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round the side of the cottage.
    ‘I am glad to see you, Father,’ she said now as she saw the priest walking slowly up the path to the door.
    ‘And I to see you, child.’
    He was a young man for the job. Only three- or four-and-twenty, short, dark-skinned and with large, liquid brown eyes that smiled all the while as though he could see a joke that was hidden to
others. He smiled now, his eyes taking in her clothing. ‘You look tired, maid.’
    ‘I am weary,’ she admitted.
    ‘How is Hélène?’
    ‘She grows weaker, Father. I have fed her on warm pottage and an egg, but it does her no good.’
    ‘Let us pray for her.’
    Béatrice made to go inside, but he stopped her. ‘No, we can honour God out here in the world He made.’
    ‘I’d rather go inside, Father. I don’t like to leave her alone for long.’
    ‘Come here, maid. Hold my hands.’
    She did as she was asked. What else should a woman do when commanded by a priest? But he had different ideas. He took her hands and gently put them on his waist, pulling her nearer. ‘Hold
me, maid, and we can pray together.’
    Béatrice tried to pull away. His voice was grown harsh and hoarse, and when he thrust his groin at her, she felt his tarse poking at her through his habit. She froze. It felt as though
her heart stopped beating. ‘Father, let me go!’
    ‘Child, do not disobey your priest! I am not evil. Just lie with me, and let me show you how—’
    ‘No, Father!’ she blurted, and snatched her hands away.
    His voice took on a sly tone. ‘You will do everything I say, because if you don’t, I will accuse you of being a witch. Would you like that? People already mutter about you here. They
say you have a black cat, that you are killing the old woman here in the cottage. They will believe me rather than you. What are you, after all, but a slut who came here because your father was a
despised traitor.’
    ‘He wasn’t! Leave! Go away,’ she whispered. No one could think she was a witch, surely? She felt suddenly weak, as if she was about to faint. And she thought she might
vomit.
    His tone changed again, became wheedling. ‘I love you, can’t you see that? Let me have you, Béatrice. I burn for you!’
    ‘Get away from me! We’ll both burn if you force me!’
    The young man lost patience. ‘You are no better than your father. He was a traitor, but
you
are a witch. You give the appearance of holiness, Béatrice, but you despise
priests like me. Devil’s whore!’
    She recoiled from him and from his words. ‘Please – have pity on me,’ she begged.
    ‘If you don’t do as I ask, I will denounce you,
witch
. It is said you are privy to secrets no woman should know.’
    ‘Go
away
!’
    Afterwards, there was no memory. She saw him at that moment, his hands reaching for her breasts, a look of pure lust and devilry in his eyes, and then . . . then she was back inside the cottage
and kneeling at Hélène’s bedside. As she bathed the old woman’s forehead to cool her, she was surprised to see the water in the bowl turn red as she put her hands in
it.
    Later, Hélène died, very peacefully – and when Béatrice went out to throw away the dirty water, she stumbled over the priest’s body.
    She screamed with shock. She vaguely remembered slapping at him with her hands, but she hadn’t realised that she had been holding her little knife.
    ‘Well?’ Grandarse was sitting with his back to a tree close by the wood from which the attack had been launched. Flames from the fire were flickering over his
bearded features, giving them a devilish tint.
    Berenger chuckled. ‘I thought your eyes were shut?’
    ‘Aye, even when they are, I’m alert,’ Grandarse said smugly.
    Berenger grinned as he reported to his centener about the men, his sentries, how he had stored their provisions.
    ‘The men know what they’re doing,’ Grandarse noted. ‘Most have campaigned with the King before, and any man grows easier in spirit, the more there are with