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without a train of joglar s and joglaresa s attending him, the many lords and castellans of the Midi would be sure to open their doors to him.
    He might have private audiences with a few nobles, like Lanval de Sévignan, who were known to be Believers, but even more people would hear the message through his new song that spoke of war when it appeared to be about love. The heretics of the south were well attuned to every nuance that carried a threat to their religion and their lives.
    But there were two problems, only one of which Bertran was aware of. The Believers were peace-loving and would not willingly take up arms to fight for their rights and their homes and families. The troubadour respected that; he was of the same persuasion himself. But he must encourage them at least to hide a portion of their wealth and goods in far off places so that if they had to flee they would not wander penniless in the world. And also to build up their defences. The hill towns and cities of the south were all fortified with strong walls and, if only the inhabitants had enough warning, could store defences and water enough to withstand a long siege.
    The second problem was that, as Bertran rode towards Puisseguier, messengers from the Pope were on their way to Saint-Gilles charged with finding out the name of the unknown witness to Pierre of Castelnau’s murder.

    ‘No, really? Is that what it’s like?’
    Elinor was talking to Miqela, an old serving-woman in the castle. She had been wet-nurse to all the children but now helped with sewing and other light duties. She had a sister who was a Perfect in a sister house nearby and Elinor had come to ask what the life there was like.
    ‘ Oc ,’ said Miqela. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, my dove. It is a hard life for a young woman to bear. But like many of us,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I hope to come to it at the end.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ asked Elinor.
    They were sitting in the solar, Miqela benefiting from the light while she hemmed a sheet with Elinor threading her needles for her and snipping ends with her little scissors to save her old nurse’s eyes.
    ‘Only that I will come to perfection on my deathbed,’ said Miqela calmly. ‘I hope to receive the consolamentum then before I die. But I don’t think I could live like Joana before then.’
    ‘No meat,’ said Elinor woefully, remembering the turning spits with their fearful but delicious burden. ‘No fish, or cheese, or eggs?’
    ‘Nothing that has been the result of any coupling,’ nodded Miqela. ‘And of course no coupling for the Perfects either, no love, marriage and childbearing. But I think I shall be past all that on my deathbed. Indeed it is many years since it has been behind me! It is the good food I should miss.’
    Elinor looked solemn. She had understood about the living a clean life; that was true for all holy sisters, not just the Perfects. And wasn’t it exactly the carnal knowledge of Thibaut le Viguier she would be fleeing from?
    But to be forbidden wine, to pray fifteen times a day, to fast three days out of seven, and for forty days three times a year! Elinor did not see how she could bear all that. It would be better to die swiftly and cleanly than to live out her days in such deprivation.
    Miqela looked up at her sharply; her eyesight might be failing but she had known Elinor from birth.
    ‘Don’t tell me you are thinking of entering a sister house,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a wedding gown I was to stitch for you, not the black robe of a Perfect.’
    ‘Oh, you heard that, did you?’ said Elinor casually. ‘It might be that I am to be married, indeed. And no, I am not thinking of joining the sisters. I just wanted to know what it was like.’
    Later that day, with her blood pulsing loudly in her ears, Elinor crept into the kitchen. Food was being served in the great hall but she had absented herself on the grounds of feeling unwell. The room still smelled strongly of roasted meat and