She didn’t often come to the Left Bank. The Latin Quarter, some people were calling it these days, since it had started filling with scholars. She cursed as she almost stepped in a pile of steaming feces that someone must have tossed from an upper window. That’s right, she thought grimly: the scholars could talk Latin and preach in church, but life still came down, in the end, to the same old stink in the street.

She was nearing the top of the hill. She put her hand down and felt the handle of the long knife under her belt. Ahead of her was the gateway in the city wall through which the Compostela pilgrims passed. She knew Roland’s lodgings were somewhere here. A student came out of a doorway, and she was about to ask him if he knew Roland, when the young man himself appeared, from another house nearby. He saw her and stopped in surprise. She went quickly to his side.

“We must talk at once,” she said urgently. “Alone.”

He frowned, but led her a short way along the street and turned into a churchyard. It was quiet there. No one could see them.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “I was coming to you tonight.”

“You can’t,” she said. “Look.” And she pulled back her shawl.

He stared in surprise at the big red-and-black swelling on her face.

“My God. What happened?”

“My uncle. He beat me. He knows about us.” She watched him go pale. “I slipped out of the house to warn you.”

“How? He was asleep when I left yesterday. I heard him snoring.”

“The cook saw you. She told him.”

“He knows who I am?”

“Not yet. I wouldn’t tell him your name. But he has men out already making inquiries.”

He looked thoughtful.

“No one knows. Did the cook get a good look at me?”

“She gave him a description.”

“God be damned.”

“Oh Roland.” She looked pitiful. “He’ll beat me again until I tell him your name. I can’t hold out much longer.”

Roland looked away for a moment. Cursing his bad luck no doubt. She felt for the knife in her belt, but she didn’t draw it out yet. He turned back at her.

“You don’t really think …,” he started.

“Oh Roland,” she cried, “you’ve got to leave Paris. Leave at once.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You don’t understand. You don’t know him. Once he’s made up his mind … And he has the power.”

“He’d really have me castrated?” He stared at her in horror.

“Nothing will stop him. The king couldn’t stop him.”

He was squirming. She watched him. It was perfect.

“I can’t leave Paris,” he muttered. “I’ve nowhere to go.”

“We could run away together,” she said. “I have some money. We could run away to Normandy. Or England.”