‘Is all well?’

Ida laughs hollowly. Lisbet comes close so she can see her in the low burn of the last light, reaches out to thumb the tears from her friend’s cheeks. Ida moves clear and presses the heels of her hands to her temples as though she would crush her own skull. ‘It is too hot.’

Lisbet is unmoored by Ida’s spikiness. ‘What happened?’

Ida’s shoulders slump. ‘It is too much.’

Lisbet bites her cheek. ‘You will not tell me?’

‘I cannot,’ says Ida simply. Lisbet waits hopefully, but when Ida speaks her voice is clearer, more direct. ‘They are an army, now. It seems every woman in Strasbourg dances. The musicians will have to play all hours.’

‘You think it will work?’ says Lisbet.

‘There will be an end, one way or another.’ Ida looks full at her then, her eyes the shade of violets growing. ‘Am I good, Bet?’

Lisbet grasps her. ‘You are the best woman I know. What did Nethe say to you?’

Ida’s hand goes slack in hers. She draws away, back to the cart. ‘Good luck with your musicians, Lisbet.’

Eight

There are two of them. One is tall and blond and pale, a stalk of wheat. The other is short and broad and dark. A Turk. He speaks for them both.

‘I am Eren,’ he rests a slim hand on his tunic, ‘and this is Frederich.’ He has a soft voice, slightly inflected.

Sophey nods tightly, at a point to the left of him, and Lisbet wonders if she has ever been so close to a Turk before.

‘Frau Wiler.’ She indicates Lisbet. ‘Frau Wiler.’ She points to Nethe. ‘Fräulein Wiler.’

Eren nods a greeting, and Frederich sweeps a low bow.

‘We thank you for your hospitality.’ Frederich looks as though he is holding back a laugh. ‘It is good to have somewhere to lay our heads before the city tomorrow.’

‘Are you a drummer?’ asks Nethe. She indicates the skin stretched over wood lashed at Frederich’s hip.

‘A piper.’

‘He’s joking,’ says Eren, nudging his companion in the ribs. ‘Do not speak to him, he’s a fool.’ There is affection in his voice, brotherly.

‘Let me show you to your quarters,’ says Sophey, pulling Nethe back. Lisbet notices she turns her head up as she speaks, addressing Frederich alone. Eren seems not to notice, or perhaps he is practised in not noticing. He bends to Ulf, who is butting at his legs, and Fluh, keen not to be left out, dashes over and nips at his fingers.

Sophey kicks the dog aside, and Fluh whimpers, feigning injury, lifting her paw. ‘This way.’

They follow her without comment, but Eren bends and smooths back the fur at Fluh’s side before he enters.

‘A Turk,’ says Nethe, as soon as they are out of earshot.

‘I have eyes.’

‘It is an insult,’ says Sophey, emerging from the kitchen, blinking in the glare of the sun. ‘An infidel.’ Sophey snatches at the broom kept just inside the door, and begins sweeping out imagined muck from the men’s boots. ‘If we have any trouble, they’re out, Papal decree or no.’