‘They were ransomed too. The noble knight emptied the Templar coffers, to pay money for the poor. And he decided that he wouldn’t ransom himself, because his ransom would save the lives of ten women. Or fifty children. He decided to sacrifice his one life to save fifty others.’
Really? Is that true? ‘So—so Saladin killed him?’
‘No.’ Isidore shakes his head. ‘Your father pleaded for the knight’s life. He threw himself on his knees before Saladin, and used that nimble tongue of his to free Lord Roland.’
Ah. It was Roland, then. Lord Roland Roucy de Bram was the golden-haired knight.
‘Your father told me that story a long time ago,’ Isidore murmurs. ‘It happened when he was a squire, before Lord Roland threw his sword away and became a monk. Lord Roland had learned, you see, that there can be no salvation through the shedding of blood. That there can be no peace from war.’ All at once, Isidore unfolds his arms. He shifts his weight and pulls the door open. (Don’t tell me he’s leaving?) ‘Please try to remember that, Babylonne. It’s very important.’
And he’s gone. Like a puff of smoke. Before telling me the rest! I want to know—did my father kill anyone? Did he become a monk as well? And if so, how did he end up as Archdeacon of Carcassonne?
Oh well, I don’t care. Why should I care about my father? He didn’t care about me.
Of course, he didn’t actually know about me but . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve finished my meal now. I think I’ll go to bed.
Off with the boots first. Where shall I put them? Inside the chest? Under the blankets, perhaps. At the bottom of the bed. That way, I’ll be keeping them within reach.
Off with the hose, next. And my girdle. I should probably sleep on my hose.
Knock-knock-knock.
What in the name of—?
‘Who is it?’
A voice replies from the other side of my door. ‘It’s me. Father Isidore. I’m sorry. There’s something I forgot to give you.’
And what might that be, exactly? I don’t like the sound of this. It’s getting dark outside. I can hardly see.
‘Please don’t be concerned.’ Isidore’s tone is apologetic. ‘I’m not going to attack you. You have your pepper, do you not? I shan’t even come in.’
He’s right. I have my pepper. And my scissors. He won’t be expecting them.
I can feel the weight of the scissors in my right hand, as I unlatch the door with my left. And slowly drag it open.
He’s in the corridor outside, bearing a tallow candle. It throws strange shadows across his hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes.
‘Gloria Patri et Filio!’ he exclaims, crossing himself. He’s staring at my bare legs. ‘What happened to you?’
What? Oh, that.
‘That was my aunt. She threw scalding water at me.’
He mutters something else in Latin, before saying, ‘No wonder you think the world is hell.’
‘What do you want?’ I’m not going to call you Father. I’m not going to call you anything. ‘You said that you had something for me.’
‘Yes. This.’ He opens his hand, and there’s a plait in it. A small, dark plait of hair. ‘This belonged to your mother,’ he says quietly. ‘She gave it to your father, and he gave it to me. It’s a lock of hair that she cut from her head. As a gift for him. Before he left.’
A lock of—?
Oh no. It can’t be.
‘Take it. Go on.’ He’s letting it dangle. ‘You must take it, Babylonne, it’s your inheritance. Who else should rightfully have it? You are your father’s true heir, not I. So take it.’
It sits in my palm like a feather.
‘When you can read,’ he says, ‘I’ll give you the books as well. But only then. Your father would not want you to sell them—and they’re of no use to you at present.’ He waits, but I can’t speak. So he steps back. ‘Good night,’ he whispers. ‘Sleep well.’
And he drifts away like a shadow, down the long, stone corridor, taking the light with him. All of a sudden everything’s dark. I can hardly see my hand, let alone what it’s holding. My mother’s hair. My mother’s hair.
He kept it. All those years, and my father kept it. Could he—could he have loved her after all? Really loved her? If he took her hair, maybe he would have taken her with him too. Had she truly wanted to go.
The plait feels so soft in my clenched fist. I don’t want to crush it, but I have to be careful. I don’t want to lose it in the dark. One puff of air as I shut the door and it could blow away.
The hinges creak. The latch drops. There—I’m safe. I’m alone with my mother’s hair. Plaited in the middle, bound at either end. Each end finishing in a little silken brush.
The brushes touch my jaw like a kiss. Like my mother’s soft cheek. They smell of lavender . . .
Oh no. No, I can’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Someone might be listening.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘It will get better,’ says the priest. ‘Every day, it will get a little better.’
Is that supposed to cheer me up? Each time the horse moves, a jolt of pain shoots through my knees. There are red-hot skewers in my thighs, and as for my buttocks—I don’t even want to think about them.
What’s the good of knowing that things will get better in the future? I want them to get better now!
I wasn’t made to ride a horse. I don’t think I have the right build. Isidore’s different: he’s tall, with long arms and legs. His wrists are strong and so is his back. No wonder he has such an easy time of it.
‘You’re improving,’ he adds, making a feeble attempt to encourage me. ‘I can see it already. The way you’re sitting—it’s much better.’
The way I’m sitting? You mean, the way I’m sitting as if someone’s poking me in the spine with a sharpened lance? (That’s what it feels like, anyway.)
‘We must be grateful for the weather,’ Isidore points out. ‘Think how much worse this would be, if it were raining!’
Yes. Let’s think about that. Let’s think about something besides the pain in my hips. If there was rain, it would be worse. If there were snowy mountains, it would also be worse. But the mountains are a long way ahead. Everything hereabouts is flat, flat, flat. River flats. Marshlands. Fields of barley. The occasional wooden bridge, like the one that we crossed this morning in front of Muret. We were so late getting out of Muret. Isidore blamed the canons of St Sernin (‘Talkative’ was his only comment) but I know that I was partly responsible. We would have left earlier, if I’d been able to move more quickly. If my joints hadn’t been so stiff and sore.
This isn’t going to work. There’s not enough distraction in the sluggish river, or the clumps of trees, or the half-cleared meadows. I’ll have to think of something else.
‘Why did you bring that lock of hair?’ If I don’t speak, I’ll scream instead—and there’s only one subject that springs to mind. ‘Why did you bring it on pilgrimage with you?’
A brief silence. Isidore is staring straight ahead, as if fascinated by the distant, smoky horizon.
‘I brought everything that your father gave me,’ he replies at last. ‘Including the books.’
‘But why?’ I still don’t understand. ‘Why bring them all this way? Why not leave them in that house you were telling me about?’ Your house in Bologna, which sounds like a dream come true, with its carved chairs and its upstairs brazier. If I had my very own house, in a great big city like Bologna, I would never move from it. Ever.
‘I could not leave them in my house, Babylonne.’ He throws me a strange look. ‘I did not have them when I left my house. I have not seen Bologna in six months, at least.’
‘What?’ But that means—you can’t mean—
‘When I left Bologna, it was to say goodbye to your father. At his monastery near Montpellier.’ His voice is so tense that it would shatter if you were able to touch it. ‘From Montpellier, I travelled straight to Toulouse. It was only after Pagan . . . that is, I decid
ed to go on pilgrimage after we said our final farewells. I couldn’t go straight back, you see. I felt that I—I had to do something. Something that might help me . . .’
He trails off.
Wait just a moment. Are you saying—?
‘When did my father die?’
Isidore swallows. I can actually see his throat move. ‘One month ago,’ he replies hoarsely.
A month ago.
My father was living near Montpellier until four weeks ago. Living. Still alive.
I don’t believe it.
We could have met. It would have been easy. Montpellier . . . that’s not far. How many days from Toulouse? Four? Five? I could have walked right up and . . . and what?
Slapped his face, that’s what.
But I missed my chance. By one miserable month! God curse it, what sort of luck is this? Not God’s luck, that’s for sure. The Devil’s luck.
I was assuming that he’d died years ago—I don’t know why. Was it Isidore? Did he give me that impression? Thinking back, he never said that my father was long dead. And when you consider what he looks like . . .
Glancing sideways, I can’t see his face. It’s shrouded by his hood; his head is bowed. All the same, I can picture very clearly his haggard features: the fleshless cheeks, the sharp nose, the dark smudges under his eyes. Could it be that he isn’t always so thin, or so grave? Could it be that he’s still grieving?
‘You, there! Stop!’
God! Brigands!
The horse shies—whoops! No. I’m still on top. Clinging to its mane and . . .
Praise God. They’re not brigands.
‘Sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t be afraid!’ A short, solid, balding man in a handsome green tunic has popped out of the undergrowth like a fast-growing leek. What on earth is he doing there? And who’s that beside him? His wife? ‘We’re not brigands!’ he announces, in the kind of langue d’oc that generally comes from Gascony. (It always sounds as if it’s being pushed to the front of the mouth by a curled tongue.) ‘Have no fear! We’re only pilgrims!’
Pilgrims?
Isidore has grabbed my reins. He says nothing, but his gaze flits about as more pilgrims start appearing, almost magically. Some crawl out from behind a fallen log. Some stick their heads around the sides of tree-trunks. They all look dusty and dishevelled and very, very tired.
‘We heard your hoofbeats,’ the man in green explains, beaming all over his round, red face. ‘We thought that you might be marauding knights, or some such thing. So we hid.’ He stumbles down onto the road, his fine tunic catching on twigs and clawing branches. ‘I am Bremond. Bremond d’Agen. Do you understand me, Father? Do you speak this language?’
‘I do,’ Isidore replies coolly. He still hasn’t relaxed his guard. But that doesn’t seem to worry Bremond, who babbles away like the Garonne at full flood.
‘This is my wife Galerna,’ he indicates. ‘And that is our mule, you see? A useful creature, but not as useful as a horse. Are you heading south, Father? Because if you are, we could proceed together. There being safety in numbers, as the old saying goes.’
Isidore hesitates. He’s still holding my reins, and he doesn’t like this unexpected meeting; I can tell. When he opens his mouth to respond, however, he’s interrupted. A little old woman surges forward, muttering something. She has a face like a withered apple, and her back is bowed—perhaps by the weight of the amulets hanging on cords around her neck.
She grabs Isidore’s foot, and kisses it: once, twice, three times.
You have to laugh at the look on his face.
‘This is Petronilla,’ says Bremond, as she backs away, genuflecting. (Isidore, I notice, is wiping his foot on his horse’s ribs.) ‘Petronilla is very devout. A God-fearing woman. She gave all her worldly possessions to a nunnery and became a lay sister, before she set forth.’
‘She probably thinks that you’re a bishop,’ Galerna adds. Galerna is short and round like her husband, but serene rather than buoyant. ‘Because of your gold ring.’
Bremond seems startled. His smile begins to fade. ‘You’re surely not a Bishop, Father?’ he says. ‘With only one attendant?’ (I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking: Oh no! Have I offended a Bishop?)
Once again, however, Isidore doesn’t have to reply. Instead the answer comes from another pilgrim—another priest—who’s been picking his way out of a patch of nettle and chestnut. He’s small and skinny and spotty, with two enormous front teeth almost big enough to use as city gates. They make him look like a hare. A white hare, because he’s dressed in grubby white robes.
‘That is not a Bishop’s ring,’ he says, in a high, nasal voice. ‘Unless I am mistaken, that is a graduation ring. Is it not, Father? Are you a university graduate?’
‘I am,’ Isidore rejoins.
‘From which university, I pray you?’
‘From Bologna,’ says Isidore, reluctantly. The spotty priest nods, as if he knows everything there is to know about Bologna and isn’t impressed by any of it.
‘I did a year’s study at Montpellier myself, ’ he observes, ‘but I didn’t graduate. I didn’t feel the need. I learned all that I required for my particular calling.’
‘Indeed,’ says Isidore.
‘Oh yes. My calling is to further the salvation of souls through pilgrimage. My name is Boniface Batejet, from Le Puy. I am a canon of the Cathedral of the Blessed Mary, in Marseilles. You may have read my work, In the Steps of the Magdalene?’
‘Uh . . . no,’ says Isidore.
‘Oh. Well, you will no doubt read my next guide when I finish it.’ Boniface sounds absolutely convinced of that. ‘It is to be called In the Steps of St James and it will concern this very pilgrimage to Compostela.’
Compostela? Isidore catches my eye. (Don’t tell me they’re heading for Compostela too!) Boniface takes a deep breath, but before he can continue he’s cut short by a burst of giggling.
Two young matrons have emerged from behind a tree. They’re both very fair, with skin as white as Isidore’s; fine strands of golden hair are escaping from beneath their veils. They’re with a noisy fellow in a stylish grey tunic, who’s making them laugh. He has one of those wolfish jongleur’s faces, all scrubby beard and flashing grin.
He doesn’t look like a pilgrim at all.
But he must be well read, because he hails Isidore in Latin. Isidore responds with more Latin, and there’s a brief exchange as Bremond stands there beaming, as Petronilla mutters over her amulets, and as Galerna attends to her mule. For my part, I think I’ll keep watch. I don’t like the look of some of these pilgrims. That man over there, for instance—the one with the yellow face and the withered hand and the squint. He has a sly expression that doesn’t sit well with me. The one next to him is obviously a simpleton; you can tell by the vacant look on his misshapen face, which has the appearance of something that’s been pounded with an anvil just a few too many times. As for that ragged old tree-root of a man over there—what’s he doing? What’s he saying? He seems to be preaching at a pothole.
One by one, everybody turns to regard him.
‘No one can understand our aged companion,’ Bremond remarks apologetically. ‘We don’t know his name, or where he came from.’
‘It sounds as if he might come from the Rhinelands,’ Isidore volunteers thoughtfully, and Bremond brightens.
‘Ah! You can understand him, then?’
‘I fear not.’ Isidore shakes his head. ‘I am familiar only with the sound of his tongue. I have taught students from that part of the world.’
‘Taught?’ It’s Boniface. Alert and on guard, he looks more like a hare than ever. ‘You’re a master, then?’
‘I am a doctor of canon law,’ says Isidore. Hah! That’s unwelcome news to the pimply priest. See how he screws up his rabbit’s nose! (So much for In the Steps of the Magdalene!)
‘You have a genuine tower of Babel, here,’ Isidore continues—perhaps in an attempt to divert attention from his own accomplishm
ents. ‘Or should I say, a caravan of Babel? You come from all corners of the earth.’
‘Yes indeed.’ Bremond nods enthusiastically, and starts throwing his hands around. ‘My wife and I are from the Agenais, though we’ve settled in Bordeaux. When my daughter gave birth to a son, after eight years of barrenness, she promised to make this pilgrimage— but we’re doing it in her place because she’s so busy.’
‘What with looking after the baby, and everything,’ Galerna interjects.
‘Of course,’ her husband agrees. ‘She wasn’t fit to go. Agnes and Constance are from England.’ He points to the two young matrons. ‘A butcher’s widow and a bookbinder’s widow. I can understand them pretty well—I’m in the wine trade, you see. We ship a lot of Gascon wine to England out of Bordeaux.’
‘Ah.’ Isidore actually seems mildly interested. ‘So is that English they’re talking now?’
‘It is, Father,’ says Bremond. ‘And the fellow who’s making them laugh—Gervaise, his name is. He’s English too. Though I believe he studied for a while in Paris.’
‘Before he was expelled from the university,’ Galerna mutters. ‘Before his family sent him on pilgrimage as a last resort.’
‘Yes. Ahem.’ Bremond gives her a nudge to shut her up. ‘And Petronilla is also English. And Agnes brought her servant Gilbert, who’s English as well.’
He gestures at the simpleton, whose finger is shoved so far up his flattened nose that he seems to be trying to pull his brain out of one nostril (if he has any brain at all).
‘And I’m from Provence,’ the pimply priest interrupts—as if he can’t bear to be left out of the conversation. ‘And my servant Drogo here was originally from Lombardy, though he has long since abandoned his barbarous tongue.’
Ho hum. Why all these introductions? We won’t be needing their names, surely?
But Isidore is lingering. He’s matching their pace, for some reason. I know that we’re hemmed in on all sides, but we could easily break through. Surely we’re not going to join these people? We’ll never get anywhere if we do.
I can’t even tug at Isidore’s sleeve, in case I lose my balance.
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