October 12, 1307 Castillo de Loarre Aragon, Spain A shout outside the barbican tower jerked Brother Frémis from his contemplation of the insides of his eyelids. He fumbled for the candle, finding only a cold stub, and entreated Saint Ambrose for patience as he stretched his stiff arm to take down the only torch left burning. The sputtering flame provided just enough light for him to see his way down the narrow stone steps to the portcullis. There he peered through the oilette of an old arrow loop in the stone. Seven men on horseback waited just outside the iron gate. All had dressed in dark hoods and plain, rough garb, and appeared at first glance to be nothing more than a group of pilgrims. Yet each man’s cloak only partially concealed the two-handed sword he carried, and did nothing in the slightest to disguise his mount. Frémis, who in his misbegotten youth had been a stable boy, knew horses. Pilgrims did not travel by means of battle destriers. Killers did. “Who are you?” he called out in Spanish. “Why do you come here?” When they didn’t answer, he repeated himself in French. “God’s work,” an amused voice replied in the same. “Raise the gate, brother.” No canny siege master would attack the castillo; all knew that King Sancho had given it to the