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cathedral.”
    Sufyan paused, remembering that night as clearly as if it had been yesterday. “I caught him outside the church. A crowd of people had gathered, but no one came to stop us. He shouted things in English and French, calling himself the chief summoner of the Prince Bishop of Durham. Such a title meant nothing to me. When I swung at him, he seemed to know his life was forfeit.
    “He fled into the cathedral, bleating like a lamb. I followed. Inside, a group of monks were praying. I ignored them. By now the Englishman's actions had made me so furious, I had lost my reason. I knew what he intended—he would try to touch the altar and claim sanctuary, and then I would have lost my money and my dignity, for I knew the monks would help a fellow Christian.”
    Sufyan lifted his gaze and looked at Everard. “And so I killed him before he could reach safety. He did not die well. His blood splashed over the robes of a short, fat monk who stood nearby. I regretted that, and apologized. Another monk cried for help. I knew I would be taken and burned alive for my crime, for spilling Christian blood in a Christian church, and so I did the only thing I could—I went to the altar and claimed sanctuary.”
    Everard stared, his lips parting with astonishment. “You dared such a thing!”
    Sufyan felt a smile twitch in response. “Many people said the law of sanctuary didn't apply to me, but to my surprise, the fat monk supported my claim. The others deferred to him. I didn't know why, until he introduced himself as the Prince Bishop of Durham and Earl Palatine. I had killed his summoner, and yet he saved me.”
    “Why?”
    “Perhaps His Grace disliked the man as much as I did.” Sufyan shrugged. “For such a short, fat monk, the Prince Bishop has a mind like a barbed whip. He'd come to attend a meeting of senior clergy in Chartres accompanied only by two abbots and his summoner, who seemed also to be his divinely sanctioned bodyguard. He refused to go home with a man less.”
    He paused again, thinking of his position. “A summoner's job is frequently unpleasant and dangerous. His Grace had seen me kill in a sacred place. This most holy of men obviously thought he could use an irreligious servant. He said I could either accept the job as his new chief summoner for as long as it took for me to make amends for my crime, or I could remain in Chartres to be burned at the stake. I accepted his offer.”
    Silence stretched between them. Everard's face held the faintest flush of color as he stared at Sufyan. Then, with a tiny shake of his head, it seemed the knight recollected himself. Everard cleared his throat and leaned toward the dying fire. “I think the bird is ready now.” He prodded the pheasant's flesh. “Could I borrow your knife?” He smiled with satisfaction as he carved off a piece. “Ah, there it is. Perfect.”
    Sufyan tried a little of the dark meat and agreed it tasted excellent. Their conversation had made him hungry again, and he ate, his fingers running with juices, content to remain silent for the moment.
    When they had finished the last of the ale and sat picking over the bones of the pheasant, Sufyan thought it was time to pose some questions of his own. “I asked about you in the village.”
    Everard stopped eating. “I see.”
    “My lord, where is your manor?”
    “North of here.” Everard's eyes seemed very bright. “But then, you knew that, didn't you? I'm surprised the villagers still remember.”
    “Only one of them did.” Sufyan wiped his hands in the bracken and plucked a blade of grass, then tore it into strips lengthways. Keeping his voice neutral, he asked, “Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”
    Everard put down the bone he held. He did not reply.
    A dozen thoughts crowded into Sufyan's head. So far he'd proved nothing he hadn't known already. Questions teemed inside him, but he couldn't voice them aloud. He told himself he was afraid of insulting the knight and his family, but