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prayerfully towards angels peeping from behind a cloud. ‘I always wonder why the angels don’t come down and save her!’ the countess said. ‘It must be very unpleasant, being sawn in half, but they just hover in the clouds doing nothing! That’s not very angelic. And that man’s a fool!’ Thomas had turned a page to show a depiction of Saint Maurice kneeling amidst the remnants of his legion. Maurice had encouraged his men to be martyred rather than assault a Christian town, and his fellow Romans had obliged his pious wish, and the painter showed a swathe of broken, bloodied bodies scattered across a field while the killers advanced on the kneeling saint. ‘Why didn’t he fight?’ the countess asked. ‘They say he had six thousand soldiers, yet he just encourages them to be slaughtered like lambs. Sometimes I think you must be extremely stupid to become a saint.’
    Thomas turned the last page and froze.
    Because there he was, the monk in the snow.
    The countess smiled. ‘You see? You didn’t need a scholar, just an old lady.’
    This picture differed from the painting in Avignon. The monk in the book was not kneeling in the cleared patch, but lying down, curled up in sleep. There was no Saint Peter, but there was a small house on the right-hand side, and a second monk was peeping through a window. The sleeping monk, who had the halo of a saint, was lying on grass, but the rest of the landscape, like the roof of the cottage, was smothered in deep snow. It was night-time, and the stars were painted against a rich dark-blue sky, and a single angel watched from among those stars, while in the page’s flower-painted border was the name of the saint.
    ‘Saint Junien,’ Thomas said. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
    ‘I doubt many people have!’
    ‘Junien,’ he said the name again.
    ‘He was a nobleman’s son,’ the countess said, ‘and he must have been very pious because he walked a very long way to study under Saint Amand, but he arrived at night and Amand had locked his door. So Junien knocked on the door. But Saint Amand thought it must be bandits coming to rob him, so he refused to open the door. I can’t understand why Junien didn’t explain himself! It was winter, it was snowing, and all he had to do was tell Amand who he was! But apparently Junien was as stupid as the rest, and because he couldn’t get into Amand’s house he lay down to sleep in the garden, and, as you can see, God kindly made sure that the snow didn’t fall on him. So he had a good night’s sleep and next day the misunderstanding was happily cleared up. It isn’t a very exciting story.’
    ‘Saint Junien,’ Thomas repeated the name, staring at the sleeping monk. ‘But why is he in the book?’ he wondered aloud.
    ‘Look in the front,’ the countess suggested.
    Thomas turned back the stiff pages to see that a coat of arms was painted on the very first page. It showed a red lion rearing against a white background. The lion snarled and had its claws extended. ‘I don’t know that badge,’ he said.
    ‘My mother-in-law came from Poitou,’ the countess explained, ‘and the red lion is the symbol of Poitou. All the saints in that book, my dear, have connections with Poitou, and I suppose there simply weren’t enough of them who were blinded, scalded, beheaded, disembowelled or sawn in half, so they added poor little Junien just to fill a page.’
    ‘But not Saint Peter,’ Thomas said.
    ‘I don’t think Saint Peter was ever in Poitou, so why would he be in the book?’
    ‘I thought Saint Junien met him.’
    ‘I’m sure all the saints visited each other, my dear, just to chat about happy things like the litany, or which of their friends had recently been burned or skinned alive, but Saint Peter died long before Junien was caught in the snow.’
    ‘Of course he did,’ Thomas said, ‘but there is a link between Junien and Peter.’
    ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the countess said.
    ‘But someone will,’ Thomas said, ‘in Poitou.’
    ‘In Poitou, yes, probably, but first you have to leave Montpellier,’ the countess said, amused.
    Thomas half smiled. ‘Back over the wall to the monastery, I suppose.’
    ‘I’m sure whoever’s looking for you will be watching the monastery. But if you can bear to wait till nightfall?’
    ‘If you don’t mind,’ Thomas said gallantly.
    ‘You can leave after dark. Once Compline is said the nuns do like to sleep. Straight out of my door, down the passage, and