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around the building and counted its sides – twelve, each bearing a fresco of a man he now knew to be an apostle. He recalled the deep dark windows, the sheer bulk of the stone and, when you went inside, the vaulted ceiling, the marble on the floor so shiny that he had feared to tread on it, thinking it was the surface of a pool. Then, as he’d waited for the brothers of Saint-Germain to collect him, he remembered the sun through the windows in the evening that cast shadows that seemed as deep as pits.
    ‘Is she alone in there?’
    ‘Yes, it is very late.’
    ‘Carry me in and set me beside her.’
    The monk was lifted from the pallet and carried into the church. He felt the warrior stumble as he went through the porch.
    ‘Be careful,’ said the confessor.
    ‘I am sorry, Father. We are all blind men in here, there is scarcely a light.’
    The confessor grunted. Since the siege the church would have given up its candles, and besides, why would it be lit at night?
    ‘Can you see her?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I am here, whoever it is who looks for me.’ The voice was clear and strong, with that mild note of irritation that royals often employed when speaking to their inferiors. He recognised the tone. The nobility were occasional visitors to his monastery, though the men came more often than the women. Noble ladies, though, were interested to meet saints, and he had received her there when she was around twelve. He had been eighteen. Now she was eighteen and her voice had changed and deepened, but he still knew it. The girl had asked him why he was so ugly. He had replied that it was the will of God and he thanked Him for it.
    The confessor breathed in, using the smell of incense and beeswax to calm himself and order his thoughts. What would he say? He had no idea now; he only knew what he would not say, that she must go, it was her duty. No, he would put the alternatives before her and the decision would be up to her.
    ‘It is Confessor Jehan, lady.’
    ‘They sent me a saint,’ she said. The voice was not that of a frightened country girl with a head full of devils. It was absolutely that of a lady of the court, one of those educated women who liked to tease the priests with their knowledge of the Bible, to argue even – however demurely – about its interpretation.
    ‘I am not dead yet, lady, nor would I presume to know the creator’s view of me.’
    ‘You are a healer, Confessor. Have you come to cure me of my resolve?’
    Jehan, used to listening where he could not see, detected a note of fear in her voice. And no wonder , he thought. Her options in life were very unattractive.
    ‘I have come to speak to you, lady, that is all.’
    There was a noise from outside, shouting and screaming, the ringing of bells and the blowing of horns. It was the sound, Jehan knew, of battle.
    ‘The Norsemen are attacking?’ said the confessor.
    ‘It would sound as if that were so, Father,’ said the monk carrying him.
    There was a great crash quite near the church. The monk gave a cry of surprise.
    Jehan said, ‘God smiles on those who fall defending his name, brother. It’s unlikely to be a serious raid; I think they’re just trying to prevent Eudes from repairing his tower. Carry me on, as I said.’
    The monk walked on through the vast space of the great building. Jehan heard the scrape of a flint, smelled tinder and the burning beeswax that followed it. He heard too the lady’s intake of breath as she saw him.
    ‘I’m afraid the years have not improved my looks, Lady Aelis.’
    ‘I hope they have improved my manners,’ she said. The girl sounded genuinely shocked, and the confessor could hear she was struggling to control her voice.
    ‘May I sit a while with you, then?’
    ‘Yes.’
    There were more screams from outside. The defenders would be fighting, thought the confessor, largely without armour. There would have been no time to put it on. His whole conversation, he thought, could very quickly become an almost