Pagan's Daughter

by Catherine Jinks

  There once was a beautiful princess who was imprisoned at the bottom of a deep, dark well. The well was so deep and dark that all she could see above her was a pinprick of light like a shining star. Every day, the wicked witch who had imprisoned her would winch down a loaf of bread and an apple. And some cheese. And a roast chicken. And perhaps a few dried grapes.

  Then one day, as she was waiting for her food, something else tumbled into the well. It was a ladder made of golden rope, held by a noble knight in silver armour ...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘She’s sixteen years old, Holy Father. Sixteen years old!

  And for all those years I have striven to make her a Good Christian, according to her mother’s wishes. But she is a crooked stick. She will not obey God’s law. It’s the priest’s blood, I am certain—her mother was never like this.’

  Aunt Navarre is doing what she likes best: abusing me in front of other people. Namely, in front of Benedict de Termes, the Good Man. The Perfect. I remember him quite well from his visit to our house in Laurac. It must have been early last year, before the King’s army drove us into Toulouse, because Dulcie had joined our little convent.

  She kept trying to kiss Benedict’s disgusting, horny feet.

  He’s a little older, a little greyer, but essentially the same. Neck like a chicken’s leg. Ears like slabs of lichen. Teeth like flecks of rotten meat, all black and green.

  I can’t believe that he’s wearing dark blue. Dark blue and sandals. He might as well be wearing a sign saying I Am A Heretic. Does he want the Roman idolaters hereabouts to start pelting him with rotten eggs?

  What a fool.

  ‘Has she been punished?’ he asks Navarre, in his hollow, tired voice.

  ‘Oh, many times. Many, many times.’ Navarre begins to count on her fingers, which are bandaged where I scratched them. ‘With fasting, with prayers, with the rod. We’ve forbidden her to speak. We’ve stuffed her mouth with tow. We’ve shaved off her hair, once or twice. We’ve even locked her in that chest over there. And she remains incorrigible. She’s eaten up with sin, Holy Father, I don’t know what to do with her any more. She’ll never be a Perfect. She gets worse and worse as she gets older.’

  ‘She’s a Roman priest’s bastard,’ Gran suddenly rumbles, from her ancestral chair. ‘What do you expect?’

  I wonder if the others can hear this? They’ve all been sent upstairs, but I know what it’s like upstairs. You can hear practically everything if you put your ear to the floor. I bet Sybille has her ear to the floor. And Dulcie. And Arnaude. I bet Sybille’s really enjoying the fact that Aunt Navarre can’t say a single nice thing about me. Not a word about how hard I work, or how helpful I am. According to her, I’m just a bottomless pit of vice.

  Well, I might be a sinner, but Navarre is worse. What kind of Good Woman goes after one of her novices with an axe? Navarre has the heart of a rampant wolf. As for Gran, she doesn’t fool me. I know that she can do more than she pretends. I know that she just wants us waiting on her hand and foot.

  ‘Babylonne.’ With an obvious effort, Benedict turns to look at me. He seems exhausted, as if he can barely summon up the energy to raise an eyebrow. ‘Tell me,’ he sighs, ‘do you wish to be saved, Babylonne?’

  What sort of a question is that? What does he expect me to say? No?

  ‘Yes, Holy Father.’

  ‘Then why do you torment your friends and family?’

  ‘I don’t torment them.’ (It might be worth pointing this out. He might actually listen.) ‘They torment me.’

  A gasp from Aunt Navarre. ‘Wicked girl!’ she exclaims. ‘Holy Father—’

  ‘I never beat you! I never threw scalding water on you, and burned your leg!’ Is everyone blind, in this house? Look at my face! Look at my feet! ‘I never pushed you down the ladder!’

  ‘Don’t listen, Father, she has a serpent’s tongue.’

  ‘Please.’ Benedict lifts one languid hand, which doesn’t look much better than his feet. ‘You both scold like peasants. You offend my ears.’

  Navarre mumbles something that could be an apology. I don’t even bother. It can’t get much worse for me, now: an apology won’t make any difference.

  ‘Babylonne,’ says Benedict, peering at me with his muddy green eyes, ‘would you rather live in darkness, among those damned for eternity, than follow the difficult path of righteousness?’

  Beg pardon?

  ‘Because that’s what you’ll be doing, if you fail in your life here.’ He sighs again. ‘If you do not wish to become a Perfect, in pious communion with other women dedicated to the way of Christ, then you will have to get married. There is no other choice.’

  What? ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘We can’t do that, Holy Father!’ Navarre jumps in. She sounds worried. ‘We can’t marry her off! Her mother would never have allowed it!’

  And suddenly Gran interjects. ‘She might be a bastard,’ Gran creaks, ‘but she is Mabelia’s bastard. We can’t endanger her immortal soul.’

  Benedict frowns. I don’t think he’s used to having women argue with him.

  ‘Then you must look to your own strength,’ he says irritably. ‘It seems to me that you must either suppress the demon in her, or condemn her to marriage.’

  You can’t be serious. Condemn me to marriage? Who on earth would want to marry me?

  ‘My sister died a martyr,’ Navarre frets. ‘We owe it to her memory that her child be kept from sin. Babylonne might deserve perpetual torment, but her mother is in Heaven now. Should we keep her child from her, by condemning Babylonne to eternal damnation on earth?’

  ‘Babylonne can always repent on her deathbed,’ Benedict points out, as if I’m not even here. ‘The consolamentum will save her then.’

  ‘But suppose, when she dies, there are no Perfects around to give her the consolamentum?’ says Navarre. ‘If that were to happen, I would have failed her mother. We all would. And I swore that I would never fail Mabelia.’

  ‘You swore?’ Benedict draws himself up in his seat. ‘With an oath?’

  ‘Oh no!’ It’s wonderful to see Navarre looking so cowed. ‘I mean, I made a promise. To God. I didn’t take any oath.’

  ‘Babylonne!’ It’s Gran. She’s come to life again. ‘Out,’ she says, and jerks her chin at the back door.

  What? You’re not serious.

  ‘Yes, Babylonne. Out you go. You shouldn’t be here.’ Navarre doesn’t want me to see her being scolded by a Good Man, any more than Gran does. ‘Go and chop the wood.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do it! Now!’ Navarre turns to Benedict. ‘You see, Father? She’s so disobedient.’

  I should have known it. They’re going to marry me off without even waiting to hear what I might say on the subject. Not that my opinion counts for anything. But they could at least let me stay and listen.

  Chop the wood. Hah! I don’t need to chop the wood; it’s in splinters already. But if they don’t hear the sound of chopping, they’ll probably throw me on the fire. For disobeying orders in front of Benedict de Termes.

  Out into the little yard, where Navarre’s beans are failing. (Not enough sun for those beans, because the walls are too high.) Mud and dung and old straw and—yuk! Rats in the woodpile again. I honestly can’t understand why those rats stay around, since there’s never a scrap of food to eat. Perhaps they know about Perfects. Perhaps they know that Perfects can’t kill any living creature— not even a rat.

  If you ask me, we should get ourselves a dog. A really good rat-killer. If our dog killed the rats, we couldn’t be blamed for it, could we? And we could name him after the King of France. Louis, you mangy son of a toothless bitch, we could say. Come here and soak Gran’s bread for her!

  Gran might profit from a mouthful of dog-piss once in a while.

  Yes, it would be good to have a dog. Except that the poor creature would die of starvation, because we couldn’t feed him any meat. He would have to live on fish and barley, and that’s not muc
h of a life for a dog.

  Probably better than my life, mind you. I don’t know. Maybe I should get married. Except that—well, what if it endangers my immortal soul? I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to come back as an earwig when I die. I want to go to heaven.

  There once was a beautiful princess condemned to live the life of a peasant girl. One morning, when she was chopping wood, atiny creature sprang out. It was a little silver demon, with glowing red eyes, and it said to her, ‘Beautiful maiden, if you marry me, I will give you three wishes ...’

  Tah! This axe is getting blunt. I can’t sharpen it, though, because the water is inside. And I can’t go back inside because I might overhear Navarre talking about the kind of husband she wants for me: a husband who’ll beat me thoroughly every night before we go to bed. Oof! There. You see? This axe is too blunt. It’s going to keep getting stuck in the wood. I hate it when the axe gets stuck in the wood. I can never pull it out; I haven’t enough strength in my arms. Where’s the maul? That might help. I could knock out the blade with the maul.

  ‘Psst! Babylonne!’

  What—?

  Oh. It’s Sybille. Hanging out of the loft window.

  Just ignore her, Babylonne.

  ‘So you’re going to be married?’ she titters. (I knew she was eavesdropping.) ‘I don’t envy you your husband. Ugh!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ They can’t have made a decision! Not yet! ‘What husband?’

  Titter, titter.

  ‘What husband?’ You smirking slab of pig’s tripe! ‘Tell me!’

  She does, because she wants to. She’s dying to. I can see it in her face.

  ‘He’s a relative of Pons Saquet,’ she says. ‘He lives out near Lanta, and he’s so old that he won’t imperil your immortal soul.’ Titter. ‘You know.’ She lowers her voice until it’s a hiss. ‘With fornication

  ‘You mean—he’s impotent?’

  ‘He’s ancient.’ She snickers behind her hand. ‘He keeps seeing giant olives bouncing around his bed.’

  Oh no. Not the giant olive man. I’ve heard Lombarda de Rouaix talking about him.

  ‘You’ll have to feed him, and wipe his bottom, and save him from the giant olives,’ Sybille continues maliciously. ‘And then, when he dies, you’ll become his son’s servant—because what use will you be otherwise?’

  Lanta. That’s a little hamlet east of here. It would be worse than Laurac. Much worse than Laurac.

  Do they seriously expect me to spend the next ten years cleaning up after an incontinent old man in the middle of nowhere?

  If so, they’re going to be sadly disappointed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Once there was a beautiful princess whose wicked stepmother wanted her to marry an evil sorcerer. But if she did marry him, the sorcerer would cast a spell on the princess. During the day, she would turn into a donkey. Only at night would she return to her true shape.

  The princess didn’t want this to happen. So she had no choice but to open her dead mother’s magic chest, and take out her dead mother’s magic boots, which would take her halfway across the world in the blink of an eye ...

  Will this night never end? I seem to have been lying in bed forever.

  It’s so uncomfortable, too, with all this stuff hidden underneath me. I can feel the money digging into my back: two livres tournois and a handful of Caorsins. That’s a fair share, I think. It’s much less than my dowry would be. Navarre would be losing more than two livres tournois, if I was stupid enough to stay around. And the scissors—well, I must have the scissors. As well as Gran’s winter hose and fur-lined boots. I mean, I can’t wear sandals, can I? And boots don’t really work without hose.

  Scissors, boots, hose, money. Altogether, they’d be worth less than the dowry I’d have to pay that crazy old man and his son. It’s not as if I’m stealing. I’m just solving Navarre’s problem in another way. In a better way.

  I can hear her snoring over there near Gran. They’re both snoring. Gran has to sleep downstairs because of the fire, and Navarre has to sleep downstairs because of Gran. As for me, I’m the one who gets clouted if the fire goes out, so I get to sleep downstairs as well.

  Aaagh! Speaking of clouts, my nose is a mess. Throb, throb, throb. (Navarre can’t seem to look at me without hitting me, any more.) But it’s just as well, I suppose, or I might have fallen asleep by accident. I don’t want to miss the first cockcrow. This is my only chance. Unless I make it to the city gates before Dulcie wakes up at sunrise, I’m finished. Navarre will find out that I’ve taken the money and the scissors and the clothes from her chest, and she’ll kill me. She really will. She’ll chop me up with an axe before she can stop herself.

  I have to get out of here.

  A strangled sound. But the snoring resumes, and all is well. Somewhere a cricket chirps. Somewhere in the distance a baby’s crying. I can’t believe that I’ve come to this point. I can’t believe that it’s really happening. To have actually laid hands on Navarre’s keys—well, that’s a feat in itself, because she’s a notoriously light sleeper. But I did it. I snuck the keys off her belt. I opened the chest. I took out the money, and the scissors, and the clothes. And then I slid the keys back under her blankets.

  If I can do all that, I can certainly do the rest. I can certainly reach the Kingdom of Aragon.

  That’s the best place for me. Over in Aragon, with all the exiled faidit lords—the ones who lost their ancestral lands to the King of France. Like the Viscount of Carcassonne, for example. Or Olivier de Termes. I could cook for them and clean for them. I could mend clothes and throw rocks. I could help them win back Carcas-sonne and Termes from the King, and I would do it proudly. Because I would be serving those valiant knights who have never bent their knees to France. Who are honourable and brave. Unlike Bernard Oth, my cousin.

  I would rather die with the noble faidit lords than live locked up with a useless old madman who thinks I’m a giant olive.

  The princess knew what she had to do. One night, when all in the castle were sleeping, she disguised herself as a squire and escaped from her wicked stepmother. She went off to join a band of noble nights in shining armour, who had sworn to slay the venomous serpent laying waste to her country.

  There! The cockcrow!

  Off you go, Babylonne. Quickly, now. Quietly. Don’t make a sound. And don’t forget your bundle—you can’t go without that.

  The back door creaks a bit, but it’s all right. Nobody’s moved. (Close the door behind you, remember. And watch out for that chopping block!) Already the sky is lightening, over in the east. Where are my scissors? There. Right.

  Hair first.

  Ouch! Yeowch! It’s harder than I thought; these scissors must need sharpening. And without a mirror, I can’t be cutting straight. I hope I don’t look too odd. I don’t want to attract attention. And what am I going to do with all this discarded hair? Stick it in my bundle, maybe. Get rid of it afterwards.

  If Navarre sees it lying around on the ground, she’ll know what I’ve done. She’ll know that I’ve cut my hair short.

  Now for the skirt. Knee-level, I think. It’s going to fray, but I can’t help that. Save the leftover cloth; it might be useful. Stuff it into the bundle too. In fact wrap the money in it, so that the coins won’t chink. Now for the hose. They’re not too big. I was afraid that they might be, but they could be a lot worse.

  The boots smell like very, very old cheese—the kind that frightens little children. I hope they last. I have to cross the Pyrenees in these boots, and they already look as if they’re about to lie down and die.

  Oh well. I have money. If I must, I’ll buy more boots.

  Another cockcrow. I have to hurry, or I’m going to get caught. I won’t throw the bundle over the wall because someone might pick it up before I get to it. I’ll bring it up the woodpile with me.

  Careful, now. Here’s the tricky bit. I’m not at all sure about this woodpile. I don’t think it’s very stable. And everything’s so dark, I
can hardly see where I’m . . .

  Whoops!

  That was close. God save us, that log almost rolled out from under me! And the wood’s so noisy, too. It’s rattling. It’s crunching. It’s going to wake somebody up.

  One step. Two steps. That’s it. Nicely done. Watch your bundle. Just a bit further.

  There.

  How high this garden wall is! I never expected . . . God’s angels, I’m going to break my leg, jumping down from here!

  No, I’m not. Come on, Babylonne, you’ve made it this far. Just one little drop and the worst part’s over. Come on, you coward, jump!

  Ow!

  Curse it! Damnation! Damn the day! Ouch—my ankle! But it’s nothing. A little bruise. A slight limp. I can still walk.

  Down the alley, into the street.

  Can’t see anyone. Wouldn’t expect to. The light’s very murky between the tall houses; if you stayed in the shadows, lurking in alleys and doorways, you’d be invisible. Someone’s coughing his lungs out, upstairs in the Golden Crow.

  Pick up the pace, Babylonne.

  It’s so quiet, and the air’s so still. My own footsteps echo off the brick walls on either side of me—slap, slap, slap. There’s a rumble of cart wheels from somewhere far away. Another cockcrow.

  And here’s the first corner. Look right; look left. Someone’s shuffling along, heading west with a sack on his back. There’s a dog nosing around in the gutter. Not another sign of life.

  So far, so good.

  Which gate should I take, once I’m through the Portaria? The St Etienne Gate, and then skirt the walls until I reach the Chateau Narbonnais? Or should I head straight through the city, and out the Chateau Gate? That would certainly be faster. And safer, too. You don’t know who you’re going to run into outside the city walls. Riff-raff. Prostitutes. Drunken barge-men. People on the lookout for a lone traveller . . .

  I hope I’m doing the right thing. I hope no one bothers me, or takes advantage. It’s going to be hard, all by myself; people are going to notice me. They’re going to wonder what I’m doing on my own. Even as a boy, I’m going to be noticed. It would be so much easier if I was with someone.