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been brought up in ignorance of what it meant.
    But Elinor knew that there was a house of sisters nearby who were always referred to as Perfects and that was not just because they were devout Christians. She had heard the word applied to them and it sounded so peaceful and welcoming. As yet, Elinor had no idea what you had to do to become a Perfect but if it was something her father would approve of then it might soften the blow when she refused old le Viguier.
    It was at dusk that she thought about the other way out. How on earth could she, a healthy young girl, bring about her own death, even if that was what she chose to do?
    I could starve myself , she thought, looking down at her gown, which had become quite loose on her of recent days. But there was a difference between losing one’s appetite and letting oneself waste away till the last breath left the body. Surely that would be a horrible way to die? But what was a good way?
    Elinor thought about death by drowning, burning, poison or a sharp dagger to the throat or wrists. She didn’t have a dagger and she doubted that the pin on Bertran’s brooch would be a sharp enough or deadly enough weapon. To cast herself in the well would pollute the whole castle’s water supply and she shuddered at the thought of the dark stone walls enclosing her while her head sank under the surface.
    She could escape the castle and walk down to the River Orb and jump in; she couldn’t swim. But would it be deep enough and fast enough to take her away from the bank and whirl her to certain death? And what about being bruised and battered by the rocks?
    As for poison, Elinor had no idea how to get hold of any. And burning? The only fires in the castle were in the kitchen and the great hall, but pitch-covered torches were lit regularly at those flames. She could steal one and set light to her loose gown. But the very thought made her want to jump in the well after all.
    To burn, to feel flames licking at your flesh as they did the poor animals turning on the spit! And those creatures were dead and felt nothing. Elinor could imagine all too vividly the smell of her skin beginning to crackle, her flesh spitting and hissing with melting fat. Her hair would be aflame in seconds – a torturing, blazing crown around her head. Could she bear it? Would she pass out quickly and not suffer too much torment? She dared not hope so.
    And so another sleepless night would pass and she would rise with the day and think that it would be better to become a Perfect sister after all.

    Bertran did not linger in Béziers. His meeting with the Bishop had been strained on both sides. The troubadour was careful not to reveal that he had witnessed the Legate’s murder, portraying himself as a messenger only, reluctantly bringing news.
    Bishop Ermengaud had crossed himself and prayed and Bertran had joined him. But he noticed that the old man had a fanatical glitter in his eyes when he rose from his knees.
    ‘We shall hear soon from Rome, I think,’ he said. ‘The Pope will not let the Count of Toulouse get away with this crime. He has gone too far this time. This means the end for the heretics.’
    Bertran had been glad to leave without having to express an opinion. He had gone straight to the leader of the Believers in the city. The one thing that he had in common with the Bishop was that they both knew the murder marked a change in the persecution of the heretics.
    It was vital to spread the word among their other communities in the south. Bertran had some hard riding ahead of him. Puisseguier, Saint Pons, Narbonne, Minerve – all the towns on the way to Carcassonne would have to be visited. And with every day that passed there could be orders from Rome against the Believers, rushing north and west and overtaking him.
    But Bertran was welcome at every court. His life as a troubadour was not a disguise but his real profession and even though it was unusual to get a visit from a lone troubadour in winter