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Christian.’
    ‘But you came from Jerusalem –’
    ‘When I was in Jerusalem, Isidore, it was Christian.’ He’s watching the road, because it’s getting very rough, but he keeps glancing at my face as he steers the horses. ‘That was before the Turks invaded the Holy Land, and defeated the Christian king. I am a Christian Arab. I was born in Bethlehem, and brought up in a monastery. I was never an Infidel.’
    Then why are you so impious? Why do you favour heretics? Why do you have such strange ideas?
    ‘Mind you,’ he adds, with another sly, taunting grin, ‘one of the finest men I’ve ever known was an Infidel. In fact he was the commander of the Infidel forces that seized Jerusalem. His name was Saladin.’
    Saladin! Lord Jesus protect us.
    ‘Saladin was a noble man. A chivalrous man. Most worthy of respect.’ (What a monster he is. Just look at the way he’s laughing at me, secretly, behind that solemn expression. I can see it in his eyes. I can hear it in his voice.) ‘You know, Isidore,’ he says, ‘I realise that when you’re brought up in a cloister, things look very simple. But the world isn’t as clear as the writing in a book. It’s not plain black on plain white. It’s a lot more complicated.’
    So you say.
    ‘However, we can’t talk about that now.’ He lifts his head to look at the castle walls: they’re looming in front of us, dark against the darkening sky. The battlements are saw-toothed, like the horns of an antelope; the towers seem to spring up like trees from a sheer face of solid rock. ‘We’d better save our philosophical discussions until after we’ve talked to Dame Cavears,’ he says. ‘Otherwise I won’t have the breath left to deal with her.’
    You mean we’re going into the castle, now? We’re really going in ? O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: at last I’m going to see the inside of a genuine castle. Will there be troubadours, I wonder? Will there be dancing and music and golden hangings on the walls? Will they serve marvellous delicacies, like peacocks, and sugar, and apples of paradise?
    Are we actually going to sleep there?
    ‘One more climb,’ the Archdeacon says, pointing at the ramp leading up to the gateway. ‘One more climb, and we can all relax.’ He drops my reins, and takes the lead: his horse begins to ascend, wearily, carefully, stumbling on the uneven surface. I’m glad we didn’t arrive any later. It’s already getting a bit dim – imagine trying to find your way up here in the dark! Someone hails us from above, and the Archdeacon shouts a reply.
    ‘ Benedicite ! I come in peace!’ he bellows. There are three people hovering near the gates of the fortress: three men in steel hats. One of them is leaning on a spear; the other two are eating nuts, and laughing. They stop laughing when they see us.
    ‘It’s a priest,’ says one.
    ‘It’s the priest from Carcassonne,’ says another.
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’ The Archdeacon addresses them in a friendly fashion, as if they’re his equals. ‘It’s me again. I’ve come to see your mistress.’
    ‘What for?’ The one with the spear pushes his helmet back from his forehead. He’s as fat as a heifer at grass, and his haircut surpasseth all understanding. ‘We’ve already got a priest here.’
    ‘Yes, I realise that,’ the Archdeacon replies. ‘But what can you do about the fetters of love, my friends? I just can’t tear myself away from your enchanting mistress.’
    The three men burst out laughing. They howl. They shriek. They slap their legs and hold their sides.
    I don’t understand. What’s so funny?
    ‘Oh my friends,’ the Archdeacon chides, ‘do you hold such little hope for my suit?’
    ‘Go on,’ the fat one splutters. ‘In you go.’
    ‘On the wings of love, most fair.’
    ‘With a boot up your backside, more like!’
    What brainless talk is this? Why should an Archdeacon stoop to such vulgar badinage? He jerks his head at me, and the sound of