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Father Marchant had gripped his arm so tightly that it hurt. ‘Father?’ he asked.
    ‘Does this Junien have a shrine?’
    ‘The Benedictines at Nouaillé keep his earthly remains, father.’
    ‘At Nouaillé?’
    ‘It’s in Poitou, father.’
    ‘God bless you, my son,’ Father Marchant said.
    Roland heard the relief in the priest’s voice. ‘I don’t know that
la Malice
is there, father,’ he warned cautiously.
    ‘But she may be, she may be,’ Father Marchant said, then paused as a servant carried a chamber pot down the passageway that was lit by what small glow leaked from the candle-lit hall. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally admitted when the servant had passed. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, sounding weary. ‘It could be anywhere! I don’t know where else to look, but perhaps
le Bâtard
knows?’ He stroked the hawk that was stirring restlessly on his wrist. ‘So we must discover just what he knows and why he went to Montpellier.’ He lifted his arm on which the hawk was perched. ‘Soon, my dear one,’ he spoke to the hawk, ‘we shall unhood you very soon.’
    ‘Unhood her?’ Roland asked. It seemed a strange thing to do in the night-time.
    ‘She is a
calade
,’ Father Marchant said.
    ‘A
calade
?’ Roland asked.
    ‘Most
calades
discover sickness in a person,’ Father Marchant explained, ‘but this bird also has the God-given talent of discovering the truth.’ He stepped away from Roland. ‘You look tired, my son. Might I suggest you sleep?’
    Roland smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve slept little these past nights.’
    ‘Then rest now, my son, with God’s good blessing on you, rest.’ He watched Roland walk away, then turned to where his other knights were waiting at the passage’s end. ‘Sir Robbie! Will you bring the girl and her boy?’ He pushed open a random door and found himself in a small room where wine barrels were stacked around a table on which stood jugs, funnels, and goblets. He swept them off, clearing the table’s top. ‘This will do,’ he called, ‘and bring candles!’
    He stroked the hawk. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked the bird. ‘Is my darling hungry? We shall feed you very soon.’ He stood to one side of the small chamber as Robbie brought Genevieve through the door. She was clutching her torn dress to her breasts. ‘It seems you have met the heretic before?’ Father Marchant suggested to Robbie.
    ‘I have, father,’ Robbie said.
    ‘He’s a traitor,’ Genevieve said, and spat into Robbie’s face.
    ‘He is sworn to God’s purpose,’ Father Marchant said, ‘and you are cursed by God.’
    Sculley dragged Hugh through the door and pushed him down beside the table.
    ‘Candles,’ Father Marchant demanded of Sculley. ‘Fetch some from the hall.’
    ‘Like to see what you’re doing, eh?’ Sculley said with a grin.
    ‘Go,’ Father Marchant ordered harshly, then turned back to Robbie. ‘I want her on the table. If she resists, you may strike her.’
    Genevieve did not resist. She knew she could not fight Robbie, let alone Robbie and the ghastly man with the bones in his hair who now brought two huge candles that were placed on wine barrels. ‘Lie flat,’ Father Marchant ordered her, ‘as if you were dead.’ He saw her shivering. She had placed her hands on her breasts to keep the torn dress in place, and the priest now unwound the jesses from his glove and put the hawk on her topmost wrist. The claws dug into her thin flesh and she made a small whimpering sound. ‘
In nomine Patris
,’ Father Marchant said softly, ‘
et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
, amen. Sir Robert?’
    ‘Father?’
    ‘We have no notary to record this sinner’s confession, so you will pay attention and be a witness to what is said. You have a holy duty to remember the truth.’
    ‘Yes, father.’
    The priest looked at Genevieve who lay with closed eyes and clasped hands. ‘Sinner,’ he said gently, ‘tell me why you went to Montpellier.’
    ‘We took an English monk there,’ Genevieve said.
    ‘And why?’
    ‘He was to study medicine at the university.’
    ‘You wish me to believe that
le Bâtard
went all the way to Montpellier just to escort a monk?’ Father Marchant asked.
    ‘It was a favour to his liege lord,’ Genevieve said.
    ‘Open your eyes,’ the priest ordered. He still spoke softly. He waited till she obeyed. ‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘have you heard of Saint Junien?’
    ‘No,’ Genevieve said. The hooded hawk did not move.
    ‘You are