“Can’t you find anything to do, Fergus?” I asked him. “Surely one of the stable-lads could use a hand, or something.”

“Yes, milady,” he agreed doubtfully. He scratched absentmindedly at his buttocks. I observed this behavior with deep suspicion.

“Fergus,” I said, folding my arms, “have you got lice?” He snatched his hand back as though burned.

“Oh, no, milady!”

I reached down and pulled him to his feet, sniffed delicately in his general vicinity, and put a finger inside his collar, far enough to reveal the grimy ring around his neck.

“Bath,” I said succinctly.

“No!” He jerked away, but I grabbed him by the shoulder. I was surprised by his vehemence; while no fonder of bathing than the normal Parisian – who regarded the prospect of immersion with a repugnance akin to horror – still, I could scarcely reconcile the usually obliging child I knew with the little fury that suddenly squirmed and twisted under my hand.

There was a ripping noise, and he was free, bounding through the black-berry bushes like a rabbit pursued by a weasel. There was a rustle of leaves and a scrabble of stones, and he was gone, over the wall and headed for the outbuildings at the back of the estate.

I made my way through the maze of rickety outbuildings behind the château, cursing under my breath as I skirted mud puddles and heaps of filth. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched whining buzz and a cloud of flies rose from the pile a few feet ahead of me, bodies sparking blue in the sunlight.

I wasn’t close enough to have disturbed them; there must have been some movement from the darkened doorway beside the dungheap.

“Aha!” I said out loud. “Got you, you filthy little son of a whatnot! Come out of there this instant!”

No one emerged, but there was an audible stir inside the shed, and I thought I caught a glimpse of white in the shadowed interior. Holding my nose, I stepped over the manure pile into the shed.

There were two gasps of horror; mine, at beholding something that looked like the Wild Man of Borneo flattened against the back wall, and his, at beholding me.

The sunlight trickled through the cracks between the boards, giving enough light for us to see each other clearly, once my eyes had adapted to the relative dark. He wasn’t, after all, quite as awful-looking as I’d thought at first, but he wasn’t a lot better, either. His beard was as filthy and matted as his hair, flowing past his shoulders onto a shirt ragged as any beggar’s. He was barefoot, and if the term sans-culottes wasn’t yet in common use, it wasn’t for lack of trying on his part.

I wasn’t afraid of him, because he was so obviously afraid of me. He was pressing himself against the wall as though trying to get through it by osmosis.

“It’s all right,” I said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Instead of being soothed, he drew himself abruptly upright, reached into the bosom of his shirt and pulled out a wooden crucifix on a leather thong. He held this out toward me and started praying, in a voice shaking with terror.

“Oh, bother,” I said crossly. “Not another one!” I took a deep breath. “Pater-Noster-qui-es-in-coeliset-in-terra…” His eyes bugged out, and he kept holding the crucifix, but at least he stopped his own praying in response to this performance.

“…Amen!” I concluded with a gasp. I held up both hands and waggled them in front of his face. “See? Not a word backward, not a single quotidianus da nobis hodie out of place, right? Didn’t even have my fingers crossed. So I can’t be a witch, can I?”

The man slowly lowered his crucifix and stood gaping at me. “A witch?” he said. He looked as though he thought I were crazy, which I felt was a bit thick under the circumstances.

“You didn’t think I was a witch?” I said, beginning to feel a trifle foolish.

Something that looked like a smile twitched into existence and out again among the tangles of his beard.

“No, Madame,” he said. “I am accustomed to people saying such things of me.”

“You are?” I eyed him closely. Besides the rags and filth, the man was obviously starving; the wrists that stuck out of his shirt were scrawny as a child’s. At the same time, his French was graceful and educated, if oddly accented.

“If you’re a witch,” I said, “you aren’t very successful at it. Who the hell are you?”

At this, the fright came back into his eyes again. He looked from side to side, seeking escape, but the shed was solidly built, if old, with no entrance other than the one in which I was standing. At last, calling on some hidden reserve of courage, he drew himself up to his full height – some three inches below my own – and with great dignity, said “I am the Reverend Walter Laurent, of Geneva.”

“You’re a priest?” I was thunderstruck. I couldn’t imagine what might have brought a priest – Swiss or not – to this state.

Father Laurent looked nearly as horror-struck as I.

“A priest?” he echoed. “A papist? Never!”

Suddenly the truth struck me.

“A Huguenot!” I said. “That’s it – you’re a Protestant, aren’t you?” I remembered the bodies I had seen hanging in the forest. That, I thought, explained rather a lot.

His lips quivered, but he pressed them tightly together for a moment before opening them to reply.

“Yes, Madame. I am a pastor; I have been preaching in this district for a month.” He licked his lips briefly, eyeing me. “Your pardon, Madame – I think you are not French?”

“I’m English,” I said, and he relaxed suddenly, as though someone had taken all the stiffening out of his spine.

“Great Father in Heaven,” he said, prayerfully. “You are then a Protestant also?”

“No, I’m a Catholic,” I answered. “But I’m not at all vicious about it,” I added hastily, seeing the look of alarm spring back into his light-brown eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re here. I suppose you came to try to steal a little food?” I asked sympathetically.

“To steal is a sin!” he said, horrified. “No, Madame. But…” He clamped his lips shut, but his glance in the direction of the château gave him away.

“So one of the servants brings you food,” I said. “So you let them do the stealing for you. But then I suppose you can absolve them from the sin, so it all works out. Rather thin moral ice you’re on, if you ask me,” I said reprovingly, “but then it isn’t any of my business, I suppose.”

A light of hope shone in his eyes. “You mean – you will not have me arrested, Madame?”

“No, of course not. I’ve a sort of fellow-feeling for fugitives from the law, having come rather close to being burnt at the stake once myself.” I didn’t know quite why I was being so chatty; the relief of meeting someone who seemed intelligent, I supposed. Louise was sweet, devoted and kind, and had precisely as much brain as the cuckoo clock in her drawing room. Thinking of the Swiss clock, I suddenly realized who Pastor Laurent’s secret parishioners must be.

“Look,” I said, “if you want to stay here, I’ll go up to the château and tell Berta or Maurice that you’re here.”

The poor man was nothing but skin, bones, and eyes. Everything he thought was reflected in those large, gentle brown orbs. Right now, he was plainly thinking that whoever had tried to burn me at the stake had been on the right track.

“I have heard,” he began slowly, reaching for a fresh grip on his crucifix, “of an Englishwoman whom the Parisians call ‘ La Dame Blanche.’ An associate of Raymond the Heretic.”

I sighed. “That’s me. Though I’m not an associate of Master Raymond’s, I don’t think. He’s just a friend.” Seeing him squint doubtfully at me, I inhaled again. “Pater Noster…”

“No, no, Madame, please.” To my surprise, he had lowered the crucifix, and was smiling.

“I also am an acquaintance of Master Raymond’s, whom I knew in Geneva. There he was a reputable physician and herbalist. Now, alas, I fear that he has turned to darker pursuits, though of course nothing was proved.”