Roland went back to the door and slid a thick wooden bar through two iron brackets. “In the great days of Languedoc such meetings as this would take place in the secret chambers of fair chateaux,” he said with his wry smile. “Now we must hide in wine shops.”

He took her hand and started to lead her to the bed.

She felt herself panicking. This was happening too quickly. In Love the lady must be the dons, the master.

She pulled her hand out of his grasp.

“Wine shop or no, Messire, this room has its own considerable beauty. How much do you pay Guillaume to keep it ready for your use?” she asked lightly.

“There has been no woman in my life since I met you. No woman I can love as I love you.”

Odd, No woman I can love as I love you. He seemed to be correcting himself.

“I am afraid that you may not understand what Love means to me, Sire Roland. Love cannot be like a wild spring flood that destroys and is gone. It must flow like a kindly river. It must nurture what grows beside it. It is the union of soul with soul that the lady and the lover must strive to attain. Must earn.”

“Your soul enchants me,” Roland said, taking her hand and looking deep into her eyes.

She felt dizzy.

“But the philosophers,” he continued, “say the soul is the form of the body. I adore the beauty of your soul made visible in your lovely body.”

“If you would love me, you must be ruled by me.”

“I will be ruled by you, mi dons,” said Roland, his dark head bowed. “I will dedicate my art to you. I will make and sing a hundred songs to your beauty.” He knelt before her.

She wanted to bury her fingers in his thick hair, to press his head against her, but she fought the urge. She must maintain the commanding air called for by the code of Love.

“You will have a chance to make good that promise, Sire Roland. On the first of May the Queen holds a singing contest to celebrate the King’s return to good health. Every notable troubadour and trouvere in Christendom is to be summoned. You may be sure I shall see you get an invitation. You shall be my champion.”

Roland smiled, raising one dark eyebrow. “Delighted, mi dons. That is the kind of battle I like best.”

Battle. Mont Segur. She still did not know why he had gone there. He had dared to avoid answering her question; she must dare to persist in asking it.

“Since it did not occur to you to provide chairs when you had this room prepared, I will sit on the bed and you will remain where you are.” She turned from him with a swirl of her long skirt and sat primly on the edge of the great bed. The ropes cradling the down-stuffed mattress creaked faintly.

“As you wish, mi dons.” He stayed on his knees.

“You may stand if you would be more comfortable.”

Silently, he got to his feet. His mouth was solemn, but she could see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“I hope you did not think to distract me by taking me to this Turkish paradise, Messire. I still must know what you were doing at Mont Segur. And what possessed you to challenge my husband to a fight with daggers.”

“Ah, your husband.” His broad smile showed that he took no offense at her haughty tone but well understood that it was part of courtly custom.

“Yes, my husband. It is a miracle that you stand whole and hale before me. Do you know how many men he has killed? What were you thinking of, Messire?”

“Not of myself, mi dons.” He shrugged, and a sadness came into his face. “The Count de Gobignon ordered that all the Cathar perfecti, old men, women, people exhausted from starvation, be dragged by brute force down the rocky mountainside to the pyre. I protested. I did not challenge him. And I never drew a weapon against him. If you had talked to anyone who saw the fight you would know that. In the end I got his dagger away from him and forced him to take back his order.”

“What you say agrees with what I have heard. But did you have to humiliate him like that?”

The troubadour spread his hands as if to show surprise at her question.

“Madame, when you are fighting for your life you do not worry about the other fellow’s pride.”

“He must hate you more than any other man on Earth. Do you not realize that?”

The troubadour shrugged. “It has been almost a year since that happened, Madame, and he has yet to try to avenge himself.”

His seeming obtuseness made her furious. He was a fool who had been lucky once. It was that simple.

“Apparently you have no idea what sort of man you have made your enemy. He owns enough land to be a king in his own right. He has to deal with a thousand matters, great and small, every day. But he is not one to forget an injury. He will get around to you.”

“I know the house of Gobignon much better than you think I do.” The troubadour gazed at her with that infuriating, calm amusement. “What would you have me do? Flee the country again?”

“What would I have you do?” She was clenching her teeth. “There is nothing you can do. It is too late. It was already too late when you protested his order. Why did you provoke him so, if you wanted to pay court to me?”

“You are right.” Roland shook his head. “It would have been wiser for me to hold my tongue. But it would not have been human.”

She drew a deep breath. “If the Cathars are so dear to you, what were you doing in the crusader army? What darkness lies here, Sire Roland, that you have thrice answered this question with evasion?”

He groaned softly.

She waited.

After a long silence he said, “I cannot tell you.”

Every muscle in her body went rigid. “You call me your dons, and yet you would keep secrets from me. You are trifling with me, Messire.” She stood up. “Let me out of here at once.”

He held up a placating hand. “Wait, please. You must try to understand.”

Rage boiled up inside her. Understand? He all but spat in her face and then asked her to understand. Did he take her for an idiot?

“I do not care to put my life in jeopardy only to hear your lies — to be told I must trust you even as you refuse to place your trust in me. “

His blue eyes burned at her. “Let me tell you at once that my name is not Orlando but Roland, Roland de Vency. Like you, I was born in Languedoc. “

She was amazed. And yet she wasn’t. Nervous laughter bubbled up in her throat. She put her hand to her heart. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To place my life in your hands, mi dons.”

Mi dons! A wave of joy overwhelmed her. By those words in the Langue d’Oc the troubadour was declaring his total submission to her.

Then a ripple of fear erased the joy. “Why do you use a false name?”

His answering smile appeared. “I am a faidit. My father, Arnaut de Vency, was like so many knights of Languedoc. He fought for his homeland against the crusaders and the inquisitors. So did I, when I got old enough. But then they were coming too close to capturing us. And every time we killed one of them, they would hang ten village boys. We could not go on. We could not stay in Languedoc. The name de Vency is on the lists of outlaws. So, were I to use my real name now, I would suffer for it — for my deeds and my father’s.”

Orlando’s — Roland’s — father was just like mine, she thought, feeling a new warmth of kinship with the troubadour. If I had been a man, my story might be the same.

“But why did you come back to France?”

Roland shrugged and smiled sadly. “I have many ties here.” He looked up at her suddenly, his face shadowed with pain. “But now I know that it is not enough for me to be just a troubadour. After seeing all those good people die at Mont Segur, I have vowed that I will do whatever I can to work against such things.”

Her head began to ache. In answering her questions, he was only adding to them. He was at Mont Segur. And wearing the cross. But how could he, after what he just told her? Was he playing with her, enjoying her confusion?

“Well. Once again then, Messire, what were you doing at Mont Segur in the first place?” she said sharply. “If the crusaders are truly your enemies, how could you have joined them?”

He drained his cup, set it down hard, and stared at her. “Will you trust me?”

His eyes held hers, and she wanted to stroke his cheek with her fingertips.

Could she trust him?

“What do you ask of me?” she said, and was worried by the uncertainty she heard in her own voice.

“Come with me where we can talk in greater safety. I have had a room prepared for us above. Will mi dons go there with me?”

She had been expecting such an invitation. When she heard his voice speak the words, a sudden warmth flooded her loins. She was shocked by the eagerness of her body.

But suspicion darkened her mind. He has told me little, and now when I press him he refuses to allay my confusion. Could he just want to get me alone and take advantage of my weakness?

“I have already granted you more than you deserve under the laws of Love, which you yourself have invoked,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “It is time I left now. Will you escort me back to the bridge?”

Now she saw pain in his blue eyes.

He looked at her, speechless.

Say something that will make me stay! her heart begged him.

He bowed his head and spoke in a choked voice. “Certainly, if it is your wish to go.”

Regret washed over her like a sudden incoming tide.

No, no, I have wanted this so much, she thought. I cannot turn my back on him now and return to living the way I have been. I might never see him again.

She made no move to get up from the table.

“How can I know,” she said hesitantly, “whether you will deal honestly with me?”

He leaned toward her, and his eyes were bright and compelling in the candlelight. “Risk it. “

She regarded the grave face before her.

No, his was not the face of a liar. And he felt as she did about Mont Segur. Heretics, yes, but our people, people of Languedoc. Had not Amalric burned them? As he would burn me if he could see into my heart.

She felt strange and tremulous as Roland’s gaze held hers. Am I going to let my fear of Amalric stamp out every bit of life left in me?

His hand slid across the table till it rested on top of her own.

His audacity knew no limit!

But had she not left her hand lying there to be taken? And could he have seen anything but invitation in her eyes?

His palm felt warm and dry. Fire traveled up her arm. She could not move her hand. The thought of intimacy with him thrilled her. She felt as if she were riding a hunting horse at full gallop through an unknown forest.

Suddenly she stood up and said in a low voice, “I will go with you.” Their hands were still joined.

As they went to the flight of stairs near their table, the jongleur struck a brazen chord on his harp and sang.

“Let wine to my lips be nigh
At life’s dissolution.
That will make the angels cry
With glad elocution:
‘Grant this drunkard, God on high,
Grace and absolution.’”

Nicolette glanced back as she left the room, and saw that their departure was unnoticed. Everyone was enjoying the jongleur. Roland gestured to her and she climbed the steps ahead of him.

On the second floor, Roland pushed open a heavy door. She saw the golden glow of a small fire within. He went in ahead of her, lit a taper, and touched it to the candles of a large brass candelabrum on a table.

Her legs trembled as she crossed the threshold. Now, she thought, I will find out what he really is.

Light by light as the candles flared up, the chamber revealed itself to her. It seemed for a moment as if she had walked into a silken pavilion. No window was visible. Walls and ceiling were covered with heavy draperies embroidered in complex Saracen patterns, mazes and whorls, vines of crimson, green and gold twining together invitingly. On one side of the room a huge bed strewn with brightly colored cushions stood raised on a carpeted platform. At the sight of it her heartbeat quickened, whether with fear or desire she was not sure.

Roland went back to the door and slid a thick wooden bar through two iron brackets. “In the great days of Languedoc such meetings as this would take place in the secret chambers of fair chateaux,” he said with his wry smile. “Now we must hide in wine shops.”

He took her hand and started to lead her to the bed.

She felt herself panicking. This was happening too quickly. In Love the lady must be the dons, the master.

She pulled her hand out of his grasp.

“Wine shop or no, Messire, this room has its own considerable beauty. How much do you pay Guillaume to keep it ready for your use?” she asked lightly.

“And if I had elected to leave this charming quarter?” she challenged him. “Would you have tried to stop me?”

He did not answer, but looked deep into her eyes as he held out his arm.

She took it and they started walking together down the Street of Straw. Suddenly dizzy with excitement at being with him at last, she leaned heavily on his arm. The strength she felt in him enthralled her.

“I would have wanted to stop you,” he finally said. “I would have wanted to kneel down in the street and beg.”

His response melted the last of her anger, and she realized suddenly that he was speaking in the Langue d’Oc. How could he be from Italy?

“But I would not have done as I wanted,” he went on in a thoughtful tone. “I know what a chance you are taking. I wanted to see whether you would come to meet me all on your own, without any more persuasion, whatever the obstacles.”

She shivered at the reminder of her peril. She had been in danger before, but now that they were together she knew she had crossed the threshold. If ever they were seen together, she was doomed.

Yet she felt delight, not in spite of the danger, but because of it. The hollow sensation in her stomach, her cold palms, were not making her miserable. Quite the contrary. To choose danger, to embrace it and not just suffer it, felt thrilling. Now, she thought, I understand a little why men go to war.

They stopped, and she looked up at a handsome, three-story building, its timber exterior coated with plaster.

“The house of Guillaume the Bookseller,” said Orlando. “In the back there is wine, and good talk for those who love books.”

“I have heard of it,” said Nicolette. Guillaume’s was whispered about among the younger courtiers. A place where the most rebellious students gathered and heresies were openly discussed. Just now it seemed the perfect place for her adventurous mood. She took a deep breath, and when he opened the door for her, she went in.

She was dazzled by the light of many candles. When her eyes became accustomed to the light, she saw hundreds of volumes stacked on tables. Two brawny apprentices, she noticed, were standing guard over the expensive books. Quickly she dropped her eyes and reached up to draw her hood closer about her face.

Orlando led her to another door, and she stepped into a darker room. Here there were no windows and few candles. People sat in the shadows at small tables drinking and talking softly. Nicolette had heard that the people who frequented Guillaume’s actually dared to exchange ideas on sorcery and even to accuse the bishops and the barons of robbing the poor, talk that could land a person in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

A young man strumming an Irish harp leaned against the far wall. He had blond hair in tight curls and an impish grin, and seemed to give Orlando the faintest of nods as she and Orlando moved quickly to a table in a dark corner. Was the young man, she wondered, one of those scurrilous poet-outlaws of the Latin Quarter known as Les Chiens Enrages, the Mad Dogs?

The blond man struck a chord, and the room fell silent.

Nicolette, pleasantly tremulous, listened intently.

“Our Lord had nothing to His name.
He had to beg for shelter and for meals.
Our Pope, he tries to do the same,
And lives exclusively on what he steals.”

Nicolette found herself joining in the almost furtive laughter that rippled softly but pervasively around the room. Surely the singer was one of the Mad Dogs.

But what a joy. I have not heard that kind of song since I married Amalric, she thought. No one would dare make such sport at Chateau Gobignon — or, for that matter, at the royal palace.

This bookseller’s back room reminded her of her childhood home, of the free talk at her father’s table.

She turned and smiled at Orlando. He smiled back at her, and her skin tingled.

I must not let myself be swept away. Not yet.

“What would you say if I told you that man is my jongleur, and that is my song?” Orlando asked her.

Just then a stout, bearded man, perhaps Guillaume the Bookseller himself, brought two big earthenware cups of the local pale-gold wine of Paris. Setting the glasses down, he left without a word. Orlando’s privacy, she saw, was respected here.

Now I must question him, Nicolette thought.

Still, she hesitated. The moments since he appeared out of the shadows on the street had been so deliciously exciting. Now, if his answers proved to be unworthy, all her love and hope would turn to dust.

But she saw a warmth in his eyes that gave her the courage to begin.

“I find it strange that a man who writes songs mocking the Pope also crusades against the Cathars. Just where do you put your loyalty, Sire Orlando?”

His blue eyes burned at her. “Let me tell you at once that my name is not Orlando but Roland, Roland de Vency. Like you, I was born in Languedoc. “

She was amazed. And yet she wasn’t. Nervous laughter bubbled up in her throat. She put her hand to her heart. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To place my life in your hands, mi dons.”

Mi dons! A wave of joy overwhelmed her. By those words in the Langue d’Oc the troubadour was declaring his total submission to her.

Then a ripple of fear erased the joy. “Why do you use a false name?”

His answering smile appeared. “I am a faidit. My father, Arnaut de Vency, was like so many knights of Languedoc. He fought for his homeland against the crusaders and the inquisitors. So did I, when I got old enough. But then they were coming too close to capturing us. And every time we killed one of them, they would hang ten village boys. We could not go on. We could not stay in Languedoc. The name de Vency is on the lists of outlaws. So, were I to use my real name now, I would suffer for it — for my deeds and my father’s.”

How she hated this cold, muddy city!

Resolutely, she turned back the way she had just come.

She would look for the Rue Saint-Jacques. She thought she would recognize it, because it was broader than the other streets and was paved here and there with old stones. The Rue Saint-Jacques, she knew, led right to the bridge.

Her feet began to hurt now as she hurried, uncertain as she turned corners. Then she looked down and saw a great worn slab. Never had a simple piece of stone given her such relief.

Now, which way is the bridge?

She stepped out into the middle of the street and looked both ways. Above a rooftop, she caught a glimpse, thank God, of the gold-painted spire of Notre-Dame, glittering faintly in the last rays of sunset. Oh, thank you, holy Mary. She headed toward the Petit-Pont.

Then she heard something. A fine tenor, it cut through the babble in the street and held her motionless.

“God save Lady Eleanor
Queen who art the arbiter
Of honor, wit, and beauty,
Of largesse and loyalty.
Born wert thou in happy hour
And wed to Henry King.”

A tingling sensation ran from her scalp down her spine, and she felt herself reaching deep for breath. The voice was not one she recognized, but its sweetness and the beauty of the melody, so well wedded with the words, touched her deep inside. It was a song about Eleanor of Aquitaine, her ideal ever since she first heard tales of the great queen at her mother’s knee. It was Eleanor, a woman of Languedoc, who had brought l’amour courtois, the cult of Love, into the palaces of kings and inspired generations of troubadours.

She stood enchanted, oblivious now of menacing passersby. The verses following one after another transported her to another world, a world in which beauty ruled and terror was banished. In this world men loved women and served them loyally. If they did bloody deeds, it was only out of devotion to their ladies.

When the song came to an end, Nicolette felt stronger, and more at peace. Her fears still lurked in the back of her mind, but they no longer possessed her.

She saw that she was standing before a tavern whose sign bore the device of two crossed gold swords on a red background. The Two Swords, Nicolette remembered, was a sign Orlando had mentioned.

Still under the spell, hearing the song again in her mind, Nicolette asked herself, Would Eleanor have run away from such a rendezvous like a frightened milkmaid? Would she, who had been married first to the King of France, then to the King of England — and had dared to stand up to both of them — let a husband’s anger stop her from meeting her lover?

Nicolette felt new strength surging through her.

Orlando’s directions now came back to her. From the Two Swords, left at the first corner. After a doorway decorated with a figure of Saint Julian the Hospitaler in his boat, left again and you will be on the Street of Straw. Intently, shutting out all her fears, she set herself in motion. In minutes she spied Saint Julian.

A hooded figure blocked her path.

She cried out.

A powerful hand seized her arm.

Her fingers darted to the little knife at her belt.

“Hush, Madame. You are safe. It is only me.”

The voice! It was his! At the sound of it, her heart leaped up for joy.

A sudden blaze of torchlight threw their shadows against the white wall beside them, and a wealthy student strutted past, with a linkboy to light his way and another servant to carry his huge, leather-bound books.

The reddish glow enabled Nicolette to see the face deep in the shadow of the hood. Piercing eyes, an arching nose that gave him the look of a bird of prey.

“Sire Orlando.”

“I have been following you ever since you crossed the bridge. Now we are this close to our destination, I thought it time to make myself known.” He spoke low, in a voice like velvet. It recalled his songs to her.

She shivered, and realized that he was still holding her arm, that this was the first time he had ever touched her.

“You were about to turn back, were you not?”

“Yes.” She answered automatically, and then thought, All that time I was stumbling around lost, he was watching me. Why did he not help me? Again she felt anger well up within her.

“And if I had elected to leave this charming quarter?” she challenged him. “Would you have tried to stop me?”

He did not answer, but looked deep into her eyes as he held out his arm.

She took it and they started walking together down the Street of Straw. Suddenly dizzy with excitement at being with him at last, she leaned heavily on his arm. The strength she felt in him enthralled her.

And I have not the power to command Love to go away. It possesses me, and I am far too weak to disobey.

She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with excitement. She was suddenly acutely aware of her breasts moving against the silk of her shift.

She stood up, rolled the poem tightly, and slipped it into a secret pocket in the crimson samite belt that hung low about her hips.

I will not make the same mistake twice, she thought. This time I will meet him.

Her heart was fluttering.

With Louis better, the royal party would be returning to Paris. Then she would send him a message.

V

Though hooded and cloaked, Nicolette trembled. The chill of the January afternoon pierced her through, but it was fear, more than the cold, that made her limbs shake. Having just crossed over to the Left Bank, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw the towers and spires of the royal palace across the Seine. She felt as if hidden eyes there were watching her. Could anyone on the palace wall have seen her walk over the Petit-Pont?

Not Amalric. He was still in the south, the King having just appointed him seneschal for Beziers and the surrounding country. But he had so many agents in Paris and allies at court. Except for Agnes, all the servants in the Gobignon town house were loyal to him. His aunt, Queen Blanche, was forever praising him to all who would listen. If Nicolette were involved in scandal, the White Queen would be furious, and would see to it that word reached Amalric. And if indeed he found out about her meeting the troubadour? Just a message, a song, let alone a meeting like this one, could mean death for her and Orlando.

I should turn around right now, cross this bridge, and run back to the palace. The streets of the Latin Quarter were crawling with ruffians and criminals — it was insane for her to be walking here alone after sunset. The sight of the small knife she carried under her cloak might deter an attacker, but then she would be discovered.

If I screamed for help, the whole palace would find out. Blanche would demand to know why I was here. No, she thought, her blood turning to ice, she would know why.

But those eyes of his? to look into them again, was that not worth any risk?

She stood, vacillating, in the shadows by a wooden house that overhung the Rue Saint-Jacques. I must see Orlando, she thought. Over a year now, and I have not been able to forget him. She longed just to be alone with him and have him take her in his arms.

But first he must answer the questions that tormented her. Why had he become a crusader? Why had he fought Amalric? Could he truly care for her and hurt her so?

He would have to explain. And even if his explanation fully satisfied her, she had nonetheless to remain firm and withhold the ultimate favor.

Sweet Goddess! she thought suddenly. I have never even spoken to him. I know nothing about the man, nothing at all.

What if he tries to get me into some sordid little room and force himself on me, like an animal? How will I fight him off? All alone, not able to cry for help.

No, it will not be like that, it could not be. I would have known if he were that kind of man, and felt repelled. He could not sing and write such beautiful verses, and look so fine if he were not the man I want him to be. Yes, when we meet, it will be as it is in his songs. He will obey, do exactly what I tell him and no more. Oh, I have hoped so long for this. Goddess of Love, let it be beautiful.

The path before her was anything but beautiful. The crooked streets seemed to hold fresh terrors at every step. It was hard for her to see her way now that the sun was almost down. The jutting upper stories of the houses had plunged the streets almost into darkness. She worried that she might not remember the directions he had written to her. She brushed against rough walls as she hurried along, trying to avoid all attention and to keep out of the mud, reeking of manure, that covered the center of these streets. She picked her way over planks laid down by the servingmen of the university, but more than once she stepped ankle-deep into a puddle. My good leather boots will be ruined, she thought, and if someone sees them before I get rid of them, how will I explain that?

From under her fur-trimmed hood she cast furtive glances at the dozens of swaggering students from all the nations of Christendom. Their heads were shaved in clerical tonsures, but they brazenly wore long daggers at their belts, even though carrying weapons was forbidden to students. Studying for the priesthood or not, she thought, each one looked as if he would like nothing better than to push her into an alley and have his way with her. And the masters, those scholars in black mantles who walked two by two, conversing in rapid Latin, would be no help at all.

More of Orlando’s strangeness, she thought, having me meet him in the Latin Quarter. He should know I have never been in these streets before. I could get lost. She looked up at the buildings leaning over her like unfriendly giants. I am lost right now.

The thought brought on a sudden access of anger. Marguerite is right. Troubadours are all mad: professing to worship their ladies, they thrust them into danger! And I am mad, to venture here.

But could she find her way back to the palace? The houses all looked alike. The streets were so dark now. And even if she dared approach any of these passersby, none of them seemed to be speaking a language she understood. Yet she could not just stand here. At any moment she could be accosted.

How she hated this cold, muddy city!

Resolutely, she turned back the way she had just come.

She would look for the Rue Saint-Jacques. She thought she would recognize it, because it was broader than the other streets and was paved here and there with old stones. The Rue Saint-Jacques, she knew, led right to the bridge.