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join the Order of the Fisherman, yet here was the Order’s chaplain, moaning and bleeding, and the heretic was looking at him with one eye, the other still covered by her hand, and Roland knew he had to save her. He had promised her protection. ‘We must go,’ he echoed Robbie.
    Both were aware that they were deep inside a castle that was suddenly a hostile place, but when Roland looked out into the passage there was no one there, and the noise from the great hall where men still drank had surely been loud enough to smother the sound of Genevieve’s scream. Roland strapped on his sword belt. ‘We just go,’ he said, sounding astonished.
    ‘Your boots, sire,’ Michel said.
    ‘There’s no time,’ Roland said. He was feeling panicky. How were they to leave?
    Father Marchant tried to get up and Robbie turned and kicked his head. ‘Kick him hard, Sculley, if he moves again.’
    ‘Am I fighting for him or for you?’ Sculley asked.
    ‘Who do you serve?’ Robbie demanded.
    ‘The Lord of Douglas, of course!’
    ‘And what am I?’
    ‘A Douglas.’
    ‘Then don’t ask stupid questions.’
    Sculley accepted that. ‘So you want me to kill the bastard?’ he asked, looking at the priest.
    ‘No!’ Robbie said. To kill a priest was to invite excommunication, and he was in trouble enough already.
    ‘I don’t mind,’ Sculley offered. ‘I haven’t killed anyone in a week. No, it’s been even longer. It must be at least a month! Jesus! Are you sure we’re not fighting anyone?’
    Roland looked at Robbie. ‘We just walk out?’
    ‘We don’t have a great deal of choice,’ Robbie said, sounding nervous again.
    ‘Then let’s go!’ Genevieve wailed. She had found a cleaning rag that she was clutching to her eye with one hand, while the other held the cloak at her neck.
    ‘Take the boy,’ Roland ordered Michel, then he stepped out into the passageway. ‘Sheathe your sword,’ he said to Robbie.
    ‘Sheathe it?’ Robbie seemed confused.
    Roland glanced at the sword, which had a smear of bloody feathers. ‘We’re guests here.’
    ‘For the moment.’
    ‘What in Christ’s name are we doing?’ Sculley demanded.
    ‘Fighting for the honour of Douglas,’ Robbie said curtly.
    ‘So we are fighting?’
    ‘For Douglas!’ Robbie snarled.
    ‘No need to shout,’ Sculley said, and, as Robbie sheathed his sword, he drew his own long blade. ‘Just tell me who you want slaughtering, eh?’
    ‘No one for now,’ Roland said.
    ‘And keep quiet,’ Robbie added. Roland glanced at Robbie as if seeking reassurance, but the young Scotsman was just as nervous as the Frenchman. ‘We must keep moving,’ Robbie suggested.
    ‘Are we leaving the castle?’
    ‘Think we have to, yes,’ he paused, looking around, ‘if we can.’
    Roland led the way into the courtyard. A few fading fires on which men had baked oatcakes smoked in the wide space, but the moonlight was bright, the shadows dark. No one took any particular notice of them. Genevieve was swathed in the cloak, and Hugh was clutching at its folds as they threaded their way through the sleeping horses and men. Other men passed wineskins and talked in low voices. Someone sang. There was
the low chuckle of laughter. Lantern light glimmered in the gatehouse.
    ‘Look for my horse,’ Roland said to Michel.
    ‘You think they’ll just let us ride out?’ Robbie whispered.
    ‘Don’t look for my horse,’ Roland said, wondering how they were to escape on foot.
    ‘Your boots, sire?’ Michel offered them.
    ‘No time,’ Roland said. His world had fragmented; he no longer knew where his salvation lay, unless it was his honour, which meant he must save a heretic even if it meant breaking a church-sworn oath. ‘I’ll tell them to lower the drawbridge,’ he told Robbie, and strode towards the gatehouse.
    ‘Stop them!’ The shout came from the door behind them. Father Marchant, holding onto the doorpost, was pointing at them. ‘Stop them! In the name of God!’
    The men in the courtyard were slow to respond. Some were sleeping, others were trying to sleep, and many were lulled by wine, but now they stirred as more men took up the shouts. Sculley swore, then nudged Robbie. ‘Are we fighting yet?’
    ‘Yes!’ Robbie shouted.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Everyone!’
    ‘About bloody time!’ Sculley said, then slammed his sword in a backhanded blow against a man struggling to free himself of a cloak. The man collapsed, blood dark on his forehead, and Sculley sawed the