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customers the girls have, and that’s a fact. So what will you pay me?’
    ‘I’ll spare your life.’
    ‘My God, the mouse offers the pussycat its life!’
    ‘Drop the pitchfork,’ Thomas said, ‘help me get out of this town and I’ll pay you enough to whore for a year.’
    ‘Your woman’s been captured,’ Keane said.
    Thomas felt his body chill. He stared at the young Irishman. ‘Is that true?’
    ‘Stopped at the north gate, taken with three men and a bairn. Sire Roland de Verrec has her, so he does.’
    ‘Dear God,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you know where she is?’
    ‘The rumour says that the virgin knight is taking her west to Toulouse, but that’s only what they said in the Stork Tavern, and half the things you hear in there are fables. Last year they said the world would end on Saint Arnulf’s Day, but we’re still breathing. D’you think he really is a virgin?’
    ‘How would I know?’
    ‘Just seems curious to me. A virgin! And a good-looking fellow he is too.’
    Thomas leaned against the convent wall and closed his eyes. Genevieve taken. The church still pursued her because, when Thomas had first met her, she was in a condemned cell, waiting to be burned on the charge of being a
beghard
, a heretic. He swore.
    ‘It’s no good quoting the psalmist,’ Keane said.
    Thomas kept his eyes closed. ‘I’m going to take that pitchfork off you,’ he said bitterly, ‘and ram it through your belly.’
    ‘That’s not the best idea you’ve ever had,’ Keane said, ‘because I won’t be much good to you with a pitchfork through my entrails.’
    Thomas opened his eyes. The pitchfork had dropped so that it was pointing at his legs. ‘You want to help me?’
    ‘My father’s a chief, see? And I’m the third son, and that’s a bit like being the fifth hoof on a horse, so he wants me to be a priest, God help me, because it always helps to have a priest in the family. It makes the forgiveness of sins so much more convenient, but it’s not to my taste. My elder brothers get to fight and I’m doomed to pray, but I don’t do my best work on my knees. So I just need someone to give me a horse, a coat of mail, and a sword and I’ll be a great deal happier.’
    ‘Oh God, you and Brother Michael?’
    ‘That monk? I thought he was with you, but no one would believe me. He didn’t look frightened enough when you had that knife at his throat.’
    ‘What’s your name?’ Thomas asked.
    ‘Éamonn Óg Ó Keane,’ Keane said, ‘but take no notice of the Óg.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Just don’t. It means I’m younger than my father, but we all are, aren’t we? It’ll be a strange day in paradise when we’re older than our fathers.’
    ‘Well, Éamonn Óg Ó Keane,’ Thomas said, ‘you are now one of my men-at-arms.’
    ‘And thank the good Christ for that,’ Keane said, lowering the pitchfork to the cobbles. ‘No more of that little turd Roger de Beaufort. How can he believe a wee baby is doomed to hell? But he does! The cretinous little slug will end up as Pope, you mark my words.’
    Thomas waved the Irishman to silence. Where was Genevieve? Wherever she was the only thing Thomas could be sure about was that he needed to get out of this city. ‘Your first duty,’ he told the Irishman, ‘is to get us through the gates.’
    ‘That’ll be difficult. They’re offering a rare reward for your capture.’
    ‘They?’
    ‘The city consuls.’
    ‘So get me out of the city,’ Thomas said.
    ‘Shit,’ Keane said after a brief pause.
    ‘Shit?’
    ‘Shit-carts, turd-wagons really,’ the Irishman said. ‘They collect the stuff and cart it out of the city, at least they do from the rich folks’ homes. The poor folk just wade in the muck, but there’s enough rich people to keep the dung-carts rolling. There’s usually a couple of wagons waiting to leave the city when the gates open, and,’ he paused to look earnestly at Thomas, ‘you can trust my word on this opinion, the city guards don’t take a real close look at the carts. They sort of step back, hold their noses, wave them through and wish them God speed.’
    ‘But first,’ Thomas said, ‘go to the tavern by Saint Pierre’s church and …’
    ‘The Blind Tits, you mean?’
    ‘The tavern by Saint Pierre’s …’
    ‘The Blind Tits,’ Keane said, ‘that’s what it’s called in town on account that the sign shows Saint Lucia with no eyes and a ripe pair …’
    ‘Just go there,’ Thomas said, ‘and find Brother