“It does. Beside our little castle was a lake with many swans, so that the place was called the Lac des Cygnes. Though my family also claim that it was the swanlike grace and strength of their ancestors that gave us the name. I am called Roland after my ancestor, the famous hero of the Song of Roland.”

“Oh.” The story had been popular for more than a century, but Martine had never thought of meeting a real Roland. She was impressed. “Yet you have come here as a humble student?”

“My older brother will inherit the estate. So I must study hard and hope to make a career in the Church.”

As they turned upstream again, he told her about the estate. It lay to the west, on the lower reaches of the graceful River Loire on its journey toward the Atlantic Ocean. He spoke of it with obvious affection, which pleased Martine. Soon, however, they were approaching a large area of wharfs and a marketplace known as the Grève.

The broad spaces of the Grève market on the Right Bank were always busy. Ships and barges carrying wines from Burgundy and grain from the eastern plains unloaded on the river bank. On the other side lay the old quarters of the weavers, with the glassmakers a block farther. Her uncle’s house lay on the rue du Temple that ran northward between them. Too many people in the market knew her. She didn’t want to start gossip. It was time to get rid of her aristocratic young companion.

“Good-bye, monsieur, and thank you,” she said politely.

“I’m studying tomorrow,” Roland remarked, “but the day after, I shall visit the Sainte-Chapelle at this hour. Perhaps,” he suggested pleasantly, “I shall see you there.”

“I doubt it, sir,” she said, and walked away.

But two days later, she’d gone there all the same.

It wasn’t long since the saintly King Louis had completed his sumptuous sanctuary for the holy relics. The upper chapel was reserved for the king himself, who had a private entrance from the royal palace next door. But lesser folk could worship in a humbler chapel below. And even this was beautiful. The cryptlike space shimmered by the light of countless candles. As Martine looked at the delicate columns of red and gold and observed how they branched out into the low, blue vaults, so richly spangled with golden fleurs-de-lys, she felt as if she had entered a magical orchard. By coming to meet Roland, she had already opened the way for an intimacy between them. In the glimmering candlelight, with the soft scent of incense in every nook and crevice, it seemed only natural that she should draw close to his side.