As they walked toward the church, every soldier they passed along the way bowed to the knight, saying, "My Lord . . . My Lord . . ."
Following, Chris nudged Kate. "That's him."
"Who?"
"Arnaut."
"That knight? You're kidding."
"Look how the soldiers behave."
"Arnaut saved our lives," Kate said.
Chris was aware of the irony. In twentieth-century historical accounts of this time, Sir Oliver was portrayed as something close to a soldier-saint, while de Cervole was a black figure, "one of the great evildoers of his age," in the words of one historian. Yet apparently the truth was just the opposite of the histories. Oliver was a despicable rogue, and Cervole a dashing exemplar of chivalry - to whom they now owed their lives.
Kate said, "What about Andre?"
Chris shook his head.
"Are you sure?"
"I think so. I think I saw him in the river."
Kate said nothing.
Outside the church of Sainte-M
13
