“What about this?” asked Stratson, showing her the white altar cloth. He grasped one corner and cursed.

“What!”

“This!” A needle dangled from the leather gauntlet he wore. Tiphaine pulled the alcohol lamp closer. “Did it touch you?”

“No; but the whole cloth is run through and through with needles!”

She frowned down at it. “Put it down on the bed, strip the glove, make sure not to drop the needle and put it on top. The mattress is a bag of cornhusks, right? Over a rope webbing?”

“Yes.” Stratson did as he was told and eased back as Tiphaine carefully studied the length of cloth draped over the little bed. Needles twinkled in the waving flames.

“That sewing box of hers, too,” he said. “It was set just so on the little table and it fell over. We caught it in time, but the boxes of pins opened up. Fortunately they all fell in not out, but still . . . When did she have time to set this up?”

Tiphaine shook her head. “Shovels, oil . . . it’s going to be a long night.”

Then she looked at the spread of cloth and studied the designs; the odd symbology seemed to make her eyes slide along faster and faster . . .

She wrenched her gaze away. No, I don’t think I’ll take this along for study.

“Throw it on. All of it.”

“Got some priests,” Stratson said. “There’s a hermitage in the woods. They come over and hear confessions and say Mass. Your page had someone run for them, smart kid.”

Tiphaine realized he had an entourage, standing at a slight distance. Five of them were wearing habits, brown Dominican robes. The one who came forward wore the bright red cincture of the Hounds of God, which she hadn’t seen in many years. Tiphaine bared her teeth, but the man raised a hand, palm-out to her. It was impossible to tell his age, but she thought the lines in his face were those of suffering as much as age.

“Peace, sister. Peace. After Pope Leo died, we were disbanded by orders of the Lady Regent. Bishop Maxwell tracked us down several years ago. All of us have had training in detecting the enemy’s works. We have stayed disbanded; but at the orders and service of the secular authorities. Thus we do penance.”

Tiphaine growled. That’s unexpected! Did Sandra know? But, if they are now on the side of the Angels . . . we need a few doughty warriors in the spiritual realm.

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage, Father . . .”

“Lucien Blat. I am at your orders. What can we do?”

Stratson interrupted. “Tell me what will make this safe!” he demanded.

And Tiphaine found herself sharing a sympathetic glance with a Hound of God. The irony bit.

“What is . . . who is . . . what can you tell me?”