Pagan's Daughter

by Catherine Jinks

  Hah! A nice little lie, my friend, but you can’t fool me. ‘In a town like this, I’ll be safer on my own than with a priest.’ Or haven’t you noticed? ‘Some of the people here don’t like priests. I can tell. And the rest probably think that you’re an easy target. Ripe for the plucking, I mean.’ He’s gazing down at me with an arrested expression on his face—and I wish he’d stop doing that! ‘What? What is it?’

  Another crooked smile. A little shake of the head. ‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘you’re so much like your father.’

  He goes before I can recover my breath, shoving the reins into my hands and hurrying off across the dusty square. Lying priest. I am not like my father! I might look like him (I must, if the priest recognised me) but I don’t resemble him in any other way. I do not.

  And what’s this? An audience. Now that the priest’s gone—now that he’s vanished inside the church, like a wolf into its den—all the little scurrying animals can emerge again from their hidey-holes. Here’s one. And there’s another. Rat-faced gutter-creepers. Shaggy-headed street-boys, dressed in rag girdles and scraps of old blanket and bits of discarded sacking.

  They’re both quite young. They don’t have beards yet.

  ‘Can I hold your horse?’ says the smaller one, who’s still a lot bigger than I am. I’ll just ignore him. (Hold my horse? He must think that my brains are boiled!)

  ‘Where are you from?’ asks the larger one, who’s got a wart on his cheek the size of a fortified farm. If I let drop a mouthful of nonsense, they might believe that I’m a foreigner speaking a foreign tongue, and shut the hell up.

  ‘Oodle-pargabarranturnis.’

  Sure enough, it works. They start talking to each other loudly, as if I’m not even here.

  ‘I told you,’ says Wart-face. ‘I told you he was foreign. See how dark he is.’

  ‘There are saddlebags,’ his friend replies. ‘On the grey palfrey.’

  Wart-face nods, and sidles away in a suspicious manner. His gap-toothed friend flashes me a big grin, and strokes my horse’s nose. ‘You—Catalan?’ he asks, pointing at me. ‘You—Lombard?’

  What’s Wart-face doing back there? Stay away from those books, you leprous little horse-fly!

  Gap-tooth is still in my face. Trying to distract my attention. Trying to make me forget his friend. ‘You— blackamoor?’ (Both of my hands are full of reins; I can’t let go of either horse. One horse on each side, like towers on a gate, and what am I going to do? I’m anchored.) ‘You—Infidel?’ Meanwhile, Wart-face is behind me, fumbling in a saddlebag.

  Time to fight, or they’ll strip the horses clean.

  My feet are my only defence. A quick kick in the groin, and Gap-tooth’s on his knees, yelping. Wart-face nearly bolts with a book, but—whoops! He’s too slow to turn. Not like me. The grey mare’s reins come in handy; they slip over his head like a hangman’s noose. One quick jerk and his feet fly out from under him.

  He falls backwards, almost onto my feet. His head hits the cobbles. The horses don’t like it; they’re skittish, and toss their own heads. Gap-tooth is on his feet again, behind me, bent almost double. Wart-face is rolling about on the ground, shielding his face from dancing hoofs.

  He’s dropped the book, God curse it.

  If that book gets trampled, I’m dead. The priest will kill me. I can’t afford to mess around.

  Gap-tooth has to go. He’s still bent double, so—whack—my knee slams up into his forehead. Ow! That’s done him. I might be limping, but he’s out of the fight. As for the other one, he’s crawling away. A boot up the backside might get rid of him sooner.

  ‘Gaagh!’ he cries, as my kick makes contact. Over by the well, someone says something—and the tone sounds very unfriendly.

  Never mind. With a horse on each side of me, I’m practically indestructible.

  ‘Benoit?’

  It’s the priest. He’s calling from the church door. There are two men behind him, one of them another priest in a white robe.

  Gap-tooth begins to reel away on knees made of carded wool. Wart-face staggers to his feet and runs. I must try to keep the horses away from that book.

  ‘Guilabert Sagnator!’ shouts the priest in white, shaking his fist at Gap-tooth’s retreating figure. ‘You stay away, do you hear me?’ Turning to my priest— Isidore, the Doctor—he lowers his voice and says something that I can’t quite hear from a distance.

  I don’t know if Isidore heard it, either. He’s already striding towards me, his black robes billowing out behind him like a crow’s wings. The priest in white (who’s small and fat) has to run to keep up.

  ‘Your book!’ It comes out as a squeak before I can help myself. Lower your voice, Babylonne! ‘They tried to take your book . . .’

  Isidore puts a finger to his lips. He scoops up the book and tucks it back into his saddlebag.

  ‘Ah, it is a great shame to us!’ The priest in white catches up, coughing pitifully and holding his sides. ‘They would steal the (cough-cough) hair from a (cough-cough) dead man’s head.’

  ‘Did they hurt you, Benoit?’ Isidore wants to know. He doesn’t seem the least bit worried about his book. (After all the trouble I took to protect it!) ‘Did they attack you? No? But you’re limping. You’ve injured your knee.’

  Before I can respond, the priest in white interrupts again.

  ‘Bring him inside with us. Bruno (cough-cough) will take the horses. Bruno!’ He barks at the third man, who must be a servant of some sort, to judge from the clothes he’s wearing. They look as if they’ve spent several weeks in a goat’s stomach. ‘Bruno, take the horses in. Go on! Give them some oats.’

  Bruno moves, but I can move faster. Those saddlebags aren’t going with Bruno, not if they have books in them. I wouldn’t trust Bruno as far as I could spew a bad mushroom.

  ‘It’s all right, Benoit.’ Isidore reaches out and peels my fingers off the leather stitching. ‘Leave them. You mustn’t worry.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Trust me,’ he says.

  And I’ll have to, I suppose.

  No matter how foolhardy it may seem.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A room of my own. I’ve never had one before.

  Not that it’s very big, or very fine. There’s no lock on the door. The window doesn’t have shutters. The bed is just a palliasse dumped on hard stone, with a couple of blankets tossed over it.

  But there’s a latch. And a chest. And a glazed piss-pot. And the priests have stretched some kind of pale cloth across the window, to keep out the rain.

  I can’t believe that it’s mine. All of it! For tonight, anyway.

  I should put my things in this chest: my boots and my money and my scissors. The trouble is, this chest doesn’t have a lock. And I wouldn’t feel safe, leaving my most precious possessions in an unlocked chest. Suppose someone gets in? The door will be latched, but suppose there’s another entrance that I don’t know about?

  I think I’ll sleep on my money. And my scissors. And my pepper. I don’t want to sleep undefended.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  ‘Oh!’ A visitor! My very first visitor. ‘Come in.’

  It’s the priest, of course. Isidore. He went off to find food, and now he’s back with . . . what’s that in his hands?

  ‘Bread,’ he announces, laying a small, wrapped bundle on the chest. ‘Goat’s cheese. And this is a jug of mulled wine.’

  Goat’s cheese! ‘Is this . . . is this all for me?’

  ‘It is. And I want you to eat it. You’re much too thin.’

  Goat’s cheese. I suppose it’s no worse than a hen’s egg. It wasn’t killed, after all; why shouldn’t I eat it?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. (He must have been watching me again. The way he does. Like a hawk watching a field-mouse.) ‘Don’t you like goat’s cheese?’

  ‘I—I’ve never eaten cheese. Any kind of cheese.’

  ‘It’s good. You’ll like it.’

  ‘It’s the product of fornication.�
��

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ He nods. ‘I remember. But it’s Perfects who aren’t allowed to eat such things, surely? And you’re not a Perfect.’

  Good point. I’m not a Perfect. I’m not even in training. After all, Gran and Navarre were going to marry me off.

  ‘I suppose it’s all right.’ I won’t contaminate them by eating cheese in their house. Not any more. ‘I can eat cheese now because nobody minds.’ Except God, perhaps. Curse it. What should I do? ‘Some believers eat cheese. It’s not good, but it’s not . . . it’s not really bad. I don’t think.’

  ‘It seems to me, Babylonne, that God made cheese for one purpose only. I mean to say, you can’t burn it, can you? Or wear it? Or build churches out of it?’ Isidore sets the wine down carefully next to the bread. ‘There’s nothing you can do with the stuff, except eat it.’

  You know what? He’s right. It’s true. What else can cheese possibly be for? Why would God have bothered to create cheese, if no one was going to eat it?

  Unless the Devil was responsible for cheese?

  ‘I also brought you this,’ Isidore continues, dragging something out from under his arm. I didn’t notice it before, but it’s a kind of hood. A blue hood. ‘You must wear it tomorrow.’

  I don’t believe this. He remembered. He said that he’d get me a hat, and he did.

  It feels clean, too.

  ‘Now,’ Isidore continues, calmly closing the door, ‘a few words about tonight before I leave you. We have to be circumspect. Do you understand? This isn’t a big place, and if you leave this room, you’re bound to run into someone. Someone who’s curious. That’s why I want you to stay here, no matter what.’

  Yes, yes. I understand.

  ‘You must be exhausted, in any case,’ he says, using his gentlest voice. His prayer-before-bedtime voice. ‘It’s been a long day. Did they give you a—um—a receptacle?’

  ‘Yes.’ See? ‘It’s over there.’

  ‘Good. So there’s no need to come out until tomorrow morning.’ He puts his hand on the door-latch. ‘I’m sorry, Babylonne, but it’s safer this way. I wouldn’t risk subjecting your disguise to close scrutiny.’

  Why not? ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ He seems mildly amused, to judge from his half-smile. ‘You’re much too pretty to be a boy.’ The smile fades. ‘Except when you scowl like that, of course. When you scowl like that you resemble a basilisk.’

  He turns to go. But I’ve just thought of something— wait!

  ‘Wait!’

  He stops. Looks around.

  ‘Wait.’ Where’s my purse? Ah. Here. ‘How much for the food?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The food. How much do I owe you?’

  Every trace of expression leaves his face. It takes on a familiar chiselled-stone look.

  ‘The canons gave me that food,’ he replies flatly. ‘You owe me nothing.’

  ‘And the hood?’

  ‘I bought the hood from one of the other guests. But it’s a gift.’

  ‘How much did you pay?’

  ‘It’s a gift, Babylonne.’

  ‘Here.’ Here’s a Caorsin. Probably more than the hood is worth, but I don’t have anything smaller. ‘Here, take it.’

  Isidore doesn’t reply. He simply looks away. Opens the door.

  ‘If you don’t take the money, I won’t wear the hood!’ I’m not standing beholden to you, my friend. Not at any price. ‘I mean that! I do!’

  He pauses. Thinks. When at last he turns back to me, he’s doing his imitation of a church-door statue: hard, cold, immovable.

  What are you afraid of?’ he says. ‘That I’ll ask for something in return? You still think that of me?’

  Maybe. How should I know?

  ‘This is a gift, Babylonne. For your father’s sake.’

  Hah! ‘I will accept nothing for my father’s sake!’

  This time it’s frightening. This time he doesn’t even blink-just stares at me with those pale, heavy eyes, and slowly leans against the door until it shuts behind him, blocking my escape.

  Oh no. He’s not going to beat me, is he?

  Help!

  ‘Do you know what your father did in Carcassonne?’ he says, folding his arms.

  As if I care what my father did in Carcassonne!

  ‘He was a great man, Babylonne, and worthy of your respect. He went with the Viscount to plead with the French, and rode back ahead of the French army at the Viscount’s side,’ Isidore narrates. ‘He had the stalls torn out of the cathedral, to build barricades and mangonels. He rallied the people when their hearts were failing, and fought them off with his tongue when they tried to steal water from the city wells. He would have drawn his sword in defence of Carcassonne, had he been able. But he was a little man, and not strong. Not strong in his body. His strength was in his spirit.’ Suddenly Isidore closes his eyes. His colour changes; he looks quite grey. Is he going to faint? No. No, he’s not going to faint. His eyes are open now. ‘He would have gone with the Viscount, and died in prison, had events not conspired against him,’ Isidore explains wearily. ‘Had the death of his friend not . . . not left him disabled, for a short time.’

  ‘His friend?’ Oh! I know! ‘You mean the one he was still grieving for, when he went to Lavaur?’

  ‘Yes. That one.’

  ‘Who was the friend?’ I can’t help being interested. I don’t want to be but—well, it’s important, isn’t it? It’s important to find out. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I knew him. He was Roland Roucy de Bram, Pagan’s lord. Pagan served him in Jerusalem, before Lord Roland entered a monastery.’

  A monastery? I don’t understand this. These people— they were all monks. Priests. Servants of the Church of Rome. What were they doing, fighting the French army? Fighting the Pope’s own legate, who came here with that army?

  And Bram. I know Bram. ‘I heard about the people of Bram.’ (Gran told me once. Or was it Bernard Oth?) ‘Simon de Montfort took one hundred of them, and cut off their noses, and their ears, and their lips. He gouged out their eyes. Then he chained them together and sent them off to Cabaret, led by a man who’d been left with one eye for the purpose of guiding them.’

  Isidore sighs. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I heard about that too.’

  ‘And their lord. Lord Jordan.’ Gran mentioned him, as well. ‘He died in prison. With the Viscount.’

  ‘Yes. Lord Jordan was Roland’s brother.’

  ‘So my father was a friend of Lord Jordan?’

  ‘Why do you think he was running from the French?’ Isidore sounds so tired. ‘He was running because he was in danger. A traitor priest. Only God knows what would have happened to him, had Simon de Montfort hunted him down.’

  Only God knows? Perhaps. But I can certainly guess what might have happened. ‘Probably the same thing that happened to the traitor priest of Montreal who helped my uncle Aimery.’ Simon de Montfort didn’t spare him. ‘He was dragged by the heels of a horse until his face was scraped off.’

  Isidore winces. ‘By the blood of the Lamb, girl, why do you dwell on these things?’ he demands. ‘All these horrible things?’

  Why? Why do you think? ‘Because they must be remembered. Always. Because they must be avenged.’

  ‘They will not make you happy, Babylonne.’

  ‘Happy?’ When I shrug, he looks even more pained (if that’s possible). ‘Who can be happy in hell?’

  ‘You think this world is hell?’ he says.

  ‘It must be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Well, look around you! ‘It’s a terrible place. It’s the Devil’s realm.’

  ‘Babylonne, this world is not hell.’

  Now it’s my turn to sigh. ‘Are you going to preach to me?’ I knew it. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘No. I’m not a preacher. I don’t preach.’ He nods at the food on the chest: at the wine and the bread and the cheese. ‘But I am going to tell you a story. Eat you
r meal, Babylonne, while I tell you a bedtime story.’

  ‘A bedtime story?’

  ‘Why not? Have you anything else to do?’

  No. Not at present. Even so . . . ‘If it’s a story about some Roman saint, I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘It’s not about a saint. It’s about a knight. A golden-haired knight who went to Jerusalem, to fight the Infidels.’ He settles more comfortably against the door, propping it shut with his shoulders. ‘Go on. Sit down, eat up and I’ll tell you.’

  Very well, then. It can’t do me any harm. And I’m so hungry. That scrap of bread at midday—that wasn’t enough.

  Oh! How good this cheese smells!

  ‘The golden-haired knight was a noble soul,’ says Isidore. ‘When he was only a few years older than you, Babylonne, he decided that he didn’t want to kill people any more. He didn’t think it was a good thing, killing people. He didn’t think it would bring him closer to God.’

  Mmmm! The cheese!

  ‘So he went to an Abbot, and the Abbot sent him to fight for Jerusalem,’ Isidore relates. ‘But when he reached Jerusalem, he found that it was full of thieves and whores and lepers. He didn’t understand why he should be fighting for them. That’s why he joined the Order of the Temple. He became a Knight Templar, because he thought that it would bring him closer to God—Babylonne, slow down! You’ll choke!’

  ‘It’s good . . .’ (Gulp.) ‘Good cheese . . .’

  ‘It won’t be if you choke on it. Always remember to chew before you swallow.’ He tries to recover his place. ‘Now. Where was I?’

  ‘The Order of the Temple.’

  ‘Yes. The Order of the Temple. The knight became a Templar, and soon afterwards, Saladin attacked Jerusalem. He besieged Jerusalem. And after a lot of hard fighting, Jerusalem finally fell.’ The priest’s gaze is blank as he watches me lick my fingers. (No point wasting a crumb of this cheese!) ‘The defenders were afraid that Saladin would slaughter them all,’ he adds. ‘But that didn’t happen. Instead an agreement was reached about ransoms. As long as they could be ransomed, the Christians were free to leave.’

  ‘What about the poor people?’ Poor people like me, for instance. ‘What happened to them?’