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pounding off on massive hooves to a fresh point in the line of battle, seeking always to be there at the front. There was that raw, unalloyed delight of feeling one’s sword slice through a man’s arm, shoulder or skull, of relishing that power to end life, impregnable in one’s suit of steel. Yes, there was real joy in killing. He could remember that.
    Here, inside the cathedral city, those urges were wrong. Gregory didn’t need a priest to tell him that. Here men were supposed to appreciate the kindness and generosity of Saint James and, through him, Christ. Death and bloodshed were anathema to the cult that had given birth to this marvellous cathedral.
    He passed through the
Pórta Francigena
, the French Gate, and walked down the
Via Francigena
towards the Cathedral,musing on the fact that these places were so-named purely because so many pilgrims came here, like him, straight from France. It was strangely stirring to think of so many travellers passing this same way.
    The roadway was lined with street traders of all kinds – hawkers in gaily coloured clothes shouting, a few brazen women leering at the men, although they waited more for those who had already visited the Cathedral – perhaps because they had learned from experience that a pilgrim needed to refresh himself spiritually before trying to slake his more natural desires.
    Gregory hesitated at a wine-seller’s counter then purchased a small cupful at an exorbitant price; he didn’t grudge the fee. It felt so good to have almost reached his goal. He only hoped that he might find some peace when he arrived in the Cathedral. If only he’d been made King – but then, as he reminded himself, he would be lying dead on the plain now if he had, with the other pilgrims who’d been caught in the ambush.
    Setting his cup upon the board, he was about to rejoin the line of pilgrims when he stopped. There, a scant yard away, he had seen
her
, he was sure! Certainly it must have been her; there couldn’t be two women in the world with that peculiar heart-shaped face, the same tip-tilted nose, the high angle of the cheek, the rich, ruby mouth and little chin.
    She was wearing a pleated wimple and fine-looking tunic of some light material, as befitted so wealthy a woman, and she was riding a good
ambler
, a horse trained to walk with the legs at each side moving in unison, first both of the left side together then both of the right, to give a gentle, rocking gait that was more comfortable than a horse’s usual motion.
    Gregory felt as if he was in a dream as he followed after her, along the rest of the roadway and up into the square at the northern side of the Cathedral. It was easy to keep her in sight, because she was one of the few pilgrims on horseback. Most had left their mounts back at the stables near the gates so that they could make the last few yards of their journey on foot. Not her, though. Oh no, my lady Prioress wouldn’t want to sink so low.Only a peasant would walk, she’d have said. Poisonous bitch!
    She stopped in the square when she saw the milling crowds there. Gregory had heard that this place was called ‘Paradise’ by the people who lived here, but no thought of that came into his mind as he watched his ex-wife dismount and leave her horse in the hands of a loitering stablehand. Gregory’s attention was entirely bound up with
her
as she climbed the stairs slowly towards the central column, preparing to put her hand in a niche in the stone to give thanks for her safe arrival.
    Her!
Giving thanks to a Saint, like any pilgrim, Gregory thought bitterly, when it was she who had made him foul with sin.
She
shouldn’t be allowed in a place like Saint James’s Cathedral;
she
should be barred. It would be just his luck if she were to accuse
him
of guilt, and he was refused entry, he thought glumly. If only he could hate her; but he couldn’t. She was beautiful, and he adored her.
    If only, he thought, he didn’t still love her. Doña Stefanía