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the smoke from the small cottages of the village that lay beneath the tower. It was cold. This part of France rarely saw snow, but the priest, glancing from beneath the black hood of his cloak, thought there might be flakes in the wind.
    There were ruined walls about the tower, evidence that this had once been a stronghold, but all that was left of the old castle was the tower itself and a low thatched building where perhaps servants lived. Chickens scratched in the dust, a tethered goat stared at the horses, while a cat ignored the newcomers. What had once been a fine small fortress, guarding the road into the mountains, was now a farmstead, though the priest noticed that the tower was still in good repair, and the small village in the hollow beneath the old fortress looked prosperous enough.
    A man scurried from the thatched hut and bowed low to the horsemen. He did not bow because he recognised them, but because men with swords command respect. ‘Lords?’ the man asked anxiously.
    ‘Shelter the horses,’ the priest demanded.
    ‘Walk them first,’ one of the mailed men added, ‘walk them, rub them down, don’t let them eat too much.’
    ‘Lord,’ the man said, bowing again.
    ‘This is Mouthoumet?’ the priest asked as he dismounted.
    ‘Yes, father.’
    ‘And you serve the Sire of Mouthoumet?’ the priest asked.
    ‘The Count of Mouthoumet, yes, lord.’
    ‘He lives?’
    ‘Praise be to God, father, he lives.’
    ‘Praise be to God indeed,’ the priest said carelessly, then strode to the tower door, which stood at the top of a brief flight of stone steps. He called for two of the mailed men to accompany him and ordered the rest to wait in the yard, then he pushed open the door to find himself in a wide, round room used to store firewood. Hams and bunches of herbs hung from the beams. A stair led around one half of the wall, and the priest, not bothering to announce himself or wait for an attendant to greet him, took the stairs to the upper floor where a hearth was built into the wall. A fire burned there, though much of its smoke swirled about the circular room, driven back through the vent by the cold wind. The ancient wooden floorboards were covered in threadbare rugs; there were two wooden chests on which candles burned because, though it was daylight outside, the room’s two windows had been hung with blankets to block the draughts. There was a table on which lay two books, some parchments, an ink bottle, a sheaf of quills, a knife, and an old rusted breastplate that served as a bowl for three wrinkled apples. A chair stood by the table while the Count of Mouthoumet, lord of this lonely tower, lay in a bed close to the smouldering fire. A grey-haired priest sat beside him, and two elderly women knelt at the bed’s foot. ‘Leave,’ the newly arrived priest ordered the three. The two mailed men came up the stairs behind him and seemed to fill the room with their baleful presence.
    ‘Who are you?’ the grey-haired priest asked nervously.
    ‘I said leave, so leave.’
    ‘He’s dying!’
    ‘Go!’
    The old priest, a scapular about his neck, abandoned the sacraments and followed the two women down the stairs. The dying man watched the newcomers, but said nothing. His hair was long and white, his beard untrimmed, and his eyes sunken. He saw the priest place the hawk on the table, where the bird’s talons made scratching noises. ‘She is
une calade
,’ the priest explained.
    ‘
Une calade
?’ the count asked, his voice very low. He stared at the bird’s slate-grey feathers and pale streaked breast. ‘It is too late for a
calade
.’
    ‘You must have faith,’ the priest said.
    ‘I have lived over eighty years,’ the count said, ‘and I have more faith than I have time.’
    ‘You have enough time for this,’ the priest said grimly. The two mailed men stood at the stairhead and said nothing. The
calade
made a mewing noise, but when the priest snapped his fingers the hooded bird went still and quiet. ‘You were given the sacrament?’ the priest asked.
    ‘Father Jacques was about to give it to me,’ the dying man said.
    ‘I will do it,’ the priest said.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘I come from Avignon.’
    ‘From the Pope?’
    ‘Who else?’ the priest asked. He walked about the room, examining it, and the old man watched him. He saw a tall, hard-faced man, his priest’s robes finely tailored. When the visitor lifted a hand to touch the crucifix hanging on the wall his sleeve