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king.’
    ‘And yet,’ said Jehan.
    Ebolus shifted on his feet. ‘And yet.’
    The confessor thought out loud. ‘So the girl can lift the siege, free her people from plague and send their enemies from the land if only she will marry this barbarian, and yet she will not. Is she so full of pride?’
    ‘There is a problem in that—’
    Ebolus was cut short by a stir in the street. Someone was coming. Heavy footsteps approached, ten men at least, thought Jehan, marching in step. Soldiers. The footsteps stopped near to him. Jehan became aware of a presence at his side, someone looking at him, someone for whom every nearby conversation halted, for whom even the animals seemed to stop braying.
    ‘Monk.’
    ‘Count Eudes,’ said Jehan.
    ‘Good of you to come.’ The count’s voice was as Jehan remembered it – curt, brusque, implying that time was short and he had pressing business to attend to.
    ‘When the count commands, the brothers of Saint-Germain obey.’
    There was a short laugh.
    ‘Not so, or your monks would be here defending my walls instead of cowering in the countryside with their treasures buried more deeply than their sins.’
    ‘The confessor is still at the abbey,’ said Ebolus.
    ‘You were there when the Normans plundered it?’
    ‘No. But I returned after they had. Even Sigfrid can’t burn somewhere twice.’
    ‘I wish your fellow monks had your courage.’
    ‘It seems courage would not be required if your sister were made to do her duty and marry this heathen. I would gladly go with her to help bring him to God.’
    The count said nothing, and the streets around him seemed to empty of noise in respect to his silence. When he spoke again there was an edge of anger in his voice.
    ‘They have not said they want her in marriage.’
    ‘I did not get the chance to elaborate, Confessor,’ said Ebolus. ‘The pagans …’
    He seemed to have difficulty continuing.
    ‘Yes?’ said Jehan.
    Ebolus went on: ‘Our spies tell us it’s something to do with their gods.’ The abbot’s voice was almost ashamed.
    Jehan fell silent. Somewhere far off a child was crying.
    Eventually, the confessor spoke. ‘That,’ he said, ‘changes the complexion of things. A sacrifice? We won’t give up Christian daughters to heathen murder no matter what the cost.’
    ‘We have no thought of that,’ said Eudes.
    Ebolus spoke: ‘Why not? What choice do we have? If the people discover this offer has been made – and discover it they will – then they’ll tear her from the church and throw her to the barbarians, sacrifice or no. You have not seen the streets, Confessor. The plague takes so many that we cannot bury our dead. We have no silver to offer, the king has given it to the Norsemen for twenty years now. We need to buy time and then strike at these heathens.’
    ‘I will not send my sister to the slaughter,’ said Eudes.
    ‘How many warriors do we put in the way of death? I have lost one brother and expect to lose more. It will be a noble end for her,’ said Ebolus.
    ‘And what will they say of Eudes?’ said the count. ‘That he is so weak he gives up his only sister to rape and murder. I will stand alone against them with this city a field of ash about me before I let that happen.’
    The confessor felt irritation building in him. He felt the need to move, to pace around, to slap the walls, to express the passion God had put within him in a physical way. His body, though, would not allow that.
    ‘Turn me.’ He spoke to his attendant monk.
    ‘Father?’
    ‘My hip is chafing. Turn me.’
    The monk did as he was asked, rolling Jehan onto his other side and arranging the cushion beneath him.
    Jehan paused for a moment, offering a prayer against wrath, and then spoke: ‘There can be no concession in this way to pagans. It is one thing to marry the girl to a godless king, perhaps even a good thing. That way, through prayer, through devotion and humility, we may hope she will bring the unbeliever to