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against me. But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me: my glory and the lifter up of mine head. I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people that have set themselves against me round about. Arise, O Lord; save me, O my God: for thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheek bone; thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly. Salvation belongeth to the Lord: thy blessing is upon thy people.” ’
    Amen.
    Still very early. Dew in the shadows, chill in the air, shepherds on the road heading for Jerusalem. Their flocks are nervous and obedient. Not like ours. Ours is full of pious pea-heads who want to linger over every sacred sight. First stop: Bethany. Straggling village famous for a particularly nasty murder four years ago, when some miller was hacked to pieces and the limbs thrown around a pigsty. No mention of that , naturally. Joscelin pointing out notable features.
    ‘On your right is the village of Bethany, at the foot of the Mount of Olives, which was the home of Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha. His crypt lies beneath that church, which is the Church of Lazarus. The other church is the Church of Saint Mary Magdalene. Bethany was also the home of Simon the Leper, where our Lord Jesus Christ lodged during Holy Week. If you look in the Church of Lazarus, you will see the broken alabaster box from the Gospel of Matthew. This box is known to have healed palsy and some convulsive ailments. The tower you see belongs to the convent of Queen Melisande, who was our queen here from 1131 until 1161 – a very holy woman who contributed greatly to the beauty of our sacred places.’
    Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
    ‘And that rock, Master Joscelin?’ The nun with the frog’s face. ‘Will you tell us about that rock, please?’
    ‘ That rock?’
    ‘Yes please.’
    Can’t believe his ears. But treads carefully, as usual. ‘You want to know about that rock,’ he repeats.
    ‘Well look how it’s cloven into three parts! One cleft in three, like the Holy Trinity! Surely it must be the scene of some miracle?’
    Poor, stupid Frogface. Her bulging eyes are wet with emotion. People like Frogface think Jerusalem’s streets are paved with the bones of martyrs, and every sunbeam is solid gold. You can’t help feeling sorry for them – especially with leeches like Joscelin around.
    ‘Oh, that rock!’ he says. ‘Of course, Sister. That’s where they buried the man who ate one of the swine that had devils in them, from the Gospel of Matthew chapter eight. He wouldn’t lie down when he was dead, you see, so they had to roll that big rock on top of him. And God smote the rock to kill the devil. And that’s why it’s now in three parts.’
    Gasps of amazement. But all lies, of course. Lies are Joscelin’s stock in trade. The question is, should I tell someone? Should I tell Saint George that we’re presently escorting a thief, blackmailer and notorious corrupter of women? Someone who cheats dumb pilgrims when they want to exchange their foreign money for local dinars? Someone who gets them drunk and pushes them into the arms of other thieves, so that they’re left with nothing except the dirt under their fingernails?
    I should, of course. But it might be awkward. It might cast a murky light on my own history. (Is that so, Pagan? And how do you come to know all this? And where did you meet this man? And how long have you been acquainted with him?)
    They might throw me out of the Order. Which is a risk I can’t take – not just now. Not when things are so difficult.
    ‘Which saint am I?’ Now Frogface has started a game of ‘Saints’. Filling in time until the next sacred monument. ‘My name begins with “A” –’
    ‘Antony.’
    ‘Andrew.’
    ‘Agnes,’ says Agnes. (Don’t tell me she can read !)
    Father Raimbaut, the sickly Cistercian, clears his throat beside her. He looks like something that’s been buried for ten years, then dug up and left out in the rain.
    ‘Adalbert of Prague,’ he