Chapter One

The insistent winter wind seemed to insinuate itself into every fold of cloak and tunic and reach right through to the bone. For the party of riders, the smiling South of the Troubadours had given way to the brooding slope of the Black Mountain, to be descended gingerly. They picked their way down along a rocky track, their palfreys struggling to find a purchase for their hooves among the fissures. Alongside the path, the harsh yellow of the broom shrubs shivered under a pale sun.

There was a dozen of them, dressed in the red and gold livery of the Count of Toulouse. Save one, the youngest of the group, fifteen-year-old Fatima. She gripped her pony’s mane and turned her unblemished face to scan the valley below, hoping for a sign of settlement, a village, perhaps even a town, that might function as respite from this windswept upland. Her master, Aiméry of Montauban, Steward of the Count of Toulouse, made a point of conducting an inspection of the Count’s lands at all times of year, and Fatima was expected to accompany him, to cook and clean as she did when at home in the castle.

Fatima disliked these forays into the country, even during the warmer months. The rustics stared at her, the youngest among them sometimes coming shyly forward to touch the dark skin of her hands. And though she had learned to smile and lightly brush them away, the attention made her feel like an outcast. Their fascination with her was so unlike the easy familiarity she enjoyed in the Count’s castle. In Toulouse daughters and sons of al-Andalus had settled in the city as guarantors of peace, and others, like herself, had been stranded there after the death of parents on their way to the northern fairs to sell their wares of Cordovan leather and Toledan steel. Fatima had no memory of her mother and father, but she often wondered about them. Who were they? What were their dreams? What would they think of the child they had left behind? Perhaps they would have hoped for better than the life she led beneath the echoing vaults of the Count of Toulouse’s kitchens.

Fatima looked at her fingernails, crimson with pomegranate. Early mornings were spent scoring the red fruit, immersing it in water, then banging the husk to make the seeds fall into the mortar, there to be crushed by the pestle to render the pomegranate juice to flavor the meat and game. This red was far more palatable than the red of the Blood Month of November, when terrified sows and boars of the Count’s estates were herded into pens set up in the courtyard to be stabbed and cut open. Squeals, moans, screams – a pitiful cacophony. The twitching carcasses would then be strung up by their hind trotters, the bristles of their hides scorched away by bunches of flaming straws, and at last butchered. Fatima crouched below the gibbet, wooden bucket in hand, catching the freely flowing blood and offal, which she then turned into the butifarra so prized by her masters. Yes, her parents would indeed be ashamed.

Much as she questioned her lot as a servant, it was all that she had ever known. Compared to jolting down this rugged hillside today, her life of toil in the Count’s castle seemed like a haven. There was always the easy banter with youngsters her own age, the flirting with the fresh boys behind the hay rick, the promise of a hot meal every evening.

Fatima’s pony slipped on the shale, interrupting her reverie. Just as well, for the leader of Steward Aiméry’s armed sergeants had called for a halt. She strained to see the reason for the delay. Another group of horsemen was toiling its way up toward them, single-file, heads bent into the wind. One of those heads was tonsured, the bald pate exposed to the elements. Its owner was perched unsteadily atop a mule, the hem of his long black habit grazing the rocks along the path. A Dominican friar – Fatima had seen these strange fellows in Toulouse. The presence of Dominicans usually spelled mischief or worse, as they were known as capricious enforcers of God’s Will. Intrigued, the girl urged her pony forward to hear what it was that the creature might desire.

“Auriol-Cabardès?” Steward Aiméry was exclaiming, generations of aristocratic disdain for the clergy dripping from his voice. “My dear Brother Humbert, your God must have led you astray. The village of Auriol lies over there, to the west, not a league away.” Aiméry gestured grandly with a gloved hand in that direction. “But climb no further. You have reached the height of the village. You will know you are near it when the land becomes a plateau. No need for divine guidance.”

Brother Humbert of Chartres held the Steward in a level gaze. The fierceness of his faith glowed from his dark eyes, his gaunt features betraying a piety tinged with mortification. Humbert would not humor this man of the South with a reply. He had grown accustomed to the insolence and godlessness of these accursed Southern noblemen, still smarting from the sound beating they had suffered at the hands of the French Northerners over the past twenty years.

Steward Aiméry spurred his steed to one side of the track, making way for the Dominican friar and his party to proceed. But the Steward’s movement revealed the rest of his retinue, including Fatima.

Humbert sat back on his mule as if struck. He would never have expected one such as she to find employ in the service of Toulouse.

“What strange company you keep, Steward Aiméry,” Humbert finally said in a voice redolent of the mellifluous tones of the rainy North. “Am I mistaken or is that not a daughter of Balthazar? Of the three Magi, the only one to be as black as sin?”

All eyes swiveled in her direction. Fatima stared at some dry twigs of thyme on the ground, silently cursing the curiosity that had impelled her to spur her pony forward. Curiosity had landed her in trouble before, peering around a corner to see what she shouldn’t, straining to hear a whispered exchange, and once, in her master’s armory, even hefting a sword she had no business touching—an infraction which had cost her a dozen lashes of the Count’s cravache. To worsen matters, a freshening breeze seemed to toy with her modest cloak so as to leave her open to Brother Humbert’s unwelcome gaze. A stronger gust blew back her hood, revealing her tight, dark curls, so dissimilar to the compliant plaits of her white sisters.

“Friar Humbert,” the Steward responded with some impatience, “This loyal servant has been a member of Count Raymond’s household since childhood and is now grown into a capable and commendable wench to whom I entrust the feeding and care of my party whenever we must needs travel to serve our lord.” He might have added that this girl, this Fatima, betrayed a nobility of movement and demeanor unusual for one in such a lowly station in life. But Steward Aiméry held his tongue.

Humbert looked unconvinced. “Our Provincial will be notified,” he said in a low voice. “We take a dim view of such impieties. Need I remind you, sir, that above all else we are servants of Christ?”

“And a good day to you too, Brother.” The contempt in the Steward’s voice was no longer accompanied by even the ghost of a smile. He eased his heels into the flanks of his chestnut palfrey and signaled his escort to resume their descent. The interview was over.

As Fatima came closer to the Dominican, she resolved not to look away. Instead, she passed brazenly before the glowering friar, her eyes staring insolently into his. She noted the typical clerical mix of hatred and hunger dwelling there, and narrowing her gaze, willed herself not to blink. Only after passing him did she realize she’d been holding her breath. As the friar urged his mount toward the village of Auriol, Fatima glanced over her shoulder to look at the receding figure. The world, she thought, had no need of men such as him, and if ever she had the power to turn her beliefs into action, she would do what she could to cleanse his like from the Earth.