Under other circumstances, Balthazar would have revelled in such pomp and ceremony.

Countess Jovanka sat side-saddle, painfully erect and sparkling with jewels, on a magnificent grey as towering as she was tiny, processing with an almost offensive lack of urgency from her lines towards the standing stones, where a highly polished table, large enough to have played centrepiece to a castle’s dining hall, had been set up in the shade of a giant emerald awning on four gilded poles. She was the diamond point to an arrowhead of soldiers and servants, clerks and dignitaries, men-at-arms and maids-of-honour arrayed in their feast-day best. Syncellus Ignatios, in particular, had exchanged his already lofty headdress for another, encrusted with semi-precious stones, that the enemy could easily have mistaken for an approaching siege tower. The opposing delegation, meanwhile, paraded down the opposite slope with equal gravity, not to be outdone in numbers or opulence, pennants snapping, harness jingling, sunlight glinting on polished armour and golden thread.

Alas, while a glittering gathering is exactly the audience you might wish for at your triumph, it is the very last one you want bearing witness to your shameful degradation. Balthazar’s boots, extorted from a grave robber, were in squelching ruins. His shirt, purloined from a corpse, was stiff with filth, stained with squirrel grease, and infested with a dead man’s lice. He was famished and unwashed, testing the limits of physical and emotional exhaustion, and more closely resembling the assistant to the assistant dung-collector than one of Europe’s foremost practitioners of the arcane.

So it was he skulked miserably after the countess and her entourage through the outer ring of stones, each taller than a man, then through the inner ring, twice as high and sprouting wildflowers in the cracks, and Balthazar felt that twitching of the small hairs, that tingling of the fingertips, that delicious presence of power. Here was a place where the mundane brushed the mystical, where many varieties of magic were at their most potent, where the energetic currents of the earth converged and the boundaries between worlds were at their thinnest. Once upon a time the possibilities it presented would have flooded him with excitement. Now he felt only the endless niggling of the Pope’s insatiate binding upon his ravaged digestive tract.

Count Radosav heaved at his reins, forcing his sable charger to rear. As a counterpoint to his pomposity, Countess Jovanka halted her mount with dignified understatement. The two nobles faced each other, from opposite sides of the ring of standing stones, in full view of their massed armies. The grass rippled and the awning flapped in the breeze. A bird nesting somewhere among the stones, perhaps startled by this unexpected interruption to its peaceful morning, chirruped. Balthazar stifled a burp.

Each member of the bloated retinues picked out, as if by unspoken arrangement, some opposite number to glare at. Ignatios locked narrowed eyes with a female priest in equally opulent vestments. Balthazar scanned the grim faces and felt a sudden shock of recognition. He tugged gently at Baptiste’s sleeve.

‘Uh-huh,’ she murmured. ‘Most unkillable pair of bastards you’ll ever meet.’

Because there, loitering at the rear of Count Radosav’s retinue, were Jakob of Thorn, more stony-faced even than Balthazar remembered him, and Baron Rikard, more apparently youthful even than at their last meeting. The vampire touched two fingers to his forehead in a jaunty acknowledgment.

‘Let’s get to it,’ snarled Radosav, swinging from his saddle, wrenching his jewelled sword-belt into position, then striding for the table.

Countess Jovanka snapped her fingers. One footman threw himself down on all fours to make a step of his back. Two more offered their hands to whisk the countess from her saddle like a diminutive angel from heaven, while a pair of ladies-in-waiting caught the corners of her train, allowing it to feather the grass as she glided to the table.

‘They are making quite the exhibition of it,’ murmured Balthazar.

‘Oh, this is nothing,’ said Baptiste. ‘You should’ve seen the peace talks between the twin Queens of Frankia and the Emperor of Burgundy. Went on for three months.’

‘You were there?’

‘Neutral observer for the Duchess of Aquitaine.’

Balthazar sourly shook his head. ‘You always have to go one better, don’t you?’

‘I don’t have to.’ Baptiste fanned herself modestly with her hat, wayward curls fluttering. ‘It just always seems to happen.’

Count Radosav planted his gloved fists on the polished tabletop with an audible thud, glaring up, lip scornfully twisted. Countess Jovanka examined her fingernails, sighed, then with an imperious toss of her head met his gaze with a formidable sneer of her own.

‘Husband,’ she hissed.

‘Wife,’ snarled the count.

Balthazar frowned. ‘Wait … what?’

‘Wait … what?’ grunted Jakob. He’d lost count of the parleys he’d stood watch over. Often disappointed at the end of the fighting. Sometimes trying to get it started again. But he’d never attended peace talks between a married couple.

Baron Rikard raised his brows. ‘I thought everyone knew?’

‘Some of us aren’t so sensitive to romance,’ muttered Jakob, adding somewhat bitterly, ‘lack of practice, maybe …’

‘I have always been painfully sensitive to romance,’ said the baron as Radosav dropped into a chair and glowered at his wife. ‘And this, I sense, is one of those affairs in which one can hardly tell where the love ends and the hate begins,’ as Countess Jovanka perched on a chair opposite and glared at her husband down her nose. ‘Lucrezia and I were very much the same. Like cats and dogs, as they say, but with a bigger house and far more collateral damage. So many disagreements. Such apocalyptic arguments! But the rapprochements …’ Baron Rikard closed his eyes. ‘She was a ruthless, reckless, self-serving snake. God, how I miss her.’

There was a thud as Syncellus Ignatios dumped a heap of leather-bound tomes on the table, while Mother Vincenza spread out a huge map.

‘I’ve a sense they’ll be at this a while.’ Jakob folded his arms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other in a futile effort to work the aches out of his hips.

‘The one thing the Churches of East and West prefer to an actual clash of arms is a protracted legal wrangle,’ said Baron Rikard, ‘but look on the bright side.’

‘There’s a bright side?’

The vampire leaned close to murmur, ‘Neither of us is likely to run out of time.’

The day wore on. The sun climbed. The shadow of the awning crept across the grass, the documents spread out to cover the table while the two priests struggled viciously over every detail, the cut and thrust of their verbal duel punctuated by the hissed comments of Countess Jovanka, the barked objections of Count Radosav. Both Churches might have lauded the charity of the Saviour from their pulpits, but they weren’t giving much away at the negotiating table.

Count Radosav sent for wine for himself, and drank, and grew even more baleful, then tired of drinking alone, and sent for wine for everyone. Jakob had his vow of temperance so he turned it down, like he always did, and watched everyone else drink, like he always did, and regretted his vows bitterly. Like he always did.

His mood never loosened, but everyone else’s started to. The guards gave up standing to attention, then leaned against the stones, then lazed on the grass, setting aside weapons, then helmets, then starting to mingle and greet old comrades on the other side.

‘Jakob, you old bastard!’ called Baptiste as she strolled over, fanning herself with her hat. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Baptiste.’ Jakob gave as much of a nod as his stiff neck would permit. ‘Glad you’re alive.’

They stood in silence for a moment, watching Mother Vincenza sketch a boundary on her map, then Syncellus Ignatios fling up his hands in a show of disgust.

‘This is where you say you’re glad I’m alive,’ said Jakob.

Baptiste shrugged. ‘You’re always alive. How’d you end up in a count’s retinue?’

‘Usual way. Left for dead in one of his corpse carts then a vampire talked him into it. How’d you end up serving a countess?’

‘Oh, she’s an old friend.’

‘You’ve always had a lot of friends,’ said Jakob, struggling not to sound envious.

‘Still a slice of luck to run into one out here.’

‘You’ve always had a lot of luck,’ said Jakob, struggling not to sound envious.

‘What you call luck I call careful preparation, healthy caution, and never sticking my neck out.’

‘We’re the Chapel of the Holy Expediency. Our necks are always out.’ Jakob glanced over at Balthazar, glaring at his burned wrist with the sourest expression imaginable. ‘I see you kept our magician alive.’

‘He didn’t make it easy. Couple more days I might’ve killed him myself.’

‘No one could’ve blamed you.’ Jakob dropped his voice a little. ‘If his binding’s bothering him, Princess Alexia must be alive.’

‘So it would seem,’ murmured Baptiste. ‘He thinks he can work a ritual to track her down. Here. At the stones.’

‘You’d count on him?’

‘What choice do we have?’

‘As much as ever,’ said Jakob. ‘Meaning none.’

‘We’re the Chapel of the Holy Expediency,’ said Baptiste. ‘We never have any choice.’

‘Next …’ The nib of Mother Vincenza’s quill scratched as she crossed another item from her lengthy list, ‘we have the matter of the disputed pasture between the river and the shrine of Saint Petar the Blind—’

Countess Jovanka sat up. ‘I want the pasture!’

‘Your Excellency?’ Syncellus Ignatios ran his inky finger down a list in a ledger. ‘It is of no significance. Perhaps twelve roods of earth all told—’

‘It has …’ The countess glanced at her husband. ‘Sentimental value.’

Count Radosav set down his goblet. ‘We met there. Some ancient willows grow on the bank.’ His face softened, ever so slightly. ‘A charming spot.’

Countess Jovanka swallowed. ‘You told me it was your mother’s favourite place.’

‘She wanted to be buried there, but …’

The countess put her hand gently on Ignatios’s arm. ‘I would like the pasture …’ she said, softly, looking across at her husband. ‘So I can have the willows cut down and burned.’ Her teeth curled back and she spat the words across the table. ‘Just like you burned my town, you shit!’

‘Saviour help us,’ groaned Baptiste, putting her head in her hands.

‘God damn you, madam!’ exploded the count, leaping up to send his chair flying over backwards. ‘How could any man make peace with such a cursed harpy!’

‘God damn you, sir!’ screeched the countess, slashing at the air with her hand and nearly chopping one of her guards in the face. ‘I can make no concession to such a sack of spleen!’ She shoved past Syncellus Ignatios, striding imperiously alongside the table while her maids fell over each other to catch her train.

‘Let us all remain calm …’ begged Mother Vincenza, but the count shouldered her aside, stalking around the table with eyes locked on his wife.

‘Uh-oh,’ muttered Baron Rikard, propping himself on his elbows. He had been lying on the grass, hands behind his head, watching the clouds.

All about the stones, guards who’d put thoughts of murder behind them and begun to look forward to a peaceful afternoon stirred unhappily. Gauntleted fists closed around grips, slid through the straps of shields, eased blades in their scabbards.

‘Uh-oh,’ murmured Jakob. A moment comes. A tipping point, after which things can only slide one way. He could feel the violence approaching, like an old sailor feels the storm a few breaths before rain patters on the deck.

‘Nothing less than your total surrender will satisfy me!’ bellowed the count, rounding the end of the table and taking a step closer to his wife. Behind him, one of his officers lifted a nervous hand towards the ranked troops on the hill behind, ready to signal the charge.

‘Surrender?’ sneered the countess, taking a step towards her husband. ‘Ha! I will crush you beneath my heel!’

The armed retainers eased almost imperceptibly inwards. The unarmed retainers eased almost imperceptibly back.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Baptiste.

‘You will beg for mercy!’ snarled Count Radosav.

‘You will squeal for forgiveness!’ hissed Countess Jovanka.

Everywhere teeth were gritted, prayers were mouthed, arses were clenched. The count glowered down at his wife, nostrils majestically flared. The countess glared up at her husband, bosom imperiously heaving.

For a terrible moment, the world held its breath.

Then that bird chirruped again, and Countess Jovanka seized her husband by the collar, and he grasped her by her ornamental breastplate, and they dragged each other into a tight embrace and began furiously necking, heedless of priests, retainers, armies, or anyone else.

Jakob raised his brows. ‘That was unexpected.’

‘Not for one sensitive to romance,’ said Baron Rikard, lying back down.

The two retinues let go their collective breath. Men on opposite sides shrugged at one another, rolled their eyes. Swords were eased away. Bloodshed was averted.

Jakob released the grip of his sword, tried to shake the aches from his fingers, and breathed a sigh of relief. Or was it disappointment?

Husband and wife broke apart just long enough to gaze into one another’s eyes.

‘I love you, you fool,’ spat the countess.

‘My God, I love you,’ snarled the count.

And they set to kissing again. Syncellus Ignatios looked across at Mother Vincenza. ‘Perhaps we should repair to the chapel at Saint Gloria’s and thrash out the final details?’

Mother Vincenza waved a weary hand. ‘By all means.’

Baptiste frowned at her fingers, then up the slope towards the gathered armies, lips silently moving.

‘What are you up to?’ asked Jakob.

‘I’m working out the price of one man, and a mail coat, and a halberd, sword, dagger, horse, tent, a few months’ food …’ She pushed back her hat. ‘And I’m wondering what all this cost.’

‘My wife Lucrezia went to war once,’ mused Baron Rikard, ‘against my advice, I might say, and we fought perhaps half a battle altogether, and won, as it happens, but the whole business proved utterly ruinous even so. Sometimes I think of the decorating we could have done for the same money and it makes me so terribly sad.’ He raised his hand, as though touching something beautiful. ‘There was a damask I had been considering for some drapery, in a shade of scarlet I can hardly describe, which I was forced to forgo.’ And he dabbed at one eye with a knuckle.

Radosav whisked Jovanka up and she clamped her legs about his hips, hands tangled in his hair, their mouths locked together in a duet of muffled grunts and moans. He stumbled back, barging into the table, a couple of goblets toppling, wine spilling over the maps.

‘These two went to war …’ Balthazar considered them with folded arms. ‘Spreading fire and murder across the region they are meant to care for, causing untold death and destruction … over a lovers’ tiff?’

Baron Rikard tipped his head back to consider the shifting clouds. ‘And they call us monsters.’