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figure emerging from the door of his tent. It was the boy, Simon, looking almost as wretched as his master. The sight of me did nothing to cheer him.
    ‘Get back in the tent,’ Odard squeaked. ‘Your clumsiness would shame a leper. And you, Master Greek: leave me to my peace. I do not know the men you seek. I do not know who killed my friend, nor why the Lord God chose to take so devoted a servant. Go.’
    ‘I would value words with Rainauld, your other companion, before I go.’
    Odard stamped his foot, squelching it in the damp earth. I feared the shock might break his stick of a leg. ‘Rainauld is not here. He has not come back these two nights.’
    ‘Two nights?’ Suddenly, my mind was awash with suspicion. ‘Not since Drogo’s death.’
    ‘Perhaps he wanders witless with grief. Perhaps he has gone to Saint Simeon for food. Perhaps he has returned to his kinsmen in the Provençal camp. Seek him there, if you must.’
    In council, Count Raymond had been one of the few princes to speak in defence of Tatikios and the Emperor, but the enthusiasm did not extend to his Provençal army. Everywhere I turned among the endless rows of tents, his followers seemed to delight in refusing me. Some pretended not to understand my efforts at their language, for even among the Franks their dialect was considered outlandish, but I could see in their eyes that they understood me. Others directed me falsely, often to the mute or blind, while most just looked away when I spoke of Sarah or Rainauld.
    Throughout the fruitless afternoon, my mood worsened. Rain started to fall again and I cursed myself for having attempted the errand with neither guide nor cloak. I tried to believe that sufficient time would eventually yield something, but as the hours wore on and the mud climbed up my legs I made no headway.
    Eventually, in a forlorn corner of the camp near the river, something found me. I had been sent there by my last informant, who swore that a woman named Sarah lived there, but it was merely another ruse to mock me. There were few tents, none occupied, and by the smell in the air I guessed it was where the Provençals made their latrine. The river bank had been gouged out with the tracks of men and beasts going down to drink or defecate, and the ground was soggy with the rising melt water. I almost lost a boot in the mire. Glad at least of the solitude, I spent a couple of minutes watching the traffic on the road on the far bank. The men and horses were barely two hundred yards away, yet the green waters of the Orontes between us could have been an ocean.
    I turned to go back, and stopped. The soft earth had hushed their footsteps, and they had approached to within a stone’s throw: five knights, swords hanging at their sides, unsmiling. They had spread out into a loose line before me, so that I could run nowhere save into the fast-flowing torrent of the river. I dropped my hand to my belt and fumbled for the knife that Sigurd had given me, but it would avail nothing against armed knights.
    They halted a little distance away and eyed me grimly. ‘Demetrios Askiates?’ their leader challenged.
    I tried to meet his gaze, though his eyes were in shadow under his helmet. ‘I am Demetrios.’
    ‘My lord the Count of Saint-Gilles will speak with you.’
    As befitted the richest man in the army, Count Raymond had not spent the winter shivering in a leaky tent. He had made his billet in an abandoned farm in the midst of his camp, where the council had been held the night before. It was a crude building, its rubble walls bound with timber, but its roof tiles must have been sound enough. A thick plume of woodsmoke rose from the chimney, sharpening the air.
    We crossed the courtyard formed by the house and the barn, threading our way between the grooms, heralds, horses and soldiers who thronged it. Two guards with long spears flanked the door, but they did not delay me. I ducked under the lintel, grateful to have relief from the rain