Read Chapter 34: The Gates of Paris

The walls of Paris rose before them, grey and immense, swallowing the pale morning light. Roland reined in beside Isabelle, their horses lathered from the hard ride north. The Porte Saint-Denis choked with carts, pilgrims, and the King's men in their blue-and-gold surcoats, checking every face that passed beneath the arch.

Roland's hand drifted toward his sword hilt before he caught himself. "They know our faces in Poitiers. If word's reached here—"

"It hasn't." Isabelle's voice was steady, but her knuckles were white on the reins. "The Count thinks us dead in his dungeon. We have hours, not days."

"Hours enough to hang us."

A guardsman broke from the gate's shadow, striding toward them with a hand raised. Roland tensed, cursing the lack of a back street, a smuggler's door, anything but this open approach with their stolen horses and telltale dust.

"You there," the guard called. "Dismount."

Isabelle's hand found Roland's forearm. "Don't. Not yet."

The guard drew closer, his eyes scanning them with the practiced suspicion of a man who has stopped a hundred travelers and found a dozen fugitives. He was young, clean-shaven, with the look of a soldier who had never seen a siege. Roland could have broken his neck before he shouted. But there were twenty more behind him.

"Your names," the guard said. "Your business in Paris."

Before Roland could shape a lie, a voice cut through the crowd's murmur — clear, unhurried, carrying the authority of a woman who expected to be obeyed.

"These travelers are under my protection."

Aelis emerged from the press of bodies at the gate's side, her nun's habit spotless, her face composed beneath its white wimple. She moved like she owned the street, and the crowd parted for her as if she did. In her hand, she held a rolled parchment bearing a heavy red seal.

The guard's posture shifted. "Sister—"

"This safe conduct is signed by the Pope's own legate." Aelis held out the parchment, letting the seal catch the light. "I would not keep the Holy Father's business waiting."

The guard took it, unrolled it, and read. Roland watched his eyes move across the script, saw the moment the legate's signature registered. The man's shoulders dropped.

"My apologies, Sister. The Count of Poitou has ordered extra vigilance at the gates—"

"The Count of Poitou does not govern Paris." Aelis's smile was sweet and utterly without warmth. "Unless he has assumed the Crown without my knowledge?"

The guard stepped back. "Pass through."

Aelis took the parchment back with a nod of thanks and turned, walking beside Roland's horse as they passed under the arch. The city swallowed them — the press of bodies, the stink of fish and sewage, the cacophony of a hundred trades shouting from their stalls.

Roland leaned low in his saddle. "The legate signed that?"

"The legate signed a confession from the envoy before I sent him to God's judgment," Aelis said, without breaking stride. "The safe conduct was a courtesy I wrote myself. The seal, however, is genuine."

Isabelle stared at her. "You killed him."

"I did what was necessary. He was the Count's creature, and he knew our faces. Better that his knowledge dies with him." Aelis glanced up at the spires ahead. "The palace is two miles north. I have already located the Count's quarters. He lodges with the King's household — an honor he has abused to walk the corridors of power unchecked."

Roland's jaw tightened. "And the King?"

"With the nobility in the great hall. There is a dispute over the Burgundy succession that has drawn every lord of any consequence to Paris." Aelis's eyes met his. "The Count will be there, playing the loyal servant. He does not know I have unmasked his envoy. He does not know you escaped."

They dismounted in the shadow of the palace, leaving the horses with a startled stable boy who knew better than to question a nun. The square before the great hall churned with guards, courtiers, and petitioners. Aelis walked at their head, the parchment still in her hand, and the guards parted for her habit as they had at the gate.

The double doors loomed. Beyond them, Roland could hear the drone of a speaker, the rustle of a restless assembly.

Isabelle touched his arm. "Roland. Whatever happens in there—"

"I know what I promised your brother." He looked at her, and for a moment the noise of the square faded to nothing. "I will see the debt paid."

She shook her head. "That was always your burden. I meant—" She hesitated. "You are not the man who failed at the siege, Roland. Whatever comes, I want you to know that."

He had no answer. The doors swung open.

The great hall of the Palais de la Cité blazed with torchlight and the glitter of jewels. Nobles lined the walls in their velvets and chains, their voices a low tide of murmuring ambition. At the far end, beneath a canopy of cloth-of-gold, the King sat in judgment, his face carved from stone and weariness.

And there, standing among the highest lords, his hand resting on the pommel of a jeweled sword, stood the Count of Poitou.

Their eyes met.

The Count's face went pale, then red. His hand tightened on the hilt.

Roland stepped forward into the hall, the ledger heavy against his chest, the square of silence widening around them. He did not look away.

"Your Grace." His voice carried, clear and hard. "I bring proof of a conspiracy against your Crown. The architect of that conspiracy stands in this hall."