the same mistake twice, she thought. This time I will meet him.

Her heart was fluttering.

With Louis better, the royal party would be returning to Paris. Then she would send him a message.

V

THOUGH HOODED AND CLOAKED, NICOLETTE TREMBLED. THE CHILL OF THE January afternoon pierced her through, but it was fear, more than the cold, that made her limbs shake. Having just crossed over to the Left Bank, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw the towers and spires of the royal palace across the Seine. She felt as if hidden eyes there were watching her. Could anyone on the palace wall have seen her walk over the Petit-Pont?

Not Amalric. He was still in the south, the King having just appointed him seneschal for Beziers and the surrounding country. But he had so many agents in Paris and allies at court. Except for Agnes, all the servants in the Gobignon town house were loyal to him. His aunt, Queen Blanche, was forever praising him to all who would listen. If Nicolette were involved in scandal, the White Queen would be furious, and would see to it that word reached Amalric. And if indeed he found out about her meeting the troubadour? Just a message, a song, let alone a meeting like this one, could mean death for her and Orlando.

I should turn around right now, cross this bridge, and run back to the palace. The streets of the Latin Quarter were crawling with ruffians and criminals - it was insane for her to be walking here alone after sunset. The sight of the small knife she carried under her cloak might deter an attacker, but then she would be discovered.

If I screamed for help, the whole palace would find out. Blanche would demand to know why I was here. No, she thought, her blood turning to ice, she would know why.

But those eyes of his? to look into them again, was that not worth any risk?

She stood, vacillating, in the shadows by a wooden house that overhung the Rue Saint-Jacques. I must see Orlando, she thought. Over a year now, and I have not been able to forget him. She longed just to be alone with him and have him take her in his arms.

But first he must answer the questions that tormented her. Why had he become a crusader? Why had he fought Amalric? Could he truly care for her and hurt her so?

He would have to explain. And even if his explanation fully satisfied her, she had nonetheless to remain firm and withhold the ultimate favor.

Sweet Goddess! she thought suddenly. I have never even spoken to him. I know nothing about the man, nothing at all.

What if he tries to get me into some sordid little room and force himself on me, like an animal? How will I fight him off? All alone, not able to cry for help.

No, it will not be like that, it could not be. I would have known if he were that kind of man, and felt repelled. He could not sing and write such beautiful verses, and look so fine if he were not the man I want him to be. Yes, when we meet, it will be as it is in his songs. He will obey, do exactly what I tell him and no more. Oh, I have hoped so long for this. Goddess of Love, let it be beautiful.

The path before her was anything but beautiful. The crooked streets seemed to hold fresh terrors at every step. It was hard for her to see her way now that the sun was almost down. The jutting upper stories of the houses had plunged the streets almost into darkness. She worried that she might not remember the directions he had written to her. She brushed against rough walls as she hurried along, trying to avoid all attention and to keep out of the mud, reeking of manure, that covered the center of these streets. She picked her way over planks laid down by the servingmen of the university, but more than once she stepped ankle-deep into a puddle. My good leather boots will be ruined, she thought, and if someone sees them before I get rid of them, how will I explain that?

From under her fur-trimmed hood she cast furtive glances at the dozens of swaggering students from all the nations of Christendom. Their heads were shaved in clerical tonsures, but they brazenly wore long daggers at their belts, even though carrying weapons was forbidden to students. Studying for the priesthood or not, she thought, each one looked as if he would like nothing better than to push her into an alley and have his way with her. And the masters, those scholars in black mantles who walked two by two, conversing in rapid Latin, would be no help at all.

More of Orlando's strangeness, she thought, having me meet him in the Latin Quarter. He should know I have never been in these streets before. I could get lost. She looked up at the buildings leaning over her like unfriendly giants. I am lost right now.

The thought brought on a sudden access of anger. Marguerite is right. Troubadours are all mad: professing to worship their ladies, they thrust them into danger! And I am mad, to venture here.

But could she find her way back to the palace? The houses all looked alike. The streets were so dark now. And even if she dared approach any of these passersby, none of them seemed to be speaking a language she understood. Yet she could not just stand here. At any moment she could be accosted.

How she hated this cold, muddy city!

Resolutely, she turned back the way she had just come.

She would look for the Rue Saint-Jacques. She thought she would recognize it, because it was broader than the other streets and was paved here and there with old stones. The Rue Saint-Jacques, she knew, led right to the bridge.

Her feet began to hurt now as she hurried, uncertain as she turned corners. Then she looked down and saw a great worn slab. Never had a simple piece of stone given her such relief.

Now, which way is the bridge?

She stepped out into the middle of the street and looked both ways. Above a rooftop, she caught a glimpse, thank God, of the gold-painted spire of Notre-Dame, glittering faintly in the last rays of sunset. Oh, thank you, holy Mary. She headed toward the Petit-Pont.

Then she heard something. A fine tenor, it cut through the babble in the street and held her motionless.

"God save Lady Eleanor Queen who art the arbiter Of honor, wit, and beauty, Of largesse and loyalty. Born wert thou in happy hour And wed to Henry King."

A tingling sensation ran from her scalp down her spine, and she felt herself reaching deep for breath. The voice was not one she recognized, but its sweetness and the beauty of the melody, so well wedded with the words, touched her deep inside. It was a song about Eleanor of Aquitaine, her ideal ever since she first heard tales of the great queen at her mother's knee. It was Eleanor, a woman of Languedoc, who had brought l'amour courtois, the cult of Love, into the palaces of kings and inspired generations of troubadours.

She stood enchanted, oblivious now of menacing passersby. The verses following one after another transported her to another world, a world in which beauty ruled and terror was banished. In this world men loved women and served them loyally. If they did bloody deeds, it was only out of devotion to their ladies.

When the song came to an end, Nicolette felt stronger, and more at peace. Her fears still lurked in the back of her mind, but they no longer possessed her.

She saw that she was standing before a tavern whose sign bore the device of two crossed gold swords on a red background. The Two Swords, Nicolette remembered, was a sign Orlando had mentioned.

Still under the spell, hearing the song again in her mind, Nicolette asked herself, Would Eleanor have run away from such a rendezvous like a frightened milkmaid? Would she, who had been married first to the King of France, then to the King of England - and had dared to stand up to both of them - let a husband's anger stop her from meeting her lover?

Nicolette felt new strength surging through her.

Orlando's directions now came back to her. From the Two Swords, left at the first corner. After a doorway decorated with a figure of Saint Julian the Hospitaler in his boat, left again and you will be on the Street of Straw. Intently, shutting out all her fears, she set herself in motion. In minutes she spied Saint Julian.

A hooded figure blocked her path.

She cried out.

A powerful hand seized her arm.

Her fingers darted to the little knife at her belt.

"Hush, Madame. You are safe. It is only me."

The voice! It was his! At the sound of it, her heart leaped up for joy.

A sudden blaze of torchlight threw their shadows against the white wall beside them, and a wealthy student strutted past, with a linkboy to light his way and another servant to carry his huge, leather-bound books.

The reddish glow enabled Nicolette to see the face deep in the shadow of the hood. Piercing eyes, an arching nose that gave him the look of a bird of prey.

"Sire Orlando."

"I have been following you ever since you crossed the bridge. Now we are this close to our destination, I thought it time to make myself known." He spoke low, in a voice like velvet. It recalled his songs to her.

She shivered, and realized that he was still holding her arm, that this was the first time he had ever touched her.

"You were about to turn back, were you not?"

"Yes." She answered automatically, and then thought, All that time I was stumbling around lost, he was watching me. Why did he not help me? Again she felt anger well up within her.

"And if I had elected to leave this charming quarter?" she challenged him. "Would you have tried to stop me?"

He did not answer, but looked deep into her eyes as he held out his arm.

She took it and they started walking together down the Street of Straw. Suddenly dizzy with excitement at being with him at last, she leaned heavily on his arm. The strength she felt in him enthralled her.

"I would have wanted to stop you," he finally said. "I would have wanted to kneel down in the street and beg."

His response melted the last of her anger, and she realized suddenly that he was speaking in the Langue d'Oc. How could he be from Italy?

"But I would not have done as I wanted," he went on in a thoughtful tone. "I know what a chance you are taking. I wanted to see whether you would come to meet me all on your own, without any more persuasion, whatever the obstacles."

She shivered at the reminder of her peril. She had been in danger before, but now that they were together she knew she had crossed the threshold. If ever they were seen together, she was doomed.

Yet she felt delight, not in spite of the danger, but because of it. The hollow sensation in her stomach, her cold palms, were not making her miserable. Quite the contrary. To choose danger, to embrace it and not just suffer it, felt thrilling. Now, she thought, I understand a little why men go to war.

They stopped, and she looked up at a handsome, three-story building, its timber exterior coated with plaster.

"The house of Guillaume the Bookseller," said Orlando. "In the back there is wine, and good talk for those who love books."

"I have heard of it," said Nicolette. Guillaume's was whispered about among the younger courtiers. A place where the most rebellious students gathered and heresies were openly discussed. Just now it seemed the perfect place for her adventurous mood. She took a deep breath, and when he opened the door for her, she went in.

She was dazzled by the light of many candles. When her eyes became accustomed to the light, she saw hundreds of volumes stacked on tables. Two brawny apprentices, she noticed, were standing guard over the expensive books. Quickly she dropped her eyes and reached up to draw her hood closer about her face.

Orlando led her to another door, and she stepped into a darker room. Here there were no windows and few candles. People sat in the shadows at small tables drinking and talking softly. Nicolette had heard that the people who frequented Guillaume's actually dared to exchange ideas on sorcery and even to accuse the bishops and the barons of robbing the poor, talk that could land a person in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

A young man strumming an Irish harp leaned against the far wall. He had blond hair in tight curls and an impish grin, and seemed to give Orlando the faintest of nods as she and Orlando moved quickly to a table in a dark corner. Was the young man, she wondered, one of those scurrilous poet-outlaws of the Latin Quarter known as Les Chiens Enrages, the Mad Dogs?

The blond man struck a chord, and the room fell silent.

Nicolette, pleasantly tremulous, listened intently.

"Our Lord had nothing to His name. He had to beg for shelter and for meals. Our Pope, he tries to do the same, And lives exclusively on what he steals."

Nicolette found herself joining in the almost furtive laughter that rippled softly but pervasively around the room. Surely the singer was one of the Mad Dogs.

But what a joy. I have not heard that kind of song since I married Amalric, she thought. No one would dare make such sport at Chateau Gobignon - or, for that matter, at the royal palace.

This bookseller's back room reminded her of her childhood home, of the free talk at her father's table.

She turned and smiled at Orlando. He smiled back at her, and her skin tingled.

I must not let myself be swept away. Not yet.

"What would you say if I told you that man is my jongleur, and that is my song?" Orlando asked her.

Just then a stout, bearded man, perhaps Guillaume the Bookseller himself, brought two big earthenware cups of the local pale-gold wine of Paris. Setting the glasses down, he left without a word. Orlando's privacy, she saw, was respected here.

Now I must question him, Nicolette thought.

Still, she hesitated. The moments since he appeared out of the shadows on the street had been so deliciously exciting. Now, if his answers proved to be unworthy, all her love and hope would turn to dust.

But she saw a warmth in his eyes that gave her the courage to begin.

"I find it strange that a man who writes songs mocking the Pope also crusades against the Cathars. Just where do you put your loyalty, Sire Orlando?"

His blue eyes burned at her. "Let me tell you at once that my name is not Orlando but Roland, Roland de Vency. Like you, I was born in Languedoc. "

She was amazed. And yet she wasn't. Nervous laughter bubbled up in her throat. She put her hand to her heart. "Why are you telling me this?"

"To place my life in your hands, mi dons."

Mi dons! A wave of joy overwhelmed her. By those words in the Langue d'Oc the troubadour was declaring his total submission to her.

Then a ripple of fear erased the joy. "Why do you use a false name?"

His answering smile appeared. "I am a faidit. My father, Arnaut de Vency, was like so many knights of Languedoc. He fought for his homeland against the crusaders and the inquisitors. So did I, when I got old enough. But then they were coming too close to capturing us. And every time we killed one of them, they would hang ten village boys. We could not go on. We could not stay in Languedoc. The name de Vency is on the lists of outlaws. So, were I to use my real name now, I would suffer for it - for my deeds and my father's."

Orlando's - Roland's - father was just like mine, she thought, feeling a new warmth of kinship with the troubadour. If I had been a man, my story might be the same.

"But why did you come back to France?"

Roland shrugged and smiled sadly. "I have many ties here." He looked up at her suddenly, his face shadowed with pain. "But now I know that it is not enough for me to be just a troubadour. After seeing all those good people die at Mont Segur, I have vowed that I will do whatever I can to work against such things."

Her head began to ache. In answering her questions, he was only adding to them. He was at Mont Segur. And wearing the cross. But how could he, after what he just told her? Was he playing with her, enjoying her confusion?

"Well. Once again then, Messire, what were you doing at Mont Segur in the first place?" she said sharply. "If the crusaders are truly your enemies, how could you have joined them?"

He drained his cup, set it down hard, and stared at her. "Will you trust me?"

His eyes held hers, and she wanted to stroke his cheek with her fingertips.

Could she trust him?

"What do you ask of me?" she said, and was worried by the uncertainty she heard in her own voice.

"Come with me where we can talk in greater safety. I have had a room prepared for us above. Will mi dons go there with me?"

She had been expecting such an invitation. When she heard his voice speak the words, a sudden warmth flooded her loins. She was shocked by the eagerness of her body.

But suspicion darkened her mind. He has told me little, and now when I press him he refuses to allay my confusion. Could he just want to get me alone and take advantage of my weakness?

"I have already granted you more than you deserve under the laws of Love, which you yourself have invoked," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "It is time I left now. Will you escort me back to the bridge?"

Now she saw pain in his blue eyes.

He looked at her, speechless.

Say something that will make me stay! her heart begged him.

He bowed his head and spoke in a choked voice. "Certainly, if it is your wish to go."

Regret washed over her like a sudden incoming tide.

No, no, I have wanted this so much, she thought. I cannot turn my back on him now and return to living the way I have been. I might never see him again.

She made no move to get up from the table.

"How can I know," she said hesitantly, "whether you will deal honestly with me?"

He leaned toward her, and his eyes were bright and compelling in the candlelight. "Risk it. "

She regarded the grave face before her.

No, his was not the face of a liar. And he felt as she did about Mont Segur. Heretics, yes, but our people, people of Languedoc. Had not Amalric burned them? As he would burn me if he could see into my heart.

She felt strange and tremulous as Roland's gaze held hers. Am I going to let my fear of Amalric stamp out every bit of life left in me?

His hand slid across the table till it rested on top of her own.

His audacity knew no limit!

But had she not left her hand lying there to be taken? And could he have seen anything but invitation in her eyes?

His palm felt warm and dry. Fire traveled up her arm. She could not move her hand. The thought of intimacy with him thrilled her. She felt as if she were riding a hunting horse at full gallop through an unknown forest.

Suddenly she stood up and said in a low voice, "I will go with you." Their hands were still joined.

As they went to the flight of stairs near their table, the jongleur struck a brazen chord on his harp and sang.

"Let wine to my lips be nigh At life's dissolution. That will make the angels cry With glad elocution: 'Grant this drunkard, God on high, Grace and absolution.' "

Nicolette glanced back as she left the room, and saw that their departure was unnoticed. Everyone was enjoying the jongleur. Roland gestured to her and she climbed the steps ahead of him.

On the second floor, Roland pushed open a heavy door. She saw the golden glow of a small fire within. He went in ahead of her, lit a taper, and touched it to the candles of a large brass candelabrum on a table.

Her legs trembled as she crossed the threshold. Now, she thought, I will find out what he really is.

Light by light as the candles flared up, the chamber revealed itself to her. It seemed for a moment as if she had walked into a silken pavilion. No window was visible. Walls and ceiling were covered with heavy draperies embroidered in complex Saracen patterns, mazes and whorls, vines of crimson, green and gold twining together invitingly. On one side of the room a huge bed strewn with brightly colored cushions stood raised on a carpeted platform. At the sight of it her heartbeat quickened, whether with fear or desire she was not sure.

Roland went back to the door and slid a thick wooden bar through two iron brackets. "In the great days of Languedoc such meetings as this would take place in the secret chambers of fair chateaux," he said with his wry smile. "Now we must hide in wine shops."

He took her hand and started to lead her to the bed.

She felt herself panicking. This was happening too quickly. In Love the lady must be the dons, the master.

She pulled her hand out of his grasp.

"Wine shop or no, Messire, this room has its own considerable beauty. How much do you pay Guillaume to keep it ready for your use?" she asked lightly.

"There has been no woman in my life since I met you. No woman I can love as I love you."

Odd, No woman I can love as I love you. He seemed to be correcting himself.

"I am afraid that you may not understand what Love means to me, Sire Roland. Love cannot be like a wild spring flood that destroys and is gone. It must flow like a kindly river. It must nurture what grows beside it. It is the union of soul with soul that the lady and the lover must strive to attain. Must earn."

"Your soul enchants me," Roland said, taking her hand and looking deep into her eyes.

She felt dizzy.

"But the philosophers," he continued, "say the soul is the form of the body. I adore the beauty of your soul made visible in your lovely body."

"If you would love me, you must be ruled by me."

"I will be ruled by you, mi dons," said Roland, his dark head bowed. "I will dedicate my art to you. I will make and sing a hundred songs to your beauty." He knelt before her.

She wanted to bury her fingers in his thick hair, to press his head against her, but she fought the urge. She must maintain the commanding air called for by the code of Love.

"You will have a chance to make good that promise, Sire Roland. On the first of May the Queen holds a singing contest to celebrate the King's return to good health. Every notable troubadour and trouvere in Christendom is to be summoned. You may be sure I shall see you get an invitation. You shall be my champion."

Roland smiled, raising one dark eyebrow. "Delighted, mi dons. That is the kind of battle I like best."

Battle. Mont Segur. She still did not know why he had gone there. He had dared to avoid answering her question; she must dare to persist in asking it.

"Since it did not occur to you to provide chairs when you had this room prepared, I will sit on the bed and you will remain where you are." She turned from him with a swirl of her long skirt and sat primly on the edge of the great bed. The ropes cradling the down-stuffed mattress creaked faintly.

"As you wish, mi dons." He stayed on his knees.

"You may stand if you would be more comfortable."

Silently, he got to his feet. His mouth was solemn, but she could see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"I hope you did not think to distract me by taking me to this Turkish paradise, Messire. I still must know what you were doing at Mont Segur. And what possessed you to challenge my husband to a fight with daggers."

"Ah, your husband." His broad smile showed that he took no offense at her haughty tone but well understood that it was part of courtly custom.

"Yes, my husband. It is a miracle that you stand whole and hale before me. Do you know how many men he has killed? What were you thinking of, Messire?"

"Not of myself, mi dons." He shrugged, and a sadness came into his face. "The Count de Gobignon ordered that all the Cathar perfecti, old men, women, people exhausted from starvation, be dragged by brute force down the rocky mountainside to the pyre. I protested. I did not challenge him. And I never drew a weapon against him. If you had talked to anyone who saw the fight you would know that. In the end I got his dagger away from him and forced him to take back his order."

"What you say agrees with what I have heard. But did you have to humiliate him like that?"

The troubadour spread his hands as if to show surprise at her question.

"Madame, when you are fighting for your life you do not worry about the other fellow's pride."

"He must hate you more than any other man on Earth. Do you not realize that?"

The troubadour shrugged. "It has been almost a year since that happened, Madame, and he has yet to try to avenge himself."

His seeming obtuseness made her furious. He was a fool who had been lucky once. It was that simple.

"Apparently you have no idea what sort of man you have made your enemy. He owns enough land to be a king in his own right. He has to deal with a thousand matters, great and small, every day. But he is not one to forget an injury. He will get around to you."

"I know the house of Gobignon much better than you think I do." The troubadour gazed at her with that infuriating, calm amusement. "What would you have me do? Flee the country again?"

"What would I have you do?" She was clenching her teeth. "There is nothing you can do. It is too late. It was already too late when you protested his order. Why did you provoke him so, if you wanted to pay court to me?"

"You are right." Roland shook his head. "It would have been wiser for me to hold my tongue. But it would not have been human."

She drew a deep breath. "If the Cathars are so dear to you, what were you doing in the crusader army? What darkness lies here, Sire Roland, that you have thrice answered this question with evasion?"

He groaned softly.

She waited.

After a long silence he said, "I cannot tell you."

Every muscle in her body went rigid. "You call me your dons, and yet you would keep secrets from me. You are trifling with me, Messire." She stood up. "Let me out of here at once."

He held up a placating hand. "Wait, please. You must try to understand."

Rage boiled up inside her. Understand? He all but spat in her face and then asked her to understand. Did he take her for an idiot?

"I do not care to put my life in jeopardy only to hear your lies - to be told I must trust you even as you refuse to place your trust in me. "

His brows drew together and his eyes flashed blue fire.

"If I wanted to lie to you, do you not think I could invent a tale that would satisfy you better? When I say that I cannot tell you, it is the simple truth. It is not a matter of trust between us - other people's lives hang on my silence. If you knew the full truth about Mont Segur, you would be in far more danger than now."

"From whom?" she snapped.

"From the Inquisition," he said through bared teeth.

The word quenched her anger with fear. All her life she had lived in dread of the white-robed friars with their pale, pinched faces, their eyes ever greedy to feast on the evil they seemed to see all about them. Their anonymous spies, their secret torture chambers, their power to order people burned alive. When she was a little girl the inquisitors had prowled through her nightmares more often than wolves or dragons.

"Now do you understand?" Roland pressed her. "I told you I have vowed to do all I can to put a stop to such horrors as the Mont Segur massacre. Do you think I wore the crusader's cross to fight against my own people? Me, a faidit and the son of a faidit? Why do you think I go under a false name? You know enough about me now to guess at what I was doing at Mont Segur, and that must suffice. You know enough to send me to the flames. I am in your power." His grin was humorless; only the left side of his mouth turned up.

What is he trying to tell me? she asked herself. That his crusader's cross was a disguise, like the name Orlando of Perugia? You know enough about me to guess at what I was doing at Mont Segur. He must mean that he was on the Cathar side. Could he have been carrying a message to those in the stronghold? Or from it, to someone outside? Other lives hanging on his keeping silent - whose lives? Had someone survived the massacre?

Uncertainty - and despair whether she might ever know who Roland was - were two rough hands wringing her heart. Perhaps this, perhaps that! Anything was possible. He could make any claim he liked, and how would she know? Until, perhaps, too late. No, she had best get out of here. Now.

"From the moment I saw you at Chinon I believed in you, and you repaid my trust by vanishing without warning. For almost a year, I had not the slightest sign that you cared for me. Then to hear, not from you but from others, of these mad deeds ? joining the invaders of Languedoc, dueling with my husband. And now you expect me to accept you as my lover even though you still offer me no explanation? Do you think I am such a fool as that, Sire Orlando - Roland - whatever your name is?"

His crooked smile again. "I do not think you are a fool, mi dons. I think you know I am telling the truth." He advanced toward her a step at a time. "You will accept me as your lover because you love me."

She stood paralyzed. His hungry stare had turned her to stone, like the gaze of that monster of the bestiary books, the basilisk.

"Stay where you are, Messire. No, open the door for me. I will not love you, because I cannot trust you. "

"Mi dons, you cannot help loving me, whatever I am. I see you, and I know you. Love is your master. As she is mine."

Nicolette felt heat rising in her body. Her breath quickened.

"I will fight you," she said. "If I cannot be sure of you, I will drive you away." But she felt about to fall backward. Her calves were pressed against the soft, yielding bed.

Roland took another step toward her, smiling. "Have I asked you to explain why you are married to the enemy?"

His words struck like a blow to the pit of her stomach. She was first shocked, then furious. How cruel! How unfair! I had no choice. She sprang at him and slapped him across the face with all her strength.

She saw with satisfaction that she had staggered him. His face reddened, but his hands remained hanging at his sides.

Instantly, tears filled her eyes.

"Roland, I am sorry. Forgive me. Will you forgive me, please?" She threw herself at him again, this time wrapping her arms around him.

His answering embrace was gentle at first, then tightened about her as she held him more fiercely.

She wept into his chest. "You are right. I betrayed our people when married Amalric. I have no right to question you."

"I know you had your reasons for marrying him," he said softly, "and I am sure that they were good ones. Forgive me for mentioning him. As for me, it is true that I am withholding much from you. Believe in me, and some day, when it is safe, I will tell you all you want to know."

Desire made her legs weak. She pressed her body against him. "It is just as you said," she whispered. "I love you, whatever you are."

To her amazement, he held back.

"You know that I want you, mi dons, but you did not mean to lie with me today. When you entered this room" - he smiled - "this Turkish paradise with me, you instructed me in the course our love must take. And I know you were right. It is too soon. I want to earn the right to hold you naked, body and soul, in my arms. When our love ripens, our passion will be all the stronger and our union all the sweeter."

She stepped away from him, breathing as heavily as if she had climbed the spiral steps of a high castle tower.

"I am yours, now as I will be then," she breathed.

He dropped to his knees before her and took her hand. "I am yours, mi dons. I am your true troubadour, now and forever. Command me in all things. I will live from this moment as you wish. By Love I swear it."

Her heart turned to molten gold in her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

He held his hand up to her, and she took it.

"I will always be your lady and live for you and love you through eternity. By Love I also swear it."

Gently she raised him to his feet and held up her arms to him.

His kiss was like a hot coal on her lips.

VI

ROLAND FELT HIS STOMACH KNOTTING. HAVING RIDDEN OUT OF THE CITY through the Saint-Denis Gate, he now was nearly home, and the hurt inside was cutting so deep that he thought it would drive him mad. He repeated again and again the pledge he had just made to Nicolette: I am your true troubadour, now and forever. It felt like a knife stabbing into him.

I do love her, as I have not loved any other - except Diane.

Under his fur-lined mantle he was sweating, despite the bone-deep chill of the January night.

Was my pledge to Nicolette a lie?

No, not now that Diane has vowed herself to God.

He had always believed that a man or a woman could love but one person. For all the years he had loved Diane, he had accepted that as a sacred law of Love. It was the way things should be. But it was not the way they were. Not for him.

What if I had known, that day I saw Nicolette at Chinon, that Diane was still alive? I would have wanted Nicolette just as much, but would not have begun this. There would have been no messages, no song in her garden. But I was sure Diane was dead. There was nothing but a memory of a younger time to check my feelings for Nicolette.

And then, when I found Diane again, I could not have her. I had lost her forever. So at last I wrote again to Nicolette.

But tonight, when Nicolette would have let me make love to her - and how I want her! - I could not go beyond an embrace and a kiss.

Not as long as I still love Diane.

When he had set out, a full moon had hung low above the huddled rooftops of the university town. Now the silver disk was high overhead, and he could discern the small house he had bought two years ago with money he brought with him from Sicily. My little chateau, he thought fondly, with bare poplars and fruit trees rising above its crumbling wall. He especially liked the three-story watchtower, built in the days when Northmen raided Paris. Diane had been living in the circular tower room, her presence here a daily joy and torment.

He saw a dark figure glide through his gate, just under the lower branches of the bare trees, and he reined his palfrey up sharply. A rectangle of yellow light glowed as the shadow entered through the front door, then the front yard was dark again. He felt fear in his chest. De Gobignon? He will get around to you, Nicolette had said. This very night?

He slid down from his horse and hastily tied her to a tree stump before a neighbor's darkened house. He slipped through the same front gate the figure had entered and then went around to the rear. Noiselessly he opened the back door and stepped quickly inside, his hand hovering near his dagger.

Lucien, the cook, his wife, Adrienne, and their son, Martin, were huddled for warmth around the kitchen fire. They started and stared at him, and Adrienne gave a little cry of surprise and put her hand to her heart. Roland was relieved to see that they, at least, were unharmed.

"Did you hear someone come in at the front?" he asked quietly.

"It was your sister, Messire," said Lucien. "Madame Diane is in the hall, talking to Master Perrin."

Roland relaxed. His limbs trembled a little as the tension eased.

But then he realized he did not want to face Diane. Nicolette's kiss was fresh on his lips, and guilt clawed at his heart. He just wanted to be alone, perhaps to sleep, if he could.

But unless he left again there was no avoiding Diane. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Perrin was seated at the trestle table, facing Diane. His blond head swung around toward Roland when he entered. Diane's delicate lips curved in a small smile, and Roland's insides twisted painfully. The lovely face that had delighted him so was now a reproach.

"Go on, tell him," Diane said to Perrin. She stood straight and tall in her hooded cloak of coarse wool, her feeble protection against the winter's cold. She had refused the fur-lined cape Roland had offered her, as she had refused his love.

Perrin expelled his breath angrily. "Very well, Madame." He turned to Roland, his eyes troubled. "I have to whisper it, master. We do not want them to know." He jerked his head toward the kitchen.

"What the devil is it, Perrin?"

"Madame claims," Perrin said almost inaudibly, "that she has your permission to preach to secret Cathar meetings right here in Paris."

Fear constricted Roland's chest. He could still see the flames at Mont Segur.

True, Diane had warned him that if she took refuge with him in Paris she was going to continue her work among the Cathar faithful. And he worried each time she had quietly slipped out after sunset.

Diane's eyes held his. He stood immobile, feeling as if nails were being driven into his temples.

"Diane, the friars are not going to stop just because Mont Segur is gone. Now they are more active in Paris. Only last week they burned a woman and two men in front of Notre-Dame. Some day you will get a message that someone needs the consolamentum and you will go, and instead of a dying person there will be a Dominican."

"Yes, I knew the people they burned," said Diane, bowing her head in sorrow.

Then she looked up, and he saw defiance in her clear green eyes. "But that is exactly why I must redouble my efforts. They are determined to stamp out our religion, but we are not going to let them."

She turned to Perrin, smiling gently. "Still, Master Perrin is in the right. I have been endangering you two and those innocent servants. I should leave here. I should have left long ago."

No! Roland's heart cried out.

Perrin looked as if Diane's suggestion pained him also. "No, Madame. Please do not talk of going. That is not at all why I waited up to speak to you tonight. It is as the master said ? if you keep on going to meet your Cathar people, the Dominicans will catch you. I could not bear to see that happen."

"Would you not risk everything for your Catholic faith, Perrin?" she asked.

The jongleur cast his eyes down. "I do not have that much faith, Madame."

She is finer, more spiritual, than anyone else I have known, Roland thought. And with all that, so beautiful.

He felt the pounding in his temples again, the nails being hammered in deeper.

"Diane, walk with me in the garden."

He saw apprehension in her look. She had still not gotten over her fear of him.

Inclining her head, she preceded him through the door leading to the kitchen.

"It is the middle of the night - you should all be in bed," Roland growled at the little family in the kitchen. He did not wait for an answer, but followed Diane into the garden. He drew his squirrel-lined cloak tighter around him against the frigid air.

"The only house that has any privacy is one where a man lives alone," he said. "In spite of Perrin's caution, I think the servants must know all about you."

"They seem like good people," she said. "Not the sort who would inform. But if they do know what I am, it must frighten them terribly that I am here."

Yes, Roland thought, and if anything happens to them, that, too, will be my fault.

It was too cold to sit on the stone benches. So they stood facing each other beside an old apple tree with gnarled black branches.

"I suppose you think your nightly wanderings are none of my business."

"No," she said. "Because if you are caught harboring me, you would probably spend the rest of your life in a dungeon. That is the penalty these days for protecting heretics. Do you not fear that?"

He tried to picture himself in a tiny stone cell, no light, unable to move, no one to talk to, buried there for months, years, till he died. I would go mad, he thought. I would much rather be hanged outright. Or even burned.

But all he said was, "A knight must know how to live with risks."

"Send me away, Roland. Tell me to go. For the sake of everyone here. Please."

"Do you want so much to be away from me? Why not just leave? I cannot stop you."

"I have been ordered to stay here."

Her answer hurt him. He had not known that.

He turned and studied her face, like marble in the moonlight.

Would she stay if she knew I am paying court to another woman?

"I want you to know where I was tonight, Diane," he said through clenched teeth. "I met in secret with Nicolette de Gobignon."

She gave him a quick, frightened stare, like a startled deer. "The Countess de Gobignon? The wife of Count Amalric, who almost killed you at Mont Segur?"

Roland laughed sourly. "Come, Diane. Give me some credit for my accomplishments. I could have killed him if I had chosen to."

"Roland," she said softly, "everything you have done is for love of me, I understand that. You risked your life to rescue me. And risking it again with de Gobignon to spare my people some pain, that too was probably partly for my sake. Now you shelter me in your house because you do not want to part from me. But, Roland, you, in chains for life? I do not want to be the cause of that."

"I did not go to the Countess de Gobignon this night for your sake," he said angrily.

"Are you so sure of that?"

The question gave Roland pause and somehow drained the anger from him.

"Do you think my evening with Nicolette de Gobignon is a way of wooing you?" he asked her.

"I hope not, Roland." He could see tears sparkling in her eyes. "You have got to find someone you can fully and honestly love."

"I see," he said, an edge in his voice. "I may court Nicolette with your blessing, then?"

"You are a troubadour," she said. "You must find an approachable lady to give your heart to. I know what l'amour courtois means." There was a fondness in her voice. "You did your best to teach me. But why Nicolette de Gobignon, Roland? Surely the count already hates you. Pursuing his wife could mean your death." She drew in a sudden, frightened breath. "That cannot be your reason for choosing her, can it, Roland? Have I disappointed you that much? Are you courting the countess, or death?"

Yes, you have disappointed me that much! he wanted to shout.

"If I were looking for my death, why would that horrify you? How do you think I feel when you go out on one of your missions and I wonder whether you will come back?"

"Ah, dear Roland, can you not see the difference? I believe with all my heart that if I die - if the Inquisition catches me and burns me - I will be happier, go to a better world. I will be united with God. But you do not believe that. For you, death is the worst thing that can happen to you. So, please, you must not go looking for death. You must not, must not, let my vows be the reason for your giving up life. I could not bear that."

"Diane, I believe that I love Nicolette de Gobignon. And I believe that Love is the only thing worth living for. To love her might mean my death. But if I die for Love, it will be a sweeter death than most men meet."

A cold wind rattled the black, leafless branches, and she huddled in her cloak.

When she spoke again there was a quiver in her voice. "How can you say you love Nicolette de Gobignon? You have told me that you love me. Have you turned to her because I will not - cannot - have you?"

Roland turned away and began slowly pacing the garden as he thought back to that day at Chinon when he had first seen Nicolette.

Even as he bent the knee to the royal couple he had felt his eyes drawn to the dark young woman beside the Queen, the woman wearing the silver coronet of a countess. She seemed to glow with a radiance that cast everyone else into shadow.

He sang his song for the King and Queen, but in his heart he sang it to the dark lady whose name he did not know. And his heart swelled when he saw that her gaze returned to him as often as his did to her.

Diane, as far as he knew that day, was dead. He had sought her everywhere in Languedoc and had failed to find her. Her entire family had vanished. Many of the people he questioned declared that she had died. He had seen no proof, but thousands of deaths had gone unrecorded in that war-ravaged land. Grief-stricken, he had rested for a time at Avignon. Then he had made his way back to Paris, where he plunged into study, writing music, singing and seeking a patron. The sharp edge of mourning gradually was worn down, and his heart began to be free again - although there was an empty space in it where Diane belonged.

Now, for the first time since he had accepted that loss, he felt himself drawn to a woman. Powerfully drawn.

Later that day at Chinon, when he returned to the crowd of courtiers, he pointed out the dark young woman with the coronet to a pleasant-spoken young knight named Jean de Joinville, a member of the King's entourage.

"Ah, that one. She is very pretty, but you had better forget her, my friend."

"I shall listen more patiently to your advice when I have heard her name, Sire de Joinville."

"You are an Italian knight, Sire Orlando? Tell me, then, is the name de Gobignon much mentioned in Italy?"

De Gobignon. The name he had learned to hate above all others. Stunned, Roland had turned to stare at the woman who so fascinated him. She was strolling arm in arm not far away with the Queen. There was a vigor in her stride that delighted him. Even as he looked at her their eyes met, and there was a bold twinkle in hers. He looked away.

She could not be a daughter. As far as he knew the Gobignons were all tall, blond, and blue-eyed. Perhaps she was only distantly related. He prayed it might be so.

"Then is the lady a Gobignon?" he asked de Joinville.

"By marriage. Perhaps you know that Count Amalric owns more land, fields a larger army, and has killed more men than any other baron of France. You would be wise to pay no attention at all to Countess Nicolette, Messire."

Defiance surged up in Roland. But no fear.

Nicolette. Nicolette de Gobignon. All day she had fascinated him. As Amalric's wife, her fascination became irresistible. He felt challenged, as if a gauntlet had been thrown down before him.

He stared across the grassy field crowded with gaily dressed courtiers. The setting sun threw the long shadows of the chateau's towers across the meadow, and the Countess de Gobignon and the Queen walked from light into darkness.

Now, over a year later, standing in his garden, he said to Diane, "I was drawn to Nicolette de Gobignon at a time when I thought I would never see you again. I left her to go to your rescue. But when you rejected my love, I found myself thinking of her again."

Since then I have talked to her, seen her courage and her wit, held her in my arms, kissed her, he thought. My love for her could never have taken root if you had occupied the central place in my heart, Diane. But now my love for her has grown strong, and even you cannot drive it out.

"What about her husband?" Diane asked. "Are you attracted to her because you want to injure the count."

What is between de Gobignon and me is complicated, Roland thought. The thought of her in his arms is unbearable, makes me want to kill him. But I do love her for her sake.

"I felt love stirring in me before I even knew her name. She is all life and high spirit, Diane. When I was with her tonight the whole world seemed brighter and happier. No, I would not make love to her to spite her husband. But I will make love to her in spite of him."

"Then your love for me - you have renounced it? I know you have too much honor to pursue two women at once."

Roland stared at her, and his temples were pounding again. He still - even now - yearned to take Diane in his arms.

He held his body rigid as he forced himself to speak. "Yes, Diane. From now on Nicolette de Gobignon is the lady who rules all my thoughts. What I feel for you now is what I feel for my sister."

Even as he spoke, the words sounded hollow on his lips.

He stood looking up at the night sky, feeling his soul as scarred and pitted by doubt as was the moon's face.

"I am glad for you, Roland," Diane said. Her voice was so low he could barely hear her.

"It is what you want, is it not?"

"I do not want anything to happen to you, Roland," she said. Her green eyes seemed to shine in the dark. "If you must court her, be careful. Do not make a public display of your feelings."

"That might be difficult. She is going to have me invited to the Queen's singing contest on May Day."

"Oh. You must do as you think best. I cannot advise you about that. But, Roland, send me away from this place, because I, too, am a danger to you."

Perhaps it would be easier if I let Diane leave. But I cannot. The Dominicans would find her within the week.

"There is no need for you to go. The world thinks you are my widowed sister, and I told you I love you as a sister now. Would I turn my sister out?"

"Oh, Roland."' She turned her back on him, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

"Diane, do I make you so unhappy?" He put his hand out to rest on her shoulder.

She pulled away violently.

"Do not touch me!" It was almost a scream. She covered her face with her hands and shrank away from him.

He staggered back, stunned. To hear such fear of him in her voice was unbearable. He turned away from her.

She drew away from him into the shadow of a pine. "Just leave me alone, Roland. I want to pray."

"Good night, then, Diane."

He was exhausted and trembling as he went into the house. The kitchen was dark. The servants had gone to bed. So had Perrin.

His head was throbbing. He put his fingertips against his brow and pressed hard.

I made a choice. Now I have to live up to it. If I can.

As she waited to meet her superior, Diane felt herself in turmoil. At one moment she loved Roland, the next she hated him for what he was doing to her. I enjoyed inner peace before he came back into my life, she thought. Hunted by inquisitors, besieged by crusaders, still I led the life I wanted, and I found joy in every day. Now every hour is a torment. If only, she thought for the thousandth time, he had let me die at Mont Segur.

It was late at night, and she was hidden in deep shadows. She stood, in an agony of suspense, amid scaffolding and blocks of masonry outside the unfinished south portal of the cathedral of Notre-Dame. She had met her superior only twice before. She had no idea who he was. Each time it had been at night and he had been cloaked and hooded. That way she could not, even under torture, reveal his identity.

I must make him understand the torment I am going through, she thought. He must let me get away from Roland.

Since the night before last, when Roland had told her of Nicolette de Gobignon, she had been wracked by pain. As jealousy ate at her, her desire for Roland mounted. It grew ever fiercer, until she felt as if her very skin were on fire.

It had been bad from the time she first had settled in Roland's house. Her body betrayed her incessantly with lustful feelings while she was nursing Roland's wound. It was agony living there, with Roland sleeping a mere flight of stairs away. Every night she had to protect herself against love by repeating, "Lead us not into temptation."

When she first met her superior, soon after arriving in Paris, she had begged him to send her to some other place of refuge, but his answer was that the peril was too great, there was no safer place. So she had obeyed and remained. She had tried to distract herself. She had insisted on helping Lucien and Adrienne with household tasks. She spent hours every day making copies of Cathar texts. These she distributed to the little groups of the faithful whom she served in Paris. Night after night she went out, sometimes walking the length of the city, to speak truths to six or a dozen huddled in small rooms, to answer their questions, to try to help them with their problems. Twenty or more times now she had hurried to the bedside of a dying person to confer the consolamentum. She did all these things until, deliberately, she exhausted herself. She fasted far more than she was required to, until her superior ordered her to stop. He reminded her that the Cathar perfecti were well known for their asceticism, and a too-gaunt look would invite suspicion. Indeed, she sometimes let herself hope that the Inquisition would catch her, was even tempted to be careless, to make it easy for them. But her conscience would not let her actually do it. In spite of her unfulfilled longing and the severity of her efforts to control herself, she had endured. She had remained in Roland's house-hold, and she had not fallen into sin. But now, knowing about Nicolette de Gobignon, the agony was a hundred times worse.

I must make my superior understand, she thought.

Her reaction to Roland's announcement about Nicolette had terrified her. She felt something that she had not experienced before - jealous rage. She hated Nicolette de Gobignon, a woman she had never seen. And she hated Roland.

She was forced to face what she had tried not to think about for months: she could not stop loving him.

* * *

After he left her that night she had fallen to the cold earth and lain there sobbing. What seemed like hours later, she had gone up to the watchtower and remained sleepless all night on her pallet, crying silently, biting her knuckles so he would not hear her.

It could not have hurt her more if her mother and father had turned against her. If Bishop Bertran had cast her out of the church, could she have felt more lost?

She had been able to control her desire for Roland only because, in a way, he was still hers. She could both have him and not have him. Now he was turning to another woman. She really was losing him. She could not stand it.

Shivering because the cold penetrated the two blankets she allowed herself, turning over and over on her pallet, she felt thankful when finally she saw gray light filtering through the shutters. Now, exhausted after a sleepless night, she could get up and start the morning fire.

That day she had given a note to the believer who carried her secret messages. She had to see her superior, in person, soon. The following day the go-between brought back instructions. He told her to wait just outside Notre-Dame's south portal. She thought the cathedral the strangest of places for two Cathars to meet, but probably that was why he had chosen it.

She was distracted from her thoughts by the sight of two men wearing heavy fur-lined cloaks of deep blue embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis marching slowly past the cathedral. A torch-bearer walked before them, and the tall halberds they carried glinted dangerously in the light of the flame. Sergeants-at-arms of the royal watch. Such men might come one day and conduct her to the stake. She drew deeper into the shadows of two tall stones just outside the temporary door of the cathedral. Accidentally, she pressed her bare hand against one of the stones, and the cold of it burned her palm.

"All things that are, are lights," said a low voice at her side. Her heart stopped beating, he had surprised her so.

"There is one Light, and it shines in each man and each woman," she responded automatically.

She turned to look at her superior. Even though her eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, all she could see was a shadow darker than the shadows of the rough-cut stones around them. A frosty puff of his breath glowed faintly in the starlight.

"We are relatively safe here, Diane," he said. As he always did, he spoke to her in a whisper. "The stonemasons' guild is friendly to us. Still, it is dangerous for us to meet at all. Not just dangerous for you and me, but for our work. Why did you send for me?"

She trembled with the cold, but also with the same fright as when she had first given a sermon to a group of strangers. Could she make him listen? It was so important, and yet how could she convince a man she did not know, could not even see? She marshaled her thoughts as she would to begin a sermon, and took a deep breath.

"You have said that I should stay at the house of Roland de Vency because I am safest there. Now I discover that I am in greater danger there than anywhere else in the world."

"What do you mean, child?"

She told him about Roland's turning to Nicolette de Gobignon and about herself.

"Diane, you know you must resist your love for him. What is changed?"

"I did not realize how much it would hurt me when he turned to another woman. I love him so much, I do not think I can hold out. He has renounced me, but I think he would come back to me if I gave him some hope. And now I want him back. You must let me leave, or I will damn myself forever."

A mad thought took possession of her. If he does not help me, I will drown myself in the Seine. But she looked down the riverbank and saw the moonlight gleaming on thick ice. What foolishness! And it would be as great a sin as throwing myself into Roland's arms.

"So he is pursuing the Countess de Gobignon!" said the hooded figure beside her. "This Roland de Vency aims high. First he humiliates Amalric, and now he courts Amalric's wife. Diane, the Gobignons are our worst enemies. If you remain close to de Vency, you may be able to give us valuable information about them."

Sudden anger at this faceless man surged up in her. She was begging him for help, and he was thinking about how he could use her.

"You would have me damn my soul for some information?"

"Diane, I understand how afraid you are for your soul. You would not have risked meeting me if it were not over something you fear more than death. But think, child. How many perfecti are left in Paris? I will not burden you with the exact number, but it is less than ten. And if told you how few in all of France, you might despair. Our enemies are relentless. They have been hunting us down for forty years, and they mean not to leave one of us alive."

The great bells of Notre-Dame tolled for the midnight nocturne. She looked up at the great cathedral, already almost a hundred years in the building. She thought of the three who had been tied to stakes here only a week before, dying in flaming agony before a gleeful mob. She remembered Mont Segur. Our last stronghold gone, and everywhere in Europe edifices like this are rising. Before coming to Paris she had never seen a church as immense, with such vast, jewel-like windows. If she were a Catholic, she was sure, she would think it beautiful. But the power that could create such buildings terrified her. How could a handful of people like herself stand against such might?

When the tolling stopped she said, "But why must I stay with Roland?"

"Your identity as the sister of a foreign knight whose family is unknown cannot easily be challenged. There is no other house in Paris where you would be as free from suspicion. Roland de Vency is the best protector you could have. And we want to keep a watch on him. His father has the ear of Emperor Frederic, and now there is the Countess de Gobignon. You may be able to do much for us if you stay."

"If I fall into sin, will that not hurt the church?"

He moved closer to her, so close that she could see, under his hood, a white cloth drawn up to mask his nose and mouth. He kept his hands at his sides, and she sensed that he was being careful not to touch her, but she also sensed the trembling intensity in him.

"Diane, I believe there is forgiveness."

Diane shrank back from him. His words shocked her.

"How can you tell me the opposite of what I have been taught ever since I was a child?"

"Diane, you know that people may believe and teach differently and still belong to our church."

"Our church? But I have never heard any teaching like this."

"By our church I mean the larger, invisible association of which the Cathars are but part. There are levels of initiation, Diane, with different teachings at different levels. Child, the only sheep left alive, are those who have adopted the clothing of wolves. Those of us who cannot live openly as perfecti must adopt many strange guises. If I told you what my place is in the world, you would not even believe me. To deceive our enemies we must appear quite contrary to what we really are. These pretenses may even require us to sin. The things I do in my public calling are sins."

"But you have taken the consolamentum," she protested. "Once you have had the Sacrament, there is no forgiveness for any sin you commit. Thousands of us have died because we believe that."

"Thousands of us have died," his voice was earnest, "not for any one belief, but because we would not believe as Rome commanded."

"But I cannot believe that there would be forgiveness for me if I accept Roland's love."

He sighed. "Ah, well, the voice you hear in your heart is the voice of God, even if He speaks differently to you than to me."

He turned away and stared out at the ice-bound river. "The many worlds of God are stranger than we can possibly think."

She perceived the weight of the huge stone building behind her as if it were about to fall on her. The thought of the struggle with herself that lay ahead felt even more crushing. I cannot do it! she wanted to scream.

But is it possible that I want to leave Roland, not because I fear for my soul, but because the struggle to keep from sinning is so hard? If I cannot bear pain, what right have I to call myself perfecta?

Her sigh was longer than his. "I will remain," she said. Weariness engulfed her, so overpowering that she felt an urge to sink down to the cold stones and never move again.

"Good," her superior said softly. "And please consider, should you fall, what I have said about forgiveness."

"It would be there for you, perhaps, because you believe so. But not for me."

"God may surprise you."

She turned to go. She could barely put one foot in front of the other. She faced either Hell in the next world or Hell in this.

"I will be following you at a distance as far as the wall at least," he said. "The worst scum of Paris haunt the streets around here."

She walked quickly with head lowered through the district of brothels that nestled hard by the cathedral. Fear of the streets gave her the strength to hurry toward the Grand-Pont, connecting the Ile de la Cite with the Right Bank. She sensed the figure of her superior moving through the shadows somewhere behind her.

She had started across the bridge, walking down its center to avoid the dark places under the houses built along its length, when she heard a sudden exchange of angry voices. Fear clutched at her, and she started to run. But the voices sounded familiar. One was her superior, and she thought she recognized the other as well. She hesitated, then turned back.

At the end of the bridge, the two men were standing. Perrin's blond hair glowed in the moonlight. Her heart thudded in terror. He had his dagger out.

"Perrin, in God's name, what are you doing?"

"This man was following you, Madame."

"I know," she said.

Her superior cut in. "You know this man, Diane?"

She turned to the hooded man and froze. She could not believe her eyes. His hand was on the hilt of a sword protruding through a slit in his robe. The sight made her heart turn over.

"He is Roland de Vency's jongleur, Perrin," she said. "How do you come to be here, Perrin?"

"I have been following you, Madame, for your safety. I saw this man trailing you and stopped him."

"And at the same moment I accosted him," said the hooded man, a chuckle in his voice. "I had better be going, Diane. You appear to be in safe hands. Two hands too many, perhaps."

"Just a moment, Messire," said Perrin angrily.

"I assure you, you do not want to know any more about me, my friend," the hooded man said.

Diane heard kindness, but just the hint of a threat, in his tone. "Say nothing more, Perrin," she asked him. "Please."

Like a magician, her superior vanished.

Who and what is he really? she wondered. I am so alone. The only one who knows all about me is a man about whom I know nothing.

God knows me, she reminded herself. And I know God.

As long as I can keep myself from sin.

"Perrin, you know this is dangerous for Sire Roland and for you," she said, angry at him in spite of the length he had gone to protect her. "If the friars' men-at-arms were to arrest me on the street, would you threaten them with your dagger as you threatened that man?"

"I would have to," he said. "I could never face my master if I let them take you."

Dear God, this is a good soul, she thought.

"If they overcame you, Perrin, and found out you were Roland de Vency's man, then you and Roland would both have to face the Inquisition." Her vexation, though, was in her voice and not in her heart. She liked this young man, so honest and forthright. And enough courage for a dozen men.

"You are not afraid of the Inquisition," he said. The tone was almost accusing.

"Yes, I am terribly afraid of it," she said. "But I believe that I have to do what I am doing."

"Your beliefs have made my master a very unhappy man, Madame."

Her heart felt heavy as a stone. "Not meaning to, he has made me a very unhappy woman."

They walked along in silence for a time. Suddenly he said, "Not just my master. All of Languedoc laid waste. Thousands of people dead. Is it really worth so much agony?"

"Surely," she said without hesitation.

"How can you be so certain of your beliefs that you will let yourselves be slaughtered by the hundreds and thousands?"

She thought of what her superior had said about dying rather than believe what Rome commanded.

"We are not always so sure of what we believe," she said. "But we know there are certain things we cannot believe."

"Such as what, Madame?"

Diane sensed that he was truly inquiring. She thought, this is how it must have begun for each person who was once Catholic and became Cathar. With questions. If the questions were answered well enough, the questioners became believers.

"We have a long walk ahead of us, Master Perrin. If you are really interested, I can try to tell you where we differ with the Catholics."

"I am not interested in heretical preaching, but I would like to understand you better, Madame," he said.

The eagerness to win a soul for God grew in her. If this man's curiosity becomes something deeper, I will have to be an example for him and never give in to my feelings for Roland. Perhaps he has been sent to help me.

"The first thing you should understand," she said, "is that we do not consider ourselves heretics. We are the true Christians." VII

ROLAND HANDED THE PARCHMENT SCROLL TO THE ROYAL SERGEANT AT THE tall doors of the great audience hall. As the sergeant examined the invitation, Roland stood tensely, forcing his hands not to tremble. He had just heard the bell of the palace chapel chime the hour of None, and his nervousness about performing was compounded by knowing that he was three hours late. The Queen's song contest had begun at midday.

The sergeant gave Roland a puzzled look.

"I know," Roland said. "I should have been here last night for the royal banquet. But I have come from a great distance, you see."

"It is the Queen you will have to answer to, not me, Messire." The sergeant snapped his fingers, and two pages in long blue tunics embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis pushed open the doors. Drawing himself erect, Roland strode through, followed by Perrin.

The stone hall was the largest he had ever seen. It was decorated for May Day, the dark oak ceiling beams festooned with garlands of yellow, blue, pink, and white spring flowers, just as Nicolette had told him it would be.

Courtiers in bright silks and satins were seated along the sides of the room at trestle tables covered with white linen cloths. The women wore headbands of silver and gold threads over their translucent couvre-chefs, the men yellow or violet caps adorned with long feathers. Behind the seated gentlefolk, people of lesser degree in brightly colored smocks and frocks stood crowded along the walls.

Sunlight streamed in through high windows paned, not with sheets of horn as in so many great halls, but with real glass, of a pearly white color. The daylight was so bright that the fat yellow candles in tall brass candlesticks placed around the vast room were hardly necessary. Between the windows the walls were hung with the silk banners embroidered with the arms of the great barons of France. Roland couldn't help himself, and his eyes strayed to the purple and gold Gobignon banner, far up the hall on the right. The banner beside it bore the arms of Blanche of Castile, a castle with six turrets.

At the end of the hall, on a raised dais, sat the Queen, wearing a crown of cherry blossoms.

And beside her, Nicolette.

He glowed inwardly at the sight of her.

But she must be furious at me for coming late, he thought.

An extraordinarily fat troubadour stood in the center of the room, bowing to acknowledge the hearty applause that followed his song. He was accompanied by three jongleurs. He, too, wore a garland on his head, of pink Damascus roses. His crimson mantle was cut with jagged edges. His hose was embroidered with rich fretwork, and the long, pointed toes of his green boots curled up. A bit ostentatious, thought Roland. But I wish I had heard him sing.

The fat troubadour, he knew, could be no one else but Thibaud, Count of Champagne. It was he who had brought Damascus roses back from the Holy Land. But he was more renowned, Roland recalled, as the troubadour whose love had comforted Blanche for several years, after the sudden death of her husband had left her a young widow.

And there is the old tigress herself. Roland noticed Blanche of Castile on the other side of Queen Marguerite. Blanche wore her invariable white mourning gown and, unlike the other ladies, no flowers. Hard to picture that fat man and that dried-up old woman as lovers. But who knows what I will look like when I'm old - if I live to be old.

Roland realized that now he himself had drawn attention from the dais. Queen Marguerite was staring at him and whispering to Nicolette. Nicolette was looking at him, but her face, as far as he could tell at this distance, showed no particular emotion. Others noticed the direction of the Queen's gaze and turned, too. Roland heard Perrin, at his side, give a little grunt of dismay.

The applause for Thibaud faded away. The rotund count, his present moment of glory cut short by Roland's arrival, waddled off the floor. Scowling, he took his seat at the trestle table at Marguerite's right. The contestants were seated there in a row, looking, Roland thought, like a parliament of peacocks, each one in brighter plumage than the next. Behind them, back from the table, their jongleurs were seated holding lutes, lyres, Irish harps, vielles, rebecks, gitterns, sackbuts, clarions. Pages carrying heraldic banners stood behind the more high-born contestants. One troubadour, Roland noticed with surprise, was wearing the spotless white mantle of the Knights Templar.

Roland was about to move to the contestants' table when Queen Marguerite's stern voice rang out in the now silent hall.

"Come forward, Messire. Tell us who you are."

"God's bones!" Roland heard Perrin whisper to himself.

Roland wished he were back in Sicily. But he put on a brave face and marched forward.

"Madame." He made a deep bow and walked the length of the marble-tiled floor, his black cloak sweeping behind him.

As he walked Roland glanced left and right. This might be his only chance to see these great ones of whom he had heard so much. That blond man with the long face and those big eyes, in the plain robe sitting amongst the courtiers, that must be King Louis. Yes, they say he doesn't like to dress up. What should I do? Stop, bow to him? No, this is the Queen's day, and he looks as if he doesn't want to be noticed. King Louis smiled faintly and nodded to Roland as he passed.

Nicolette was frozen-faced at the dais, her hands clenched as if her fingers were in knots.

How I hope she likes my song enough to forgive me any pain my lateness has caused her. Thank Saint Michel, no one but she knows I sing for her.

Roland stopped before the dais and dropped to one knee. From under his brows he stole a glance at Nicolette. Her light blue outer tunic, thrown back over her shoulders, was fastened at the neck by a gold pin in the shape of a love knot. Beneath the tunic she wore a violet gown with a low neckline. A necklace with green jeweled pendants lay against her creamy skin. Her wavy black hair was bound in a caul of gold thread and crowned by a wreath of scilla.

It was hard to turn his mind to what he should be doing. The Queen had asked him a question, and he must answer.

"Madame, I am Orlando of Perugia, knight and troubadour. I apologize for arriving late, and I pray you that, if I have offended you, you will send me away at once. I had rather wander to the ends of the Earth than cause you a moment's displeasure."

"Saucy fellow," said a voice from the dais, low but loud enough for him to hear.

Roland's gaze shifted, and he saw Queen Blanche glowering down at him. He had heard that it was she, personally, who had insisted on the destruction of Mont Segur. If any person in this room was likely to be an enemy to him, it was Blanche of Castile.

"You are forgiven, Sire Orlando," Marguerite said. "It is a long journey from Perugia to Paris."

"Indeed it is, Madame," Roland answered, smiling up at the Queen. Her brown eyes were friendly. She somewhat resembled Nicolette, though she was thinner and older. Two women of Languedoc, together at the court of Paris. Easy to see why they were close.

"But I made the journey here from Italy two years ago," he went on. "It is Love that made me tardy today. I wanted above all else to compose a song especially for the lady I serve, on this occasion. I must confess my wits deserted me until this morning. I could not come here until my song was ready."

He waited, holding his breath. For weeks he had sat, staring at his parchment, picking at his lute, making one false start after another. The phrases of melody that came to him reminded him of Diane. The images that arose were all of the One Light. But that was a concept of the Cathars, and that meant not Nicolette but Diane. He needed a song that would be altogether Nicolette's.

He knew how important it was to her that she be the first and only love in his life. Again and again during their secret meetings in the upper room at the bookseller's she had questioned him. Was there anyone else? Was he sure there was no one else?

Again and again she had come back to his presence at Mont Segur. Why had he left Paris so suddenly, without telling her? Was a woman involved? He hated himself for not being able to tell her the whole truth.

But he had renounced his love for Diane, so was it not the simple truth that Nicolette was the only woman in his life?

He knew, though, that the truth was not simple. And that knowledge made writing this song devilish hard.

When he thought about Nicolette, nothing worthy of her came to him. It was, he understood, the very urgency of his need to write a song for Nicolette that was blocking its creation. But knowing that did not help. He sat sweating, pounding his table with his fist, edging closer to despair as May Day approached. Only this morning - when, after a sleepless night, he realized he would have to write a song at once or not go at all - did he give up and let the song write itself.

How much easier it would have been to dredge up some song he had written long ago. But she had commanded a song especially for today, and her commands were sacred, and his art was, too. Where either was concerned he could not lie. So, half in anguish because, hinting, as it did at Diane's faith, his was not fully, uniquely, a song for Nicolette, half in excitement because he was making something new and beautiful, he copied the song out as he heard it in his mind. Even then it took him most of the day. He prayed it would please her.

Having spoken of the lady he served, he thought it best not to look at her.

"To be tardy for love's sake does you credit, Sire Orlando," said Marguerite with a smile. "But you must pay some penalty for being late. You shall sing last of all."

Now Roland looked at Nicolette and saw her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. She realized at once, as he did, Marguerite's gift to him. Singing last would give him an advantage. An unknown in this distinguished group, he now would be the singer freshest in everyone's mind when the judging came.

Chills of excitement raced through Roland's body. He had a chance of winning now, winning for Nicolette.

He bowed low and said, "As you command, Madame. It is kind of you to let me compete at all."

He went back to the contestants' table and took a chair at the far end, next to a young knight with light blond hair.

"I had won last place by the luck of the draw, but you did me out of it," said the blond man good-humoredly.

"Forgive me, Monseigneur."

Behind the young knight stood a page holding a banner bearing six horizontal bars of red on white, the arms of the Coucy family. This must be Raoul de Coucy, a noted troubadour and a baron whose family held almost as much land as the Gobignons.

De Coucy patted him on the arm. "The song that made you late had better be worth all the fuss, that is all."

They settled back to listen to the others.

At first the time passed pleasantly for Roland. To divert the company Marguerite had arranged for dancers, jugglers, and tumblers between songs. Roland glanced at Nicolette from time to time. Whenever their eyes met he felt a sweet, sad longing. He tried to remain relaxed, but beyond the first two hours the wait began to be well-nigh unbearable. Pages kept bringing pitchers of claret and trays of meat and cheese pastries. He refused them all. A wine goblet had been placed between Roland and Raoul de Coucy, but whenever the young nobleman offered it to him he shook his head. His stomach was clenched tight as a fist. He wondered if he had any chance. Probably not, though he had won first prize at two contests in Naples, and in both he had been competing against the Emperor himself. But here he would be singing in the Langue d'Oc, and these people were Northerners. He could only hope that Nicolette, at least, would like the song.

He wanted to make a gift of it to her, to perform a deed that would be for her alone. He wished he could honor her publicly, as the troubadours of Languedoc had paid open homage to their ladies in the great days of courtly love.

He listened intently to the rondeaus, ballades, sirventes, and canzones as the hall grew dark and servants lit more candles along the walls and tables. It was the skill of his rivals as makers of poetry and composers of music that interested him more than the singing and playing. Often, indeed, the creator of the song was not the one who performed it. A jongleur might sing his master's song, though when the master's voice was good enough, the jongleur would provide only accompaniment.

Each troubadour or trouvere seemed to have his own band of partisans, who applauded him clamorously, to Roland's amusement. The contestants sang in every language, mostly in Langue d'Oil, but also in Langue d'Oc, Spanish, Italian, Latin, even German. Roland understood all the songs well enough. A well-traveled troubadour had to be versed in many languages.

It was in Latin that the most unusual man present that day sang. Roland had noticed him earlier, a Knight Templar from Verona named Guido Bruchesi. Like all Templars, and unlike all other knights, he wore his black beard long, halfway down the white Templar mantle, which was sewn front and back with red crosses. What was he doing here? Roland had heard of priests and friars who also were troubadours, but a warrior monk who also sang was unusual indeed.

Roland enjoyed Brother Guido's ballade. It was pious enough, a hymn to the Virgin Mary, but it amused Roland to think he caught a number of hidden allusions to Love. The Templar's voice was a magnificent tenor, and he finished on a high note that brought many in the audience to their feet, applauding.

A Hungarian refugee from the Tartars, Sire Cosmas, sang something in his own language, which no one understood. Roland knew even Arabic, having learned it from the Sicilian Moors at the Emperor's court, but he had never before heard Hungarian. Still, Cosmas was politely applauded. Then Raoul de Coucy sang a simple, beautiful canzone. Roland was still applauding when de Coucy sat down again.

"I shall tell you a secret," said de Coucy with a grin. "I am not a proper trouvere. That was for my wife."

Now it was Roland's turn. He felt his heart beating so hard he thought people could surely see his chest throbbing. He pushed back his cloak to display the embroidered silver griffin, the insignia granted his family by the Emperor. No one here, he was sure, would recognize the griffin or, for that matter, have heard of the de Vencys. On a silver chain around his neck he wore another memento from Frederic, an ancient bronze medallion of Apollo playing a lyre. He hoped he made a decent appearance. This morning he had rubbed away at his heavy beard with a pumice stone till his cheeks felt silky to his fingertips.

He walked slowly to the center of the room with Perrin, a step behind him, carrying a lute painted in a pattern of red, yellow, and green diamonds.

Roland stood perfectly still, allowing a silence to build. Perrin tuned the lute, string by string. Everyone in the room stopped eating, drinking, and conversing, and leaned forward attentively.

Marguerite is on our side, I can feel it, Roland thought. But the rest of them? This was a demanding, knowing audience, schooled in music from childhood, skilled in judging. Many of these men and women could have performed as well as the contestants.

Perrin struck a chord.

Roland breathed deeply and expanded his chest.

He allowed himself a brief glance at Nicolette.

She looked back, and then closed her eyes.

He began.

"What makes the sun shine less than bright? Why seems the moon's glow less than pure? Madame, look in my heart this night; For all life's ills here find the cure: One light outshines all lights above, The light within, the light of Love."

The melody he had chosen was slow, almost languid. While he had been working on it, he had been thinking of a boat drifting down a moonlit river. It was a gentle yet radiant tune, he thought, suggesting the afterglow of love.

He heard his baritone voice fill the hall, resonating against the stone walls and roof timbers. His native tongue rang out as a challenge to these northerners who had sent the Albigensian Crusade and destroyed his country.

But in his words and tones, highlighted by the rippling notes of the lute, he tried to convey the secret ecstasy of l'amour courtois. Nicolette, he hoped, would hear echoes of the words he had spoken in her ear. This song is for you, Nicolette.

"I lie sleepless all through the night. I walk by day but still am dreaming. She who appears in my mind's sight Is truth; this world is but a seeming. One light outshines all lights above, The light within, the light of Love."

Roland had finished his song, and for a moment he heard not a sound anywhere in the hall. Then a thunder of applause beat at his ears, and he felt his face grow hot. Some of the applause, he knew, was for all the contestants, some for the contest itself, but he could feel that much of it was for him. He bowed and walked back to his seat. About half his fellows at the trestle table were applauding vigorously. The others applauded, too, but with little enthusiasm. Keeping his eyes down, Roland dropped into the chair Perrin held for him.

De Coucy squeezed his arm. "I doubt I have heard better singing in my life. You were the best, my good fellow. The best all day. No question about it."

The words were very pleasant to hear, but what Roland felt most of all was relief. He sat limp in his chair and thanked Saint Michel that for good or ill he had done what he had to do, he had not dishonored his lady, and it was over.

"And now, gracious Ladies and Seigneurs," said Queen Marguerite, standing up, "we invite you to feast, while we struggle with the impossible task of deciding which of these splendid artists has earned the prize." She held it up, a dark blue silk scarf of Palermo, patterned with gold crescents. Roland joined in the applause. The King rose and bowed from his great height, and all the men followed his example. Marguerite then led half a dozen ladies from her high table.

Now Roland could drink. He held out the empty goblet that stood between him and de Coucy to a servant, who filled it with bright red wine. He drained the goblet at a gulp, had it refilled, and turned to Perrin.

"What did you think?"

Perrin grinned. "Not bad, master. Not bad."

"The Devil roast you."

Perrin laughed.

After what seemed like hours, a blast of trumpets stilled the audience. The ladies filed in from the side and again took their places. The hall stood silent.

Roland's heart was pumping frenziedly.

I must not let it matter, he told himself. The main thing is that before all this hall I proclaimed my love for my lady, and that she knows it is she.

As Marguerite was about to announce the winner, Roland noticed that Blanche was not beside the young Queen but was standing off to one side of the head table. As if to show that she does not support their decision, Roland thought.

Fear chilled his spine, not so much for himself as for Nicolette. Knowing how dangerous Blanche could be, he almost hoped for a moment that it was not he who had won, that her displeasure was directed elsewhere.

His eyes then met Nicolette's, and he actually felt faint.

Marguerite spoke. "It is the judgment of the ladies of the royal court of France that the highest prize has been won fairly and fully by the knight of Perugia, Sire Orlando."

Roland felt as if his heart had stopped altogether. His face went hot as a blacksmith's furnace.

Cheers and applause rang all around him, but the sound was faint, as if he had gotten water in his ears. He felt hands pushing at him. They wanted him to get to his feet.

"Look alive, master!" Perrin was saying. "Get up and claim your prize."

"Good fellow!" de Coucy was shouting, clapping him on the back. "I knew it would be you."

In a daze, Roland forced his limbs to carry him out into the center of the room. Perrin, hurrying after, shoved the neck of the lute into Roland's hand. Roland made his way to the dais one deliberate step at a time, feeling the continued cheering as if it were a tide through which he had to push his way.

He saw Nicolette sitting beside Marguerite, motionless, her eyes bright.

If only I could take you in my arms, he thought.

He knelt and laid the brightly painted lute on the floor before the Queen.

"Sire Orlando," said Marguerite, "I hope you will continue to sing - and your jongleur to play - as well as you did tonight, bringing honor to this prize and to the ladies who award it to you." She unfolded the square of blue and gold silk so that everyone could see it, and then released it to float down into Roland's outstretched hands.

"May you never regret bestowing this prize upon me, Madame," said Roland, raising his head.

Again he looked at Nicolette, and had to fight an urge to show everyone here what she meant to him.

As Roland stood up, a crowd of ladies and troubadours pressed around him, introducing themselves and congratulating him. His hands cold, holding the silk as if it were fragile as a cobweb, he looked past the people near him, trying to see Nicolette.

The Templar clapped him on the shoulder. "Magnificent, Sire Orlando. You sing in the Langue d'Oc quite without accent," he said in Italian. "When I speak it or sing in it, anyone can tell I am Italian. "

Roland, feeling exposed, stiffened. He had to make an effort not to clench his hands on the scarf. He felt immediate distrust for Bruchesi. The eight-pointed cross on the monk's white mantle was a blatant reminder that the Templars were crusaders.

Still, their order had held aloof from the rape of Languedoc.

"The Langue d'Oc," said Roland carefully in the southern speech, "has been the tongue of all the great troubadours, and so I prefer it."

And then Nicolette was standing beside him.

This triumph is yours as much as mine, Roland wanted to tell her.

Nicolette moved toward him, almost protectively, as if she, too, feared there might be enemies in this crowd.

Barely whispering, his lips formed the words, "Mi dons."

The circle gave way to admit Queen Marguerite, who came to him and said, "About the Langue d'Oc I quite agree, Sire Orlando. I, too, will always love the speech of my Provencal childhood. Though now that the north has triumphed, I fear we will always have to say oil instead of oc when we mean yes."

Roland then bowed to Queen Marguerite. "A lady's 'yes' has a sweet sound in any language, Madame."

"Spoken like a troubadour, Messire." Marguerite laughed. "Yet I fear the torch of poetry has passed, perhaps" - she nodded graciously to him - "to Italy, and from Languedoc we shall never again hear the like of Arnaut Daniel or Bernart de Ventadour."

"Yes, but surely," said a new voice, "the beauty of a language is created by the poetry written in that language. If beautiful songs are sung in the Langue d'Oil, it will become great."

Everyone turned. The King stood before Roland in his plain dark robe, the red cross of a crusader sewn on one shoulder. Louis towered over everyone.

Roland dropped to one knee.

"Please stand up, Messire," said the King, patting Roland on the shoulder. "I merely wish to thank you for that exquisite song. And to congratulate you on winning this lovely prize."

Roland rose and studied Louis's face. How innocent he appeared. Thirty-one, but he could as easily be twenty-one. The cross on his shoulder, Nicolette had told him, came from some mad notion the King had of delivering Jerusalem from the Turks.

A thought struck Roland. If I were at home, I would not hesitate to honor mi dons publicly. Why not here? Certainly the Queen would understand, perhaps the King, too.

What holds me back, then? Amalric de Gobignon? A hot anger rose in his chest. Shall I let him stop me from paying mi dons the tribute she deserves? After all, it will seem to be nothing more than the customary tribute a troubadour pays to the distant lady who inspires him. And I know Nicolette has the wit - and the courage - to respond as she must before King and Queen and court. Only we two will know the true meaning of the gesture. Let me do it, then.

Roland turned to Louis. "Permit me to put a question to you, sire. Who deserves this prize more, the one who made the song, or the one who inspired it?"

Louis smiled, his large blue eyes focused searchingly on Roland. "An interesting question, Sire Orlando. Well, in my opinion many have the skill to write songs, but only a few are inspired to make the best use of that skill."

"I agree, sire. Therefore I shall present my prize to the lady to whom I dedicate my art. "And with a smile he turned toward Nicolette.

Suddenly, for him, the King, Queen, Blanche of Castile, the seigneurs and ladies, even the great stone hall, all seemed to vanish, and there was no one and nothing but the dark young woman in violet. He knelt before her, holding up the blue and gold silk.

Her fingertips touched his as she took the scarf from him and touched her lips briefly to it in a ceremonial kiss.

Keeping his eyes on her, Roland heard disapproving whispers from the sides of the hall. But there was also friendly laughter and a spattering of applause.

One man's voice said clearly, "Charming!" It might have been Raoul de Coucy or Guido Bruchesi; he could not be sure.

But those whispered remarks undermined his confidence. Had he acted too rashly and endangered Nicolette?

There was no turning back now. He must carry it off.

"Madame," he said with a smile and a bow, "I hope you will forgive the ignorance of an Italian trovatore. Perhaps, as Madame the Queen has suggested, the torch of poetry has passed to Italy, and what is still a respected custom among us is no longer done here at Paris. If I have been too bold, if I have offended, I beg you to forgive me."

"Not at all, Sire Orlando," Nicolette replied airily, and loud enough for the whisperers to hear. "Whatever is done or not done here at Paris, I am a lady of Languedoc, and it pleases me to accept this tribute from a troubadour."

Nicolette turned inquiringly to Marguerite, as if to confirm that she had spoken aright, and the Queen smiled and nodded approval.

Roland sensed, rather than saw, a stirring at the edge of the circle around them. A flash of white, and suddenly Blanche of Castile was in their midst.

An avenging angel, she turned first upon Nicolette.

"This is scandalous. You must return the scarf to this presumptuous knight at once."

"To give back this scarf," Nicolette answered in a voice so low Roland could barely hear it, "would itself be a discourteous act, Madame."

"He has compromised you. The honor of your good husband is in danger."

And her good husband will be sure to hear about it, Roland thought. He began again to regret his audacity. It would be best for Nicolette, he thought, if she yielded to Queen Blanche and rejected my gift. He saw Nicolette turn to Marguerite with a look of appeal.

The young queen herself was trembling with controlled anger. She took the King's arm and held it tightly.

"Who is a better judge of honor than the King?" she said. "Tell us, sire, is the Count de Gobignon's honor threatened? Should the Countess return the scarf?"

"Take a moment to think, dear Mother." The King spoke softly but firmly to Blanche. "For a troubadour to choose a lady and dedicate his achievements to her is an old and pretty custom. To quarrel over this would indeed cause scandal. The gesture seems to me without harm."

Silently but fervently Roland blessed King Louis for his good will.

"You cannot imagine how these supposedly harmless gestures can spread rot," snapped Blanche. "When I ruled this court I protected you from such corrupting influences." She looked pointedly at Marguerite.

"But, Mother," Louis protested, "it is not so many years since our good friend the Count of Champagne, who sang so well here today, wrote songs in your honor. And no one thinks the less of you for that."

Oh, do they not? Roland thought with amusement. Then he hasn't heard the rumors I have.

A lesser woman might have retired in confusion, but Blanche, though she reddened, stood her ground. "That was altogether different!"

"I am sorry, Mother," said the King earnestly. "Lovely ladies inspire poets like this knight. Much good comes of such chivalry."

"Louis, you are -" Roland guessed that Blanche wanted to say "a fool." But even Blanche, with all her years of power, could not speak so to the King. She clenched her fists, and Roland could see her checking herself.

"- too trusting," she continued. "This is great shame, my son. You should not permit it." Tight-lipped, the White Queen turned and cut through the group around Roland. Courtiers shoved one another to make a path for her.

And now, thought Roland, a messenger will be on his way to de Gobignon.

He turned to Nicolette and saw her standing composed, drawing the scarf through her fingers. If Blanche had upset her, she had recovered quickly enough. Still, he must try to protect her if he could.

He dropped to one knee and threw out his arms in a troubadour's stylized gesture. "Madame, I am overwhelmed by your kindness in accepting my unworthy gift. But I would not cause a quarrel between you and good Queen Blanche. Do not hesitate to spurn my offering if it causes you the slightest embarrassment."

Nicolette gave him a look that had just the right degree of disdain in it. "Have you not heard both the King and Queen approve the giving of the scarf, Messire Troubadour? Do not be tedious."

Delighted with her performance, Roland bowed his head. She has enough presence for an empress and enough courage for an army, he thought. What a splendid woman this is!

VIII

AMALRIC CAUGHT HIS BREATH AS HE SAW A WOMAN HURRY IN THROUGH THE open doorway. She was hooded and cloaked in dark green, but he knew her at once.

He stepped out of the shadows at the palace entry hall and faced her, fixing his eyes on hers as she gasped and turned pale.

"Monseigneur! I thought you were in Languedoc. How is it you are here?"

Her maid, Agnes, appeared then, following her, and behind the frightened-looking Agnes he saw a page carrying a small book.

It was a year since he had seen Nicolette, and he felt himself stunned by her dark, flashing eyes, her teeth so white against her olive skin when she smiled, as she did now in hesitant greeting. She was still the best-looking woman in the kingdom. He wanted to take her in his arms, but, remembering why he had come, he checked himself.

He found it hard to speak. His longing for her love fought against the suspicion that had driven him from Beziers to Paris in five days, a journey that had worn out three horses ? and himself.

"Your duties here at the palace must be none too burdensome," he said, "if they give you time to wander about in the streets."

Accusations already, he reproached himself despite his righteous anger.

He had known when she married him that she cared nothing for him, perhaps even hated him. But how he had hoped that would change! His love for her, meeting with her coldness, made him feel as if he were bleeding slowly, steadily, somewhere inside his chest.

* * *

... A wound he had sustained on a June afternoon thirteen years ago in a miserable Languedoc village. He had been standing at the top of the church steps when a young woman in somber garb had ridden up to him on a tall bay horse.

She had looked him full in the face, and he had drawn in a sharp breath. By God, she was beautiful! An oval face framed by a white wimple, a short nose, a generous mouth. And an olive complexion with its promise of Mediterranean passion. He saw now that she was young, too, perhaps thirteen. Young enough to be still virginal.

"Your name, Messire?" The authority in her voice bespoke gentle birth. But what was a girl of good family doing out riding at dusk?

He hurried down the steps and bowed. "Count Amalric de Gobignon, at your service, Madame." He held out his hand to help her down from her horse. He addressed her in her own tongue, the Langue d'Oc, which he'd learned to speak passably in five years of occupying this heresy-plagued country.

She ignored his proffered hand and swung down with the agility of a boy. Amalric noticed her legs, slender but well-curved, in hose and boots under her black velvet skirt. Why is she wearing black? he wondered. For whom does she mourn? He also saw a small dagger in a jeweled scabbard, gold flashing in its hilt and guard, swinging at her slender waist.

She faced Amalric, her dark brown eyes bright with anger. "You are holding one of my servants captive," she said. "I have come for him."

He was taken aback, almost amused by the peremptory tone of this child-woman.

"One of your servants? But, Madame, you have not vouch-safed to tell me your name." He spoke with an elaborate courtesy.

"I am Nicolette de Lumel," she said. "Daughter of Guilhem de Lumel, seigneur and protector of this village."

"I see," said Amalric. This could, he thought, be serious, depending on who this Guilhem de Lumel was, and what his connections were. The name sounded familiar to him. He tried to remember where he had heard it before.

Some of the knights and men who rode with him were gathering around them. He wanted this girl to himself.

"Will Madame walk with me?" He held out his arm, but she made no move to take it.

"Are you holding a young man named Daude Perella? If you are, you must release him at once."

"I must?" said Amalric, controlling his amusement. "Will you not walk with me, so that we can discuss this as one high-ranking personage to another?" The listening men laughed.

Her eyes blazed. "Do not mock me, damn you."'

Amalric stared into that small, angry face and knew he should be offended at being spoken to so, especially in front of his men. A man who said "Damn you!" to him would already be dead. Instead he found himself thinking, By Saint Dominic, how brave this little creature is! Barely out of childhood, and she rides alone into a village occupied by knights and men-at-arms to rescue some servant. And swears at me when I will not do her bidding. I must talk alone with her.

"Forgive me, Madame," he said easily, and heard one of his men give a little grunt of surprise. "Just come with me, tell me in private why this man of yours deserves to be released, and I will listen with all respect."

The dark, burning eyes searched his face for a moment. He tried his best to look courteous and well-disposed.

She nodded.

He led her away from the houses of the village, clustered like gray heaps of stone on either side of the winding road. There was a vineyard near at hand, and they walked side by side along a path through the low shrubs with their new green leaves. Purposely he kept their backs turned to the stone communal barn where he and his troop were holding twenty local young men to be hanged at sunset.

He did not want to talk to her about the condemned ones. He wanted to ask her where she lived and whether she was married and if he might call upon her.

What is happening to me? he asked himself. I should not involve myself with Languedoc women. Especially ones who say "Damn you!" to me.

"Tell me, Madame de Lumel, who is this Perella, and what is he to you? May I call you Nicolette."

"Perhaps, Count, we should begin by your telling me what harm he has done that you should hold him prisoner."

He hesitated. She was a Languedoc girl. She would never understand. How to explain?

"Look here, Nicolette." I am the Count de Gobignon, he thought, and I will call her by her first name whether she permits me or not.

"Look here," he went on. "A week ago three important men were killed less than a league beyond this village. One of them was a priest, a Dominican friar."

"An inquisitor," she interrupted.

"Yes, an inquisitor, doing God's work. The others were his escort, a knight and a sergeant. They were ambushed on the road, shot full of arrows. A foul, cowardly deed."

"Yes," she said impatiently. "I know about that. But Daude was at Chateau Lumel when that happened. He is the son of our head groom. His sister, Agnes, is my personal maid. I can vouch for him and so can a dozen others."

"That is beside the point," said Amalric. He was thinking, one hanged man more or less would make little difference to his purpose.

She broke into his thoughts. "Is Daude to die even though he is innocent? I am told you are holding twenty young men prisoner. Do you mean to hang them all, in vengeance for the killing of your countrymen?" Her face was pale.

"Those murdered were your countrymen, too, Nicolette," he reproved her. "There is a treaty between your Count of Toulouse and the King of France. The war between north and south is over."

"Not for everyone," she said bitterly.

Then he remembered who Guilhem de Lumel was. A band of knights had raised a rebellion at Montauban, one of those savage little uprisings that were ever and again wrecking the uneasy peace in Languedoc. The town had been retaken by the army of the Constable of France only a month ago. Guilhem de Lumel ? Amalric now recalled having seen his name in a dispatch - had been among those killed. So the protector and seigneur of this village was now dead, and had died an outlaw.

"Now I remember your father's rebellion." He looked at her in wonder. "How brazen of you to come to me, to make demands on me, when your father only a month ago died in arms against our King."

Her shoulders slumped a little.

I have her now, he thought. She needs more help than having one of her people saved from hanging. Her father's estate is surely forfeit.

She looked up at him, and the desperation in her brown eyes wrenched at his heart. "I had to come, even if my father was Guilhem de Lumel. I could not stay home knowing Daude Perella was in deadly peril."

"Is there no one else in your family who could have come here?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "My mother has been bedridden since my father's death. There are only my younger sisters and me."

Amalric spoke quickly. "Nicolette, if I let this servant of yours go, will you permit me to call upon you?"

She stared at him, the brown eyes wide.

"You would use a young man's life to force me to submit to you?"

"Submit? No, I mean no shame to you, Nicolette. I am a man of honor, a knight, a count. Perhaps I could help you. You know the danger in which your family stands."

"But, call upon me? Why?"

He moved his hands helplessly, wanting to reach out and seize her small shoulders, not daring to touch her. He was twenty-one, time for him to be married. But surely to court this daughter of a rebel would be a mistake. Still, he could not accept the idea of never seeing her again. He groped in his mind for words.

"I want to know you better. To be your friend."

She stood staring at him. She seemed to be struggling to come to some decision.

"Let all of them go," she said. "Release all of the young men you are planning to hang, and you may come to Chateau Lumel, and I will receive you. And may God protect me."

"But..." How could he explain it to his men? How could he explain it to his commander, Eudes d'Arcis, Constable of France? "You do not realize how much you are asking."

"You do not know how much you are asking," she said fiercely. "Your people killed my father a month ago. You are invaders. I cannot help but hate you. I cannot betray so much for one life alone. Even Daude, whom I have come to save, would despise me. No, Messire. It must be all twenty lives."

He shook his head. "But how can we put a stop to these crimes if we do not hang hostages?"

"You will never end the killing that way. You will just make our people hate you more, and more of your people will be killed."

She was beautiful and full of fire. She was quick-witted and brave. What would she be like in bed? he wondered with a hot stirring in his loins. She was so passionate and alive that she made the women of his own country seem pale and dull by comparison.

"You cannot imagine the trouble this will cause me," he said. "But I will do it. For you. You may take your servant back to your chateau with you. I will let the other young men go back to their homes. And we will just go on hunting the killers. But in a week's time you must be prepared to entertain me at your home."

For the first time since he met her, she smiled.

"Your clemency makes me very happy. I will receive you, Count Amalric. Though I must warn you, I do not think I can easily help hating you."

And I do not think I can easily help loving you, he had said in his heart as she turned away.

But now, because of the strength of that love and the pain it caused him, it was easier for him to travel about and not see her for months at a time.

"I went to the bookstalls near Notre-Dame to buy this for Isabelle," Nicolette was saying, taking the book from the page as he stood by and proffering it to Amalric. She dismissed the page with a wave of her hand.

Amalric made no move to take it.

"It is Reynard the Fox, a most amusing tale. Do you approve?"

He felt tormented. Was she telling the truth, or was buying the book a pretext for meeting the troubadour?

When he remained silent she gave a tiny shrug and turned to Agnes. The maid took the book and helped Nicolette off with her cloak.

An equerry in a blue tunic embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis came to them and bowed. "Monseigneur, Madame the Queen has set rooms aside for your use where you can rest. Will it please you to follow me?"

Amalric walked beside Nicolette up the stone steps.

"How is it that Queen Marguerite knew you were coming and I did not?" Nicolette asked.

"The equerry was speaking of Queen Blanche."

"Oh," said Nicolette, as if that explained everything.

He took her arm, tentatively at first, then firmly.

She offered no resistance.

She never resists me, he thought angrily. But neither does she ever truly yield.

"Monseigneur, you have come here in great haste," Nicolette said, too low for the equerry to hear. Her brown eyes stared directly into Amalric's as they mounted the steps. "Have you heard ill tales about me? The old queen, I fear, may be trying to turn you against me."

If only he could safely trust those innocent eyes.

The equerry opened a heavy oak door and bowed them into a spacious chamber dominated by a huge, canopied bed. Three of the walls were covered with embroidered silk hangings. Four large windows, their glazed casements flung open to the spring air, lined the other wall. Glancing through the nearest window, Amalric saw the pale early leaves of a plane tree that grew in the palace garden below.

"The Queen asks that you and the Countess dine with the royal family tonight, Monseigneur," the equerry said.

Blanche had said something about dinner to Amalric just after he arrived, and added that she hoped he might talk the King out of crusading in the Holy Land. Could that be the real reason she wants me here? he asked himself.

He had a reason all his own for wanting to speak to Louis. After Mont Segur he and Hugues had spent much time discussing how next to advance the house of Gobignon. Their next step depended on the King's favor.

"We shall be honored to sit at table with the King," Amalric answered, and the equerry left, closing the door behind him.

"Now then, Amalric," said Nicolette, turning to face him, "what is it that brings you here?"

"As you seem to have guessed, Queen Blanche wrote me that I had best come and see to my wife. She said that you allowed an Orlando of Perugia to present you with the prize he won in the Queen's song contest, that you let him pay public court to you. Is this true?"

She was so much shorter than he, and yet she managed to look up at him so haughtily. The same way she had looked at him the first day they met.

"Monseigneur, it has long been the custom among civilized people for a lady to accept the homage of a troubadour. It does not mean I have made love with him."

"Be still!" Amalric snapped, shocked and also furious that she would suggest he was uncivilized. "That is a shameful way to talk."

"Is that not what you are thinking? And how else can I defend myself?"

He dared not believe the worst of her. Or he would have no choice but to kill her. "I do not doubt your virtue, Nicolette."

"Then why this anger?" she asked coolly.

He stared at her dark red lips. How he wanted to kiss them.

"It offends me that you should show even the slightest favor to that Italian dog."

"Is he your enemy, Monseigneur?"

Again, Nicolette's wide brown eyes as he stared into them seemed innocent. And how lovely she looked. He felt a fluttering in his stomach and a quickening in his heartbeat. To the Devil with this quarreling! Still, he must tell her what had really happened at Mont Segur.

"That man is too far beneath me to be my enemy. And yet he dared insult me in front of my own men. He impugned my courage. So we fought, and he used low brigand's tricks to overcome me. He humiliated me, very nearly killed me. And this is the man you have shown favor to."

"I had heard that he fought with you," she said gravely. "But you have bested so many men in combat. Is each one, then, your lifelong enemy?"

"Many are dead," he said with satisfaction. "Of those I have spared, yes, most would like to see me dead. Even so, this is different. He fought dishonorably. Thus he owes me a debt of honor, which he must pay by dying at my hand. You are to have no more contact with him. You are to return forthwith any gifts he has given you, as a sign of your scorn of him."

"And if I refuse?"

That made him angry. She had grown unruly in the time they had been apart.

He advanced on her, his hand upraised.

She stared up at him, unflinching.

He swung and slapped her.

"You will show respect for me, and you will guard my honor."

Nicolette glared at him. The red mark where he struck her was bright on her creamy cheek.

"Do not ever hit me again."

He pressed her back toward the bed. "I am your husband. It is my right."

Her look was venomous. "Yes, it is your right. But never exercise it again."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I have made no threat. I demand only that you treat me with respect, nothing more."

"Nothing more, eh?"

He found himself once again thrilled by her courage, the hardihood of a small young woman defying the most formidable knight in all of France. He knew only one way to express what he felt for her. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders and pressed her gently toward the bed.

"I will not hit you again. There is another right I would assert, Nicolette."

"Of course, Monseigneur."

There was no interest in her voice, much less love. Only acquiescence. Even after all this time apart. But his eagerness for her overrode that.

She lay back on the big, soft bed, her eyes fixed on a spot somewhere above him.

Trying not to feel injured by her indifference, he stared at her breasts rising and falling under the silk of her gown. Her body could almost have been a boy's, were it not for those breasts, whose fullness he loved to hold.

He lay down beside her, unbuckling his belt and dropping it to the floor. The three-sided dagger that had stabbed the troubadour clattered on the oak boards. He moved closer, pressing his palm against one of her breasts. Touching her so after so long a time made his groin ache.

He hastily bared his loins and drew up her gown. But then he paused and tenderly stroked her cheek.

If only she would smile at him. But she was still looking past him, into the darkness above them.

Kissing her was like biting into a fruit that was beautiful but had no taste. Her mouth yielded but did not answer.

Her eyes were closed now, and she was breathing deeply, as if asleep. Her arms and legs were relaxed, unresisting.

He moved to mount her. She was closed and dry. Breathing harshly, he pressed into her again and again, forcing entry little by little. He saw her grimace with pain, and he quickly shut his eyes.

By the time he was fully within her, his striving had brought him almost to his peak. Oh, why couldn't their first embrace in so long last a little longer? The spasms of release were as much pain as pleasure, forcing a loud agonized cry from him. He let his body go limp.

He lay upon her a moment longer, breathing heavily. The room was so dark that he had to strain to see her face. Her eyes were still closed, and there was no longer any sign that he had hurt her. She looked serene, as if unaware of what had just happened.

He withdrew from her and turned on his side, his back to her, feeling sad and angry. Why must she lie there like a dead woman? He had lain with peasant girls and wives and daughters of the nobility. He could bring most women to heights of pleasure, make some so happy they ended by weeping hysterically. Why, then, could he give no delight to this one, who meant more to him than all the rest?

He wished he could talk to her about it, but with what words? The way he talked to his comrades in arms, to peasant wenches, that sort of crude speech would hardly do. The only way he knew was the way he had just tried, with his body. And she did not hear him.

If I were a troubadour, he told himself, with sweet songs and eloquent speeches, I could make her understand and win her heart. God, how I hate all those glib fops who have words for every occasion - lying words.

He lay on his back staring into the darkness and pictured the song contest, mincing, lisping troubadours beguiling the ladies. His fists clenched and unclenched.

That sneaking Orlando, trying to steal my honor through my wife!

I should have killed him after Mont Segur, or sent men after him as he rode north. I could still have my people do it right now here in Paris.

But she would know it was me.

By Saint Dominic, I want her to know!

No, she would despise me if I did it that way. I shall have to kill him publicly, in full view of everyone who did him honor, the Queen, the King, Nicolette, the entire court. It will have to be... a tournament!

But I cannot challenge him openly, he is too far beneath my station. I must make him come against me. Yes, I will provoke him. Insult him, hurt him so terribly he will burn for revenge. Then I will give him his chance. But make sure he has no chance whatever.

There are many ways to kill a man in a tournament, and I know them all.

"Nicolette."

"Yes, Monseigneur." Her voice was faint, distant.

"Stay far away from that man, Nicolette. He has vexed me for the last time. Before this year is out, I shall send him to join his heretic friends in Hell."

He felt a faint movement in the bed, as if her body had stiffened. But she said nothing.

At dinner with Louis and other members of the royal family, Amalric, who had brought no clothing with him on his hasty journey, felt pleased with himself in a fine red damask mantle which Nicolette had borrowed for him from the King's eldest brother, Count Robert d'Artois. Louis, as usual, was dressed in an unornamented robe, with the crusader's cross on his shoulder. Why could not the King dress in keeping with his station?

Amalric was seated on Louis's right at the linen-covered high table in the solar on the second story of the palace. Marguerite was at her husband's left, and Nicolette on Amalric's right. Farther along the table were Queen Blanche, the King's brother, Robert d'Artois, and Robert's countess.

The chair Amalric sat in was high-backed and comfortable. At most tables in France, even those of great barons, diners sat on benches, but the King's wealth allowed him to provide a chair for each guest. Between each pair of guests was a handsome silver wine cup damascened with gold. A hum of conversation came from the guests at the lesser tables along the wall - the usual rabble of priests, friars, and poor knights Louis seemed to prefer for company. Smells of roasting meat, drifting up from the kitchen on the floor below, made water flow in Amalric's mouth. He had eaten little on his journey.

Louis turned his great round eyes on Amalric and bent his long face toward him, raising the wine cup he and Marguerite were drinking from. "Dear cousin, you have exiled yourself from us too long. I shall want to hear about Beziers and the Minervois country you have been governing for us. But right now I want to talk to you about something very close to my heart."

"Sire, whatever is important to you is equally important to me," said Amalric with a sinking feeling.

He turned away to wash his hands in a silver basin held for him by an equerry. He was sure Louis was going to start in on his pious nonsense.

"I speak of the enterprise of Jerusalem," said Louis, eyes aglow. "I beg you to join our crusade, cousin.'"

Amalric now felt rage rising in his throat. I am to abandon everything I have fought and bled for to follow you on a mad quest to Outremer, because you would rather be a saint than a proper king? He tore off a chunk of the King's expensive white bread and stuffed it into his mouth to hide whatever feelings showed in his face.

"Louis, Louis, spare us this endless talk of Jerusalem," Queen Blanche cut in.

Now, there is a great woman. If only she were still ruling the kingdom.

"Please, dear Mother," said Louis quietly. "Cousin Amalric has not heard this."

"I have great responsibilities, sire," said Amalric quietly. "My conscience tells me I must remain at home."

"Indeed, you have great responsibilities," said Louis with his damnable gentle smile. "Are you not one of our greatest seigneurs, a Peer of the Realm? You would bring with you hundreds of knights, contribute immeasurably to our supplying. Whereas, if you remain behind, good cousin, our pilgrimage will be a horse with three legs."

The King's servants put platters of lobsters and new beans boiled in milk on the serving window of the solar, and equerries carried them to the tables and began to break the lobsters up for the diners. The guests fell silent as they began to eat. The royal cook, Isambert, was generally acknowledged the best in France.

Amalric felt Blanche, Marguerite, Nicolette, and the others at the high table waiting for him to speak. How could he convince Louis that the war against heresy in Europe was more important than his so-called pilgrimage to Outremer?

He reviewed the plan he and Hugues had worked out. If he could turn Louis to a war against the Emperor Frederic, the Pope's enemy, the need for unity within France would mean a wide campaign against heretics. And he, as the leader who had destroyed Mont Segur, could ask for the power to seek out and destroy heresy everywhere in the kingdom. Working with the Inquisition, he would be the most powerful seigneur in France.

"Amalric," said Blanche, "tell my son why this crusade of his is a mistake."

Amalric turned to Louis. "Have I leave to speak freely, sire?"

"Always," said Louis.

"Sire, there is another holy city much closer to us that also is in the grip of infidels - Rome. Is it not a scandal to us that Emperor Frederic has driven our Pope out of Rome and forced him into exile at Lyons?"

Louis nodded soberly. "It is a scandal. But equally great a scandal is that the Pope is not satisfied with being Holy Father. He wants to be King of Italy as well. That is what he and the Emperor are fighting about. I say let popes be popes and kings kings."

"But, sire," said Amalric, "His Holiness has preached a crusade against Emperor Frederic. It is our duty to answer the call."

A war in Outremer would bring the Gobignons nothing. Just a huge waste of treasure and perhaps even death. But if Louis made war on Frederic, Amalric could take enough land in Germany to be almost a monarch in his own right.

"Frederic has not attacked me," said Louis shortly.

"Neither have the Turks attacked you," said Blanche.

"Mother," Louis sighed, "Jerusalem was a Christian kingdom for a hundred years and more, ever since the first crusaders captured it. It has been our holy city since the time of the Seigneur Jesus." He bowed his head reverently. "When Baibars the Panther took Jerusalem last year, he was attacking all Christendom."

"When the Emperor attacks the Holy Father, he makes war on all Christendom," said Amalric.

"The Pope may call his war with Frederic a crusade if he chooses," said Louis, "but really it is only a clash between two Christian monarchs."

"The Emperor is not a Christian," said Blanche.

"Absolutely true," said Amalric, grateful to his aunt. "Sire, surely you have heard about the testimony at the Pope's council at Lyons. They are calling him the Antichrist, and I believe they are right. Frederic may pretend to be a Catholic, but he consorts with heretics and Muslims. He has a whole army of Saracens. He even made a treaty with the Sultan of Cairo."

"That treaty restored Jerusalem to Christian hands for sixteen years," said Louis.

"Yes, but then the Egyptians took it back," the King's brother Robert put in. "It was a bad treaty. You cannot trust the Saracens." Robert was almost as tall as his brother, but much broader in the shoulders and chest. He was a simple soul who enjoyed war, and Amalric rather liked him.

Queen Marguerite spoke up. "I thought it was the Turks who captured Jerusalem."

Why does she not keep her ignorance to herself? Amalric detested Marguerite almost as much as he disliked Louis.

"They are one and the same, my dear," said Louis patiently. "Turks are Saracens, and the Turks have ruled in Egypt for hundreds of years. At any rate, Frederic had nothing to do with the breaking of that treaty. No, I do not think he is an enemy of religion. He is just unwilling to let the Pope have the territories in Italy that he wants."

Louis's serene stubbornness infuriated Amalric.

"The Emperor not an enemy of religion?" Amalric cried, and heads turned and bent forward at the lower tables as people strained to hear what he was saying. "He harbors heretics and rebels, and the disease spreads. They sneak into France and infect our people. Frederic has agents all over this kingdom sowing dissension."

He noticed that Nicolette, beside him, was twisting her hands nervously in her lap.

"In Beziers," Amalric went on, "I have found evidence of a network of heretics that spreads across all of Europe, like a spider's web."

Blanche of Castile gasped.

Amalric hoped he would not be asked to produce his evidence. It had convinced him, but Louis, in his present frame of mind, would dismiss it as mere conjecture. Yet there was a pattern to it: the Cathars and other heresies; the troubadours and their courtly love, which had infected Nicolette; the similar ideas advocated by Frederic; the attack on the Pope; the unruliness of students and the rebelliousness of commoners against their seigneurs. Something was gnawing at the foundations of the world. It all fit. There had to be a single plot behind it all.

And, he thought, with the cold hatred he had felt as far back as he could remember, they killed my father. I will not rest until every heretic in Christendom has been consigned to the flames.

"Amalric, Amalric," said Louis, resting his long-fingered hand on Amalric's arm. "It is possible to be too zealous, believe me. Did not you yourself overcome the last armed heretic resistance at Mont Segur? Heresy in the future will be dealt with by the Dominicans. Good preaching friars like your brother Hugues."

Pious hypocrite! Louis's father wasn't murdered by heretics.

"The more devious heretics have survived and have hidden themselves. They are more dangerous than ever, sire. The preachers cannot prevail without the help of your knights."

"What are you suggesting, Amalric?" Louis asked softly.

"If you want me to crusade for you, I will , most gladly. Here in France. Give me the authority, I beg you, sire, to discover and destroy the enemies of the Church and the kingdom, wherever they may be found."

Louis sat looking thoughtfully at Amalric. Equerries brought platters of venison and rabbit from the serving window and began to carve and distribute the pieces at each table.

Amalric, knowing this could be the turning point of his life, had lost his appetite. But his throat was dry, and he reached for the gold goblet set on the table between himself and Nicolette.

At last the King said, "You are asking for the power to make war on our own people."

He does not understand, thought Amalric. He's too monkish for me to talk to. Hugues might be better with him.

"Not our own people, sire. I am talking about the heretic leaders. Many remain in hiding. When you pull a weed, you must get all the roots or it will grow back. The roots of heresy, the hidden leaders, are still there. In league with others who are spreading corrupting ideas throughout the kingdom. University students, guildsmen, troubadours."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nicolette turn to stare at him, but he plunged on. "And I think they are all working for Emperor Frederic, who is the creature of Satan himself."

If he could get Louis to listen, there would be inquisitorial courts everywhere, not just in Languedoc. Working together, he and Hugues would terrorize the evildoers and cleanse the kingdom. No one would be beyond his reach. Everyone would beg for his favor. Add that to the lands he could gain in a war with Germany, and there would be no limit to what he might achieve. Indeed, one day a member of the house of Gobignon might wear a crown, as his ancestors had.

"All who live in France are my people," Louis said. "I want to shape this kingdom so that it will be easy for every French man and woman to live as a good Christian."

"The kingdom must be thoroughly cleansed if you are to reach that goal," said Amalric.

He was exasperated. He had made his point, and yet Louis's thoughts seemed to keep wandering off into the realm of the supernatural. Yes, Hugues should be here. A priest can talk to him better than I.

"Indeed there is much to correct," said Louis. "Before I go on crusade, I intend to undo every injustice I can discover in the land. Not only those committed by the kings who reigned before me, but those committed by me and my officers as well."

He's mad, thought Amalric. All those hours of praying have addled his brain.

"Justice also means that more heretics must burn, sire."

Louis looked pained. "Is my reign to be remembered for nothing but horrors like Mont Segur?"

Amalric felt a pulse pounding in his forehead.

I spent an agonizing year capturing those Bougres, and was almost killed at the end of it by that troubadour, and he dismisses it all as a "horror." How dare he!

"Not horrors, holy work, my son," said Blanche.

Amalric's rage abated a little as he saw the fervent glow in her thin face.

Blanche went on, "I have been told that no bones were found in the field at Mont Segur after the Albigensians were burned. More proof of their ties to the Evil One. The Devil carried off his minions, body and soul."

"The Cathar credentes probably took the bones as relics," said Marguerite. "To them those people were holy martyrs."

Amalric saw loathing in Marguerite's face as she stared at him, and he felt the heat of anger rising within him again. She, like Louis, thought the mass burning horrible.

"Perhaps the believers did take the bones, Madame," he said, making his voice sound matter-of-fact to outrage the young queen even more. "We broke camp immediately after our work was done, without bothering to look for bones. I was clearly remiss in not posting a guard. That would have given us a chance to capture more heretics - and their sympathizers."

Amalric hoped his meaning was clear. Marguerite might be Queen of France, but when she spoke as she just had, she, too, could be suspect. Not that there was any possibility she herself could be a heretic. But these Languedoc people all were tainted with a tolerance for heresy.

"But, in a way, I sympathize with the heretics," Louis said. "We must feel for them, pray for them. Amalric, I must say no to you. I know you care deeply about the welfare of the kingdom. But I want to put an end to discord, not create more of it."

"When you sail off to Outremer, sire," said Amalric, no longer able to keep the anger out of his voice, "you will be offering your unprotected back to your enemies. The enemies of France. The enemies of the Church."

"I told you I do not think that heresy is any longer a danger," said Louis. "I will not inflict more misery on my own people. I permit the Inquisition to do its work in France. That is enough."

"Sire, the Inquisition needs a secular military arm to investigate, arrest, and punish heretics and their sympathizers. I ask you to consider creating such an institution."

He held his breath. Would this last attempt to reach Louis succeed?

"No," said Louis with finality. "No, Amalric. Even if I liked the idea, it would divert men from Jerusalem. Forgive me for disappointing you."

Amalric's muscles contracted. The effort of controlling himself was like trying to stop a charging war-horse. But he managed it.

"I thank you, sire, for at least hearing my advice." His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Both of us want what is God's will for France," said Louis. "And what of Jerusalem, dear Amalric? You are my sworn vassal, but I would never order you to join the crusade. You must come of your own free will, for the good of your soul."

Amalric seethed. By Saint Dominic! He dashes all my hopes, and not content with that, he wants to drag me off to the East with him.

"Give me time to think, sire," said Amalric. "My family has been scattered far and wide for years, in your service and the service of the Church. Nicolette and I will go to join our kinfolk at Chateau Gobignon. There I will discuss this with my family. With your permission."

Nicolette, he noticed, had picked up the wine cup she shared with him and spilled some wine on the tablecloth. She was staring at the pink spot.

"Of course you have my permission," said Louis. "What of your position as my seneschal for Beziers?"

"I left good men in command there, sire." I know very well how to run a city or a province. Or a kingdom, for that matter.

"I will miss Nicolette," said Marguerite. "I cannot be selfish, for you have let her stay with me a long time, Count Amalric. But I charge you to restore her to me at the end of the summer."

Amalric felt a trickle of acid in his throat. To have Marguerite tell him when he could have his wife's company and when not infuriated him.

Marguerite, of course, was the one responsible for that accursed song contest. A decent king would be spending his time in more manly pursuits than song contests.

Marguerite and Louis, he couldn't help but see, were in love with each other. There is a marriage of north and south that is happy. Why not Nicolette and I?

The thought of manly pursuits reminded Amalric that he had another aim for tonight's dinner with the King - the tournament.

Louis broke in on his thoughts. "When will you return to us and let us know your decision, cousin?"

A good opening, thought Amalric. "Sire, I hear that Madame the Queen entertained your court recently with a song contest. Song contests are all very well, but your vassals should be offered a more, may I say, robust way of earning honor. Perhaps a royal tournament here in Paris in the fall? I, for one, would be happy to ride a passage at arms before you."

Louis frowned. "I hate to disappoint you again, cousin Amalric, but I have never approved of tournaments."

Amalric felt his jaw muscles trembling. Never in his life had he felt this much rage and had so little freedom to express it.

He downed the rest of the wine before continuing. A servant hurried to refill the goblet.

"I have heard that said of you, sire, but I have never understood why. Next to a battle, what any knight worthy of his spurs enjoys most is a tournament."

Louis shook his head. "Too many men are killed in tournaments, and even more are crippled. And the hatred aroused in tournaments, I am sure, deeply offends God."

Robert d'Artois spoke, thumping his wine cup onto the table. "Brother, I think Amalric's idea is magnificent. I am pining for excitement, and I know many of your knights who feel the same way. The crusade is still years off. Peace may be good for the kingdom, but it is not good for the kingdom's fighting men."

Ah, thought Amalric, feeling new hope.

But Louis shook his head. "To risk life and limb in a just war is a necessary thing, but for mere vanity, is that not a sin?"

"But it is not just vanity, sire," Amalric cut in. "A knight needs constant practice to stay in fighting trim. When there is no war on, there is no reason to practice. Unless we have tournaments. Yes, some men do get hurt. But think how many more will be injured - and killed - in a real war, if they are out of practice. If you are to take French knights to Outremer and liberate Jerusalem, you will surely want them ready for battle."

"But one tournament," Louis said slowly, thoughtfully, "would not make that much of a difference."

"One royal tournament will inspire dozens of others to spring up all over the kingdom. It will be almost as good as a war for producing the sort of seasoned warriors you need."

Louis shook his head. "Yes, I would be setting an example. A bad example."

Amalric's heart fell once more, and he could hardly breathe.

"Brother," Robert d'Artois said, "you put too fine a point on things."

"My son," Blanche spoke up, "a royal tournament would do far more for the strength of the kingdom than a song contest. I am sure if you asked any reverend father, he would tell you such a trial of arms would be good for your knights."

Louis was silent.

Amalric held his breath. He glanced at Nicolette and saw that she was studying him, puzzled. She wonders why I want this so. She will soon understand.

If only Louis decides as he should. As he must.

"The best fighting men, knights and barons, from all over the country, all over Christendom perhaps, would come, would they not?" said Louis. "And I could talk to them about the crusade."

"Yes, brother, yes," said Robert, half affectionately, half impatiently. "They will be all on fire for battle, and you can preach to them and they will all take the cross on the spot."

Louis nodded. "It could happen that way." He smiled happily at Amalric. "Very well, then, let there be a tournament. I am glad I can take your advice in this, cousin. I look forward to seeing you display your skill at arms before us in the fall."

"No more than I look forward to it, sire," said Amalric, bowing his head.

A wave of fierce exultation swept through him. He would get his revenge.

Now to make sure this Orlando of Perugia enters and seeks combat with me. I shall have to throw down an unmistakable challenge.

He took a long swallow of wine, this time with satisfaction. He leaned against the high back of his chair and imagined the scene - the great war-horse pounding under him, the troubadour in the flimsy armor of a poor knight, the lance point smashing into the skinny chest, blood gushing.

Ah, I chose a sharp-pointed lance by mistake. How could I have made such a terrible error? May God forgive me!

He almost laughed aloud.

And Nicolette, then she will know how much I feel for her. I cannot give her a song, but I can give her a man's life.

Many a woman grows hungry for love at the sight of spilled blood.

He imagined Nicolette, eyes heavy-lidded with lust, reaching for him.

God grant it may fall out so, he thought, sighing with pleasure and reaching again for the golden goblet.

IX

EVEN THOUGH THE SUN HAD SET MANY HOURS BEFORE, THE HEAT OF August lingered in the house, and Roland had gone out into his garden. A half-finished phrase of melody was circling about in his mind, and with the help of his lute he was trying to capture it. Diane sat beside him, home this evening for once, listening quietly as he picked at the strings.

The rear door of his house burst open, and Roland saw there the silhouette of Lucien, his cook.

"Master! Perrin is hurt!"

The shock in Lucien's voice struck more dread into Roland than his words.

How badly was Perrin hurt? Roland put his lute down on the bench and followed Lucien through the kitchen and into the candle-lit front room where he saw Perrin lying on the big trestle table, a blanket covering him from the waist down. As Roland entered, Perrin gave a shivering groan and turned his head toward him. Beads of sweat dotted Perrin's forehead. Roland had seen that look of agony and appeal before, in the eyes of men dying of painful wounds. God, let it not be.

After looking at Roland, Perrin closed his eyes and seemed to lose consciousness.

Adrienne, Lucien's wife, and Martin, their son, stood in their nightshirts beside the table. In the flickering shadows, Roland saw horror frozen on their faces.

At Perrin's head stood a tall man with strong, aquiline features and a long black beard. He wore a rose-colored tunic, and it took Roland a moment to recognize him. When he did, he warned himself to be on his guard. It was Guido Bruchesi, the Templar. At Queen Marguerite's singing contest he had been wearing a white mantle adorned with a red cross.

Saint Michel! What is this Templar doing here?

Bruchesi bowed his head to Roland, and Roland saw sympathy in his eyes.

"What happened? How bad is it?" Roland asked without preliminary.

Guido pulled back the blanket without speaking.

"Ah, Jesus!" Adrienne screamed and covered her face with her hands.

Perrin was naked below the waist and his belly and thighs were smeared with blood, the hair around his privates matted with it. A strip of blood-soaked cloth was tied tightly around the base of Perrin's member. Dark red blood puddled on the table between his partly opened legs.

Roland's stomach felt as if someone had driven a knife into it and twisted. He would kill whoever had done this. He had to.

Young Martin staggered out of the room, choking and retching.

"We must loosen the tourniquet soon," said Guido. "I gave him such battlefield aid as I know."

Roland turned to the Templar. His hands, as if they had a will of their own, grasped at the man's tunic, crumpling the clean linen. "Who did this?" Roland choked out.

"Time to speak of that later, Messire," responded the Templar. "Let me take him to the Paris Temple. We Templars know as well the healing of wounds as the giving. I would have brought him with me at once, but he insisted I take him to you."

Perrin, even in his agony, tries to protect me, Roland sobbed to himself. He knows that unconscious he might let slip some secret of mine. God, I love this man. And this happened to him in my service, because of me, I know it. How can I ever repay him?

Guilt clawed at Roland's heart.

Diane's voice suddenly broke in, low but firm. "We can care for him ourselves."

Roland swung around. In his anguish he had forgotten that she was here.

A new terror seized him: a fugitive heretic, confronted by a Catholic monk whose order was the most powerful in Christendom. She must not stay. The danger was too great. He tried to signal her with his eyes, but she wasn't looking at him.

"Diane," he said sharply. "Allow me to present the Sire Guido Bruchesi. Sire Guido is a member of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Sire Guido, my sister, Diane."

"Madame." Guido bowed. "I am honored to meet you."

"And I you, Sire Guido," said Diane. "Now you will excuse me if I get on with helping this poor man." She turned to the cook. "Lucien, light a fire and heat water. Fill a brazier with hot coals and put a big carving knife in it until the blade is red hot. Adrienne, get clean cloths, and have your son bring wine - three full pitchers."

She turned back to Roland, ignoring his pleading look. "This is a cruel wound, but it need not be mortal. I need some things from my room." She hurried out.

Cold sweat formed beads under Roland's tunic. She was giving herself away. Her skill in medicine would immediately reveal her as a Cathar perfecta.

"Does the lady's husband live with you as well, Sire Orlando?" Guido asked casually.

"Sadly, she was widowed some years ago," said Roland. "She came here from Perugia to help me manage my household."

Tears had begun to burn Roland's eyes as he looked at Perrin. He knew the Templar was watching him, but he was not ashamed.

He was remembering another time, two years ago, when Perrin had come back to this house. But that time it had been early in the morning, and Perrin had been singing.

"Where the Devil have you been?" Roland had asked with mock severity.

Perrin's face was alight with pure bliss. "Nowhere near the Devil, master. All last night I was playing in the fields of Heaven. I think God's creation can hold no joy equal to helping a young woman discover for the first time all the pleasure her body - and mine - can give her."

Out of his own loneliness at the time Roland had made some sour remark about seducing virgins, but within, he remembered now, he had been touched by Perrin's simple happiness.

A happiness Perrin would never know again.

Perrin, Perrin, what have they done to you? Why such cruelty?

"A widow," Guido said thoughtfully. "That is why she wears black."

A chill of fear rippled up Roland's spine. There could be only one reason why Guido would express curiosity about Diane's black gown. The perfecti wore black.

The enemy, here in my own home. Was that the real reason he came here, to spy on us? Have Diane's meetings with other Cathars at last been noticed by the Church?

Roland tenderly put his hand on Perrin's cold, wet forehead. It would have been kinder to kill him, he thought. Who could have done this?

De Gobignon. The answer, waiting in the shadows of his mind, sprang out. It must be de Gobignon. Sooner or later he would strike at me, I knew. But the coward, to attack me through Perrin!

Diane came back with a brass-bound cedar box. She unlocked the box and drew out bottles, jars, and white cloths that smelled of aromatics.

He watched her wash her hands in a brass basin of hot water till they were scarlet. Unable to stop her, he felt terror for her alternating with anguish for Perrin.

"You seem to know what you are about, Madame," said Guido with interest and admiration.

Suddenly it came to Roland that he might have to kill the Templar. His legs trembled and his heartbeat quickened. The Templar had a longsword and a dagger belted at his waist. He himself was weaponless. His sword was upstairs.

And yet he felt no threat emanating from this man. The Templar appeared to regard Diane with the intelligent interest of one who shared her art. And he had saved Perrin's life by bringing him here. Roland wanted to feel gratitude toward him, though he dared not.

"There is no mystery to tending wounds, Sire Guido," Diane said, "as I am sure you know. If you keep them closed and clean, God heals them at His pleasure."

Roland was amazed at her calm. He knew she cared for Perrin almost as much as he did, yet she went about her work with brisk efficiency, and she spoke as calmly as if she were delivering a lecture on medicine at the university.

"Quite so, Madame," said the Templar.

At least she was careful to bring God into it, thought Roland with some small relief.

Diane covered Perrin with the blanket and then put her hand under his head to raise it up so he could drink from the wine cup she held to his lips. When he emptied the cup she filled it again and gave him more.

"God's bones, the pain," Perrin gasped. "What did they do, stab me in the belly?"

He does not know, Diane mouthed to Roland.

Roland felt a dull ache in his heart. The tears kept running freely down his cheeks.

He gripped Perrin's shoulder and stared into his pain-glazed eyes. "Who attacked you, Perrin?"

"They must have followed me out of Guillaume's. I had sung that song about the Pope. There was a girl with me. Their leader was tall, stooped over. Ugly face, pitted with pox. He said I insulted the Pope. They knocked me down. I do not remember any more than that, master. How bad is it? Will it kill me?"

"No, it will not kill you," said Diane. "Drink as much wine as you can. It will ease the pain."

Guido drew Roland to a corner of the room and said in a low voice, "I was in the bookseller's, too. I recognized your jongleur. I also recognized the men who left when he did. A bad lot. I followed, but by the time I got out to the street the girl was screaming and your man was lying on the ground and they were running away. Some of the Mad Dogs chased them, but they had horses hidden in an alley."

His account had the brevity of a good battlefield report. He was a knight passing information to another knight. But how, Roland asked himself, did he come first to be at the song contest, then at Guillaume's, and now here? The bookseller's, that haunt of folk of dubious opinions, was a particularly odd place for a Templar.

"Who were they?"

"The pockmarked man is called Didier Longarm. A highwayman. His face is well known in the Latin Quarter. He often preys upon students. His den is said to be in the ruins south of the abbey of Saint-Germain."

A movement on the table caught Roland's eye. He saw Perrin's hand sliding down his body, seeking the place where the pain was coming from.

"No, Perrin," Diane said, and reached out to take his hand. But it was too late. Perrin's hand was on his groin, touching it gingerly at first, then clutching at himself in terrified spasms. Perrin screamed. He pounded his head on the table, and he howled again and again.

Diane threw her arms around him and held him against her breast. Her calm broken at last, she joined her weeping to his screams.

Lucien, standing beside Diane, shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears. He, too, was crying.

Each of Perrin's screams struck Roland like the blow of a scourge. He suffers this for my sake, the troubadour told himself.

Perrin's screams gradually subsided to a broken whimper.

Diane after much coaxing got him to drink more wine.

"There is nothing to be done?" he groaned. "I am... no longer a man?"

"You are still a man, Perrin," she whispered. "You will always be a man. But your body cannot be made whole."

"You people know how to put a stop to a man's misery," Perrin said fiercely. "You end the lives of those who cannot be cured. Well, do it for me. I cannot be healed either."

Saint Michel! Roland thought, his heart a lump of ice. In front of the Templar! Perrin might as well have called Diane a Cathar outright.

"The wine has gotten to him," Diane said. "He does not even know who I am." Would the Templar, Roland wondered, accept her explanation?

Guido stepped forward, and Roland's heart froze.

"I am a monk, my son. "

Roland tensed himself for action. If Guido learned the truth about Diane, Roland would have to kill him. And the Templar looked as if he would be a very hard man to kill.

How can I get to my sword?

"You are hurt most cruelly," Guido went on. "But you must try not to wish for death. Despair is a great sin. God is testing you. He must love you very much to test you so harshly."

Roland caught the scornful look Diane turned upon Guido. In his mind he pleaded, Please, please, do not argue with him.

Perrin stared at Guido in horror. Now he realizes he has said too much, Roland thought.

Overcome with pain and fear, the young man shut his eyes and, in Diane's arms, fainted again.

"Lucien," Diane said, "the knife."

Diane seemed serene again. Roland could not tell whether he admired her for it or thought her inhuman.

Frantically, he tried to think what to do. Kill the Templar, bind up Perrin as best he could, and flee Paris tonight? Lucien and Adrienne will not betray us, I know.

No, a murder would weigh too heavily on their consciences. They could never keep silent.

Lucien gingerly drew out of the brazier a long, broad-bladed knife, its edges glowing red, and handed it to Diane. Without hesitation she pressed it between Perrin's legs.

The hissing sound made Roland's stomach heave.

The unconscious jongleur let out a long, eerie moan.

Roland's hand ached to hold his sword. Find those men. Before all else, that one thing he must do.

"Go out and get Alezan ready for me to ride," Roland said to the boy, who was being sick again. Martin ran to the door, choking, his hand over his mouth.

"The wound is sealed," said Diane as she began to anoint and bandage the burned flesh. Without looking up she said, "The men who did this will be waiting for you."

"Quite right, Madame," said Guido. "Everyone knows that this unfortunate jongleur is Sire Orlando's man. And the highwaymen can be sure they were recognized. Will you permit me to go with you, Messire? The rule of my order requires us to accept battle whenever the odds are three to one or better. There are, I believe, six of them, so two of us would not be one too many."

"I want no help," Roland said. "This is not your quarrel." But even as he spoke he felt a frustrated fury. He was in chains, fettered by his own ignorance. He had heard of this Didier Longarm, but he did not know where to find him. Though a moment ago he had wanted to kill the Templar, he had to have help.

"Since we met at the Queen's song contest I have come to like and admire you, Sire Orlando, and we are, after all, fellow countrymen." There was both warmth and irony in Guido's brown eyes. He seemed to be hinting the opposite of what he said, that he knew Roland was not Italian, and that he did not care. "Had I thought and acted more quickly, I might have saved this young man. Let me make amends for my lapse by helping you punish the swine who castrated him."

Roland wanted, needed, the help. But Guido Bruchesi was a member of the fighting arm of the Church. How could Roland possibly trust him?

"How do you know about these highwaymen?" he asked, still paralyzed with indecision and suspicion.

"As you may know, our first mission is to keep the roads open," said Guido. "We have been intending to clean out this lot for some time. Another month and we would have gotten to them."

How can I find and kill a band of highwaymen hiding in country I do not even know? Roland asked himself. Expecting me to come after them. I have no chance at all.

"Come with me then, if you want to," he said, speaking the words with reluctance as he searched Guido's eyes. "But you take a risk, going into combat with a man whom you do not really know."

"Can you bring a longbow, or better still, two, Sire Orlando?" Guido said as if he had not heard the warning. "The bow is not considered a fit weapon for a knight, but I have learned from the Turks to respect it."

"I scorn no weapon," said Roland. He sent Lucien for the bows, as well as for his belt, longsword, and dagger.

"A leather pot of oil and some rags, as well," Guido called after the cook.

Ready to leave, Roland looked into Diane's large green eyes, now openly grief-stricken and frightened. They spoke no farewells, but a new anguish pierced his breast as he wondered what would become of Diane if he were killed tonight. Would she survive without him to protect her?

And what of Nicolette, cut off from him since the beginning of the summer, far away to the east at Chateau Gobignon? She might never know what happened to him, should he fall to the brigands, or to a treacherous sword in Guido's hands.

Except that Amalric will see to it that she finds out, if I die. To punish her.

Roland had plenty of time, too much time, to let his fears eat at him as he rode across Paris with Guido. He had taken his best war-horse, the chestnut Alezan, who covered the miles at an easy amble. His helmet and the leather flask of oil Lucien had tied to the saddle thumped monotonously as they rode along. Guido's dark brown mare was not as big or strong-looking as Alezan but kept up easily with him.

They passed through the city wall at the Louvre tower and rode along the Right Bank. In the winding streets of the city they met only an occasional patrol of sergeants of the watch, armed with halberds, who let them pass when they identified themselves as knights. Roland, full of foreboding for himself, for Perrin, for Diane, and for Nicolette, paid little attention to the landmarks of Paris as he crossed the Grand-Pont and the Ile de la Cite.

He tried to draw Guido out. "Why do you mix yourself in this quarrel? Why does a Templar write troubadour poetry and seek dangerous company in a bookseller's wineshop?"

"I may say only that my order has wider interests than most people realize, Sire Orlando."

Roland tried to fathom his meaning. Guido seemed to be saying that the Templars were not in the same camp as Amalric and his inquisitor brother. For all their power, Roland recalled - and their castles stretched from England and Spain all the way to the Orient - the order had never fought in Languedoc or persecuted the Cathars. Great barons like Amalric hated them because they recognized no boundaries and acknowledged no overlord. They claimed to serve the Pope, but in fact they seemed to do pretty much as they pleased. They might indeed have interests in common with Roland's. Which meant, perhaps, that Roland could count on Guido. Still, he doubted that he would learn much from the fair-spoken but evasive man who rode beside him.

They rode across the Petit-Pont, through the Latin Quarter, and out through the city's wall. They followed the Rue Saint-Jacques, the old Roman road that led up to Paris from the south.

Now they were coming close. They passed the abbey of Saint-Germain-in-the-Fields, and Roland stared over the moonlit expanse of hay and rye cultivated by the monks, out into the dark forest beyond. Somewhere in there they were waiting. Perhaps even now arrows were aimed at his chest.

Why did I not wear my hauberk? Why did Bruchesi not suggest it? He realized that Guido was not wearing any armor either. For such an experienced warrior, that could hardly be an oversight. He must think they'd be better off without the encumbrance, Roland decided. And, remembering what a burden his hauberk had been when he was trying to rescue Diane, he decided leaving it behind was for the best.

Guido raised his hand where the road entered the forest, and Roland reined up Alezan. They dismounted and tethered their horses. At Guido's gesture Roland untied the flask of oil and the rags. He put on his helmet and laced it under his chin. It weighed heavily on his head despite its soft leather lining.

"They think because you are a knight you will gallop straight down the road," Guido said, donning his own battle helm. "It has been my unhappy duty to fight many men like this. I am certain they will be waiting farther along to ambush you. See that hill on the horizon? That is where Didier and his men have their 'chateau.'"

Roland found himself liking Guido, his humor, his intelligence, his competence. I have let him take command of this little expedition, he thought, without even realizing I was doing it. He carries himself with authority. I only hope my feelings about him are right.

Treading softly, carrying their bows in their hands rather than on their shoulders so they would not get caught on branches, they made their way through underbrush beneath old oaks with broad trunks.

If this is a trap, this would be the place to spring it. The skin crawled on the back of Roland's neck. The air was still and oppressive, even this late at night, and sweat plastered his tunic to his body.

After what seemed an hour they were climbing the hill Guido had pointed out. Through the trees he could see that the crown of the hill was bare.

Behind him the bells of Saint-Germain chimed a silvery nocturne. Three hours after midnight. Before those monks got out of their beds to sing lauds he might be dead.

But with luck he would have gotten his hands on those dogs. As they climbed higher, still screened by the wood, Roland looked up and saw that the moon was directly overhead. At the top of the hill he could discern a cluster of stone columns, broken but still graceful, pale as the moonlight itself, rising out of a heap of tumbled stones. In ancient times, Roland knew, the Romans had built their villas here. He saw a low wooden shack huddled in the midst of the marble pillars.

"They will have left their women unguarded in that hut, and their horses tied beside it," Guido said softly. "We will attack in an unknightly fashion."

Crouching at the edge of the woods, they poured oil on the rags and bound them to the heads of their arrows. Guido struck a spark to tinder and lit a candle, which he pressed into the soft ground.

In the sudden glow, Roland saw a face in the grass. It was a fragment of a statue, the nose and smiling lips of a boy. It gave him an eerie feeling, as if they were being watched by people long dead.

From the candle they each lit an arrow. At any moment Roland expected the highwaymen to leap at them out of the trees. He nocked an arrow and took aim at the cabin, holding his breath until he let go the bowstring. He blinked, and when he looked again the ball of fire was falling upon the roof of the shack. I cannot believe my aim was that good. It has been so long since I have touched a bow. He felt a bright upsurge of glee.

Now Guido's bowstring twanged beside him, and Roland lit another. One after another the flaming missiles arched to the cabin in the ruins. It had been a dry summer, and the highwaymen's shack appeared to be built of old wood. Almost at once a flickering glow turned the marble columns orange. Women screamed and terrified horses neighed. Moments later, Roland and Guido heard men shouting and cursing and bodies crashing through the woods on the other side of the hill.

"That has flushed them out," said Guido. They crept closer to the fire, using a broken wall for cover.

In the lurid light Roland saw shadowy bodies, the women naked just as they had been roused from sleep, the men struggling with frightened horses.

"Look sharp, that knight has done this!" one of the men called.

There they were. The ones who had crippled Perrin. With only the fire and the moonlight to see by, he could not make them out clearly, but hatred welled up in his chest, burning in his throat. He wanted to charge at them with his sword.

As if he could read Roland's mind, Guido seized his arm in a restraining grip.

The black figures ran about before the blazing shack, searching for their attackers.

Roland pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. From his kneeling position behind the ruined wall he aimed at a man holding two horses. He let the arrow fly. The man fell, screaming.

Roland cursed himself for merely hitting the man's side. The freed horses galloped off into the woods. Guido's bowstring thrummed again, and the fallen man jerked violently and lay still. The remaining highwaymen quickly crouched in the shrubbery around the shack.

"Now we must go in after them," said Guido softly, and Roland was glad. He wanted to meet them, man to man.

Roland and Guido stood up. Roland slid his sword from his scabbard and heard the hiss as Guido drew his. The great weight of Roland's sword, balanced by the iron ball at the base of the hilt, felt good in his hands. He held it out before him and brandished it a little to warm up his arms and shoulders. "Now may you drink blood," he said to the sword.

"There!" one of the highwaymen called. "Two of them!" He pointed as Roland and Guido stepped out from behind the fallen stones. A woman screamed.

"Out of the way, you sluts.? another highwayman's voice growled. "Go hide in the woods." The pale, naked forms disappeared into the trees.

The highwaymen called out to each other and pointed at Roland and Guido. Despite the strength his anger had given him, Roland felt a quivering in his guts. Five against two. They could butcher us.

Roland and Guido automatically advanced in unison, Guido's sword pointing slightly to the right, Roland's a bit to the left. The point of Roland's sword drew small circles in the air as he moved forward.

The five highwaymen spread out in a line, raising their own weapons. Two had long, gleaming daggers. They stepped slowly to either side, flanking the knights. Again Roland felt naked without his hauberk. Another man came forward slowly, gripping in both hands a huge club. The moonlight glinted on the three tines of the fourth man's pitchfork, sharpened to needle points. In the center stood a highwayman taller than the rest, brandishing a woodsman's ax as big as any battle-ax Roland had ever seen.

Roland paused to size them up, and Guido stopped with him. They were big, strong-looking young men with hard, determined, confident faces.

"Brought a helper with you, did you, Messire Lute-player?" the man with the ax called. "Good. There will be two less knights in the world before dawn."

Roland did not answer, but he thought, You bastards will wish to God you had never laid a hand on Perrin before I am through with you.

He resumed his slow advance, Guido beside him. They stepped carefully. There were broken stones that could easily trip them scattered all over the grassy summit of the hill.

As Roland moved closer he saw that the tall man's cheeks were pitted with old pox scars, his cheekbones and the ridge of bone over his eyes prominent and thick. Bruchesi had described him: Didier Longarm.

The fire inside Roland flared up until his very brain seemed ablaze.

Easy! he commanded himself. I must keep my head until I have made them talk.

Purposefully, Roland advanced on Didier.

"Come on, Messire Lute-player, come on," Didier mocked him, shaking the ax. "You will lose even more than your man did."

Suddenly a man with a dagger darted at Roland from his left, thrusting to get inside his guard while his attention was on Didier.

Dodging, Roland felt the point slash through his tunic and slice along his ribs.

Roland stepped back, planted his feet, and swung the sword two-handed, putting all the weight of his body behind the forty-pound blade.

The man with the dagger tried to duck away, but Roland leaped forward as he swung; and the edge of the sword caught the man at the joining of neck and shoulder, slicing away his head, shoulder, and arm. So sharp and heavy was the longsword that Roland barely felt resistance as it cut through flesh and bone.

He heard a distant wail of anguish from the women peering from the trees.

Then he took a stunning blow high on his back, near his right shoulder. The pain was so great he cried out and nearly dropped his sword.

"Good hit, Jean!" Didier called. "Now finish him. Smash his head!"

Roland's right arm went numb. He thought his shoulder must be broken. But he was still filled more with fury than with despair.

Staggering, holding his sword in his left hand, he turned to face his attacker, struggling to raise the sword with one hand in time to parry a second blow of the man's club. He could hear the clatter of Guido dueling with the pitchfork-wielding man.

The club knocked his blade downward. The steel's ring was like a cry of anguish, and he thought for a moment the blade might be broken. The sword's point struck the ground, burying itself in the tall grass.

Pain shot like lightning up Roland's left arm. But he still managed to keep a weak grip on the hilt.

The highwayman rushed forward, swinging his club up with both hands. Roland knew no helmet would protect his skull against the blow. His head would be crushed like an eggshell.

He tried desperately to lift his sword to protect himself.

Just then the highwayman uttered a sick, squealing noise and dropped the club.

A gleaming steel point protruded from the man's belly. The highwayman moaned again, pitched forward, and fell at Roland's feet as Guido jerked his sword out of the man's back.

Roland's pulses pounded in his temples.

He had just time to smile his gratitude at Guido when he saw Didier charging him, whirling his ax over his head. Roland gripped the sword hilt with both hands and found, thank Saint Michel, that there was still some strength in his arm. His back hurt abominably, but he made himself ignore it and lifted the sword, slowly retreating from Didier.

With a wordless roar, Didier sprang at him and swung the ax at Roland's head.

Roland raised his sword back over his shoulder and then with all his force brought the edge of the blade hard against the ax handle. There was a loud crack.

The head of the ax flew through the air. Roland heard it crash through bushes and thump somewhere in the darkness.

Didier, disarmed, backed away, flanked by his two remaining henchmen, all breathing like spent horses.

Roland and Guido were panting heavily, too, but Roland was determined to fight on.

The highwaymen's eyes were wide with terror.

"Now you know what it is to come up against knights," Roland taunted them.

Didier let the broken ax handle fall to the grass. "I cry you mercy, Messires," he said sullenly.

At his action, the other two brigands dropped their dagger and pitchfork.

Roland peered into the blackness of the forest below the summit of the hill. There was no longer any sign of the women who had fled.

He turned his eyes again to the empty-handed men.

"That is better," he said, forcing himself to smile though hatred for these filthy creatures still smoldered within him. "It is not you lads I am after. Just tell me who paid you to cut off my jongleur's stones."

"I have sworn not to tell," Didier answered defiantly.

"Of course you have, and you are a man of your word, are you not?" said Roland, keeping to the friendly tone. He moved closer to Didier till he could smell the rank sweat of the man's fear.

"They call you Longarm, do they not? Didier Longarm. Let us see if they speak true. Hold your right arm out here, and let me see how long it is."

Didier hesitated, and Roland, still smiling, prodded him in the ribs with his sword.

Slowly Didier raised his arm, watching Roland fearfully.

"By Saint Michel!" Roland exclaimed in mock wonderment. "It is long."

In no more than the space between two heartbeats, Roland brought up his sword, two-handed, and sliced down on Didier's wrist.

The great force of the blow sent the severed hand to the ground with a thud, and Didier fell to his knees, screaming.

Roland stood over him, the sword pointed at his chest.

"Now you will tell me what I want to know, or I will shorten the other arm. Then your legs."

"I will tell you, Messire," Didier sobbed. "It was the chief steward of the Count de Gobignon's house in Paris. Oh, please, Messire, have pity. Do not let me bleed to death. I will give you all the silver he paid us."

Amalric. Roland could see the pale, arrogant face of the Count de Gobignon. Him. But why this way? He is no coward, to strike through hired ruffians. And why these poor, stupid brutes? God knows there are more accomplished killers in the kingdom of France.

"Why did the Count hire you to cripple my jongleur?"

But Didier was writhing on the ground, moaning.

One of the other men said hesitantly, "The steward said we were to lie in wait for you. That you would come after us to avenge your jongleur. He said you plan to challenge the Count at the King's tournament next month. The Count thinks you are too lowly for him to fight, so he wanted to get rid of you beforehand."

But I hadn't even decided to enter the tournament, Roland thought. His heart felt like a burning brand, and the blood around it boiled. I see. He must have planned that either I would die ignominiously here in the forest, or, if I were able to overcome these creatures, I would be goaded into challenging him. Either way he expected to trap me, and these men are but his pawns.

But these pawns also took away Perrin's manhood forever.

"You will not bleed to death," he said to Didier Longarm.

There was a brief flicker of hope in Didier's pain-twisted face just before Roland plunged the sword into his chest.

The man who had told Roland about Amalric's plan screamed in terror.

Roland shouted, "Did you think I would let any of you live, after what you did to Perrin?" He brought the blade down on the screaming man's head, splitting it in two.

The last of the highwaymen started to run down the hillside into the woods.

Roland sheathed his sword and drew his dagger.

In the bright moonlight, the man was a clear target. Roland took careful aim at the center of the fleeing man's back and cast the dagger just as the highwayman was reaching the big trees.

The man went down with a despairing shriek. He lay groaning as Roland came up to him. Roland stooped and pulled the dagger out of his back. He rolled the body over with his foot. In the dying man's eyes he saw the moon reflected, and the same anguish he had seen earlier that evening in Perrin's eyes.

"Please -" the highwayman choked, gagging on his blood.

"Ask God to forgive you when you see Him," said Roland. "I cannot."

He knelt and dragged the sharp edge of his dagger across the man's throat, wishing the veins he was severing were Amalric's.

He plunged the dagger into the earth five times to clean it, then sheathed it. He walked away quickly, not wanting to see the highwayman's death struggle.

Guido was waiting for him by the red coals of the shack. The odor of smoldering wood was heavy in the air.

"May Jesus Christ receive them mercifully," Guido said. "They were fools who knew no better. We can leave it to their women to bury them, I suppose. You are crueler than I thought you to be, Sire Orlando."

"No," said Roland, feeling his stomach turn over as he thought: I have just killed four men. And tortured one of them first. "If I were really cruel, I would have done to them what they did to my Perrin."

He turned away from Guido, no longer feeling comfortable facing him, and led the way into the woods on the side of the hill that sloped down toward the road.

"Do you really think that to be castrated is worse than death?" Guido asked. "I have vowed myself to celibacy for Jesus' sake, and my life is a merry one. Most of the time."

"You chose celibacy," Roland said angrily. "You still have your manhood. You could break your vow any time you wish. As most of the clergy do. So do not preach at me."

But he was beginning to loathe himself for what he had just done.

"Do you think Perrin was right to want to die, then?" Guido persisted.

The back of Roland's neck went cold. Guido was probing again. He remembered what Perrin had said, the words that damned Diane as a heretic. True, Guido had just fought beside him - saved his life - but he was still a Catholic monk, and Roland still could not be sure of him. Would it not be better to settle this now, while they were armed and there were no witnesses?

He stopped suddenly and turned to Guido, hand on his sword hilt. "Look here. Are you trying to find out whether I am a heretic?"

Guido stopped and faced Roland, but his hands stayed motionless at his sides. "I know exactly what you are, Orlando," he said calmly. "Your true religion is l'amour courtois. You are nominally a Catholic, but you doubt a good deal more than you believe. I do not care about any of that. It matters to me that you are a good man and you are loyal to those you love. I have tried to be your friend tonight. I shall continue to be your friend if you will trust me."

Roland took his hand from his sword. He could see Guido's eyes in the moonlight. There were mysterious depths in them, but there was honesty as well. He felt a powerful warmth drawing him to the Templar. What they had been through tonight had made them blood brothers.

Still, there were so many questions. Questions he knew the Templar would not answer.

He shrugged helplessly. "I want to trust you, Guido. But it is hard."

"I know." Guido nodded. "We Templars have our secrets, and that makes everyone suspicious of us. All I can ask is judge me by what I do, not by what you suspect. By our fruits ye shall know us. And I swear to you, on my oath as a brother in the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, that I will never betray you and will be loyal to you unto death."

He held out his right hand, and Roland took it in his own and gripped it strongly. Roland felt so powerful a wave of affection for the man that he turned away, embarrassed.

"Let us speak of your future," Guido said as they continued down the hill. "Do you realize that these highwaymen were only the first in a series of deathtraps your enemy has set for you? Now he expects you to challenge him."

"Count Amalric has made a mistake," Roland said. "I fought him and spared his life once before. This time I will not."

"He wants you to enter the tournament and try to kill him. He wants to kill you publicly, in front of the Countess. Do you realize that?"

"Yes, I am certain of it."

"Have you done much jousting?" Guido asked.

"A little."

"A little," Guido said ironically.

"I suppose I have done less of it than most knights. To be honest, it seems a foolish sport to me. I have been fighting for my life ever since I was a boy. I see no need to make a game of combat."

"You do well enough in real combat," said Guido. "But the tournament requires special skills, and de Gobignon is acknowledged throughout Christendom as one of the great tourneyers of the age. In tournaments all over Europe he has bested hundreds of knights. Many times he has killed men. Of course it is against the rules. But he is a master at making it look like an accident. And you expect to go up against him with your little experience? That is exactly what he wants. He has made you mad with hatred for him."

"Yes, he has forced me to fight him." The yearning to strike Amalric down was so painfully strong! "I think I must hate him more than he hates me."

Guido grunted. "How do you spend your days, Sire Orlando?"

"I compose songs. I sing on invitation at the homes of great barons and men of wealth. I am pursuing studies in natural philosophy with the help of several masters living in Paris. And, of course, I am keeping up my practice in arms." The account of his days rang hollow in his ears. He did so little that sounded important. He felt sure this formidable man would despise him.

"If you plan to live, Sire Orlando, you had better give up everything else and train day and night. The King's tournament is on the twenty-ninth of September, little more than a month from now. If you like, I will spend some time with you and give you some pointers from the Templars' book of experience. I might even be able to arrange for you to use our practice yard." There was almost a fatherly kindness in Guido's voice.

Roland stared at his new friend, a man he now felt he could count on in the darkest of hours.

"I would be very grateful," said Roland.

"Forget about killing him. Consider it a victory if you merely come out of it alive. Indeed, Messire, the best advice I could give you would be not to enter the tournament at all."

Roland laughed. "Such cautious advice from a Templar? I thought the Templars never retreat."

"We fight for God, Messire. Have you as great a motive?"

"Yes, I do," said Roland, seeing Nicolette's eyes shining in the darkness before him. "I fight for Love."

X

LANCE POINTED SKYWARD, ROLAND APPROACHED THE ARENA, RIDING ALEZAN through the many-colored pavilions that had sprung up like flowers bordering the broad field northwest of Paris. Perrin walked beside him, leading the war-horse by the reins. Through the two oblong eye slits in his tilting helmet Roland saw the lists, rough-hewn log fencing about chest-high. The lists surrounded a dusty arena two hundred yards long and fifty wide.

The big cylindrical helmet turned awkwardly with his head, and he saw thousands of Parisians gathered on the grassy hills around the lists. Even the trees were festooned with spectators. A wooden gallery painted green and red overlooked the center of the field. He peered through his helmet at the hundreds of nobles and wealthy burghers in the tiers of seats, their brightly colored finery sparkling with gold and gems.

Roland breathed in deeply, smelling the cold, clean fall air mixed with the odors of oiled steel, horseflesh, and trampled grass. Saint Michel, he thought, today is your feast day. Help me to kill Amalric de Gobignon and I shall write a song in your honor.

He felt strength surging through his arms and legs. The cuts and bruises the highwaymen had dealt him over a month ago were now quite healed.

"Strike a blow for me, master," Perrin called up to him.

He is still in pain, Roland thought, and his wound will never heal, but already he manages to seem more his old cheerful self. God bless him.

Today is your day, my poor Perrin. I will strike de Gobignon dead for you. Even as that promise went through his mind, though, he felt a chill in his spine. He could be sure of nothing. Including that he would come out of this alive.

Equerries pulled back the gate on the west side of the lists for him. Alezan's hoofs thudded on turf beaten to dust by the dozens of chargers that had galloped over it in the day's earlier encounters. As custom prescribed, Roland cantered a hundred yards to the middle of the field, faced the nobles' gallery, and saluted the King.

Louis, seated on a high-backed chair beside Queen Marguerite, smiled and waved. The warmth Roland felt at the sight of Louis's long, pale face nettled him. A faidit of Languedoc, he thought, should not feel affection for the French King. But he could not forget Louis's kindness at the song contest.

Nicolette was sitting with a group of court ladies above and behind Marguerite. The sight of her made him feel as unsteady as a boat in a stormy sea. She smiled brightly at him. What courage she shows, he thought. She knows that this day she must lose either him or me, and yet she can smile.

He heard people asking one another about him. Who was this knight in the maroon surcoat, and what family's device was a silver griffin on a black shield?

Then he caught a new note of surprise in the murmur from the gallery. Ah, now they see the scarf. Doubtless many of them know its story.

Tenderly he touched the blue scarf with gold crescents tied around his right arm, over his sleeve of mail. Strength seemed to flow from the fragile silk through his fingertips, filling his whole body.

It was just a week ago that she had given him back the scarf to wear. He had held her in his arms at dusk in a cemetery north of the city. It had been their first reunion after her summer at Chateau Gobignon. But the joys of their embraces had ended when he told her what had happened to Perrin and of the vengeance he and Sire Guido had taken.

She did not speak. She stood, staring into the distance, her brown eyes burning with anger. Then she reached into the bosom of her gown and drew out the scarf.

"He ordered me to return this to you. Now I want you to wear it - to flaunt it - in the tournament."

Her words thrilled him. He would be fighting for her, as well as for Perrin. But the risk to her was too great.

"You know better than anyone what sort of man Amalric is. If I wear this, what will he do to you?"

"If he so much as threatens me, I shall tell the world how his jealousy drove him to mutilate an innocent man. Let him see then if the King will have him as Constable of France."

He forgot his fear for her in surprise at her last words.

"Constable of France? Is that what Amalric wants?"

"He would be King if he could," she said, shaking her head sadly. "Constable is as close as he can come. He is very close to that. Eudes d'Arcis is too old to continue as Constable. Amalric has told me that his name heads the King's list."

A black fire raged through Roland. Amalric, commander of all the armies of France? It must not be.

Now, as he sat on his horse alone in the center of the field, he felt a hollow in his stomach and he wondered at his rashness. Had he not stood just outside the lists this morning and watched Amalric conquer ten knights in a row? Three of them had been carried off the field unconscious. And later he heard that one of Amalric's victims had needed an armorer to cut him out of his crushed helmet. That is the man I expect not only to fight, but to kill?

Well, first I must earn the right to challenge him.

Roland bowed again to the King, who still wore the blue surcoat and mail he had worn this morning when he had ridden a careful passage at arms with the aging Constable, Eudes d'Arcis.

From the group of officials and musicians gathered below the gallery, a herald in a yellow and blue tabard stepped forth and asked Roland's name.

A moment later three trumpeters blew a long blast and the herald bawled, "Sire Orlando of Perugia challenges the Sire Enguerrand de Coucy."

Roland turned to look at the man he had challenged. The Sire de Coucy, who had just defeated his last opponent, sat his horse awaiting challengers at the eastern end of the tilting barrier, a low wooden wall that ran lengthwise down the center of the field. He was a broad, powerfully built man. His tilting helm sported huge bronze elk antlers.

Roland anxiously awaited de Coucy's response to the challenge. What if he refuses to fight me? The de Coucys are one of the great families of the realm, after all, and I am just a landless knight. But he cannot refuse. He is only a younger son of the house, and he has neither land nor title.

Before de Coucy, all the knights who had taken the field had been landed barons, bearers of old and famous titles. Tournament custom would have permitted them to reject a challenge from an unknown. Enguerrand de Coucy was the first likely opponent to appear for Roland.

Roland remembered Enguerrand's older brother, Raoul de Coucy, the head of the house, who had been so pleasant to him at the Queen's singing contest. All Roland knew about Enguerrand was that he had a reputation as a savage fighter and had many tournament victories to his credit. Today Roland had seen him drive two knights off the field.

Slowly, de Coucy lowered his lance, pointing it at Roland. He had accepted the challenge.

With a last look at Nicolette, Roland turned and rode into position at the opposite end of the tilting barrier from de Coucy. Alezan, impatient, stamped his hooves and blew out his breath noisily.

"Easy, my big fellow," Roland said softly.

He raised the thirty-pound shield on his left arm till it covered his body from his chin to his knees. He shook his head to settle the tilting helm more comfortably.

The nobles' gallery was quiet. Hundreds of common people pressed against the fencing. Roland stared down the field to the opposite end and saw the narrow platform on four wooden legs where knights who broke the tournament rules would be made to stand, stripped of their armor, their shields turned upside down, to endure public scorn. For now the platform of shame was empty. Saint Michel, do not let me make some blunder and end up there, he prayed.

"Cut the cords! Cry battle!" shouted the chief of the heralds from the center of the field. He turned and walked back to his place in front of the gallery. Six musicians in blue and gold royal livery stepped out and raised pennon-hung trumpets and clarions to their lips.

Roland lowered his lance and pointed it across the barrier, sighting along it at the figure of de Coucy, two hundred yards away.

At the trumpets' blast Roland settled himself deeper into his saddle and spurred Alezan to a gallop down the length of the barrier. Peering through the slits in his tilting helm, he kept his eyes fixed on the red and white bands painted across Enguerrand's shield.

He leaned forward in the saddle as Alezan picked up speed. The center of the field seemed to rush at him. He felt himself hurtling forward, his heart beating faster than the drumming of Alezan's hoofs. The wind whistled through the eye slits in his helm.

As de Coucy's red-banded shield grew in his sight, Roland remembered Guido's instructions and turned his shield to meet de Coucy's lance point at an angle. But he fixed his eyes and his own lance point on the exact center of de Coucy's shield. He tensed the muscles of his chest, shoulder, and arm till they felt like a solid piece of iron.

Enguerrand's blunt lance point struck Roland's shield off center and slid harmlessly by, but Roland's lance hit solidly. The shock of the impact would have knocked Roland out of his saddle were it not for the high back that held him in place, and he threw all his weight forward to keep his seat. His horse gave an angry whinny.

What happened? Roland asked himself frantically as momentum carried him and Alezan farther down the length of the field. The big headpiece prevented him from looking over his shoulder.

Roland heard a metallic crash behind him. He pulled Alezan up short and turned his head toward the center of the field. He saw Enguerrand on his back in the dust as his gray charger dragged him by a foot caught in one stirrup.

My God, I did it! Roland thought triumphantly. He whooped aloud, his voice booming within the helmet. I knocked him off his horse.

De Coucy's runaway horse broke through the lists, sending men and women flying in all directions. A dozen equerries swarmed to stop the big animal and free de Coucy. The gray reared up, and two young men were sent flying by the steel-shod hooves.

This combat is over for certain, thought Roland. He not only touched the lists, he went right through them. Inside his tilting helm and his hauberk, the seventy-pound shirt of mail that hung down to his knees, he went momentarily limp with relief. He unlaced the front of the tilting helm and pushed it back from his head to get some air.

That horse was badly trained, he thought. A good tournament horse would have stopped running the instant its rider fell.

"You would have known what to do," Roland said to Alezan.

He walked Alezan to the center of the lists and waited while the crowd roared its approval.

He looked up at the gallery. His eyes met Nicolette's.

He glanced over through the gap in the palisade and saw beyond it that de Coucy was on his feet now. While equerries held his horse he was beating its back with the flat of his sword. He is more of an animal than the horse, Roland thought disgustedly.

After a time the heralds declared Roland the winner, but decreed that since an accident had ended the fight they would not make the customary award of the loser's horse and armor to the winner.

Any other day I would have been disappointed, Roland thought, slender of purse as I am. But today the only reward I want is Amalric.

At a herald's gesture he rode to the end of the tilting barrier. As he sat there on Alezan, de Coucy came walking up to him. Now that Enguerrand had his helmet off, Roland could see his face, broad and swarthy, his chin covered with black stubble. He bore no resemblance to his brother Raoul.

"I am not finished with you, fellow. Italian knights are not worth a Frenchman's spit."

"I shall meet you again with pleasure," Roland responded. "As I see it, you still owe me a destrier and a shirt of mail."

Now it was Roland's turn to meet challengers. He watched a knight with a red and blue shield ride into the lists and listened to the name announced by the heralds. From Salisbury? An English knight? Then Roland saw the red cross on the challenger's surcoat. He must be one of that English troop pledged to join Louis's crusade.

Roland had never fought an Englishman. He had heard they were doughty men and hard to beat. A fear of the unfamiliar quickened his heartbeat.

In their first clash they both splintered their lances on each other's shields. Roland studied the jagged stump of his lance and hefted it thoughtfully.

When he rode back to his end of the barrier, Perrin was ready with another blunt-ended lance.

"God's bones, master, you are magnificent!"

"Be silent," said Roland with a laugh, taking the new lance. "Do you not know it is bad luck to talk so to a tourneyer?" But he wasn't as amused as he sounded. He knew any little error could send him crashing to defeat. Saint Michel, he prayed again, do not let me fail.

The second time Roland rode at the Englishman, he feinted with his lance point at the man's head. When his opponent lifted his lance to parry the threat, Roland spurred Alezan hard, lowered his lance, and hit the red and blue shield near the bottom. Dropping his lance, the English knight toppled out of his saddle.

Roland dismounted and dashed through a wicket in the tilting barrier to attack his opponent on foot. They went at each other with blunted one-handed swords. Blade clanged against blade, against helmet, against shield.

The Englishman was a dogged battler. I will never beat him, Roland thought, almost despairing. His right arm ached with fatigue. His arms and shoulders throbbed from the bruising blows of the Englishman's sword.

Desperate to end it, Roland suddenly smashed his shield into the front of his opponent's helmet. The foreign knight staggered backward, dropped to his knees, fell forward with a clatter, and lay still.

Roland stood panting with relief as two equerries rushed to help the fallen knight.

As he watched the Englishman tottering off the field, leaning on the equerries, Roland felt a surge of sympathy for him. Having traveled from England to France to join the crusade, he probably could ill afford to lose expensive equipment.

Roland turned to face the King, pushed back his tilting helmet so he could be heard, and addressed Louis in a voice that stilled the crowd. "Sire, I would restore to the English gentleman his forfeited arms and horse, that he may use them when he accompanies you on crusade."

The audience shouted in praise of Roland's gesture, and Louis lifted both hands in a gesture of blessing.

Again Roland felt a warm glow in his chest as he bowed to the King. Absurd that I should be happy because this King, who reigns over the destroyers of Languedoc, approves of me! Or that I should be assisting crusaders.

At that very moment he saw Amalric, leaning against the lists, staring at him. Amalric's look was empty of recognition. As if I were already a corpse, thought Roland.

An hour later, the crowd was cheering wildly for the unknown Italian knight. Close to exhaustion but dizzy with excitement, Roland could hardly believe what he had accomplished. Nine more knights after the Englishman. Now, as he waited at the end of the tilting barrier for Perrin to water and wipe down the sweating Alezan, he could not remember how he had overcome them all. Two - or was it three? - had been knocked unconscious when he unhorsed them. Some he had attacked furiously on foot, driving them up against the lists and so automatically defeating them. Others he had battered into submission with his sword.

Nine war-horses, each worth a fortune, he thought. Nine helmets, nine shields, nine swords, nine hauberks. I shall keep the best two of each and sell the rest, and I shall be able to support my household for a year without help from Father. If I live.

He saw Guido, with the Templar's eight-pointed cross on the chest of his white surcoat, standing in the western gateway. Guido waved, and Roland waved happily back. By God, without that month of training with the Templars, I could never have done this. They are a wealthy enough order, but I shall give them a handsome gift.

I have surpassed Amalric, Roland thought. Now, before I am completely exhausted, it is time to call him out. His body tingled expectantly.

He remounted Alezan and leaned over to speak to Perrin. Moments later the chief herald cried, "Sire Orlando of Perugia challenges His Grace, Count Amalric, Seigneur of Gobignon, to try conclusions with him on this honorable field."

The crowd shouted eagerly. They would like nothing better, Roland thought, than to see a passage at arms between the two knights who had fought best so far this day.

But when Roland looked up at Nicolette in the gallery, she half rose from her seat, pale and frightened.

Do not be afraid, my love. In a few moments I may set you free. Gingerly, he touched the blue and gold scarf with his mailed hand, wishing he were stroking Nicolette's cheek.

Peering down the length of the field, he saw a dun-colored percheron draped in purple and gold being led to a violet and yellow tent. He saw the flaps of the tent swept apart and a tall figure with long blond hair emerge.

Having rested from his combats of this morning, Amalric would be fresh, while Roland's every muscle ached with fatigue. Amalric's hauberk gleamed as if he had never been in battle that day, and Amalric vaulted into the saddle as if he were not wearing a coat of mail. Every move Amalric made seemed to Roland full of a terrible calm strength - the way he donned the tilting helmet with its silver wolf's head, the way he took a lance from an equerry and lifted it high, the way he spurred his charger to a trot as the gateway to the lists swung open before him.

Can I really do it? Roland wondered, full of doubt as the glittering enemy rode into position at the far end of the tilting barrier.

In the silence that fell over the crowd Roland could hear a ringing in his ears from the blows he had taken on his tilting helm.

He felt a painful emptiness in his stomach as he thought over his plan. When they clashed, he would break his lance on Amalric's shield. Then, instantly, he would lift the broken end of the lance and smash it, with his and Alezan's full weight behind it, into the front of Amalric's helm. More than one knight had died that way, his face caved in.

But his hands were cold and damp under the mail gauntlets. There is no way I can be certain this will work. What if my lance does not break properly? What if Amalric holds his shield high to protect his face? He forced himself to stop thinking about what could go wrong.

The trumpet blared. "Do not fail me, Alezan," Roland whispered to the chestnut war-horse, and he spurred him to gallop.

The figure of Amalric, small in the distance, suddenly loomed huge before him. Roland thought of Perrin and Nicolette. He forgot everything else. His eyes and his arms must carry out his plan.

He flung his shield wide when Amalric's lance struck, driving the point off to one side. His own lance hit the purple shield square in the middle. Roland's lance shrieked and splintered. Yard-long slivers of wood flew past Roland's head. So hard was the blow, Roland was amazed to see Amalric still in the saddle - amazed but pleased, because he wanted him there.

He was holding a seemingly useless stump the length of a two-handed sword. Spurring Alezan again, he gave him the bridle. He aimed the broken end of the lance directly at Amalric's face.

A red-brown wall of horseflesh rose up before Roland, and the splintered lance thudded into it. A hoof as hard and heavy as a mace crashed against Roland's helm. He heard a horrible scream of agony from the rearing horse before him.

He felt himself falling from the saddle and, as the Templars had trained him, pulled himself into a ball. He landed on his left side, the breath knocked out of him. He hit the ground with the impact of a rock from a stone-caster. He saw glittering lights inside his tilting helm and felt a shocking pain in his arms and ribs. Terror seized him. A blow might strike from anywhere.

Driven by desperation, he shoved himself to his feet and saw at once what had happened. Instead of using his shield, Amalric had saved himself by jerking back on the rein of his horse. The horse had reared up and caught the full force of Roland's broken lance in its throat. One of the flailing hooves had hit Roland's head. Amalric's charger lay dying, its side heaving, blood spurting from its mouth.

The spectators murmured in pity.

I failed, Roland thought. I did not kill him. And now he is going to kill me.

Amalric, on foot, had his sword out and was coming through the wicket for Roland. Roland drew his own sword and stooped to pick up his shield.

Amalric's blade struck him across the back, and a searing pain shot through his body. He heard cries of protest from the gallery. But he knew that did not matter. Unfair the blow might be, but it was legal.

He brought his shield up with all his strength, smashing it into Amalric's chest, throwing him backward. He could feel blood soaking the quilted linen jacket under his chain mail hauberk.

His heart froze. Instead of the edgeless sword prescribed by tournament rules, Amalric was using a deadly sharp blade.

It was an old tournament trick, even more common than trying to kill your opponent with a broken lance. Afterward, when Roland was dead, Amalric could always claim he had taken up the wrong sword by mistake.

Pain spread like a fire over his back. Saint Michel, that sword must be sharp and heavy, to cut through chain mail like that!

Amalric kept circling to Roland's right.

He was so close, Roland could see the blue eyes flashing through the slits in Amalric's helm. He stepped backward, parrying the blows of Amalric's sword.

Should I try to stop the fight? he asked himself. The heralds would declare him the winner if they saw Amalric's illegal sword.

Hatred stiffened his resolve. No! I do not want to end it that way.

But can I fight with this much pain?

Gradually Roland realized that Amalric's strokes were all aimed at his right arm. He was trying to slash away the scarf.

Jealousy has maddened him, Roland thought. He should be trying his best to kill me, and he is wasting his efforts on a love token. If his mind is not clear, I have a chance. He tried to stop thinking about the throbbing wound, the blood running down his back, but the pain was spreading through his body, and he was feeling weaker.

Amalric swung again at Roland's arm. Roland lifted his shield high, pivoted on the balls of his feet, and, with all his strength, brought the pointed bottom of the shield down on Amalric's wrist. The blow knocked the sword out of Amalric's hand, and it flew through the air.

Roland whirled and ran in the direction of the sword's flight. When the weapon hit the dusty ground, he let go of his own sword and scrambled for Amalric's. Amalric's weight crashed into him, and the broad back was in front of him. Roland sidestepped and threw himself earthward. Exultation gave him new strength as his mailed fingers closed around the haft of the deadly sword. As quickly as he could, he straightened and whirled to face Amalric. Amalric swooped down on Roland's discarded sword and leaped back, lifting the blunted sword high. Roland rushed at him.

Now I have the sword that can kill.

Roland struck with all his power at Amalric's head, neck, and chest. Amalric fought back ferociously, his counterblows driving Roland backward.

The blood thundering in Roland's ears almost drowned out the shouts of the crowd.

Amalric could save himself, Roland knew, by calling a halt to the fight, but that would mean admitting that he had knowingly used a forbidden weapon. Instead, he kept up his attack on Roland. Blow after furious blow rang on Roland's shield, on his helmet, on his shoulders and arms. Even though it was against the rules, Amalric stabbed with the point of the blunted sword at the eye slits in Roland's tilting helm. Roland was forced to cover his face with his shield and could not see to strike back at Amalric.

Roland used his shield to throw Amalric back. He stepped away to gather his strength, and over the top of the shield he saw glistening red streams on Amalric's mailed arms and red stains on the purple surcoat's shoulders. I have hurt him. I have given him more wounds than he has given me.

He swung the sharpened sword at Amalric's head, but it clanged harmlessly on his shield.

If he lets his guard down just once, I shall have him.

A high, shrill series of trumpet blasts cut into his consciousness. The call to stop fighting.

"No!" Roland roared. His fury burned white-hot.

He struck one last, unlawful blow at Amalric's neck.

Amalric's sword stopped his blade with a clang that rang like a church bell.

"Messires!" a voice called.

Roland and Amalric looked toward the gallery. King Louis was standing before his chair of state.

"Each of you has won high honor this day. Do not, I beg you, tarnish the pleasure we feel in your strength and skill by giving each other grievous wounds. Desist, Messires, your King commands you."

There was an angry muttering throughout the arena. The crowd wanted more fighting and more blood.

Roland's back felt as if it had been laid open by a whip. A reminder of his failure, it enraged him all the more.

"Let all gallant knights now arm themselves and enter the lists," Louis said, as if to placate the spectators. "We call for a grand melee. "

From all parts of the field Roland heard cries of approval. Roland thrust the point of Amalric's sharpened sword into the trampled dirt. Amalric threw Roland's sword to the ground, seized his own, and strode away without taking off the helmet that hid his face.

Roland stared after him, longing to run at him and strike him down.

A team of oxen dragged away the carcass of Amalric's horse. A dozen poor families in Paris selected by the King would have meat on the table for days to come.

Perrin came into the lists, picked up Roland's sword, and handed it to him. Together they led Alezan from the field. The chestnut destrier rolled his eyes and snorted, frightened by the death of the other horse.

They walked past the tents of the contestants, clustered at the end of the lists. All around them rose the shouts of excited men and the jangle of arms as the hundred-odd knights entered in the tournament readied themselves for the melee.

"Nine chargers!" Perrin exclaimed. "You could trade that many chargers for a castle. Where are you going to keep nine big horses, master?"

"Do not collect them now, Perrin," said Roland. "Let their owners have the feeding and care of them till I am ready to dispose of them."

"Can we stop now, master? Take our winnings and go? You have earned honor enough today."

Roland stopped dead and stared at Perrin. "What the Devil do you mean? Did you not hear the King call for a melee?"

"Yes, but I think you should stay out of it, master," said Perrin. "God's bones, the Count de Gobignon is trying to kill you. You have nothing to gain by giving him another chance."

"Nothing to gain!" Roland shouted, still furious. "Can I not try to kill him?"

"Kill him? What for?" said Perrin angrily. "He is the injured party. It is his wife you have paid court to. This dueling is foolishness, master. "

Ah, Perrin, Roland thought, you know it not, but thanks to Amalric it is you who are the injured party, and it is to avenge you, most of all, that I want to kill him.

But how good to see Perrin's eyes bright and his cheeks flushed with the excitement of the tournament. If he knew of Amalric's role in his castration, he would be eaten up with the need for revenge right now. His spirit would not have healed as it did. Let him go on thinking the highwaymen did the thing out of their own brute, spiteful impulse. Now they are dead. He can forget revenge.

But I cannot.

"I have good reason for wanting to kill him," Roland said, squeezing Perrin's arm. "Trust me, and when I can, I shall tell you why."

Roland searched out his black and white striped tent. Telling Perrin to give Alezan a good rubdown, Roland went into the tent.

To his surprise, a pair of large green eyes met his in the cool shadow of the pavilion.

"Diane! What are you doing here?" He feared for her safety whenever she was outside the walls of his house.

"Did you think I could stay away, knowing that I might never see you alive again? You are wounded, are you not? Take off your hauberk and let me help you."

Roland carefully untied the scarf. He held it lovingly in his hands, then folded it and laid it on the lid of his arms chest.

Diane helped him roll up the chain mail shirt and lift it over his head. When he raised his arms the wound felt as if it were tearing open again. Stripping off his quilted undercoat to bare his back, he sat on the floor of the tent.

"It is just a bad cut," he said. "It did not go deep. The dog was using a sharpened sword."

"He might have killed you," she said, a tremor in her voice. "If he had, what good would that have done Perrin? Or the countess?" She rested her cool palm on his back.

He did not answer, just luxuriated in the relief from pain as she wound the bandage tightly around his chest and back.

The flaps of his tent parted, letting in bright light that momentarily blinded him. Squinting, Roland saw in the opening a broad-shouldered figure in a long white surcoat.

"Ah, a tender moment between brother and sister. Forgive my intrusion."

Roland heard the mockery in Guido Bruchesi's voice, but it was a kindly mockery, as if Guido knew their secret but would keep it safe. Guido had done everything he could for Roland in the weeks leading up to the tournament, working with him daily in the Templars' practice yard. The Templar could do nothing more now, but the sight of him cheered Roland. Even the eight-pointed blood-red cross on the chest of his surcoat no longer seemed threatening.

But Diane shivered slightly and lowered her eyes. A deep scarlet flush appeared on her cheeks. Quickly she finished tying the bandage.

Roland stood up and moved away from her.

"Have you not had enough, Orlando?" Guido asked. "I admit you are much better at jousting than I expected you to be. But in the lists Amalric is still your master. You did your best to kill him, and it was not enough."

Roland felt himself growing angry all over again, and his slashed back stung.

"No, I have not done my best. Not yet."

Guido grunted skeptically. "I have just taken a stroll past the Count's pavilion. He has a dozen knights gathered around him. They are professional tourneyers, the sort who go from tournament to tournament all over Christendom and live on their winnings. They know a good many more foul tricks than you do, my friend. And Amalric was talking with Enguerrand de Coucy, who bears you a grudge. We Templars hold it honorable to retreat when the odds are more than three to one."

All true, Roland thought, but there was something Guido had not taken into account. He picked up the blue and gold scarf, where it lay on the dark brown oak lid of the chest, and pressed it against his heart. A man fighting for himself can be beaten. A man fighting for Love is invincible.

"You are a monk," he said to Guido. "You know very little about Love. You do not know how powerful it makes me feel."

"It is you who know less than you think," said Guido. "I will help you all I can, Orlando, but before this day is out you may need my prayers more than my sword."

Immediately after Guido left, Perrin came in holding a folded paper. "A lady named Agnes gave me this for you, Messire." It was unsigned, but Roland recognized Nicolette's cursive script:

?As you have called me mi dons, I charge you that you make no further attempt on the life of him who has injured you. If you succeed, my children lose their father, and the vengeance of his family will not let you live long. If you fail, I lose you, the one most precious to me in all the world. Either way, you condemn me to a lifetime of anguish. Therefore, I command you, hold your hand. In the name of Love.?

As the meaning of the note sank in, all the strength and confidence Roland had felt only a moment ago drained out of him. Groping for support, he sat down on his arms chest, holding the paper so loosely it slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the carpeted floor of the tent.

He felt as if iron hobble-gyves had fastened themselves to his ankles. A moment ago he was going to win. And now?

I must obey, he thought. I have sworn by Love to serve her in all things, and if I disobey her now my life is a lie.

Still, she did not forbid me to fight in the melee.

Maybe I shall see a way to obey her command and yet take some revenge on Amalric.

But what way?

"What is it, Roland?" Diane asked him anxiously.

"Nothing. Nothing." He picked up the paper and tore it into tiny fragments.

"Perrin, help me to arm myself. "

Roland felt a chill around his heart. Perhaps he should simply ride away from this field. To risk his life in this melee was foolhardy.

But if he left, he would appear a coward. There would be no vengeance for Perrin. And Amalric still would pursue him.

He held out his right arm so that Perrin could once again tie the scarf around it. When it was in place he lifted his arm and pressed his lips to the smooth silk.

His mind empty of any plan, his hands tied by a torn letter, Roland joined the knights gathering before he gallery in the center of the arena. The marshals had removed the tilting barrier that had divided the field in half.

The chief of heralds announced that the knights must form two companies, those happy in love and those disappointed in love. Roland smiled sourly beneath his helm. The usual tournament conceit, he thought, probably Queen Marguerite's idea, a shallow borrowing from the traditions of l'amour courtois. The side we pick depends on who is leading it, not on how we stand with the ladies.

"A seigneur of highest rank will command each company," the herald cried, his powerful, trained voice booming out over the tournament field. "Monseigneur the Count Robert d'Artois will lead the happy in love."

The King's nearest brother, thought Roland. The other side is likely to let his side win, out of politeness. I should probably join them.

"The disappointed in love," the herald went on, "will be led by Monseigneur the Count Amalric de Gobignon."

How ironic - and how true.

"De Gobignon unhappy in love?" laughed a Gascon knight near Roland. "But his countess is exquisite."

"It must be some other lady, not the countess, who has disappointed him," said another. "It is impossible for a man to be in love with his own wife."

The Gascon answered, "I would never look at another woman if my wife were the fair Nicolette."

Mindful of Nicolette's command, Roland spurred Alezan over to a marshal and said, "I wish to fight on the same side as the Count de Gobignon."

The marshal's eyebrows flickered in surprise, but without comment he gave Roland a strip of black silk to tie to his tilting helm.

Dust clouds glowed in the bright sun, which had moved around to the west. The field enclosed by the lists was a confusion of chargers and armored men, of waving lances and fluttering black and white silk streamers on tilting helms.

Roland smiled to himself as he guided Alezan into the ranks behind Amalric and saw the blond count, his tilting helm thrown back, turn to glare at him, surprised and angry.

Amalric spoke to Enguerrand de Coucy and the other riders near him, pointing to Roland, and they all looked in his direction. A cold feeling spread through Roland's chest.

He looked for friends, but he recognized no one among those near him, or in the company gathering at the far side of the field. Over there Robert d'Artois, riding a nervous white charger and holding a blue shield charged with three gold fleurs-de-lis, was marshaling his men.

"Form two ranks!" de Gobignon shouted.

Roland took a place in the center of the second rank. A silence settled over the tournament field.

The trumpets sounded.

Roland felt the ground shuddering under him as the knights in the rank in front of him shot forward. In an instant, all he could see in the center of the field was a whirlwind of dust, flying lance splinters, and the tumbling bodies of mail-clad men. The clash of arms and the roar of the crowd combined in a hellish din.

Now the dust settled enough so that Roland could see the combatants fighting at close quarters. He admired the expert way they guided their mounts. The gigantic chargers seemed to step with the grace and precision of dancers. Knights and destriers were like the centaurs of Greek legend, rider and horse moving as a single creature.

Roland charged with the second rank.

Almost at once four lances from his own side converged on him. The suddenness of it stunned him. He had expected to be attacked, but not so soon and not so openly.

He brought Alezan up short, and with rein and spur made the horse wheel while he swung his lance in an arc that struck aside the weapons of his enemies and knocked two of them from the saddle.

But Roland was in the center of a solid circle of mounted men, all like himself wearing black strips of silk on their helmets.

Now that Amalric has seen me joust, he has decided he needs help. Who the Devil are these bastards? he thought angrily.

Some of the men pressing him wore nondescript helms and carried plain shields. Others were elaborately, expensively arrayed, doubtless in captured accoutrements. On the edge of the ring he saw the silver wolf's head, also with a black ribbon tied to it. Among the shields facing him was one painted with the red and white bands of de Coucy.

There were no longer any questions. It was simple now. They were trying to kill him, and there was only one thing to do - strike down as many of his attackers as possible.

And if Amalric joined the attack, surely Nicolette's command did not mean that he must die rather than defend himself.

Three lances stabbed at him from the right. One slid past him, but two struck him hard in the side under his lance arm, knocking the wind out of him. He managed to club one of the attackers with his own lance, bringing him down, but he felt himself losing balance and toppling out of the saddle.

He hit the ground on his feet and drew his blunt-edged tournament sword. He chopped at the lances jabbing him from above and slashed at the hooves of the war-horses trying to trample him.

"Beauseant!" The deep-voiced shout lifted above the din of battle was the war cry of the Templars. Guido Bruchesi was riding through Amalric's men, cutting a path with his longsword. He wore the white silk ribbon of the happy. The professional tourneyers Amalric had recruited to help him fell away from Guido. Roland's heart leaped thankfully.

Then Enguerrand de Coucy engaged Guido. The tide of battle swept between Guido and Roland, and he was once again fighting for his life, alone.

Riders wearing white silk, followers of Robert d'Artois, were attacking Amalric's hirelings. Among the attackers Roland glimpsed the shield of the English knight whose arms he had returned. The professional tourneyers ignored the knights who were supposedly their opponents and continued to strike at Roland.

Roland heard cries of "Foul play!" from the stands as the crowd began to see that something was amiss.

Beyond the steel ring closing in on him, Roland could see Robert d'Artois riding against Amalric. Amalric was armed with a mace. He swung it at Robert's shield, and the King's brother fell and disappeared from Roland's view.

The fighting had driven Roland and his attackers to the edge of the field. Roland knew that he could touch the wooden barrier and thereby be allowed to leave the field in safety. But he was sure that Amalric's men would never let him escape that way. He was close enough to the spectators to hear their shouts of encouragement for him and their angry protests at his enemies.

Feeling that the crowd was with him gave him fresh strength as he hammered furiously at his attackers, driving them back inch by inch.

He took a stunning blow on his helmet, where it covered the back of his neck. He blacked out momentarily, and when he could see again he was lying full-length on his back. From all sides the heavy blades hammered at his body, not sharp enough to cut through his mail, but hard enough to break his bones.

Only half conscious, he sat up, despite the merciless shower of sword strokes.

A momentary break in the ring of enemies around him gave him a glimpse of the gallery. He looked for Nicolette - this might be his last sight of her - but saw only King Louis on his feet, gesturing and pushing his way down the gallery steps. Then the dust and the forest of mailed legs closed in again.

The outcry of the crowd, shouting at Roland's assailants to spare the fallen knight, drowned the clangor of arms.

Above the screaming of the crowd rose a clarion blast. Roland heard the heralds calling for a stop to the melee. Am I saved?

Amalric roared, "Fight on! Fight on! Kill him!"

As Roland struggled to get up he saw heralds riding in among Amalric's men, trying to drive them back. The trumpets and clarions shrilled again, in vain.

A pair of steel-encased legs appeared before him. He lifted his head, and there, in the small oblong of sight permitted by his tilting helm, was Amalric, towering above him, mace upraised.

The thick staff, topped with its spiked iron ball, was coming down on Roland's head. Desperately he tried to twist out of the way, knowing there was not time.

From somewhere a figure struck Amalric's legs. Roland heard the shout, "Stop! He is fallen!" and glimpsed Perrin, unarmed and unarmored, at Amalric's feet.

Then the mace smashed down on his shoulder. Agony shot through him. He felt bones shattering.

His shoulder was crushed. He collapsed. The pain, sweet Jesus! The pain in his shoulder filled his whole body. He could barely cling to consciousness.

Lying on his back in the dirt, he saw Enguerrand de Coucy send Perrin flying with a blow of his red-striped shield.

Amalric raised his mace again, gripping it with both mailed hands.

For the third time the trumpets shrieked for a halt.

A man was standing protectively over Roland. Amalric shifted the mace to bring it down on the bare, blond head of this newcomer. Roland heard cries of horror from the spectators. Amazingly, Enguerrand de Coucy threw himself between the two men, his arms up to deflect the mace.

Roland turned his head. Through a haze that drained all color from his vision, he recognized the King.

Louis drew his longsword and put the point of it against Amalric's chest. He thrust with it, pushing Amalric back from Roland.

Roland propped himself up with his left arm. The right one was useless. All feeling was gone, from shoulder to fingertips. He was able to see over the top of the lists. On the other side a line of royal sergeants stood with crossbows loaded and drawn, aimed at Amalric.

"You have used me, Count, used me ill," said Louis in a low voice that carried in the sudden silence that had fallen in the arena.

Amalric lifted off his tilting helm. He was standing beyond Roland's feet, and Roland got a good look at his face. It was flushed and full of hate as he stared at Louis.

"Forgive me for menacing you, sire," he ground out. "I was possessed by my angry mood and did not see that it was you who barred me from my enemy."

"Possessed indeed," Louis replied. "If you had struck me it would have been an accident. But what you were doing to this man was no accident."

"It is my right to defend my honor as I see fit, sire."

"How dare you speak of honor, you who persuaded me to hold this tournament so that you could use it to cloak murder? You have made a fool of the King and a mockery of chivalry. You will be stripped of your armor and will stand until vespers on yonder platform, like any other recreant knight."

"I am the Count de Gobignon. I am a Peer of the Realm. You cannot treat me like some ordinary knight."

Another figure moved into Roland's line of sight. Roland saw through the wavering film over his eyes that it was Enguerrand de Coucy.

"Sire, if you do this to de Gobignon, you insult all of us of noble birth." His face was as red as the stripes on his shield.

"God's justice is the same for everybody, highborn or lowborn," said Louis. "For the crime of attempted murder I could punish the Count much more severely if I chose."

"I should have let him brain you," Enguerrand de Coucy muttered.

Roland heard Robert d'Artois's voice cut in suddenly. "Silence, de Coucy!" he snapped. "How dare you speak so to the King?"

Waves of pain rippled out through Roland's body from his shoulder, cresting and ebbing in time to the rhythm of his heart. With each beat, it seemed sight and hearing faded momentarily and then came back. This felt worse than any other wound he had ever suffered. In a lucid moment he thought, I may never use this arm again.

He heard the King say, "Amalric, will you take your punishment like an obedient knight, or must I have you bound?"

I must try to witness this, Roland thought. With a supreme effort he fought the pain and raised his head a little higher. He managed to see Louis and Amalric staring at each other. Both men were golden blond, the King's hair falling fine and straight from his receding hairline, Amalric's thick like a lion's mane. The King was slender, Amalric broad and powerful. Trembling with anger, the King seemed ready to seize Amalric himself, while Amalric's chest heaved with suppressed fury.

At last, in a cold, controlled voice, Amalric said, "I will submit, perforce. You do me a great wrong, sire, and not me alone. You undermine the very foundations of this realm. In exposing me to public scorn, you tell the men of rank that they cannot rely on you. In the end, it will not be I who am shamed by this day." Amalric turned and strode out of Roland's sight.

Perrin's dirt-streaked face, a rivulet of blood running from nose to lip, appeared before him. Gently lifting Roland's head, he unlaced the tilting helm and pulled it off. Roland gasped as a new wave of agony shot through him. Anxiously Perrin peered at him.

"Do I still have the scarf?" Roland whispered.

"Yes, master."

Louis dropped to one knee beside Roland. "How fare you, Sire Orlando?"

Through clenched teeth Roland gasped, "I live. Thanks to you, sire."

Louis smiled and laid his hand on Roland's forehead. "Be it God's will that you be healed, to fight again as magnificently as you fought today."

At Louis's touch the terrible pain that throbbed through Roland's body seemed to diminish. It is said anointed kings have power to heal, Roland thought with awe.

"M-may I have help to get him to his tent, sire?" Perrin choked out, his voice tremulous.

It is not every day, Roland thought, that a jongleur speaks to a king.

"He shall be in my care," said Louis. "My own physicians shall tend him. Orlando of Perugia, I must have a man like you as my companion in arms." He stood up and beckoned to the royal equerries. "Take him to the palace." He turned to the heralds, standing in a small group nearby. "This tournament is now at an end. Let it be proclaimed." Then he passed from Roland's sight. He heard a cheer for the King go up from the spectators. They do not yet know he has cut short the fighting, Roland thought.

God, what has happened to my shoulder? How can I still be awake? I would rather be dead than feel so much pain.

Then in the midst of his suffering his heart lurched with dread. The King's companion. What on Earth?... My life is my own, not his.

Yet, were it not for him I would be dead now.

Saint Michel, what if he wants to take me crusading?

Ah, well, if I live I won't be able to do any fighting anyway. If I live. In his pain Roland hardly felt the hands that lifted him, as his consciousness slipped away.

XI

THE SPARKLING OCTOBER DAY AWED ROLAND, AS IF HE HAD NEVER BEFORE seen sun, blue sky, and trees. Out for the first time since the tournament, he was walking with Perrin in the garden of the royal country estate at Vincennes. His feet felt uncertain on the dirt path. Leaning on Perrin's arm, he made an effort to walk upright despite the weight of the wooden frame and the bandages Louis's physicians had wrapped around his right shoulder. After weeks of lying in bed wearing nothing but a nightshirt, he felt his clothing rough against his skin. But the bearskin cloak over his back was a welcome protection from the autumn chill. The light of the morning sun poured strength into his limbs.

"Good day, Sire Orlando."

Roland recognized the voice and turned. The King had come up behind him.

Roland tried to get down on one knee, but Louis stopped him with a wave of his hand. Roland looked for some token of kingship on Louis's apparel, but the sovereign wore only a mantle of black silk trimmed with red squirrel fur, such as any country gentleman might possess, and his head was bare.

He knows what he is. He does not have to proclaim it.

Saint Michel, can this really be happening to me? Roland wondered. A moment ago, walking with Perrin, he had felt that this royal garden and this beautiful day were as real as the continuously throbbing pain in his shoulder. But now, staring at the tall, large-eyed man before him, he asked himself if this could be yet another one of the feverish dreams he had been having since the tournament. Louis had appeared often in those dreams, along with Nicolette, Amalric, and a great mace always descending but never striking. Can I actually be a houseguest of the King of France?

"Dear Sire Orlando, I heard you were up and about. Praise God, your health is coming back. Come walk with me, and we shall enjoy the fall colors in the forest together."

"Sire," said Perrin nervously, "he tires quickly."

"Nonsense, Perrin," said Roland testily.

"I shall prop him up, if I have to, my good fellow," said Louis. "You have been watching over him day and night for a month. Be off and have a cup of wine with my equerries. Let me care for your master for a while."

Walking slowly beside Louis, Roland realized with surprise that the King had no attendants. There were just the two of them strolling through the manor garden. Roland looked back and saw Perrin in the doorway of the two-story stone mansion, looking anxiously after them. Lifting his left arm, the one he could move, Roland waved him away irritably.

"I like to walk alone, or with just one companion," said Louis. "I never get enough solitude. That is why I enjoy Vincennes."

Roland inhaled deeply. The air felt sweet as water from a spring.

Louis cheerfully pointed out some especially brilliant splashes of gold and red in the foliage around them.

"When did you bring me here, sire?"

"About two weeks after the tournament, when the friars said you were well enough to travel. I thought being away from the dirt and noise of Paris would speed your recovery." His face fell. "But then it seemed I might have made a terrible mistake. We took you in a litter, and the ride was bumpy. You got much worse for a while. My queen was very angry with me."

And Nicolette? If only I could ask about Nicolette, Roland thought anxiously. Where is she? And how does she fare? Will Marguerite let her know I am better?

They were following a path to a clearing, where Louis showed him a huge, twisted oak.

"That is my favorite tree in all this forest. I like to sit under it. Sometimes the people who live nearby come to me here with their troubles, and I try to help them. "

Louis took Roland's left arm and helped him seat himself under the old tree.

Embarrassment made Roland's face burn. The King helps me to sit down?

Slowly he leaned back until his weight was resting against the tree trunk. The ache in his shoulder subsided a little.

Louis folded his long body down beside Roland. "Now, Sire Orlando," he said with a wry smile. "If I can urge the matter of your taking a crusader's cross, without being answered in the language of a Parisian guttersnipe..."

The crusade? Uneasiness made Roland want to draw away.

"I do not understand, sire - about the language, I mean."

Louis smiled, but his fair cheeks reddened. "While you were very ill, just after we got here, I laid a crucifix on your chest and told you how God had saved my life after I promised to go on crusade. I suggested that He might spare you if you made the same promise. You... you..." Louis hesitated, then looked away. He rattled out the rest of the tale in a voice so low Roland had to strain to hear it. "You threw the crucifix on the floor and told me to stuff my crusade up my arse."

Roland stifled an impulse to laugh. This was no laughing matter. He went cold with mortification - and with dread. Any suspicion that he was irreligious might provoke an investigation. And that could lead to Diane.

Saint Michel, was I that sick? No wonder Perrin was afraid to let me be alone with the King. Dear God, I hope I did not let anything slip about Nicolette.

"Sire, I do not know how I can apologize enough. I beg your forgiveness."

Smiling, Louis shook his head. "As my good mother might have said, it was the fever talking. I mentioned it only in jest, but I should not have embarrassed you. It is you who must forgive me."

What a strange man. Roland felt himself becoming more and more intrigued. He may have been trying to joke, but he actually blushed at repeating my coarse words. Yet he has led knights in battle.

"Sire, for me to forgive you would be an impertinence. I owe you my life."

"I saw what was happening in the melee, and I did the only thing I could, Sire Orlando," said Louis. "Besides, I could not let such a man as you be lost. I saw you knock down one knight after another. I saw you hold off a dozen or more professional tourneyers. Jerusalem needs men like you to fight for her."

Roland felt cold despite the high sun. His heart was being pulled in two directions. He wanted to give this man, to whom he owed his life, anything he asked. Yet this was the same king whose armies had pillaged Languedoc.

Roland had worn the crusaders' cross as a disguise to rescue Diane. But to wear it in earnest?

He looked off into the forest and saw a figure prowling through the trees. Sunlight glinted on a steel helmet. Off in another direction, he glimpsed the blue tunic of a royal sergeant behind some scarlet-tinted shrubbery. The forest was full of the King's guards, he realized, keeping far enough away to give Louis some privacy. The sight of the guards sent a little tingle of fear down Roland's spine, reminding him that this man sitting companionably beside him wielded enormous power.

This is the king who unleashed the inquisitors on my poor people. In his name Amalric burned hundreds at Mont Segur.

If only I could tell him flatly, no, I will never go on crusade with him. But I dare not.

"Sire, with this arm of mine, I probably will never be able to fight again." He raised his right hand from his lap, and a lightning bolt of pain shot from neck to fingertips. He winced and let the hand drop again.

Louis's face shadowed. "Your suffering is my fault. I let Amalric persuade me to allow maces in the melee. I know as a Christian I should forgive Amalric. But he does not feel any remorse. Those few hours of public shame only hardened his heart. And to think I was considering him for one of the highest offices in the realm!"

Was! Roland's heart leaped. That at least I accomplished. Amalric will not be Constable of France. That much I have done for the martyrs of Mont Segur.

But what of Nicolette? Amalric must be furious. What if he took it out on her? If only I could ask about her. But that would compromise her even more.

"Well, sire," he said, "if the tournament changed your mind about the Count de Gobignon, it may have been a good thing, saving you from placing such great trust in the man."

"A shrewd point," Louis said with a small smile. "Yet I cannot afford to lose Amalric. He is strong, a good general in the field. You should have seen him riding down the English at Taillebourg. And I need his army, the vassals of the house of Gobignon. And his treasure."

It dazzled Roland to realize the position he was in. Discussing Amalric with the King of France.

He looked up at the sky through the brown leaves of the great oak. God, it is good to be alive.

"Sire, it is no help," he said carefully, "to have a man on your side whom you cannot fully trust."

"Oh, he will be all right," said Louis confidently. "I told him to stay away from Paris for six months, till my anger cools. By then his feelings toward me will have improved, too. His family has served mine for hundreds of years."

Perhaps they've resented it for hundreds of years, too, Roland thought.

Did Amalric take Nicolette with him when he left Paris? I must get a message to her.

"I need you as well, Orlando," said the King. "Let us suppose you are lucky and God gives you back the use of your arm. Will you come on the crusade then?"

How can I escape this king? Beneath his gentle manner, what an iron stubbornness!

Roland tried to imagine himself using his right arm again. It hurt even to think of moving that crushed shoulder. I will never be well enough to go on crusade. But I will not make him any promises, not even empty ones.

"Sire, a crusading knight needs a string of horses, arms and armor for war, a following of men-at-arms. I have none of that. I am so light of purse, I could not even pay my own passage to Outremer, much less for a whole retinue."

"A crusading knight need only be a great fighter," said Louis quietly. "Without that, all the rest is worthless. You can fight. I saw that. And do not forget, you won arms and horses in the tournament. Also, as your jongleur tells me, you have a little house outside Paris. You must have a bit of income."

"My father sends me a little money. I have nothing of my own.

A hollow feeling in Roland's stomach warned him that he was stepping close to the edge of a cliff. If the King asked who his father was, he would either have to lie - or reveal that his family were enemies of the French.

But then, the truth might be the very thing. If Louis knew I was a faidit and the son of one, surely he would not want me with him.

The hollow of dread grew till it became piercing physical pain. He wondered if he could trust himself to take such a risk with the King.

If I tell him, he might have me beaten, turn me over to the inquisition.

No, he is not that sort of person.

"Sire, I must confess all and throw myself on your mercy." He felt like a rider who had come to a dangerous jump and made up his mind to try it.

Louis eyed him, startled.

There was no turning back now. "I am not the person I have claimed to be."

"You interest me, Messire. Who are you, then?"

"My name is Roland de Vency, and I am a man of Languedoc." He went on to tell the story of his family. "My father is now in the chancery of the Emperor. If he were to come back to France, he would be executed for his crimes."

Finished, Roland waited for Louis's response. His shoulder throbbed, and a jackdaw on a nearby branch cawed derisively.

Louis's large eyes held Roland's. "Are you a good Catholic, Messire? You had the last sacraments while you were sick, you know."

"Then my soul is whiter than it has been in many a year, sire. No, I am no heretic. My father was not fighting against Catholicism. He was fighting for his homeland."

Louis was silent for a long time.

"I will have to ask you many more questions," he said finally.

"Of course, sire."

Louis leaned back against the knotted bark of the immense oak and gazed up at the sky.

"So your father is with Frederic. You cannot possibly know how much I wish I could be friends with Frederic. My France and his Germany are the two largest realms in Christendom. We should be like brothers. And his fight with the Pope - how I hate to see that! If only I could bring them together. Everybody, everywhere, is hurt by the war between those two, and nobody is thinking about Jerusalem. Except me.

"Your connection with the Emperor could be helpful. And it would please me to give a post to the son of one of our former enemies. Such a position would give you income enough, too, for the crusade."

Roland's heart sank. This beautiful day was turning darker and darker.

"Sire, I am just not the sort of man you want. I do not believe in crusading. I have no wish to make war on the Turks."

"But," said Louis, his big eyes shining, "are you not named after Charlemagne's paladin Roland, who died a glorious death fighting the Saracens?"

"Sire, if you recall, Charlemagne's Roland was fighting Arabs who had invaded France. I promise you, if the Sultan of Egypt attacks France, I shall be among the first to go to war against him. If I can ever hold a sword again."

"Jerusalem is our land," said Louis. "It belongs to Christendom."

"Sire, as you know, the Emperor has Muslim servants at his court. They told me Jerusalem is a holy city for them, too."

"Yes, well, they may believe that," said Louis imperturbably, "but they are mistaken. Islam is not the true religion."

Roland's eyes burned, and he felt an ache in his temples. He really had been out of bed too long, he thought.

"Sire, Jerusalem is too far off for us to hold it."

Astonishingly, Louis merely laughed. "You are in good company. My mother and two of my brothers say the same. With God's help I hope to change their minds. I think we can liberate Jerusalem, and I believe it is worth the sacrifice."

Roland's headache became worse, and a dull anger pulsed in his chest. The man is impossible. This sweet, patient determination - it wears me down.

It is like trying to fight the tide, he thought. Each wave seems no higher than the last. But slowly, irresistibly, one is overwhelmed.

"It was a crusade that destroyed my homeland. I would be a traitor to my people if I wore the cross."

Louis's large eyes remained sympathetic, and Roland felt doomed. "That is it exactly, do not you see, dear Roland? Now that I know you are a son of Languedoc, I must, I must win you over. The Albigensian Crusade - I cannot say it was wrong, because the Pope commanded it and my grandfather and my father both supported it. But it is time to write an end to all that. I want all France, north and south, united." Now his eyes were alight with fervor. He held up clenched fists. "Think of it ? men of Languedoc and men of France fighting side by side to recapture Jerusalem for Christendom. I believe God wants that. He wants France healed."

Despair pressed heavier on Roland than the wooden frame on his shoulder.

What is there left for me to say? I do not give a fig who holds Jerusalem! Let the Sultan have it. I should say that to the King; it might get me out of here.

But I do not want to offend him. I like him.

He accepts me even knowing that I deceived him; that I come from a faidit family.

Louis broke in on his thoughts. "I can see you are thinking about what I have said. That's good enough for now. I have tired you out with all this talk. Forgive me for that. I do forget myself sometimes. I should not be preaching at you when you are still suffering so."

And if he keeps on so, he will have me altogether in his power.

Louis stood suddenly and gave Roland both his hands to help him up. An excruciating pain shot through Roland's right side, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Louis gave Roland his arm. "Here, lean on me. We shall walk back to the manor together."

Roland's pain gave him an excuse for silence on the return walk. The royal mansion, built as a retreat by Louis's grandfather, Philippe Auguste, soon rose stout and square ahead of them. Its stolidity was redeemed by the graceful spire of a chapel which, Louis told Roland, he had added to the manor house a few years before.

As they reached the gate leading from the forest into the walled garden, Louis said, "If your shoulder does not let you return to the warrior's life, there is plenty of other work for a knight of talent who can read and write. A post will be yours, whether or not you go on crusade. I need men of your quality around me, Roland de Vency."

There was such affection in Louis's voice that Roland felt an answering warmth in his heart.

He had come to France seeking a patron, and now the King of France himself was offering him a post, practically demanding that he take it. True, not as a troubadour, but was it not better to have serious work to do? He could always write songs. Even kings wrote songs.

Nicolette spent much of her time with Queen Marguerite. A post with the King might bring him closer to her.

And he liked this king. Here was a man so free from pride that he would half carry an injured, unknown, penniless knight through his royal park. Honest, generous, he cared about his people. Of course, when it came to the crusade he sounded dangerously mad, but now that Roland had heard the King explain it, he understood the notion at least a little.

He is like a wizard, Roland thought wonderingly. I was so sure I knew my mind, and yet he is changing me.

But perhaps if I take his post, I can move him as well.

But then if the war in Languedoc continues? What would Diane say?

I want to be a free man. But no man is free in this world. And at least under Louis I might have the power to do things.

Yes, but to wear the cross?

Rarely had Roland thought about his soul, but that day he began to fear he might be losing it.

XII

HER STOMACH TIGHT WITH APPREHENSION, NICOLETTE STOOD IN THE center of the empty great hall of Chateau Gobignon. Rows of old banners hanging from the ceiling rustled faintly as she watched the broad staircase leading to the chateau's chief tower.

A heavy door closed above. Footsteps approached the stairs.

A white robe appeared at the head of the staircase, ghostly in the light of the torches set around the gray stone walls. The beads wrapped around his waist rattling, Hugues de Gobignon descended.

Nicolette bowed politely. "Good evening, Friar Hugues."

Hugues gave her a malevolent look, blue eyes glittering.

"Madame," he said curtly and turned quickly away, walking in the direction of his own chamber.

He hates me because I am a woman of Languedoc, Nicolette thought. He would love to see Amalric put me away in a convent - or a dungeon. The de Gobignons think of me as Amalric's great mistake. Especially since I have had three daughters and no sons. But Amalric has always refused to listen to them - so far.

She knew Amalric was alone now, up there in his council chamber in the tower. She took a deep breath and started to climb the stairs, fear and nervousness weakening her knees.

She had prepared herself carefully for this interview, spending an hour before her silver mirror braiding her long black hair because Amalric had said he found her lovely in braids. Her face in the mirror looked anxious and pale, though she had pinched her cheeks to give them color. She pinched them again now. She wore a long green velvet gown that clung to her figure, with a belt of gold links that emphasized the slenderness of her waist. She wanted to look her best for Amalric, though she knew it would be useless to try to be seductive with him. Not because he did not desire her, but because he knew she did not desire him.

In the seven months we have been here, she thought, I doubt he has had me seven times. Just as well; I do not have to drink that awful herb concoction so often to be sure I do not get pregnant again. He has had peasant girls and the daughters of villeins in plenty, I am sure.

Strange, I do not care how many women Amalric goes to bed with. But if there were another woman in Roland's life, I would die.

Sweet Goddess, I must get away from here. I am so unhappy in this place.

She caressed the folded parchment she held in her hand, its heavy red wax seal broken. He must yield to this. He cannot refuse a royal request. But what if he does not let me go? I will run away. I will take the best horse in his stables and just head south and not stop till I see the Mediterranean.

She reached the top of the staircase and the oaken door of Amalric's council chamber. The knocker was an iron wolf's head. Repelled by it, Nicolette struck the door with her knuckles. At his answering command she turned the black iron ring that unlatched the door and entered. She had been trembling as she climbed the stairs, but at the sight of him her fear was tempered by amusement. He looked so out of place, seated at a long, heavily carved table covered with piles of paper and parchment, half-opened scrolls, and even a few books. He was reading by the light of fat candles burning in cressets on the walls of the circular room. The windows were shuttered, and the smell of melting wax was heavy in the room.

"Madame," he said, without getting up, "how may I serve you?" Sarcasm was heavy in his tone.

Her heart quailed. He was still bitter over his disgrace at the King's tournament, and he blamed her for it. He hates the King and Queen, he hates Paris, he hates Roland, she thought. He'll never let me go back there.

"I received this today, Monseigneur." She held out the parchment.

"Read it to me, if it is something I must know about," he said brusquely. "I am half blind from all the reading I have had to do tonight."

Yes, she thought, he loathes this sort of work. He does it only because he has to, to administer his domains. For people like me - and Roland - reading is a pleasure. I am lucky that I learned to read. So few of the women here in the north seem to know how to.

The letter was from Queen Marguerite:

?The winter here has been twice as long and twice as cold, owing to your absence. There is no one who laughs with me at the same things, no one to share gossip in the tongue of my childhood. The King is my dearest friend, but he speaks only in the accents of the north, and he is preoccupied with matters of state and religion. Dear Nicolette, I need you, who are so like a sister, to make me merry. Do beg your husband to spare you most kindly for his Queen. After all, the six months are up.?

She glanced uneasily at Amalric after referring to the term of his banishment.

From the day the King stopped the tournament and saved Roland's life, she had felt a new reverence, and an even greater love, for Louis. She would never forget what he had done.

Amalric would never forget it either.

He would never forgive Louis for those hours he had had to stand, stony-faced, on the platform of shame, the de Gobignon shield of which he was so proud hanging upside down from the wooden railing. What vengeance had he begun plotting, she wondered, as he stood there?

During their two weeks' ride after the tournament from Paris to the Gobignon possessions in the northeast corner of France, she had sensed in him a fury more terrible than anything she had known before.

Only when they rode over the crest of a hill and caught a glimpse of Chateau Gobignon - still a whole day's ride off ? did a grim smile cross Amalric's face. But her own heart sank when she saw the gray drum towers and battlemented walls crowning the distant rocky hillside. In all the years of their marriage she had spent as little time as possible at Chateau Gobignon, staying at court with Marguerite or visiting Amalric's holdings in the south. The chateau frightened and depressed her, now more than ever. It was an edifice dedicated to the power of the Gobignon family as a cathedral was dedicated to worship. But to Nicolette it had always seemed nothing more than a huge prison.

The next day, much closer, she saw that the chateau was wearing gay finery in honor of its master's return, dozens of purple and gold Gobignon banners fluttering from the tall round towers. Amalric might have left Paris in disgrace, but his family and vassals, she knew, would treat his return as a triumph.

In Gobignon-la-Ville, the walled town that nestled at the base of the chateau's hill, she rode beside Amalric past a crowd of cheering burghers, craftsmen, men-at-arms, and serfs. She glanced at Amalric and saw that he looked almost happy as he waved to them. They shouted for Nicolette, too, as she rode through the town, but the closer she came to the chateau walls the lonelier she felt.

When she rode through the barbican and into the courtyard, she saw Amalric's whole family lined up to greet him, and her heart felt heavier still. None of them even looked at her. She had just spent the summer with these Gobignons, and now she dreaded a winter in their company. Countess Marie, Amalric's mother, was the daughter of King Philippe Auguste and the sister of King Louis VIII, and she never let anyone forget it. Amalric's brother Hugues was there, of course, his fanatical eyes piercing her. And there was a pack of ambitious, powerful relatives and vassals, who dropped to their knees before Amalric.

Their greeting should make him feel better, she thought. In Paris he had to yield to the King. Here he was king.

Amalric hoisted his eldest daughter, ten-year-old Isabelle, to sit in front of him on his horse. She thrust into his hands a little pillow she had embroidered for him, and Nicolette saw how moved he was.

As she watched the younger girls, Alix and Blanche, greet Amalric and hardly more than glance shyly at her, guilt jabbed Nicolette. Because they came from him, her children brought her little joy. She remembered how she had loved her own mother. It was terrible that such a wall must stand between her children and her. It was my fortune to meet and marry their father, and they are the innocent consequence. I am a bad mother, she thought, and grief and guilt made her heart heavy as stone.

How long can I stay in this place? she wondered.

Now she handed Amalric Marguerite's letter, which might be the key to her escape. He dropped it to the paper-laden table without a glance.

He said harshly, "Visiting the Queen is out of the question. I need you here."

Rage and rebellion boiled up in her.

"Good God, what do you need me for?" she burst out. "You got everything you wanted from me when you took my family's estates."

"I did not marry you for your lands, Nicolette."

There was suffering, a look of yearning, in his face. She saw it but did not want to admit that she did.

"The King had it in mind to appoint me Constable of France, something I wanted more than anything in this world. And I lost the post because of that damned troubadour. Do you think I would ever have made such a sacrifice if it were not for you?"

Agree with him, she pleaded with herself. Tell him you appreciate him.

But before she could stop herself she said, "You never meant to sacrifice anything. You planned to kill that man in a way that would leave you looking blameless. But you lost your head when it turned out he was not as easy a victim as that poor jongleur."

"By Saint Dominic, Madame! Your innocent Italian troubadour was trying to kill me."

"It was your jealousy and cruelty that started it."

Suddenly his eyes narrowed. "How did you know about the jongleur?"

Her body went cold.

My God, she thought, I have destroyed myself.

Amalric stood up, looking huge to her, stalked around the table, and seized her wrist.

Desperately she tried to pull away, her heart thudding. As his face drew close to hers, she felt faint, could hardly breathe.

"Only he knew about the jongleur."

She had to clear her head. Her life might depend on her saying the right thing. He could strangle her right here.

"His whole household knew about it, and they made no secret of it," she said. "Servants gossip, and it reaches one's ears eventually." She summoned all her strength to look calm.

"How did he get the handkerchief?" Amalric was a wolf with teeth fastened in a deer's throat, unwilling to let go until his prey is dead.

"You told me to return it to him," she answered, her guts churning. "I did as you commanded. I never thought he would be so mad as to wear it, much less at the tournament. I have told you again and again, this man has done nothing but pay me the harmless honor a troubadour offers to the lady he has chosen. A troubadour does not talk to his lady, he worships her from a distance. I have never given him permission even to speak to me."

Breathing heavily, he still held her wrist. There was a strange blankness in his eyes, as if his rage had blinded him.

After a silence he said, "Do you swear that you have never known this man, that you have never been with him in secret?"

"Of course," she said hastily.

" 'Of course' will not do, Madame." His hand still clamped on her, he dragged her out of the chamber. He pulled her down the spiraling stone stairs to the bottom level of the tower.

She did not dare struggle against him. Her hand was going numb, and pain was coursing through her body. She could hardly keep her footing on the steep stairs.

They emerged into the small chapel, so dark that its round, vaulted ceiling was barely visible, the only light a tiny, flickering candle burning at the altar. The Blessed Sacrament is in the tabernacle, she thought. He would not dare kill me here, in the presence of Jesus.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light she saw with an inward shudder the seven stone boxes around the walls of the chapel that held the remains of earlier de Gobignons. Most frightening of all was the carved figure of Amalric's father, Count Stephen, on his lack marble sarcophagus. One leg was crossed over the other as a sign that he had been a crusader. The stone eyes seemed open, staring at the chapel ceiling, the eagle's face still alive with rage. She looked away quickly.

Dear Goddess, Amalric is going to make me swear before the altar that I have never been with Roland.

A new fear struck her, the fear of Almighty God. She shook inwardly at the thought of what God's vengeance might be. He might strike her dead - or kill Roland.

But if I refuse to swear, Amalric will surely kill me.

"Swear now!" Amalric bellowed at her, his voice booming against the cold stones. "Swear before the Seigneur Jesus that you have not conversed with this man, that you have not met him secretly, that you have not" - he choked the words out - "bedded with him, that you do not love him."

He waited, blue eyes burning like the heart of a flame.

She stared up at a painted wooden statue of the crucified Savior above the altar, bleeding profusely, eyes rolled up in exquisite agony. She felt a closeness to Jesus unlike any she had ever known before. As He was alone and forlorn the day He died, she was, too, at this moment.

I will tell him the truth, she thought suddenly. Why not? I will never see Roland again anyway. Why spend the rest of my life as a prisoner? If he kills me it will all be over.

No! Anger and defiance flared up inside her. I am the daughter of Guilhem de Lumel. This man has crushed my country, my people, and I am not going to lie down and die at his hands.

Standing at the altar, she clasped her hands before her breast.

"I swear. Before Jesus Christ, I swear to all of it, Monseigneur."

Amalric was silent for a moment. Then he shut his eyes and expelled a deep sigh.

"Thank God," he whispered, and she felt a stab of guilt at his heartfelt relief.

He held out his arms to her, and she let him embrace her. The gold threads in his embroidered tunic scratched her cheek. She could hear his heart beating hard and fast.

He believes me because he wants so much to believe me. He wants to believe me because he loves me, and there is nothing I can do for him.

After he had held her desperately for a moment he released her and said softly, "Come with me, Nicolette."

She cast one last look at Jesus, and then let Amalric take her hand and lead her out of the chapel.

I may have damned myself to Hell for all eternity, she thought. But she did not know which she feared more - God's judgment or Amalric's rage.

Back in his council chamber Amalric held a chair for her, then sank into his own. His fury now spent, he seemed worn out. His manner was almost apologetic, though Amalric de Gobignon would never apologize to anyone. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"Not at all, Monseigneur. "

"I am glad. Nicolette, I have much to offer you. And there will be more in years to come. I want you at my side. Let us be better friends."

She writhed inwardly. She loved Roland, and that made any closeness with Amalric impossible. She wanted to offer Amalric some comfort - the wrongdoing was not all on his side - but she did not want to utter another lie.

"I shall try to be a better wife, Monseigneur."

His smile was warm. "You will have the opportunity. We are going on a long journey together, you and I."

The thought of a journey with him chilled her heart.

"A journey to where, Monseigneur?"

"Call it a pilgrimage, if you will. That is what our psalm-singing King calls it. A pilgrimage to Outremer. I told Hugues earlier this evening, and now you are the second person to know. I have decided to go on Louis's accursed crusade."

She stiffened in surprise. "But why?"

"That tournament changed everything. I have been turning it over in my mind all winter. And I have had the advice of some good men - Enguerrand de Coucy, Thibaud de Champagne, and several other great barons."

She felt a tingle of fear along the back of her neck. Amalric had always disliked the King, but since the tournament his hatred for his sovereign lord had grown venomous. And these same barons, she knew, also hated Louis for his attempts to check their power and improve the lot of lesser folk.

"What sort of advice have they given you?" she asked uneasily.

"It might indeed be better if Louis went to Outremer. Queen Blanche would rule as regent, as when Louis was a boy. Did you know that Louis has been planning to meddle in how each baron rules his fiefdom?"

She remembered listening raptly when the King talked about having royal inspectors, enqueteurs he called them. The idea had struck her as bold and admirable.

"Yes, I have heard something of that plan."

"Well, my royal aunt knows it is a dangerous innovation. She will have none of it while Louis is away. She is our friend. He is not. He now forbids us barons to make war on one another. He says he will settle all our disputes himself. As if he were man enough to be my master. Altogether, the kingdom will be in better hands with him gone."

Nicolette suppressed a shudder. What he meant was that the same marauders who had plundered Languedoc would be free to ravage any part of France. And Blanche would allow it. But what would Amalric gain from this?

"But you will be on crusade, Monseigneur."

"There will be reliable men here to look after my interests. Our interests, since you will accompany me."

She felt another terrible chill, as she had when she let slip her knowledge of Perrin's wound. So that was what he had meant when he said they were going on a long journey together.

Outremer, that graveyard for countless Christian men and women! She recalled her horror when she had first heard King Louis proclaim a crusade. But then her fear had been for others, for the men who would be victims of "the madness," as her father had called it. She had never thought before tonight that Amalric might go. He had been so against the idea, had even tried to argue the King out of it. The possibility of her having to go could not have seemed more remote.

Bad enough that she had been forced to spend so many years in the cold, hostile north of France. Now must she follow this man to a war in Outremer, endure the heat, the disease, the hunger and thirst? Risk death or capture and enslavement by savage Turks, should - as had often happened - the war go against the crusaders?

But how could she oppose Amalric? What reason could she give for not being willing to go? Kings and barons usually brought their wives with them on crusade rather than endure separations that must last years. And she had just promised to be a better wife.

A short time ago, Amalric had seemed ready to kill her. She could not face his rage again.

"I am entirely at your disposal, Monseigneur," she said with resignation.

"I am pleased to hear you say so, Madame." Amalric paused and smiled at her. "I have just decided to let you return to Marguerite," he said.

Joy and wonder made her feel dizzy. She knew how a prisoner felt, unexpectedly released from his dungeon. The prospect was overwhelming, almost too much to bear, as if all the candles in the room had suddenly blazed up.

Then I will see Roland! It took all her strength to remain standing decorously, eyes down, to hear what else her seigneur would say.

"Granting the Queen's request for your company will be a step toward healing the breach between Louis and myself," he went on. "I, too, have received a letter from the palace, you see." He shuffled the papers on his table and held up a parchment decorated with a huge, beribboned royal seal. "He makes overtures. When he finds out I have decided to take the cross, I will gain back much of the favor I have lost."

"I shall do my best to make peace between you and the King," she said, hoping that was what Amalric wanted to hear.

But she knew that Louis would do better to invite a viper into the palace than to renew his friendship with Amalric.

"Since you have had a letter from the King, too, will we go to Paris together, Monseigneur?"

"I am still the King's seneschal for Beziers. Time I resumed my duties there. And I do not think I could stand the sight of Louis, even after six months away from him. Just the thought of that papelard and his preaching makes me wish Enguerrand had not stopped my mace. Ah, well, the East is far off and perilous. Who knows what might happen to the King there?"

She heard wild anger in his laugh.

She felt a sudden horror, as if she had been sleepwalking and had wakened suddenly to find herself at the edge of a high rooftop. She saw now why Amalric was willing to go on the crusade.

What did he have to gain? The King's death.

Her life and perhaps Louis's, depended, she realized, on not letting Amalric see that she understood him.

"We must pray he comes back safely," she said in a soft voice that she hoped sounded calm.

Amalric looked at her intently for a long time. The yellow light from the cressets cast deep shadows on his face but she could see a faint smile playing about his mouth.

"Of course we must," he said finally. "His return might be delayed for many years, though. That would give our people, those who think as we do, time to set the kingdom to rights."

"I do not really understand what is wrong with the kingdom now, Monseigneur." As soon as she said those words she regretted them.

"Nicolette, I know your father was killed, and by our side, and that hurt you deeply." His mood seemed to have changed. She heard a melancholy pensiveness in his voice.

"But perhaps, having lost your father, you can understand what it is to be five years old, just old enough to know and love your father, and to be told that he was murdered. It was like waking up to find this whole chateau - my home all my life - vanished."

He looked at her, his face full of pain, and she could almost see that small, orphaned boy he spoke of.

"I found out, when I was a little older, that it was the heretics who murdered my father."His fists clenched. "They fell on him when he was sleeping and hacked him to pieces in his bed. Dirty, sneaking Bougres!"

Sleeping in a stolen bed in a stolen castle in a land he had invaded, thought Nicolette. But she bit her lip and said nothing. This story, she understood, was sacred to Amalric. And though she knew his father had been killed in Languedoc, this was the first time he had told her about it in a way that helped her feel something of what he felt.

He spread his hands. "So, you see. Later I learned all the reasons why we must destroy the heretics - how they worship two gods, they say this world and our bodies are made by the evil god, they murder sick people, they lie man with man and woman with woman - all of that. I know it is from them that the rabble get their ideas of communes and charters. It is they who spread the disguised paganism called courtly love. It is they who instill ideas of rebellion in the university students. Most knights and seigneurs, priests and bishops, they only know these things here." He tapped his forehead with his fingertips. "But what the heretics are is burned into my heart." He struck his chest with his fist. "I know in my very blood that this kingdom will never be safe until heresy and all that springs from it is stamped out so that not a trace remains. I look forward to going back now to Beziers, to Languedoc, where this evil has its roots. Hugues and I, we shall light a few fires."

Her flesh crawled as if in the grip of ice-cold hands. How false, how twisted, were his ideas of the Cathars and of courtly love. And of Languedoc. I am one of those he would destroy.

What if I have so offended God by my false swearing in the chapel just now that He wants me to be destroyed?

"And so you want to purify the entire kingdom? To do that you would almost have to be King yourself, Monseigneur."

He raised his square chin with pride. "I am almost a king. Attend, Nicolette - do you know that one of my forebears was one of the seven great barons who helped Hugues Capet seize the crown? That makes me a Peer of the Realm. Where do you think the King gets the right to rule? From the Peers of the Realm, the descendants of those seven barons who placed Louis's ancestor on the throne. Every time a new King is to be crowned, we must consent. Did you know that?"

"No, Monseigneur, I did not," she said, and was dubious.

"It is true." Amalric nodded solemnly. "We can make kings and unmake them."

And you want to unmake a king. She shuddered inside herself. When Amalric had exulted at the thought of what might happen to the King during the crusade, she had felt as if she were standing on the edge of a high roof. But now she saw far below her, not the ground, but Hell itself. Hell was burning cities, dismembered bodies, men and women straining at the stakes, the screams of innocent sufferers. Hell was made by men like Amalric.

We shall light a few fires, he had said.

I must try to stop this man. I must find a way.

XIII

NICOLETTE TREMBLED WITH IMPATIENCE. SHE LOOKED UP FOR THE SUN, but it was too low to be seen, though a late-afternoon glow suffused the canopy of leaves and branches over her head. If he kept to the promise in his letter, Roland would appear at any moment. Her black mare, tied to a nearby elm sapling, stamped her hoofs restlessly.

Seated between the twisting roots of a huge oak, Nicolette leaned back on her arms and tried to relax. After the August heat and the dust of the road, this glade was as cool as the interior of a cathedral. She stretched out her legs, encased in red hose, and pulled off the page boy's cap that hid her coiled-up hair. Some page in the Queen's entourage was in luck. For these clothes Agnes had paid him twice what a new outfit would cost. She unpinned and shook down her hair, enjoying the feeling of freedom.

She could not believe that it was almost a year since she had last seen Roland. And would she see him today, after all this time? The tension inside her was so strong she was ready to burst. She had endured the long months, but now she could not stand another minute.

He had many leagues to travel to make this rendezvous. Would some mischance of the road delay him - a storm, an accident to his horse, an encounter with highwaymen?

What if, absurdly, she were waiting in the wrong clearing, under the wrong oak? She reread Roland's unsigned letter, which Agnes had put into her hands only yesterday, while they were visiting the cathedral of Our Lady at Chartres. She had followed all his directions exactly.

But when would he come? And when he came, if he came, what would he be like? Weak and sickly, perhaps, after his long convalescence. His clerkish work as an enqueteur could have done little to restore his strength.

No sooner had she arrived at the royal palace, on a sunny day last May, then she sent Agnes to inquire about Roland. As she waited for word she sang. She had not always loved this city, but today all Paris seemed to shine with new life. How wonderful to be far from that gloomy Chateau Gobignon! She was still unpacking her gowns, humming to herself, when her maid came back, looking crestfallen. Nicolette seized her by the shoulders.

"Tell me, tell me! What has happened to him?"

"He is well enough to get about, Madame," Agnes said with a weak smile. "But the bad side of that is he's not here. I talked to a clerk in the royal chancery. Your troubadour has joined the King's service as an enqueteur, and he is touring through Gascony just now. He will be gone most of the summer."

"Oh, God!" Crushed by disappointment, Nicolette sat down on her bed and started to cry.

"Something else you had better know, Madame," Agnes went on, sitting beside her and taking her hand. "He is not Orlando of Perugia anymore. He is Roland de Vency."

He is using his real name, then? She wondered at that, but she was too miserable to think. She threw herself full length on the bed and wept.

Now she asked herself, as she had so many times since that unhappy day, what if he does not love me anymore? What if he has been hurt too badly? We should have possessed each other in body and soul in Guillaume's room when we had the chance.

What if he has met someone he loves better than me? Her hand went to the dagger she wore to protect herself while traveling. When she realized what she was doing, she let go of the hilt as if it were hot. What is the matter with me? This waiting is driving me mad.

She could no longer rest under the tree. Eagerness to see Roland goaded her. She stood up, the better to peer through the forest to see if he was coming.

She heard the footfalls of a horse picking its way through the trees and held her breath as she glimpsed a man walking his mount.

It was Roland. He was the only man she knew so tall and dark.

He was tying his horse to a tree near hers. He turned and strode toward her.

Dear Goddess, there he is, with that beautiful hawk's face.

"Oh, my love!" She held out her arms to him.

"Nicolette. "

She hurled herself at him, the whole length of her body pressed hard against his. He was holding her so tightly she could not breathe, but she did not care; she would happily have died in his arms.

When at length he released her, she stepped back to look at him. He was as thin as ever, but he seemed well - except for something about the way he held himself, his right shoulder hunched forward and bulking larger than the left.

Amalric had crippled him. She saw again the tournament field, Amalric's mace crashing down upon him. Hatred for her husband raged within her.

"Come, let us sit down," Roland said. He held her arm as she seated herself, then dropped down beside her. There was no awkwardness in his movements. But his poor shoulder still looked huge to her. Timidly she reached out to touch it.

Roland chuckled softly, but there was pain in his eyes. "The King's physicians had an impossible task, like trying to piece together a smashed pot inside a pillow. I hope the sight of it does not... distress you. "

She sensed the anxiety in him.

"Oh, Roland, I will never forgive myself. I stopped you from fighting Amalric, and so you placed yourself on his side in the melee."

"He and his men would have attacked me whichever side I was on."

"Yes, but you would have had the knights on the white side fighting with you."

He stroked her cheek. Her skin tingled at the touch of his fingertips.

"It all worked out well for me. Amalric lost favor with Louis that day, and I became a friend of the King. True, I cannot play the vielle any longer. You need the full use of your right arm for that. I still do well enough with the Irish harp and the lute, though. But if I am ever going to fight again, I shall have to learn to fight left-handed."

"Oh, Roland!" She sobbed his name and pressed her face against his chest.

"Do not feel sorry for me. As one of the King's enqueteurs I have no need of a warrior's skills. I do my fighting with ink and parchment. And I can use my injury as an excuse to stay out of the crusade."

She heard the undertone of bitterness in his voice, and she felt desolate. She would have traded her life to restore the power to his right arm.

He has suffered this because he loves me.

"I hate Amalric for what he has done to you."

He shook his head and gently touched her lips with his fingertips.

She took his hand in hers and kissed the hard palm. "And for what he did to Perrin," she went on. "Is Perrin with you?"

"He is camped near the road. He will stand watch for us. He is far enough away not to be able to hear anything we say ? or any sound we make."

She looked up at him. His gaunt face was in shadow, but his meaning was clear.

The thought aroused an aching yearning in her belly. Yes, I want him. I have wanted him so long - I cannot go on denying him, and myself, any longer.

"Forget Amalric," Roland said suddenly. "Forget hatred. This moment is for us. Let us shut out the rest of the world."

She knew he was right. The beauty that was possible here and now must not be spoiled.

She heard a bell tolling in the distance, a country church sounding the Angelus, calling the people to sunset prayer. Bright light no longer fell in their glade, and the sky overhead was a pale violet.

Sitting beside him, she held his strong hand in both of hers. The trunks of the great oaks were growing indistinct, merging with the darkness. A choir of the night's little creatures, birds and insects, sang vespers. This grove of oaks is our cathedral of Love, she thought.

"When must you go to Paris?" he asked her.

"Tomorrow. I have packed some ladylike finery in my saddle-bags. The Queen's party will be coming up the road from Chartres, where I left them, and I shall simply rejoin them at Rambouillet. If anyone has been trying to spy on me, they will be quite mystified."

"We have this whole night?"

"Yes," she whispered happily, feeling her hunger for him mount.

Roland raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, as she had kissed his. "Will mi dons wait here a moment?"

He stood and went over to his tethered horse, grazing beside hers among the trees.

He returned with a mandolin. He sat beside her and began to pluck the strings.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the tree trunk. To hear him sing to her after all this time - it was ecstasy.

After a few measures he began, his voice soft, yet strong as ever:

"I stand in my lady's sight In deep devotion; Approach her with folded hands In sweet emotion; Dumbly adoring her, Humbly imploring her."

She recognized it as a song of Bernart de Ventadour, a song she had loved even as a little girl. With each chord her joy in him grew more overwhelming. By the time he reached the last verse she was weeping with happiness. She looked up through the black leaves overhead and saw a small, blue-white star twinkling in an opening in the foliage where there had been sunlight not long before.

"That was beautiful," she said. "But, Roland, why did you not sing a song of your own?"

"I have had no inspiration these many months."

"You shall have inspiration enough tonight."

He laid aside the mandolin and turned to her. She pressed her weight against him, bearing him to the ground as her arms twined around his neck.

Her mouth fused with his, warm and liquid, his tongue velvet-soft and hard all at once. His long arms wrapped around her, and even in the heedlessness of desire she noticed that the pressure of the left arm was stronger than the right.

Roland wants me, and I want him even more. With that decision her whole body felt suddenly as hot as if she were standing before a fire.

Savagely she whispered, "I will end my marriage to Amalric this night by loving you."

She discovered her hands moving as if they had a will of their own to the laces of her page's tunic. She pulled it over her head. Under it she wore only a linen shirt.

Roland drew away from her and rose to his feet. He threw off his black cloak. He pulled off his tunic and undershirt, baring his chest. In the twilight his skin gleamed like old ivory. His muscles were hard, ridged and braided like the coils of a rope.

She rose and went to him and put her hand on his arm. There was a long scar across his chest and belly, and another, a triangular white scar, on his left forearm. She bent over his arm and kissed the scar.

She sat down again with her back against the huge oak tree. He knelt before her and drew off her boots and her red hose. She quivered as his fingertips grazed the calf of her leg.

Standing again, she turned her back to him and raised her arms over her head. He lifted her shirt so gently she hardly felt it leave her body.

Never had she felt so secure, so free. At night in this huge forest an army could never find them.

He drew back into the deeper shadows and quickly slipped out of his remaining garments. He stepped close to her and stood before her as naked as she was. He was beautiful - dark and powerful. He stood gravely with his hands at his sides, letting her look her fill at him. Then he moved toward her.

She felt a sudden need to pause. It was happening so quickly.

"Roland, I am frightened."

He stood still. "Whatever happens here, happens as you will it, mi dons. If you want to stop now, we will. You have already given me more joy than a man has a right to expect, this side of Heaven."

His worshipful words overwhelmed her last fragments of caution. "I want it to be so beautiful. I want it to be everything Love can be at its best." Her words came out between little gasps.

"Looking upon your body, mi dons, I feel as if I see God."

"Then come to me," she said, sinking to the ground at the base of the tree.

They lay side by side. His naked length along her body made her arms and legs feel as if they were melting like wax in a flame. His hard chest rose and fell powerfully against her, and she dug her fingers into the muscles of his upper arms.

Her hand crept up his right arm till she touched the shoulder.

She slid her naked body higher against his. As a mare licks a newborn colt, she licked the broken shoulder.

He groaned softly. Then his musician's hands began to travel lightly over her body. Waves of pleasure rippled through her.

After they had lain together for a time, she gently drew away from him and sat with her back against the rough tree bark. He, too, sat up and faced her, drawing back his knees and crossing his long legs.

The sight filled her with delight. He knows the secret position of Love, she thought. He must know the entire rite. We can enter the gates of Paradise tonight.

She drew herself toward him, and he put his big hands under her. She helped him to first lift her, then to lower her to his lap. As he entered her, a deep groan escaped him. She answered with a cry of pleasure at the sweet, ultimate closeness.

Nicolette had so often dreamed of a moment like this that now it seemed like still another fantasy. But this was real.

He is here, his flesh is solid inside me, he sees me, holds me, loves me.

He said, "This is the best moment of my life."

"Oh, my troubadour."' She clung to him, her legs embracing his hips, shuddering with pleasure.

"This song, I want to sing to the end, mi dons. And yet I long for it never to end."

She knew what he meant. As her mother had explained it to her, in the sacrament of courtly love the man was expected, difficult as it might be, to deny himself the ultimate release. The woman, however, need not resist the passion that sweeps her along. In moments, Nicolette rose to the crest of a wave that made her scream and bite Roland's neck.

Roland seemed to her like a man in the throes of fever. She felt a fine coating of sweat on his skin. She could see faintly in the dark that he grimaced as if in pain, but she knew it was the agony of pleasure controlled.

She ascended peak after peak until she lost count of them. She was panting and sobbing until she thought she might die of her passion. Then she felt transformed. It was beyond bodily pleasure, but still it was bodily pleasure, of the same stuff, yet finer.

She looked into Roland's eyes and they glistened in the starlight, seeing her and yet not seeing her. Something was lifting them up. The forest shadows about them disappeared.

They were rising together through an ocean of golden light. There was no top, no bottom, no shore to this sea of light. Innumerable tiny white lights, brighter than the golden glow, twinkled around them. And they themselves were glowing.

Roland was saying something. "Everything is light. You and I, we are lights. We are stars."

As he spoke, the light grew brighter, changing from gold to the white of molten metal.

"You are the lady of all my visions."

Brighter than the sun now.

"You are my true self."

Brighter than a thousand suns.

"We are in the presence of God."

Now she spoke. "We are God."

The light that was Nicolette and the light that was Roland became one, and the body of that one was this whole infinite sea of light. They could not see the light, not because it blinded them, but because they were the light.

Then she felt Roland gasp and clutch at her, and she could see him, as Roland, again. She saw the gleam of his bared teeth as tremors shook his body. From deep in his throat came a growling sound. She held him close, stroking his hair, until his spasms subsided. The light shattered into glittering fragments that drifted down around them as they sank back to the dark forest floor.

Nicolette felt such joy that she was seized by a storm of weeping.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said, smiling even as her tears trickled down his chest. "The happiness I feel is beyond description."

"You might conceive," he said.

"I will not." But, of course, she knew it could happen. Her mother had imparted to her a secret no man, even one's lover, was permitted to share, the recipe for a concoction which would prevent a man's seed from planting itself in a woman's body. But it had to be drunk within a day of the event, and she could never gather all the herbs and brew them properly in time. Still, the chances were in her favor, she thought. Out of a hundred arrows fired, only one hits the mark.

She was back at Chartres, standing before the Virgin of the Crypt. She knew the time-blackened statue was thousands of years old, made by Romans. She realized suddenly that it was not a statue of Mary, but of the Goddess of Love.

Smiling serenely, the Virgin - or Goddess - spoke to her in Latin: "Amor vincit omnia."

Roland's voice awakened her. "Mi dons. Have we succeeded in ending your marriage?"

She opened her eyes. Thank the Goddess it was not yet dawn. They did not have to part. She felt deep happiness at waking beside him, but it was tinged with sorrow. If only she could waken with him every morning of her life.

"For this time, but not for all time," she said. The sadness weighed on her as she thought how she must leave Roland and go back to her everyday life, perhaps not to see him for months.

"If only I had killed him at the tournament last year. Your bondage would have been ended forever." The pain in his voice made her reach out and touch his cheek.

"What is it, Roland?"

"He forces you to couple with him, does he not?"

"I have not lived with him since last spring. I have been with the royal household since then. And he has gone back to Beziers, to inflict more misery on our unhappy people of Languedoc. Even when I was with him, the mood was rarely on him. He has other women. Let us not speak of it. I have no choice."

She felt his anger like a wave of heat.

"He desecrates you. Just as his father desecrated my mother."

She strained to see his face in the moonless dark.

"Your mother?" He had never spoken of his mother before. "Who is your mother, Roland?"

"My mother is Adalys de Vency - now. Once, years ago, she was a frightened, helpless girl in the power of..."

He stopped. She could hear his heavy breathing, almost as loud and as fast as after love. She felt the hammering of his heart.

"Of whom, Roland?"

"My father!" He spat the words. "Who died the death he deserved at the hands of Arnaut de Vency."

"But is Arnaut de Vency not your father?"

He did not reply, and she sensed him struggling for words. Bursting with impatience, her mind swirling with half-formed questions, vague efforts to make sense out of what he was saying, she waited.

"Amalric's father, Count Stephen de Gobignon, was a leader of the first crusaders to invade Languedoc at the Pope's call. After a few years of warfare, he captured a certain castle and seized for his bed the young girl, orphaned by the war, whose home it was. One night a band of Languedoc patriots led by Arnaut de Vency, to whom she was betrothed, broke into the castle and killed him. But Dame Adalys, my mother, was already with child, you see."

A sudden light broke in her mind. But it was a harsh and terrifying light.

"You said Arnaut de Vency killed your father. That means -"

"Amalric's father was also my father."

"My God!" She felt as if the turf beneath her had opened up suddenly.

His fingers clamped, hard as chains, on the flesh of her upper arms. "I am the bastard son of Count Stephen de Gobignon, begotten of rape. What does that mean to you? Tell me. I have to know. Do you hate me for not telling you before this?"

She recalled how Amalric had spoken of heretics having killed his father. He has no idea, she thought, who really killed his father or who Roland is.

Dear God, she thought, I have been making love to Amalric's half brother. The shock was making her heart beat furiously. She was almost too frightened to speak.

"Roland, I love you," she said.

She felt his grip on her arms ease a little.

He, too, must be terrified of what this truth could do to us.

But can it be true - the same father? Yes, the blue eyes, the tall frame.

"Yes," she said, trying to sound as if it did not matter. "One can see the Gobignon blood in you, if one knows enough to look for it."

"If you were to go to Naples and see my sister Fiorela, you would know we could not have had the same father. She is your height and has dark brown eyes. People in Naples sometimes looked askance at me, but one does not ask embarrassing questions of Arnaut de Vency."

Ah, thought Nicolette, that was what she must make him understand - it did not matter to her.

"Arnaut de Vency," she said, "must be a very good man. For you have been reared with a father's true love. A man's father is the one who shapes and educates him - who forms his soul - not he who sires his body."

"Even so, I must know." There was pain still in Roland's voice. "Does it not repel you, disgust you, to learn that I am Amalric's half brother?"

She searched herself, knowing she must speak quickly to save their love.

She pressed herself against him.

"Father, half brother - those are only words. They do not change the man I have known, and held in my arms this whole night long. What do begetters mean in the face of Love? What power on Earth can command Love? If I learned you were my brother now, it could not stop me from loving you. Love has spoken."

It was growing lighter. She could see his face now as he smiled crookedly at her. Daybreak must be near. She looked up. The sky was a deep purple. She felt all the pain of all the parting lovers in all the aubades she had ever heard.

"You sound like the King when he talks of God," Roland said. "You are both so certain."

The King. She hated to tell him, but she must.

She tightened her arms around him. "Roland, my darling, we shall have to say adieu soon. Before we part, I have to tell you - the time is coming when we shall suffer a far, far longer parting."

His pained, questioning look wrung her heart. She went on quickly. "Amalric has decided to go on crusade. He is taking me with him."

"No!" Roland struck his fist into his palm. "Why? I cannot believe he is mad enough to risk his life in Outremer. And even if he is, why must he drag you with him to share that risk? Damn him!"

"The King and all the great barons are taking their wives."

"The fools. What do they think it will be, another sort of tournament? Every Christian army that has gone up against the Saracens in the last hundred years has been slaughtered." He seized her by the shoulders. "Nicolette, I will not let you go."

Forlorn as she felt, his rage pleased her. She put her hand on his to soothe him.

"The King aims to depart in the spring of twelve hundred and forty-eight. That gives us nearly two years. Until then Amalric will be in Beziers and you and I will be in Paris. We shall have all that time together."

He looked into the distance, still trembling with anger. "I will take you away with me."

For a moment she saw a glimmer of hope, but then the reasons why she could not run away with him came crowding to over-shadow it. "He might hurt my sisters. My children. I cannot abandon them. Besides, he would track us down. He has a whole army. And how would we live? What would we do?"

And, she thought, there was Amalric's plotting against Louis, which only she knew about. She had to stay near Louis and Marguerite, to try to protect them.

He turned to her again, his face hard. "Do you really want to die in the desert? A good many women have gone out there with their crusader husbands and perished with them. And more ended up in Turkish slave markets."

"I will not be anywhere near the fighting."

"How are you so sure of that? Perhaps the fighting will come to you, eh?"

That angered her. "Stop trying to frighten me. I do not want to talk about the crusade anymore. I want to hold you and kiss you. To talk about Love."

The distant church bell tolled for matins.

"Amalric must know how dangerous it is," Roland said. "Whatever else he may be, he is no fool. Why is he going?"

There was nothing Roland could do about Amalric, but at least she could share the burden with him.

"Roland, I think Amalric means to harm the King."

Roland frowned and shook his head. "No one can hate Amalric more than I, but I doubt that he would commit treason. Besides, Louis's mother and brothers would tear Amalric to pieces if he harmed the King."

She drew away from him a little. "That may be exactly why Amalric is going. Hoping that far away in the East, in the midst of war, whatever evil he does will go undetected. And he does not see it as treason. He believes somehow that he has the right to become King."

Roland sighed and said nothing. He let go of her and bowed his head. A shadow of pain crossed his face. She knew he was struggling inside himself, but she could not guess what was in his mind.

Suddenly she felt ill at ease with her nudity. She stood up and began to gather her clothes.

Roland seemed unconscious of his lack of clothing, and of her. He sat between the ridges of two of the great oak tree's roots, staring into the misty forest.

When she was finished dressing he turned to her suddenly, his face full of resolve.

"I will go. I shall take the cross."

His words were like a blow to her heart. "You cannot."

"But I can. I will go along with all the rest of the fools. I will sew the cross on my tunic, even though it will burn my flesh beneath it."

"Not you, Roland! You hate the crusader's cross as much as I do. You have said all along this crusade is a foolish dream. How can you talk of going?"

His smile was taut, bitter. "Amalric changed his mind. So can I."

"But why?"

The anger faded from his face, and a tender light came into it. "If you will not flee with me, I have to go where you are going. Do you think I could let him take you to the other side of the world while I stay behind?"

"Oh, Roland!" She felt a surge of love for him so powerful she felt almost dizzy. She knelt beside him and pressed her head against his bare chest.

"I tried to kill Amalric once and failed," he went on grimly. "Instead he crippled me. I still owe him a death. If he has joined the crusade in the hope that he can kill the King in Outremer, I will join the crusade in the hope that I can kill him." He clenched his right fist so hard it trembled. "To take the cross will betray what I am, but I will do it. I will do it for vengeance."

She raised her head and looked up at him. "Roland, you have been badly hurt. If you think the King and his army are doomed to defeat, what chance have you if you go along with them?"

He sighed. "You mean I am too crippled to defend myself, much less protect you, is that it?"

His words cut deep, but she had to be honest with him.

"You cannot wield a sword."

His mouth tightened. "I do not know that for certain. As you said, it will be nearly two years before the crusade departs. I seem to be getting more use of my arm as time passes. Guido, the Templar whom I met at the song contest, helped me avenge Perrin and train for the tournament." He smiled wryly. "He might be able to show me how to fight as a left-handed crusader."

She shook her head sadly. "A dream, like the King's dream of recapturing Jerusalem."

He shrugged. "Each man needs his dream. No matter how well or poorly I can fight, I would rather die than see you go off to Outremer without me."

He must not drag his broken body to a war he despises, wearing a symbol he hates, all for my sake.

She echoed his earlier words. "I cannot let you do it."

He glowered at her. "Do you command me, mi dons?"

"Command you?" she said, remembering her ill-fated order that he not fight Amalric at the tournament. "No, I shall never do that to you again."

"Then it is settled."

"Oh, Roland!" She was terrified for him. She was angry at him. And she loved him.

"Let us say no more for now," he said. "Whatever happens in Outremer, we shall meet many times before the crusade departs. And we shall take joy in each other as we have this night."

He rose and began to dress while she sat under the tree and watched him.

Now, though still fearful for him, she admitted to herself that all along she had desperately wanted him to go on the crusade. She could not bear to be so long parted from him again. Then a frightful doubt crept into her mind.

He had said he was going because he wanted to avenge himself on Amalric.

Why, out of all the women in the world, had Roland chosen her to love? He must have learned hatred of the Gobignon family at his mother's knee. What a perfect revenge - his mother is raped by Amalric's father, so he debauches Amalric's wife.

No! she shouted in her mind. I will not believe that. I must not even think it. Else my whole life is lost. We entered the light together last night. In that ecstasy he must have experienced what I experienced.

I must trust him.

XIV

DIANE SAT CROSS-LEGGED ON HER STRAW PALLET IN THE TINY WATCHTOWER room, rocking back and forth, a ball of anguish in the very center of her body. I know this world is a place of torment, but never have I suffered so much as these two years and more with Roland.

True, there were days, even weeks, when she was almost able to forget her agony. Life had been much easier all last summer, while Roland was journeying about the country on the King's business. But this September afternoon her longing for Roland had been very strong. Ever since his sudden departure a few hours ago.

At noon a messenger had come for Roland. The servants had left the house for a long-planned visit with relatives living north of Le Marais, so Perrin had let the man in.

After the messenger left, Diane heard Roland swearing. She went downstairs to see what had angered him.

"De Joinville - the new seneschal for Champagne - needs me at Troyes. There are irregularities in the accounting of the summer fair they hold there, the Hot Fair. Perrin and I have to leave at once." His fists were clenched, and a scowl darkened his face.

She did not know why that troubled him so. "It is not a long journey, and Troyes is a pleasant city," she said.

"I agree," he said impatiently. "But I was to meet Nicolette tomorrow, and now I have no way of getting word to her."

Diane's heart fell. The naked look of disappointed love on his face crushed her. But she knew she must not give way to jealousy.

"Could Martin take a message to the palace when he gets back tonight?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I have always used Perrin as a go-between. The fewer people involved, the safer the secret. But I have to take Perrin with me now."

"Martin is very discreet," she said.

She knew Roland would be surprised at how discreet Martin could be. Martin and his father, Lucien, had joined the Cathar faith the year before, and Roland knew nothing of it.

Roland shrugged. "All right. I will write a letter to Nicolette, and I will tell you how Martin can deliver it to her maid."

And now, she thought bitterly as he left the room, I am involved in his affair. By None Roland and Perrin were packed and ready to leave. Roland had handed her the sealed letter. And when the door closed behind him, she had pressed the folded parchment against her breasts.

Oh, dear God, how I wish this were for me!

Now it was nearly evening, and she felt an aching in her groin as if there were knots tied inside her. Sweat was breaking out all over her body. She pushed the heavy book of Cathar scripture she had been reading to the floor.

God forgive me. I have got to get control of myself.

She tried to think clearly about her feelings. I love the power of Roland's mind to understand and to create, and his courage to think his own thoughts even when those around him think only as they are permitted. I want to be one with Roland's beautiful spirit, even as I long to be one with God, but my body tricks me and turns this noble longing into a yearning to know his body. My flesh burns like a soul in Hell. Indeed, my soul would be safer if I were in the hands of the Inquisition's torturers than it is here where I am tortured by love. God, give me the strength to contain myself in his presence.

Brushing away the straw caught in her long blue tunic, she picked up her large, leather-bound volume again and laid it in her lap. This book, kept behind a concealed panel in her room, was all she had left of the holy objects she and Roland had rescued over two years ago from Mont Segur. All the rest - including the whereabouts of the stored-up wealth of the Cathar church - she had passed on to her superior. Now she was trying to prepare, by reading this scripture, for the sermon she would preach tonight to a small group of the faithful.

But she was unable to concentrate, feeling so unworthy to teach others.

Adrienne knows. She is a woman, and she senses what I am feeling. She looks at me so skeptically when I talk to her about the faith. That is why I have not yet won her over.

If my faith weakens, I am nothing. I can only escape this agony by leaving him. Oh, God, why do You not hear my prayers? Why does my superior not listen?

I want to go back home to Languedoc. There are hardly any perfecti left there now. Oh, please, I want to go back to my people.

Sadness overwhelmed her. She wept for her own pain. She wept, too, for her church, which was dying, and for the lost souls who would never know the truth because there were so few left to teach it.

They have arrested Guillaume the Bookseller, she recalled with horror. They must be very close to the rest of us. She shuddered.

She barely heard the knock at the front door of the house, three stories below.

When it was repeated, a little stronger now, her heart stopped. She clasped her hands together in prayer that it would not be the inquisition. If they must find me, let it not be here. If I am caught in this house it will mean the end for everybody - for Roland, for Perrin, for Lucien and Adrienne and Martin.

But if it is the inquisition, it is better if I let them take me when no one is here. Then the others will have some warning and may be able to save themselves.

The knock came again.

Diane lifted the Cathar book into the hollowed-out place and shut the panel that hid it. She hurried downstairs, smoothing her tunic.

She opened the door and saw a lone woman standing in the September dusk, dressed in a robe, a dark veil over her head. Diane let out her breath in a sigh of relief and opened the door wider. There was a donkey tied by the gate.

The woman looked as startled as Diane felt. She gasped and stared wide-eyed at Diane. After a moment, she put her hand to her mouth and shook her head, as if to deny what she was seeing. During this long, silent moment Diane took in the woman's brown robe, tied at the waist with a white cord, and the black veil over a white wimple.

Terror seized Diane. The woman was wearing the habit of the Poor Clares, the order of nuns founded by Friar Francesco of Assisi. She could be an agent of the Inquisition ? Franciscans sometimes were.

Diane stammered a greeting.

Without replying, the woman lurched forward, putting her hand on the doorjamb to steady herself, and took a few steps into the front hall. Is she ill? Diane wondered.

"Who are you?" The woman's voice was hollow. Strangely, she spoke in the Langue d'Oc.

Automatically answering in the same language, Diane murmured the lie she had repeated so many times in the past two years." I am Roland's sister Diane, Madame. How may I serve you?"

She was angry at herself for being so frightened. Why should I tremble before a lone nun as if she were Blanche of Castile herself? She is probably just her to beg.

As she calmed herself she began to scrutinize the strange nun. Franciscans, she knew, never traveled alone. As with the perfecti, their rule was "two by two." On foot, too, not on donkeyback. And this one hardly looked like a beggar. She was young and very pretty, with huge dark brown eyes, which now narrowed in apparent anger as she stared at Diane.

"That is a lie," she said. "Roland has a sister, named Fiorela, who is presently living in Naples. And she has dark hair and brown eyes."

Taken aback, Diane could not speak. Her heartbeat quickened painfully.

"Where is Roland?" the young woman snapped, her voice suddenly sharp and imperious. "Where is Perrin?"

Diane suddenly recognized her. Nicolette! The day of that terrible tournament, she had seen her from a distance, sitting in the gallery reserved for the nobility. She must have come today thinking to visit Roland. Instead she finds -

"You speak the Langue d'Oc, but I know you are not his sister," Nicolette said again. "Why do you claim to be? I demand that you tell me who you are at once."

Diane struggled to control herself. She was trembling, sick at heart. She felt herself in a trap that could destroy the lives of Roland, Nicolette, and herself.

She stared at Nicolette. So beautiful, with her great, flashing eyes, that flawless olive skin. The loose-fitting brown robe did not quite conceal Nicolette's proud breasts.

"I know that you are the Countess de Gobignon, Madame," she began hesitantly. "Roland has told me much about you."

She made the curtsy due Nicolette's rank.

"Indeed," said Nicolette coldly. "Well, he has not told me a word about you. Why would he have kept your presence here a secret? I thought it would delight him if I came to him unexpectedly in disguise. I never thought he was hiding this from me."

"Madame, if Roland were here he could explain -"

"I am sure he could." Nicolette's cheeks were flushed with anger. "He has a clever tongue, does he not? For explanations, for words of love, for other things. I am sure you know that. If he were here, though, I would give him no time for explanations."

Diane drew a deep breath to give herself strength, and then spoke.

"Madame, you must not believe evil of Roland. He has always been faithful to you. I will tell you who I am. By doing that I put myself at your mercy. You may then have me killed if you wish."

"Living with a troubadour is not a capital offense," said Nicolette bitingly.

"Please listen, Madame. I am here because Roland is hiding me from the Inquisition. I am one who has received the great Sacrament of my church called the consolamentum. I am known as a perfecta, though I feel far from perfect. We never touch men. I was a friend of Roland from our childhood. He did not tell you he is hiding me here because that would make you an accomplice to his crime. So you see, now his life is in your hands, too."

She paused, waiting anxiously.

Nicolette took a step back, looking Diane up and down.

"A Cathar woman. Yes, you do have that look about you ? pale and thin and pious. Still, I can see what Roland sees in you, with your skin so fair, and your hair like red gold. But where is your black gown? I thought the perfecti always had to dress in black."

Despite her anxiety, Diane smiled at the trivial question. "Oh, no, Madame. To protect our lives we are recently dispensed from that rule. "

"I see," said Nicolette coldly. "How fortunate for you, since blue looks so well on you. And what other rules can you dispense with to protect your life, Demoiselle Perfecta? Is it possible that you can make love to a man if he shelters you from the Inquisition?"

Diane opened her mouth to protest, just as Nicolette snapped, "How long have you been living with him?"

Feeling sick with fear, less for herself than for Roland and his household, Diane nonetheless knew she had to plunge on. Nothing she said now could make things worse.

"I came to this house in April of twelve hundred and forty-four, more than two years ago, Madame," she began.

Nicolette stood and listened, fists clenched at her sides, as Diane quietly told her how Roland had slipped into the Cathar stronghold and brought her out safely. As Diane talked, tears ran freely down Nicolette's face.

Diane felt more and more unsure of herself. This was not the reaction she had hoped for.

"At last I understand. I always wanted to know, and he would not tell me." Nicolette's words were interrupted by convulsive sobs. "Why he went to Languedoc. Why he suddenly joined the crusading army. Led by my husband." She looked meaningfully at Diane as she said this last, but Diane did not understand why.

Nicolette went on, still weeping, "He had already pledged his love for me then, you see. I was awaiting the right moment for our first secret meeting. Then he disappeared."

Groaning, Nicolette put her hands over her face and bent almost double. Then she straightened up abruptly. "He loves you, does he not?"

A wave of dismay washed over Diane's heart.

"As I told you, a perfecta may have nothing to do with men. I swear to you, Madame, I have been faithful to my sacrament. I have forbidden him to speak of love to me."

I am evading her question, she told herself, and that is as bad as lying.

"If you had to forbid him to speak of love, then he does love you."

From under her tunic Nicolette drew a dagger. With a trembling hand she held the point to her breast.

Diane screamed and reached out to her.

"Come any closer, and I will stab myself," Nicolette whispered, both hands now firmly wrapped around the handle. "Perhaps you would like to see me kill myself. You have already done so much to kill me."

Diane twitched her hands helplessly. "He loves you, Madame, I know he does."

"Do you expect me to believe he truly loves me," Nicolette said, "when you have lived with him for two years?"

Nicolette threw the dagger to the floor. It landed point first and stood quivering upright in the oaken boards.

"Listen to me," Diane pleaded. "He did love me once, long ago, when we were little more than children. He came to Mont Segur for the sake of that love. I told him then that there could never be anything between us. I did not even want to be rescued, Madame. Can you understand that? I wanted to die there on the mountain with brothers and sisters of my faith. There can be nothing between Roland and me now, nothing."

And how many nights have I suffered the torments of the damned because there can be nothing?

"Then why," Nicolette demanded, "have you stayed for two years in the house of this troubadour, this writer of scurrilous songs, this adulterer? You, who are so pure, so perfect!"

"His home is only a refuge for me, Madame. Only that."

She had never in her life needed so much to be believed, and never had her words sounded more hollow.

Nicolette peered at her. "You really expect me to take your word," she said wonderingly, "that you have lived under the roof of such a man as Roland for two years, and you have never touched each other. "

Putting those two anguished years into her voice, Diane said, "It is the truth, Madame."

Nicolette stared deep into her eyes without speaking.

Then she said, "All the Cathars I have ever known have been scrupulously honest. And you would not have admitted that you are a Cathar if you were going to lie to me about you and Roland."

Her shoulders slumped, and some of the life went out of her voice.

"If what you say is true, that only makes it worse, you see. Because it shows how deeply he feels about you." She raised her head, and her dark eyes, full of suffering, held Diane's. "He left Paris without a word to me and rushed to Mont Segur to rescue you. He found that you were a perfecta and he could not have you. But still he brought you back here and kept you in his house, at great peril, and for the sake of your vow he has never touched you. So he started courting me again, as second best. Only because he could not have you. That is how it must have happened. I am not first in his heart, you are. You are the one he really loves. "

Diane felt a terrible helplessness. Disaster was falling upon all of them, and she could not stop it.

"As a sister, Nicolette. He loves me only as a sister."

"You have no right to address me by my first name." Nicolette's tone was angry, but Diane heard the despair beneath.

"Madame, the love that matters is not our love for each other as woman and man, but our love for God and for one another as spirits. That is what we are - spirits. These male and female bodies are only prisons. To love someone's body is like loving a dungeon."

"Stop preaching at me," Nicolette snapped.

"But it is the truth," Diane cried. "I have to say it."

"It is a dreadful lie!" There was hatred in Nicolette's eyes. "You deserve to be burned for saying such things."

Nicolette drew herself up stiffly. "Tell Roland that if he comes near me again, I will deliver him to my husband and his knights. I will confess to adultery and let my husband do whatever he wishes with Roland and me. Now I know that is what it was." She started to sob again. "Common, low adultery. Not Love. Not Love at all."

Nicolette reeled toward the still-open door. Again Diane put out a hand to help her, but Nicolette struck it away. She all but fell through the door into the darkened front yard.

Diane stood frozen as she heard Nicolette being sick outside the door.

After a while there were footsteps stumbling away, then the slow clip-clop of a donkey's hooves. Diane went to the door and gently closed it. She turned and stared at the dagger still upright in the floor.

XV

THE RAIN WAS NOT ENOUGH TO KEEP NICOLETTE FROM HER DAILY RIDE, but it was soaking through her thick brown cloak and raising a reek of wet wool. Even though she wore a broad-brimmed leather hat over her hood, her face was wet.

Her palfrey did not seem to mind the wet weather. The aging mare ambled contentedly up the stony mountain road, stopping every so often to nibble at tufts of brown grass growing out of the bare slope on their left.

It was midday, but it seemed like twilight. It is as miserable as Paris, she thought. Languedoc is not at its best in November.

The gloom of the day was well matched to Nicolette's mood. Since that terrible moment when she had learned the truth about Roland, the whole world had gone gray, as if she were suddenly color-blind.

Foolish of me to be out on such a day. I could take a chill, and that would be doubly dangerous just now.

For though she felt dead, there was life growing inside her. For nearly two months now she had known it: she was with child. But sadness weighed as heavily on her as the thick low clouds that seemed to press down on her head. All she could think was, I do not, for myself, care whether I live or die in childbirth.

If I do die, I shall surely have time to confess to a priest what I did with Roland. At least I will not go to Hell.

I do not think I believe in Hell anyway. Or in anything. Not even Love. Especially not Love.

The six mounted guards who, by Amalric's orders, here accompanied her everywhere, were probably cursing her for dragging them out in this weather. They'd rather be drinking wine and toasting their feet at a fire. But this was occupied country, and the patriots of Languedoc still struck at the invader from time to time. It would be foolish for the wife of the royal seneschal to go riding in the hills around Beziers alone, and so they must perforce don their heavy helmets and hauberks, buckle on their swords, and ride along with her.

She looked back to where Beziers crowned a clifftop over the river Orb. A mist had crept up the river from the sea and now hid most of the city, leaving visible only the red-tiled, cone-roofed towers of the city walls and the spires of the churches. She could see the upper half of the yellow stone citadel, in which she lived with Amalric. He was there now, writing requisition orders for supplies for King Louis's crusade.

The fathers and grandfathers of these men riding with her could have been among those who massacred the people of Beziers forty years ago. Her escorts were all good-looking blond Franks with straight noses and square chins. Amalric tended to favor such men.

Sire Guy d'Etampes, the young knight who was Amalric's constable, kept up a running flow of conversation. He apparently considered it his duty to entertain her. But all he could talk about was war - the coming crusade. She recalled how she had talked to Roland about going on crusade, and the ache in her heart turned to a sharp pain.

"These are good years for the peasants," d'Etampes said. "The King's agents are everywhere, buying up the harvest. It will be another two summers before we leave, but they are already stockpiling hay and wheat at Aigues-Mortes." He turned and grinned at her. "At least when it is time to embark our party will have a short journey. Aigues-Mortes is but twenty-five leagues up the coast from here."

"I know where Aigues-Mortes is, Messire," said Nicolette tartly, cutting him off. "After all, I was born in this country."

"Excuse me, Madame. I had forgotten." D'Etampes turned away, using a corner of his blue woolen mantle to wipe from his eyes the beaded moisture that ran down from his conical helmet. He pulled his hood over his head, protecting his face from the drizzle and obscuring it.

The young man was abashed, Nicolette saw. He wanted her to like him. He had his eye, she knew, on Isabelle, who would be an excellent match for a knight of middle rank like himself. This presumptuous knight does not realize that I have no influence at all with Amalric. Isabelle will go to whomever her father picks out.

And, she told herself, unless Amalric sires a son, he will never accept anyone below a count for Isabelle. Whoever marries Isabelle will inherit the Gobignon holdings.

What if this child I am carrying is a boy? At that thought, the pain in her heart hurt like a sudden knife wound.

Roland's baby.

There were times when she prayed that she would lose the baby. At others she wanted it desperately, for it was all of Roland she had left. Today she felt loving and protective toward it. This time she would be a better mother.

She saw a shallow cleft in the mountainside ahead. Nestled in it under bare tan cliffs was a small chapel, half fallen to ruin. She had seen dozens of such decaying churches in this country. Amalric, she thought, hadn't made Catholicism very popular in Languedoc.

As her party approached the church she noticed two men in brown robes sitting in the doorway. As she and her escort came near, they stood up. Franciscan friars. Nicolette remembered the Franciscan habit she had worn only two months ago.

Oh, Roland, now we have lost each other. Forever.

The two friars trotted out to intercept the riders, their robes flapping in their unseemly haste. You would not see perfecti scrambling to beg like that, Nicolette thought.

"Dirty vagabonds," said Guy d'Etampes. "Want us to whip them out of the way, Madame?"

Nicolette was surprised. D'Etampes, after all, was a Catholic, and these were friars. Ah, she realized, but Franciscans are dedicated to poverty. The respectable abhor poverty.

"These men have taken a vow to humble themselves by living only on charity," said Nicolette. "Would you be strong enough to live that way, do you think?"

The young knight blushed angrily.

Now the friars were only a few feet away, and Nicolette observed that they were indeed wretched-looking. Their hair was wild and tangled. They had short, greasy beards. Their bare feet and legs were covered with sores and caked with mud. Nicolette squirmed to think of the fleas and lice that must be crawling around in those dirty robes. But it must take character to live like that, she thought, her revulsion mixed with admiration.

The taller of the two said, "The blessing of Monseigneur Jesus on the cheerful giver, Madame."

The voice stopped her heart.

Roland.

She had to clutch the pommel of her saddle with both hands to keep from falling. Dizzy, she quickly looked away, out over the hills toward Beziers, where Amalric was.

If Amalric knew he was here...

She looked back again at the friar. In her grief might she not have deluded herself?

No, it was he. Under the dirt, the untrimmed hair and beard, were the same sharp features she knew so well. Three months ago in the forest between Chartres and Paris, she had touched that face with her fingertips.

The deformed right shoulder bulked under the shabby frieze. Out of the dark face burning blue eyes met hers.

He must have chosen the Franciscan robe to remind her of the disguise she had worn to his house. Was he trying to provoke her? Had he come all this distance looking for death?

She opened her mouth. All she had to do was tell d'Etampes that this was Orlando of Perugia. Almost certainly Amalric had warned d'Etampes about the troubadour, possibly ordered him to kill Roland on sight.

No. She hated Roland for his faithlessness, but she could not bear to end his life.

She looked past Roland and saw that the other friar was Perrin, a faint smile playing about his lips and a question in his eyes. What a chance Perrin is taking, she thought. Roland does not deserve such a loyal companion. Shrewd of you, Roland, bringing him along. Even if I wanted to expose you, I could never do anything to hurt Perrin.

Excitement coursed all through her. Her body seemed to her like a limb that had gone numb and was waking up with painful prickings. The ache she had felt these past months was very much present, but there were now other stirring sensations, too. I feel alive again, she told herself with surprise.

She had to talk to Roland. Even if only to tell him how much he had hurt her, how she hated him. And she wanted to hear what he had to say. In the aftermath of her discovery of his perfidy, her broken-hearted flight from Paris to Beziers, the one thing she regretted was that she had not waited to meet him face to face.

And whatever I do, I will not let him talk me into forgiving him.

She realized suddenly that everyone - Roland and Perrin, Guy d'Etampes and the men-at-arms - was looking at her.

D'Etampes, she remembered, was carrying her purse. "Sire Guy," she said, "a silver denier for each of these good friars."

"Madame will be blessed a hundredfold for her kindness to Saint Francesco's little brothers," said Roland, reaching for the coins Sire Guy held out disdainfully. Roland dropped them into a leather scrip tied to the rope around his waist.

"Off with you now," d'Etampes said curtly.

"Thank you, Messire," said Roland with a bow. "But perhaps I can offer some spiritual recompense for your kindness. I will gladly hear the confession of anyone in your party who feels the need to make peace with our heavenly Father."

So this is the reason he came here, thought Nicolette.

"Your pardon, reverend friar," said d'Etampes with elaborate sarcasm, "but I doubt that any of us would want to get close enough to you to make our confession. Thanks all the same, and good day to you." The men laughed.

"These soldiers of the cross may not need your shrift, good friar," said Nicolette quickly, "but I believe that sometimes God ordains chance meetings for our greater good."

D'Etampes snapped his helmeted head around to stare at her, astonished.

"And I have a special admiration for the Franciscan order," she went on. "Would you vouchsafe to hear my confession?" she said to the ragged-looking friar who was Roland.

D'Etampes looked annoyed and anxious. "Madame, you have no idea who this fellow is. He may not even be a true friar."

D'Etampes's concern was not altogether foolish. Languedoc patriots had been known to disguise themselves as Catholic clergy.

"I am sure these friars will not mind if you search them, and you can stand near enough to protect me, as long as you are out of earshot."

"Search them?" said Sire Guy, staring disgustedly at the dirty pair in their ragged robes.

He is afraid of those fleas and lice, she thought. "Do as you think best," she said. "I shall wait in the chapel out of the rain."

Most of the chapel was open to the sky, the roof long since stripped away by wood-hungry peasants. She could shelter herself, she saw, by the altar, which was protected by a vault of stone.

She trembled as she anticipated their talk. She feared she might utter words of hatred, and she dreaded even more what she might hear from him.

Dare I tell him about the child? Her body was cold with fright. What would he do to keep his child from falling into Amalric's hands?

The rhythmic drip of rainwater echoed like the tapping of countless tiny hammers. She watched a man-at-arms, ordered by Guy d'Etampes, hastily pat Roland's ragged frieze robe. A paltry search, if Roland really were a Languedoc patriot with murder on his mind.

Then, with his hands folded before him, Roland was pacing over the flagstone floor. Sire Guy, she noticed, stood in the doorway of the chapel, glowering at Roland's back.

Roland trembled as he approached the small figure seated by the altar. He ached to run to her, kneel to her, beg her forgiveness. But he had to keep up his pretense.

Was there anything he could say to her that would win her back? She had not denounced him at once. That might be a hopeful sign.

She took off her leather hat and looked up at him, and he saw hatred smoldering in her eyes. His heart sank. Yet what delight, even in his pain, to see her face again.

He tried to smile. "You had better kneel if you want to make this look like a real confession," he said softly.

Glaring at him, she slowly dropped to her knees.

"It is you who should be kneeling to me," she whispered fiercely. "If I had seen you in Paris you would be two months dead. I could still do it. I have my dagger with me."

He felt an impulse to test her, to tear open his friar's robe and bare his chest. I would rather die here, looking at her, than anywhere else.

He thought of the blade strapped to the inside of his thigh, where no self-respecting knight would ever put his hand.

"I have my weapon, too. Your husband's vassals are not very expert."

He saw her lips twitch in a little smile. Hope leaped up in him.

He seated himself on the altar steps, a discreet distance from her but close enough so that they could talk in low voices. He could smell the dirt and stale sweat on his body and was glad of the space between them.

How to begin? He had composed hundreds of speeches in his mind as he and Perrin traveled south. At night, lying beside the road on cold stones, he had stared up at the pitiless November stars and wondered what he could say that would move her. Now the moment to speak had come, and he felt as if he were falling into emptiness. He forced the words out through a constricted throat.

"You are still mi dons," he said. "My life is at your disposal. I have come to let you do as you will with me. In my soul, I do indeed kneel before you, dumbly adoring you, humbly imploring you."

He looked at her and saw in the dim light that filtered down through the broken roof of the church that her face was flushed with anger.

"How dare you speak so?" she whispered. "You have betrayed every vow we made to each other." Tears sparkled in her eyes. "You love another woman."

He shook his head. "I loved another woman. When I learned that Diane had become a perfecta, I felt as if she had died. I do not deny that she holds a special place in my heart, but it is a niche for a saint's statue. You are the only one now."

But even as he spoke, he searched his heart, as he had so many times before. Did he really feel as if Diane were dead? When he knew so well that she was living, and in his house? Part of the pain he felt now rose from the knowledge that all this was his fault. He could have sent Diane away. She had begged him to send her away. And yet he had never been able to let her go. He had clung to her, and now this was the result.

"I feel about you as you say you feel about Diane," Nicolette said, her voice breaking. "As if you had died."

It is hopeless, he thought. She will never understand. She will never forgive me.

But something in him would not give up.

"You must believe that I never touched Diane. I have had nothing to do with any woman since the day we met in the secret room at Guillaume's. Since long before that."

He looked away. Confessors do not stare at their penitents.

She asked, "What is to become of Guillaume?"

He was surprised at her change of subject.

"He has been lucky. They have not been able to prove heresy against him. Of course, inquisitors can find evidence to prove anything they want to, but the King himself asked them to be fair with Guillaume. I managed to put in a word. So the Inquisition only confiscated his house and his books - burned quite a few - and ordered him out of Paris. He will move to England. No Inquisition there."

"What about... our room?" He heard mourning in her voice.

He laughed bitterly. "I imagine it looks quite different now. The Dominicans are using the house to quarter their novices."

"So the place where we first pledged our love no longer exists." She was struggling, he sensed, to hold back tears. "Just as well. I came to believe your Diane when she said you and she had never made love, and I believe you now. But if you had been true to the laws of Love, you would have remained faithful to her, even if you could never have her. You did not have the strength for that, so you made do with me. Made do! You pretended to me that I was first in your heart."

Roland stretched out a hand to her, then drew it back. He heard a clatter of metal and turned to the doorway of the chapel. The leader of her escort had taken a step forward, hand on sword hilt. She waved him back.

Let him come, Roland thought. I would gladly die fighting.

But his battle now was for Nicolette's love.

"If I came all this way," he said, "to tell you anything, it is this: yes, Diane was in my heart before you. I knew and loved her from the time I was a boy. But you alone are in my heart now. Believe me!"

He stared unblinking at her till his eyes hurt. Would she believe him?

She looked back at him, and he saw love burning in her eyes. But then her eyes wavered, and he saw the doubt. His heart turned to stone.

"Even if what you say were altogether true," she said slowly, "what was between us must now be over forever."

There was something else, he realized, something she had not told him. What else could come between them?

"What do you mean? Why?"

"Because I am with child."

It was as if she had spoken in a language he did not understand. Then he reeled, almost falling from the stone he was seated on. Everything went dark before his eyes.

Amalric? Rage poured through his body.

No. That night in the forest last August.

His chest filled up with fear for her. What if Amalric found out? Then there was a little flicker of joy. I have fathered a child. Nicolette is going to have my baby.

He realized he had been silent for a long time.

"It is mine, of course," he said.

Her eyes narrowed and her face flushed. He realized with dismay that he had made her angry. Her low, bitter laugh made him wince inwardly.

"The baby is mine, of course. I am the one who is carrying it."

"Does your husband know?"

She chuckled mirthlessly.

"My husband is pleased and has no reason to doubt that he is the child's father. In my grief after the visit to your house, I begged the Queen to let me come here, and left almost at once. Where else could I go? After all, this is my country, and he is my husband."

Her voice broke, and his heart with it.

Carrying my child and thinking I betrayed her. My God, how she has suffered! If only I could take her in my arms.

"Amalric," she went on, "had already exercised his marital rights with me before I even realized I was with child. And I have tried to restore good will with him. It is not difficult. He does love me, you know, in his crude way. I will go to my sisters at Chateau Lumel when the time approaches for the lying in. If need be, my sisters can delay the announcement of the birth a week or two." She paused, choking back a sob. "Have I not shown foresight on my child's behalf?" she added bitterly.

She cannot do this.

It is mine, he thought. Not Amalric's. It has my blood. And my mother's.

And my father's. But he put that unbearable thought out of his mind.

The child of Roland de Vency in the house of Amalric de Gobignon? He felt himself growing angry. Not my child! Never!

"Then what?" said Roland in a strangled tone. "After the child is born?"

"Why, then, it will be reared as the fourth child of the Count and Countess de Gobignon. In the summer after next the crusade will embark, and I shall accompany Monseigneur. The baby will be old enough to stay behind, with my family or with Amalric's."

The very foundations of the Earth seemed to rock under him. "You cannot let Amalric have our child," he whispered. "My God, do you not see what you would be doing? If I am the father, as I must be, then this infant is my mother's grandchild. The very blood in this infant's veins betrayed into the hands of our worst enemy?"

"What you are saying makes no sense," she said. "People's fates are not decided by their blood. Do you belong to the Gobignon family because you have Gobignon blood?"

No! he thought. But I was rescued from the Gobignon family.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had lost not only Nicolette, but the child they had given life to on that beautiful summer night.

Now I know what Hell is.

"I know I drove you to this," he said. "That is why I have abandoned my duties, traveled from Paris on foot, risked my life to talk to you in front of your husband's guards."

"You admit that you wronged me?"

He spread his hands. "I admit I should have told you the truth from the beginning. But I thought I was protecting you. You would have been an accomplice to the hiding of a heretic."

But it sounded weak even to him. Even if there had been no danger, he could not have told her about Diane. Yet if there had been no danger, Diane would not have been hiding with him. Fear, fear of the Inquisition, had caused it all.

Fear - or love?

"No," she said. "You were afraid I would refuse your love if I knew about Diane."

He had now felt the pain for so long that his chest was numb.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, bowing his head in submission. "I have wronged you, and I accept the pain of losing you as my just desert. But what about justice for my... for the child? The child has no voice here. You are deciding its fate. "

"There are many ways to look at it," she said pitilessly. "Amalric's father got a bastard on your mother. Now that bastard has gotten another bastard on Amalric's wife. The Vencys have been avenged on the Gobignons. If not on the field of battle, at least in the bedchamber."

He shut his eyes, the pain overwhelming him. He was breathing heavily, as if he were crushed under an enormous weight.

"That is the cruelest thing anybody has ever said to me."

"It is easy to be cruel, Roland, when you have been hurt as I have. When the door to your house opened and I saw that woman and knew in an instant that all I cared about in this world and the next had been betrayed, that, too, was cruelty."

Frantic in his suffering, he struck back at her.

"It is you who betray Love, not me. You are giving yourself and the child our love has created to the enemy of our love."

"Dear God, what would you have me do?" she said. "Run away with you? Two paupers - and later three - wandering the roads of Christendom, waiting for Amalric's men to hunt us down? A child needs protection, a home, family."

In his mind he saw Amalric and Hugues de Gobignon, and his heart filled with loathing.

"Family? The Gobignons? I would rather see a child of mine dead than raised as a Gobignon. You would sell your baby's soul, and your own, for the gold of the Gobignons? Does Love not mean anything to you at all?"

"How dare you lecture me about Love?" she snapped. "The word is sullied on your lips."

He felt the anger growing in him.

"You blame me for driving you back to Amalric. You say it is my fault that you have decided to let our child be raised as Amalric's. All this, you say, is because I hid Diane from you. Tell me, Madame, suppose Diane did not exist. You would still be pregnant, would you not? And would you not still have run back to Amalric?"

Her face whitened, and the anger drained out of it. Still kneeling, she cast her eyes down at the space of floor between them.

After a while she said, "I do not know. Maybe I would have run away with you. But what difference does it make now? All I know is I am lucky to have found out about that woman when I did. How much more awful if I had learned only when my child and I were helpless and dependent on you?"

"But you and your child will be dependent upon Amalric. Do you truly believe that will be better?" Roland broke off.

"I cannot bear the thought of you in his embrace," he said at last.

He watched the struggle in her face. Her love for him and her hatred for what she thought was his faithlessness. Her fear for her baby. Her fear of the love that had hurt her so badly.

Her face hardened. She is protecting herself, he realized. Herself and the child.

"It does not matter to me," she said. "One Gobignon brother is much like another. "

Though he had braced himself for the blow she would strike, he felt as if she had plunged a knife into him.

"You are reckless, Nicolette. There is a way to ensure that neither you nor my child will ever be possessed by Amalric. I told you, your guards were not very careful when they searched me."

"I am not afraid of you, Roland."

Her eyes widened fiercely and her kneeling body tensed. She was ready to fight him, he realized, for her own life and the baby's.

"And I hope you need never fear me. But I am on the brink of madness now. Do not push me over. Do not say more."

All was lost, he thought. He was helpless. There was nothing left for him but to go back to Paris. Their love was dead. The child would be Amalric's.

He made the sign of the cross over her with his right hand, slowly and almost reverently. "I bless you with the sign of suffering. Bless yourself like a good penitent. And go from me in peace." His voice cracked on those last words, and tears blinded his eyes.

Still she knelt there. "What will you do, Roland?"

He tried to take a last look at her through the tears. He wanted to reach out and stroke that smooth olive cheek. What will I do? he thought. God knows. Try to find some honorable way to die.

"Forget me," he said. "If you can."

She blessed herself with a shaking hand, keeping up the appearance of confession for the watching guards, and stood up. Roland turned his head away, gazing fixedly into the shadows of the chapel.

* * *

As she stumbled down the nave under the open sky, the rain on her face mingled with her tears.

She was still crying uncontrollably much later, as the horses picked their way back down the mountain path toward Beziers. Sire Guy kept casting sidelong glances at her but said nothing. He wonders what I confessed, she thought in her pain, to make me cry so much.

When they were halfway to the city he said, "Madame, I do know something of the world. If you were truly a great sinner, you would not weep so after confessing."

Her tears stopped abruptly. This is a decent man, she thought, but people are absolutely opaque to him. He can't see into hearts. Otherwise he would not serve Amalric. Leaden despair cloaked her. She had no courtesy left for Sire Guy.

"Be silent, Messire. You understand nothing."

They rode the rest of the way back to her castle ? her prison - in silence.

XVI

DIANE STIFFENED WITH FEAR AS SHE HEARD ROLAND'S FOOTSTEPS ON THE stairs. All winter long, since he came back from Beziers and his encounter with Nicolette, he had not been himself. His speech was unrelievedly bitter. He drank. He brooded. Sometimes he would stare at Diane for long moments without saying anything.

I am the cause of his suffering, she accused herself. In spite of my superior, I should not have stayed here. I was weak, because I wanted to be safe and I wanted to be near Roland. And now I have ruined his life.

The signs of his ruin lay on the table in the front hall ? a stout walking stick as tall as a man, a simple leather bag, and a cross of red silk. That Roland should possess these things meant he was turning his back on everything he had lived for. And this time that cross was no disguise, as at Mont Segur. Feeling sick, as if the things on the table had somehow fouled the air in the room, she opened the front door and let in the pleasant spring breeze.

And yet what could be more harmless than the pilgrim's staff and the leather scrip in which he carries a few coins and a bit of food? Who is more peaceable than a pilgrim? And what could be more a symbol of love than the cross, made sacred by Jesus Christ? How do such innocent articles allow knights to bring looting and murder to faraway peoples?

Roland, she knew, had taken the crusader's oath yesterday in a great May Day ceremony at Notre-Dame cathedral. But he had not brought the crusader's paraphernalia home. She had heard him stagger into the house in the blackest part of the night. This morning a royal messenger had brought the objects, saying that Roland had left them at the palace.

Now she watched Roland's scuffed black boots come slowly down the steep stairs. At the bottom he stopped and blinked at the sunlight streaming in through the open front door. His wine- stained maroon tunic and black hose were so wrinkled he must have slept in them.

"The sun already on this side of the house?" he said. "Can it be afternoon?"

"It is a beautiful day," said Diane.

He grinned at her sourly, drawing his mouth up on the left side. "Beautiful days are the handiwork of the evil god, is not that what you Cathars say? For my part, blue skies and sunshine only make me want to go back to bed."

His face was waxen and furrowed after a night of heavy drinking. His bitterness seemed deeper than ever today. She could have wept for him.

"The King gave a great banquet for all us new crusaders last night," he said with a smile that was more a sneer. "Twelve courses. Quarter of bear and boar's head. And the Queen gave me some happy news."

Whatever the news, it was probably the reason for his drinking last night. She waited for him to tell her.

"Nicolette is delivered of a son," he said abruptly. "My son. My son will be the Count de Gobignon one day. Think of that."

Sorrow for him engulfed her. Tears burned her eyelids. The poor man. To have the only child he has ever sired in the hands of his worst enemy. She wanted to stroke his head to comfort him.

"Oh, no," was all she could say aloud.

I wish it had been me. I wish he had given me that baby. What am I saying? God forgive me!

"I am horribly thirsty," said Roland. "And after all I drank last night even a glimpse of wine would make me vomit. You perfecti are wise never to drink wine." He sighed. "But then, how do you wash away your sorrows?"

We do not, thought Diane. We live with them always.

"May I have some of that well water you drink?"

Diane went to the kitchen and got her earthenware water pitcher. Through the open kitchen door she spied Perrin in the field beyond the garden, swinging a great two-handed sword around his head. The sun glinted on the knee-length hauberk he wore as part of his practicing. So, he is going, too. He will wear the cross and kill people, because his loyalty to Roland comes before everything else. Even though he is one of us now.

She went back and poured water into Roland's tin cup. He swallowed it all and held out the vessel for more.

"Where are the others?" He was staring at her oddly, and she nervously smoothed the skirt of her blue gown.

"Perrin is in the meadow, exercising with his sword. Adrienne and Lucien are marketing. The boy is grooming your horses." She gestured at the symbols of pilgrimage and crusade. "The palace sent those."

"Oh, yes. Those.

"Perrin is in marvelous condition, you know. He made the journey to Beziers and back on foot with me with never a complaint. You would never know he had been... wounded."

She looked at Roland's own hunched shoulder and her heart melted. This man has been wounded inside and out. He could never wield a two-handed sword the way she had just seen Perrin doing.

"Roland, are you actually thinking of fighting in this crusade?"

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Why does one go on crusade, if not to fight? What a strange question!"

"But you cannot raise your right arm above shoulder level. How can you fight?"

"I have another good arm, and there are many weapons besides the two-handed sword."

"Oh, Roland. You will throw your life away if you go into battle."

He laughed again. "I can do other things. The King found out that I learned Arabic in Sicily, and he thinks that could be useful. He has already got me teaching the Arab numbering system to the palace clerks. I doubt we shall do much talking with the Saracens, but if we do, I can help there."

"But if you have to fight, any Saracen you meet will have the advantage."

"I will be better prepared than you might think. Do you remember Sire Guido, the Templar who brought Perrin here that night? He has invited me to train at their headquarters over in the Marais. And the King's army leaves for Outremer not this summer, but the next, in twelve hundred and forty-eight. I can acquire great skill in that time. The Templars know more about the art of war than anyone else. Many have lost a limb to the Turks and can still give a good account of themselves in battle."

She remembered Guido Bruchesi. He had frightened her by seeming to see right through her pretense of being Roland's sister.

"I will never forget the night Guido brought poor Perrin here," he said. "You were splendid, Diane." Suddenly he looked intently into her eyes. "How can you be such a fine physician when you believe that the body is evil?"

"We do not think the body is evil, just that it is, in a way, an illusion. Pain itself is real. We think we have a duty to ease the sufferings of our brothers and sisters, whatever its source."

But she was not convincing herself. I am tempted, too, to believe in the beauty of the body. And I feel it in me, the power of that Love he worships.

Roland was smiling that twisted smile of his again, with as much anger in it as pleasure.

"If you do not hate the flesh, if you feel obliged to ease suffering" - he moved closer to her, and suddenly she was frightened - "why will you not be mine?"

Terror shot through her like an arrow. "Roland, you promised you would never speak of such things to me." She moved so that the table was between them. "You are disturbed now because of Nicolette and your son. I cannot take her place."

"No, and she could not take your place. Well, she seemed to for a while. But she was the first to see the truth - that I never really stopped loving you. I hid it from myself. It is you whom Love has chosen for me. It is you I have loved - first, last, and always. Long ago I wrote, 'That which delights both woman and man is praise to Him Who made them.' I wrote those words for you. And what I feel for you is not evil. It is good."

All the longing for him that had ever tormented her now rose up within her; like a thirst, but one that she felt not merely in her throat but in her arms and legs, chest and belly, in her fingertips. It clamored to be quenched, and it would be only if she pressed her mouth against him. It was not Roland who terrified her as she backed away, but her own body.

"Diane, your faith asks too much of human beings. I saw young men and women give themselves to the flames at Mont Segur. You, too, are immolating yourself day after day by denying Love."

My body is burning right now, she thought.

She tried to think of her faith, what Bishop Bertran would say if he could advise her.

"Roland, the love you are speaking of is only a momentary fleshly pleasure. Would you have me destroy myself for that?"

But how hollow those words sounded, against her need of him.

He was circling the table. She moved in the opposite direction.

"What you are doing is destroying yourself, Diane. You are destroying both of us."

"There is an afterlife, Roland. I know it."

"There can be another life for us right here on Earth." He gestured angrily at the staff, scrip, and cross. "Is this my future? The stake and the flames, is that your future? There are places you and I could be safe together. The Alpine communes. England. Come away with me now."

In her mind Diane saw two paths. On one lay a long life together for him and her - talking, laughing, singing, making love, having children. All simple, human pleasures. And if she took that path?

Beautiful as it seemed, she would chain herself to evil. And when she died her soul would be imprisoned for all eternity with the evil power, the Adversary. She would be tortured with blackness and fire and cruel winds and the mockery of demons and other damned souls. Damnation would never end. No hope. No hope at all.

And she would never know God.

Down the other path, if she denied Roland, lay a life of constant fear and, surely not far off, the death that awaited the Inquisition's victims.

Once, just to see if she could bear a little of the fire she knew she must face one day, she had put the tip of one finger in a candle flame. Her flesh had hissed, the pain had shot up her arm, and she had screamed, even though she had steeled herself, and jerked her arm back. The burn blistered and hurt for days afterward. She tried to imagine feeling that pain all over her body, but it was beyond her comprehension.

At the stake, would I beg them to let me renounce my faith? She had seen a few men and women with hideously scarred faces and crippled limbs, people who had screamed their recantation when they felt the flames and had been freed at the last possible moment. Once she had pitied their weakness, but after her trial with the candle flame she had a new understanding of them.

Beyond the Inquisition's fire, though, she would know eternal bliss in union with the true God. If she were good when she died, she would know goodness and happiness forever. Happiness that would make Roland's embrace seem as a mere drop of water compared to the sea. She would walk and talk with the good God in His paradise beyond the stars.

"Roland," she pleaded, "you know this is wrong. Search your heart."

"Search my heart?" he said fiercely, moving catlike toward her around the table. "My heart tells me that I have loved you since I was a boy. I loved you these last three years while I tried to renounce my love because you demanded it. Yes, you commanded me not to speak of Love, and I obeyed you. But I love you still. I cannot help myself. I do not mean a spiritual love for all men and women. I mean a passion of body and soul. Yes, I long to hold you naked in my arms. Yes, I long to pierce your body with mine, to be one with you. With every fiber of my being I believe my desire for you is good. It is what human beings were made for. I search my heart and it tells me that you must love me, too. I know it."

As he spoke he moved inexorably toward her.

Backing away, she pressed against a wall. I could have run out the door. Why did I let myself be trapped? I wanted to be trapped.

His arms reached out to her.

"No!" she screamed. She put her own arms up stiffly to fend him off. "I do love you, Roland," she said, gasping as if she were out of breath. "Yes, I do."

His face seemed to glow. She was overwhelmed by the sudden beauty of his expression.

His eyes bright, he stepped closer, so that she had to press her hands against his chest to hold him back. Feeling him, a trembling ran through her fingers into her arms.

"But you must not do this to me, Roland," she hurried on. "You will destroy my soul forever and ever. Even while I live, even living with you, I will be nothing. A ruined thing. Vows broken can never be renewed. For me there can be no forgiveness."

The happiness faded from his face, and she grieved to see the misery that replaced it.

"There is so much fear in your eyes, Diane. I cannot stand to see such fear. Do you not know that I would never hurt you? That I would never touch you unless you let me?"

He stepped away from her.

But now it was too late. She could no longer stop herself.

She quivered, still feeling the pressure of his hard chest against the palms of her hands. She had to touch him again. She could no longer withstand the hunger for him.

She was going to him.

She moved, closing her eyes, hands reaching out.

She heard heavy steps, and someone was between them. She was so startled she screamed.

She saw Perrin in front of her, his mail-clad back to her, facing Roland. Perrin held his longsword before him, across his chest. She looked past Perrin's curly head and saw the pain and anger on Roland's face.

"You would raise your sword against me, Perrin?" he said softly.

"Forgive me, master," said Perrin, his voice full of misery. "You once charged me to guard this lady with my life."

"Do you really think I would hurt her? Do you know so little of me?"

Diane was horrified. That Perrin should lift his sword against Roland because of her.

"I am only trying to do what my conscience tells me, master." Perrin's voice almost broke.

"You can put up your sword," Roland said harshly, turning his back on Perrin and Diane. "I had no intention of forcing myself on Madame Diane. I did think that she... Never mind what I thought."

"I have not forgotten what it is to love, master," said Perrin quietly, sliding the sword into its scabbard.

"Diane," said Roland, "I saw the fear in your eyes just now. You said that if you were to love me you would be a ruined thing. I see now that your faith is too strong for my poor words. Forgive my presumption in speaking to you. I will never disturb you again."

He does not know, Diane thought, torn between anguish and relief, that he had won. But now I am saved. My vow is unbroken.

She held herself rigid. I must not throw away this moment of grace. But she knew that when she was alone she would weep for what she had just lost.

"You, too, must forgive me, Perrin," said Roland huskily. "You deserve to be jongleur to a much better troubadour."

Holding himself stiffly, right shoulder higher than the left, Roland walked out toward the garden.

"I will have no other master but you!" Perrin called after him.

"My God, Perrin," Diane groaned. "