I can hear a lot of shouting too. Faint cries of ‘whoreson dung-eaters’ and ‘go suck up your own pizzle’ are drifting down from the battlements.
Wait! Who’s that over there? He looks familiar.
‘You! Boy!’ It’s that boy from last night. The one who was trying to pick lice off his own scalp. Seeing him in broad daylight, I now understand why no one else would do it. He’s one of those children you wouldn’t touch with tongs: his eyes are leaking yellow gum, his nose is pouring green snot, and his face is covered in dry, reddish, scaly patches. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Dim.’
‘Dim?’ What sort of a name is that? It’s worse than Babylonne. ‘What’s going on, Dim?’
‘Don’t you know?’ He gawps at me in astonishment, blinking through blobs of pus. ‘The French are here.’
Oh no.
‘Here?’ What do you mean, here? I don’t see any French. ‘Where are they? Show me.’
‘Out there.’ He points. ‘Beyond the walls.’
Beyond the walls. As he runs off on some vital errand (a trip to the latrines, no doubt), everything becomes clearer. Of course. It all makes sense now. That wooden frame—it’s probably going to be a trebuchet, or a mangonel. Something to hurl rocks with, in any case. And all the women must have come in from the village. As for those insults, they must be aimed at the French.
Ah God. The French.
They always come back. We beat them off and we beat them off and they never go. All my life, they’ve kept returning with their war machines and their bloodthirsty bishops and their endless troops—wave after wave of them—like a recurring nightmare. Why can’t they leave us alone?
I’m trapped here now. I’ll never find Isidore, now!
‘. . . Fulk of Toulouse,’ someone says nearby, and the name stings me like a hornet. It makes me drop my hands from my face and turn, just in time to spot Vasco, the sergeant, passing me on his way to the keep. He’s with someone else—someone I don’t know—and they’re discussing the French.
‘I recognise him,’ Vasco continues. ‘He was with the French King last year.’
‘The Bishop of Toulouse?’ his friend says. ‘That Fulk? The one who preached against the Count? Who took the French side at Muret?’
‘If there are French about, my brother, Fulk will be with them. Kissing their arses. Trust him to show up with his gaggle of pet priests.’
The two men disappear into the keep, and I can’t hear any more. But I don’t need to. I know all there is to know about Fulk of Toulouse. I know that he was with Simon de Montfort when they murdered my mother. I know that he was cast out of Toulouse by the will of its Count and its populace.
I have to see him. I have to look at the face of evil.
Oops! But not until I can see again. The sun is so bright that a plunge into the nearest tower practically blinds me. Everything’s so dark. I’ll have to wait for my eyes to adjust. That’s it. And now I can pick out details: a brace of lances, propped against one wall. Bales of straw and flax. Empty oil-pots, their mouths gleaming. Not a soul in sight.
But the staircase is more crowded. It’s partly blocked by one soldier carrying a huge stone. Other soldiers almost knock me over on their way down; ‘Move your fat arse!’ one of them shouts. A glimpse of the second floor guardroom reveals palliasses, a pile of conical helmets with attached nose-plates, and a man restringing his bow.
Someone’s been spitting all over these stairs— they’re very slippery.
‘Stand aside!’ grunts the man with the rock. ‘Look out! Stand aside!’
And here we are at the top of the tower. It’s a frenzied scene: the whole room is stuffed with men, and there’s even one woman. (I can see Maura peering out through an arrow-slit.) Someone’s greasing up arrowheads that are wrapped in flax and tow. He’s surrounded by a scattering of shields, all of them made of leather on wood with bits of horn attached, and all of them looking as if they’ve seen better days. The man with the rock dumps his burden on a small pile of similar rocks and turns to head downstairs again.
Without removing her eye from the arrow-slit, Maura says, ‘What are on those ox-carts?’
‘Siege machines,’ replies a man wearing a horn cap. ‘The French love their machines. I heard that Simon de Montfort spent twenty-one livres a day on the carpenters who worked his.’
‘You! Girl!’ The shout’s so close, it makes me jump. ‘What are you doing here?’
Who? Me?
‘Go and make yourself useful!’ A piece of gristle in quilted leather waves his arms at me. ‘Go and get water! Bring water!’
Oh, all right. All right, I heard you. Water. Water for the defence.
There are more stones coming up the stairs, borne by panting, red-faced men. To dodge them means delaying in the second-floor guardroom, which has an arrow-slit of its own—and no line of people waiting to use it (yet). I wonder if I could just have a little peek? I don’t see why not. They’re not desperate for water yet, are they? And that archer doesn’t seem very interested in me.
‘Mind where you’re treading,’ he says. All around, on the floor, are arrows stacked in bunches. But they’re easy enough to avoid.
The wind cuts through the arrow-slit like a knife, making my eye water. Still, I can see some things. Smoke rising. White tents. Hobbled horses. And what’s that? A faraway sound. A distant voice . . .
If I put my ear to the arrow-slit instead of my eye, I might be able to hear better. Yes. That’s it. A few words carried on the wind: ‘Mercy of King Louis . . .’ and ‘. . . will of the Holy Spirit . . .’
Are they parleying, out there? By the blood of all believers, we’re not going to surrender, are we?
Ow!
Who did that?
‘Are you waving your backside around for a reason?’ leers the man who must have pinched me. Oafish churl. He reaches for me again, but stumbles on some arrows; the archer cries sharply, ‘Pick up your feet!’ and here’s my chance to duck for cover.
Garrisons are all the same. They’re raw and rude, with no trace of restraint anywhere. You get tanners and salt-sellers drunk with their own martial glory, turning into beasts before your very eyes. As for the mercenaries, they’re even worse. There’s nothing human about them. They’re all pigs. Crows. Mad dogs.
Whoops! And here’s Gerard de la Motta, standing at the bottom of the staircase. (I knew that he’d never get out of La Becede in time.)
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks. ‘This is no place for you.’
‘I’m fetching water.’
‘You should go to the kitchens. With the other women.’
‘I’ve been told to fetch water.’ And that’s what I’m going to do, so you’d better not get in my way! ‘You should fetch water too. We must all work together, if we’re to defeat the French.’
‘Wait. Come back . . .’
But he’s too late to stop me. I’m off to the laundry-room, where there are buckets to be found. The question is, where’s the well? Oh—there it is. Over there, near the stables. Almost hidden by the people clustered around it.
I wonder why they need water up there on the battlements? To drink? To extinguish burning bolts? To boil up and pour through deadfalls onto French heads? Onto the tonsured pate of Bishop Fulk?
I’d like to see his brains boil. I’d like to see the skin hanging off his flesh in long, flayed ribbons.
‘Oh!’ And here’s Grazide, curled around a hairy man with bare legs. It’s so dark in this laundry-room; they’re going to break someone’s neck, rolling around down there. ‘I just—um—I have to get a bucket. Sorry.’ If you could just roll out of my way . . . Thanks.
So Maura was right. Grazide is popular. It’s enough to turn your stomach—especially when you consider her appalling taste—but I’m not going to think about that. I’ve got other things to think about. The well, for instance. I must draw water from the well.
There are many, many people around the well, every one of them
an armed man (though some only have knives at their belts). They’re all large and loud and unshaven, lolling about as if they have nothing else to do, scratching their balls and passing around a wineskin and laughing at jokes that are probably all about lopped-off limbs or castrated husbands. One by one they stop laughing when they see me.
A few of them spit.
‘Who are you?’ says a man who seems to be missing most of his nose.
‘I am Babylonne, cousin of Bernard Oth, Lord of Montreal.’ It’s no good knuckling under to men like this. You have to put your chin up and look them straight in the eye. ‘I have come for water. They need water on the battlements.’
‘Bernard Oth?’ someone says. ‘Is Bernard Oth here?’
‘No, no,’ Master Noseless replies. ‘I’ve heard about this one. She came with Lord Pons last night.’
A snort from somewhere to my left. ‘Pons never did have much taste in women,’ somebody mutters, before the winch starts turning. Its squeals put a stop to any further conversation; we all just stand in silence as the smallest, weakest, youngest member of the group draws some water. His friends stare at me, some chewing, some leering, some doing lewd things with their tongues.
Why doesn’t anybody ask them what the hell they’re up to? Where’s Lord Olivier? Where’s Lord Pagan? On the battlements, probably. Parleying with Humbert de Beaujeu and that Devil’s spawn Fulk.
‘Here,’ says the Noseless Wonder. ‘Give me that.’ And he takes my bucket, which he fills from another bucket on the end of the rope. ‘Now,’ he adds, holding my bucket out of reach. ‘What do I get for it?’
God give me patience. If only I had my pepper!
‘Well?’ He leans forward. ‘What about a kiss, eh?’
What about a punch in the mouth, Bowels-for-brains? ‘Here.’ Here’s my payment. The first coin that comes to hand is a Caorsin. ‘Have this.’
One flick and it disappears into their midst. Immediately they all go mad. They dive for it like hens on a worm, because they probably think that it’s silver or gold. Noseless abandons my bucket without a second thought, wading into the fight. Quick, Babylonne! Get away, while you still can! And don’t forget your bucket.
What am I going to do now? I can’t go back to that well—not until someone clears all the scum away. Once I’ve delivered this water, I’ll have to find some other method of making myself useful.
This water is heavy. It’s dragging my arm out of its socket. Gerard’s no longer in the tower, thank God, but there are many others, buzzing about like flies. They keep knocking into me, spilling my water onto the stairs. ‘Stand aside!’ You morons. ‘Stand aside!’ But nobody takes the slightest bit of notice.
Whoops! Just my luck. Another obstruction, blocking my way. The last one was noseless, and this one’s as drunk as a bishop. There’s wine on his breath, he’s sweating like a piece of cheese, and his nose is the colour of cock’s comb.
‘Aha!’ he cries. ‘What’s this? A little fresh chicken for our comfort?’
By all that’s holy. ‘Get out of my way.’
‘Got to pay the toll first, my dear.’ And he reaches for me.
Splash!
The water hits him so hard, he lands on his backside. (Take that, you sot.) As the crowd behind him roars with amusement, he flaps around like a landed fish, cursing and spluttering. But what’s this? Help!
‘Let go!’
Someone’s grabbed me from behind! Get off! Stop it! Arms tighten around my chest, lifting me—pinning me—and the drunkard in front of me is lunging again!
WHOOMP!
This time the bucket fells him for good, the cur. ‘Let go, damn you to hell!’ Whoever’s got me doesn’t listen, though. He swings me around, through the door of the second-floor guardroom, and this is bad—this is very bad—all the men behind us are cheering and hooting . . . I can feel a foul breath on my cheek . . .
God. Oh, God—
But here’s Loup de Montguiscard. Straight in front of me, not six steps away.
He’s head to head with the archer, in deep conversation about gut, or ballistas, or some such thing. He looks tired and tousled, and as thin as a pike; his sword-belt is almost sliding off his narrow hips, and his surcoat could do with Maura’s attention.
When he sees me, he frowns.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he asks— but he’s not addressing me. (Corpse-breath mumbles something in my ear, the turd.) ‘Who gave you permission to leave your post?’ Loup continues, as the grip around my chest loosens. ‘What do you think this is, market-day? Who do you think you are, the Archbishop of Narbonne? Get back up on the walls! Now!’
Release! My feet hit the floor as Corpse-breath beats a hurried retreat; he’s smaller than I thought, and older, with a face that looks as if it’s been used as a whetstone for the last thirty years, all scored and pitted.
‘By the by,’ Loup adds, in a bored, impatient voice that he raises for the benefit of those on the stairs, ‘if you lay a hand on this one, you’ll have Pons de Villeneuve to answer to. This one’s kin to Bernard Oth.’
He nods at me before turning back to the archer. And here I am, on my own, abandoned again. What shall I do? Thank him? Slip out quietly, back into that crowd of rutting swine? Try to fetch another bucket of water?
Maybe I’d be better off with the women after all. Maybe Gerard de la Motta was right. God, I’m starting to shake. Like a triple-damned coward.
I can’t do this. I can’t bear this. I wish Isidore was here.
‘Well, it’s all fresh sinew,’ the archer is saying. ‘Useless until it’s dried . . .’
Wait. What’s that sound? Horns? Trumpets? Loup lifts his head. So does the archer. Everyone on the staircase falls silent, listening.
It’s Loup who finally speaks. In a harsh drawl that matches the crooked line of his mouth, he says, ‘Well— there’s the parley come to an end. Now at last the fight will begin.’
And his chain mail clinks as he shifts his weight to his back foot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Once there was a beautiful princess who lived trapped in a mighty castle ...
No. On second thoughts, I don’t want to be a princess. I don’t want to live in a castle.
One morning, Babylonne woke up in her own bedroom in the house of Father Isidore Orbus. When she got dressed, she put on a pair of boots and a silk-lined gown. Then she went downstairs, where Father Isidore was waiting. He smiled and said, ‘It’s time for your reading lesson—unless you’d like to go and buy pen and ink first?’
Father Isidore. I hope he’s all right. It’s been a week, now—anything could have happened.
Lord our Heavenly Saviour, let him be all right. I’m so worried about him.
‘Oh, we’ll be fine,’ Maura’s saying. She and Grazide are sitting across the room from me, near their stone trough. But they’re not washing. They’re just sitting and talking as they delouse each other. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Grazide, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.’
‘But the food can’t last forever.’ Grazide is beginning to fret. ‘What if it runs out? What if we have to surrender?’
Maura waves a careless hand. ‘Listen,’ she replies, ‘I was at the siege of Montferrand sixteen years ago. I’ve been through it all before, and let me tell you this: the garrison never comes out of it well, but people like us . . . pah!’ She clicks her fingers. ‘We’re not important enough to attract attention.’
‘But—’
‘Besides, no matter what a man’s fighting for, he always needs his washerwomen. Men are all the same—they can cook for themselves, they can draw water and milk cows and make bread if they have to, but they won’t wash clothes. I’ve never met a man yet who’ll scrub his own drawers. So don’t worry—we’re safe.’
‘But what if they start rationing water?’ It’s Dim who speaks, in his hoarse little voice. He’s been hanging around a lot—I don’t know why. I don’t know who he belongs to, or where h
e comes from. He just seems to spend most of his time curled up near the laundry woodpile. ‘I’ve heard that the water in the well might get low,’ he adds. ‘What if you can’t wash clothes any more?’
‘Then we’ll find something else to do,’ Maura retorts. ‘We’ll empty crap-buckets or scrape blood off the walls. Don’t worry—there’ll always be some unpleasant job that no one else wants to get stuck with. You watch.’
Suddenly she stops, listening hard. It’s that singing again, faint and sweet. The Roman priests must be marching around outside the walls barefoot, singing their Latin songs. I saw them at it the day before yesterday, when I was up on the ramparts bringing rocks to hurl at the French.
God, I’m so tired.
‘There they go,’ says Maura, straining to catch the sound of the distant chorus. ‘You’d think they’d have better things to do.’
‘It’s the same time every day, have you noticed?’ Grazide remarks. ‘I wonder why?’
Maura shrugs. ‘Personally, I don’t mind it,’ she confesses, turning her attention to Grazide’s scalp. ‘I wish they’d change their tune, though. Sing something a bit livelier. Like “The Red-combed Cock”, for instance.’
She and Grazide laugh, the way they always do when they hear a smutty joke. Grazide actually starts to sing about a red-combed cock perching in a lady’s chamber, but she stops suddenly as someone sticks his head through the door.
Whoops! It’s Gerard de la Motta.
With any luck he won’t see me, though. I chose this seat deliberately, because I’m shielded by a great big pile of dirty washing.
‘Are you looking for Babylonne, Master?’ Maura says cheerfully. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you sure?’ I can’t see Gerard’s face any more, but he sounds suspicious. ‘She doesn’t seem to be anywhere else.’
‘You can have a look if you like.’ Maura farts before continuing. ‘Mind those silk drawers, though. If you touch ’em when they’re wet, it will leave a stain. And I just cleaned all the stains off.’
‘Um—er—no, that’s all right,’ Gerard mutters. There’s a brief silence, broken at last by Grazide’s guffaw.
Pagan's Daughter Page 18