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blood. Fra Ferdinand ran through the firelight, dodged into another alley, and kept running. God was still with him. The stars were obscured by smoke in which sparks flew. He crossed a square, was baulked by a dead-end alley, retraced his steps, and headed north again. A cow bellowed in a burning building, a dog ran across his path with something black and dripping in its teeth. He passed a tanner’s shop, jumping over the hides that were strewn on the cobbles, and there ahead was the risible earth bank that was the
bourg
’s only defence, and he climbed it, then heard a shout and glanced behind to see three men pursuing him.
    ‘Who are you?’ one shouted.
    ‘Stop!’ another bellowed.
    The friar ignored them. He ran down the slope, heading towards the dark countryside that lay beyond the huddle of cottages built outside the earthen bank, as an arrow hissed past him, missing him by the grace of God and the width of a finger, and he twisted aside into a passage between two of the small houses. A steaming manure heap stank there. He ran past the dung and saw the passage ended in a wall, and turned back to see the three men barring his path. They were grinning.
    ‘What have you got?’ one of them asked.
    ‘
Je suis Gascon
,’ Fra Ferdinand said. He knew the city’s invaders were both Gascons and English, and he spoke no English. ‘
Je suis Gascon
!
’ he said again, walking towards them.
    ‘He’s a Black Friar,’ one of the men said.
    ‘But why did the goddamned bastard run?’ another of the Englishmen asked. ‘Got something to hide, have you?’
    ‘Give it here,’ the third man said, holding out his hand. He was the only one with a strung bow; the other two had their bows slung on their backs and were holding swords. ‘Come on, arseface, give it me.’ The man reached for
la Malice
.
    The three men were half the friar’s age, and, because they were archers, probably twice as strong, but Fra Ferdinand had been a great man-at-arms and the skills of the sword had never deserted him. And he was angry. Angry because of the suffering he had seen and the cruelties he had heard, and that anger made him savage. ‘In the name of God,’ he said, and whipped
la Malice
upwards. She was still wrapped in silk, but her blade cut hard into the archer’s outstretched wrist, severing the tendons and breaking bone. Fra Ferdinand was holding her by the tang, which offered a perilous grip, but she seemed alive to him. The wounded man recoiled, bleeding, as his companions roared with anger and stabbed their blades forward, and the friar parried both with one cut and lunged forward, and
la Malice
, though she had been in a tomb for over a hundred and fifty years, proved as sharp as a newly honed blade and her fore-edge skewered through the padded haubergeon of the nearest man and opened his ribs and ripped into a lung, and before the man even knew he had been wounded Fra Ferdinand had swept the blade sideways to take the third man’s eyes and blood brightened the alleyway and all three men were retreating now, but the Black Friar gave them no chance to escape. The blinded man tripped backwards onto the manure pile, his companion hacked his blade in desperation, and
la Malice
met it and the English sword broke in two and the friar flicked the silk-wrapped blade to cut that man’s gullet and felt the blood splash on his face. So warm, he thought, and God forgive me. A bird shrieked in the darkness, and the flames roared up from the
bourg
.
    He killed all three archers, then used the silk wrapping to clean
la Malice
’s blade. He thought of saying a brief prayer for the men he had just killed, then decided he did not want to share heaven with such brutes. Instead he kissed
la Malice
, then searched the three bodies and found some coins, a lump of cheese, four bowstrings, and a knife.
    The city of Carcassonne burned and filled the winter night with smoke.
    And the Black Friar walked north. He was going home, home to the tower.
    He carried
la Malice
and the fate of Christendom.
    And he vanished into darkness.
     
    The men came to the tower four days after Carcassonne had been sacked.
    There were sixteen of them, all cloaked in fine, thick wool and all mounted on good horses. Fifteen of the men wore mail and had swords at their waists, while the remaining rider was a priest who carried a hooded hawk on his wrist.
    The wind came harsh down the mountain pass, ruffling the hawk’s feathers, rattling the pines and whipping