emed no thicker than a lance pole. The woman called Corba told him about Roland’s climbing over the wall. The perfectus stared at the cross on Roland’s chest.
Roland sensed his revulsion. “Forgive me for offending you. I had to wear this to get through to you.” He dug his ragged fingernails in under the red silk and tore away the cross. The sound of ripping cloth in the quiet room made heads turn. Roland dropped the strips of silk to the floor.
“Who is that?” said Bertran d’en Marti in a voice that was soft yet carried across the room. “Does he bring news?
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