Pagan's Daughter

by Catherine Jinks

  Aha! And here’s Lord Pagan himself, throwing back a draught of wine at the top of the stairs. Beyond him the highest tower room is packed with people: there’s Lord Pagan’s steward, and his two squires, and Lord Guillaume de Puylaurens, and that fellow with the missing ears, and—

  Where’s Olivier?

  There he is. Wrapped in his cloak, the hood pulled over his eyes. Seated on a barrel, patiently waiting. For what, I wonder? For a signal? A summons?

  Pons de Villeneuve stands near him, pissing into a bucket.

  ‘What’s that girl doing here?’ somebody whispers. (Curse him.) Olivier looks up. Pons spins around, adjusting his crotch.

  ‘God’s sweet angels, it’s you again,’ says Pons. Olivier jerks his chin at me, his dark eyes as grave as death.

  ‘Out,’ he grunts.

  No use arguing. But the staircase is suddenly impassable—stuffed full of archers. They’re all heading this way, and they won’t yield to anyone. Their shuffling tread sounds like leaves in a stiff wind.

  Somebody pulls me aside. Suddenly it’s so crowded up here that I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Men.’ Olivier rises. ‘All of you—listen to me.’ His voice is low but commanding. His eyes glitter in the soft light of a nearby oil-lamp. ‘When I give the command, we’re going out onto the ramparts—crawling. I don’t want any heads showing above the battlements. Do you understand?’

  Nods all around. Everyone’s forgotten about me. Perhaps, if I edge into this corner, out of the way . . .

  ‘Try not to make any noise,’ Olivier continues. ‘Do not rise when I rise. I’ll tell you when to rise. Hands and knees, my brave hearts, is that clear?’

  More nods. And a hoot.

  A hoot?

  Followed by a flurry of movement. (That hoot must have been a signal.) Olivier strides to the door ahead of Pons and Pagan and the archers. One by one, they all duck their heads. One by one, they disappear into the dimness of early dawn. And what shall I do now? Depart?

  Everyone who’s left—steward and squire, earless or not—clusters around the doorway, peering out. Nobody’s stationed at the arrow-slit. Nobody tries to stop me from sidling up to it.

  And I understand why, now. It’s hard to see anything through this narrow opening, especially in such poor light. I can vaguely make out some dim, white shapes that must be tents. And there are pinpoints of flame here and there. And a tree. And smoke . . . is that smoke?

  A sudden exclamation from behind me.

  ‘It’s begun!’ someone hisses. (I don’t know who.) Noises reach my ears from the ramparts, muffled by distance and the intervening stone. A shout. A curse. The crowd by the door presses forward. Part of it spills out into the morning air.

  God, if only I could see!

  Now the shouts are coming from farther afield— from the French camp, no doubt. It’s a furious uproar, as clear as the toll of a bell in the stillness. But whatever’s happening, it’s happening beyond the range of my restricted outlook. All I can glimpse is a handful of dark figures, disappearing from view.

  This is intolerable. I can’t stay here. And I don’t have to any more, because this room is empty. Completely empty. They’ve all headed for the parapet.

  I think I’ll follow their example.

  ‘Ah, no, no!’ someone yells. (That doesn’t sound good.) No one’s bothering to be quiet, up here on the walls; stepping out onto the ramparts, I’m greeted by a torrent of wails and protests, every one of them aimed at the French below. The archers are taking up their positions, one to each crenel; Olivier paces back and forth behind them, stopping every fifth or sixth step to check his targets.

  ‘Hold,’ he says. ‘Steady . . .’

  ‘They’re dousing it,’ croaks Pons. ‘They’re dousing the fire.’ He’s leaning out into space, as if he wants to throw himself off the battlements. ‘It’s not taken hold!’

  ‘Come on,’ Lord Pagan murmurs. ‘Come on, Loup.’

  I still can’t see anything except the backs of the men in front of me, and the flushed sky beyond. Something’s gone wrong with the raid—that much I can tell—but what, exactly? Is there a fight? A chase?

  ‘Come on!’ Lord Pagan yelps, hammering at a stone merlon with his mailed fist. ‘Jesus Christ our Saviour’s blood!’

  ‘Hold fast!’ Olivier cries sharply, his hand outstretched in a quelling motion as he addresses the archers. ‘Wait for my command!’

  ‘Look.’ Someone points. ‘Is that him?’

  ‘It’s him!’ Pons swings around to address Olivier. ‘He’s retreating!’

  Who is? Why? I must see. I must see! They’re all so intent on the action, they won’t notice if I join them, will they? Perhaps if I squeeze through over there, near Lord Pons . . .

  ‘Hurry!’ Guillaume shrieks—but not at anyone up here on the ramparts. Olivier’s voice rings out (‘Covering fire!’ he bellows) and the score of archers move as one. It’s a beautiful thing to see: as beautiful as it is terrible. Twenty arms drag together on twenty bowstrings; the twang of their combined release sets my teeth on edge. ‘Again!’ shouts Lord Pagan, and there’s a space directly ahead of me. If I get down low and dodge Pons de Villeneuve’s dancing feet, I’ll be able to peek over the top of the parapet.

  ‘No! No!’ he screams. A roar of despair springs from every throat. The bows creak once more, drawn tight at Olivier’s command. What is it? What’s happening? Pons is praying—he’s actually praying aloud—and he has no idea that I’m curled down here at his feet because he’s ready to tear the stone parapet apart with his bare hands; he’s in utter torment, his scars a stark white against his wet, red face.

  Another shower of arrows is released (it’s an indescribable sound) and at last I’m here. At last I can raise my head enough to look down, and it’s all so confusing . . . what’s going on?

  There’s a lot of smoke over by the trebuchet. A lot of people, too. The first golden beams of sunlight are gilding the treetops, and crows are wheeling overhead.

  Close by the foot of the walls, in deep shadow, a knot of tumbling, twisting men is attracting more combatants— they’re running in from all over, waving weapons, shouting, gesturing. The knot itself is very tight, full of vague shapes that could be anyone or anything; it’s hard to distinguish each from the other. But suddenly there’s a rent in the crowd, and somebody falls, rolling, and a dozen blades are raised against him— they come down as he tries to shield himself, making a sound that jabs me in the gut. It’s like hewing wood . . . Oh God. I can’t watch this.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lord Pagan groans, before his voice is swamped by other voices. ‘I got one! I hit one!’ cries an archer. Guillaume says, ‘The fire’s out.’ Pons is cursing furiously, weeping all the while. But Olivier’s hard, clear tones cut through the commotion like a hot knife through fat. ‘Mark that ballista!’ he instructs. ‘They’re mounting a ballista, look! Keep your heads down!’

  It’s hard to keep my head down. I don’t want to look, but something draws my eyes back towards the field of fury below. That poor man (not Loup, please God) is being dragged away from the base of the walls. He’s as limp as loose guts, and soaked red; one of his forearms is dangling on a stringy piece of sinew. Around him his bloody killers skip and hoot, throwing taunts up at us, the fiends, the scum, God curse them!

  ‘Fire!’ shouts Olivier, and—hah! Now you’re not laughing, are you, my fine friends? Now you’re running aren’t you? With the arrows nipping at your heels!

  I wish I had a stone, I could brain that blond.

  ‘Mark the ballista,’ Olivier warns. ‘Mark it, now—is it out of range?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ comes the reply.

  ‘Then mark it only. We don’t have long. They’ll get their elevation, soon.’

  ‘My lord!’ It’s the steward. ‘Look over there!’

  Over where? Oh no. No, it can’t be. They’re stringing up bodies. They’re stringing them up in a tree, like meat, but they’re too far away . . . I can’t make
out the faces . . .

  ‘Oh, Christ in Heaven!’ Pagan moans, bowing his head. Pons hurls curses over the parapet as the archers take aim. But the French are retreating to a safe distance—all save those whom the arrows have already found. One or two lie still, down below. Half a dozen are struggling away from us, limping or crawling or draped over their friends.

  ‘Fire,’ says Olivier, coldly. Twang go the bowstrings. Swish go the arrows.

  One of the walking wounded falls.

  ‘We need our own ballista,’ Lord Pagan croaks. ‘That’s the bishop, way over there, I’m sure it is. We could hit him, with a ballista.’

  What did you say? The bishop? Where?

  ‘Fulk, you mean?’ asks Olivier.

  ‘There. Look there,’ Lord Pagan’s pointing. At what? The tents? They’re all in shadow—the sun’s not high enough. Damn it to Hell, I can’t see! But what’s this, staggering out of the crowd near the trebuchet? A man. It’s a naked man, white with smudges of black and red. His hands are loose. He’s unsteady on his feet.

  Everyone falls silent. Everyone.

  Even the French.

  He’s stumbling towards La Becede. His face is a mass of blood, but now that he’s closer, it’s clear that his hair is black beneath all the red.

  ‘It’s Loup,’ Pagan whispers.

  No. Oh no, it can’t be. Not Loup. No! He swerves, and a lance pokes at his side, nudging him back onto his original course. Beside me, Pons stiffens.

  ‘They cut out his eyes,’ says Olivier flatly. He turns to the man next to him. ‘Bring rope,’ he orders. ‘Quick.’

  They cut out his eyes. He’s blinded.

  I can’t bear it.

  ‘’Ware that ballista!’ someone exclaims, pointing at the giant crossbow. ‘They’re turning the winch!’

  ‘Heads down,’ says Olivier. Yes. Heads down. My head is down, shielded by stone, because I can’t look. I can’t even see through all the tears.

  But nobody else pays attention to Olivier. They’re standing on tiptoes, shouting with all their might. ‘Loup! This way! Loup!’ They’re trying to guide him.

  Lord Pagan gasps, ‘They’ll never let him go! They’ll never wait for him to get to us!’

  ‘He won’t see the rope,’ Pons adds, his voice cracking. But here’s the rope (it looks like a full league of plaited tow) and a dozen hands reach for it. Though it seems enormous, Pons is right. No blind man could find a dangling rope—or climb it even if he did find it. Especially with that ditch in the way.

  WHUMP!

  ‘Ow!’ What was that? Something sharp hit my cheek. I’m bleeding!

  But not much. Just a little.

  ‘Heads down!’ Olivier roars, and everyone ducks. Of course. I understand. The ballista fired a bolt, and the bolt hit stone. I must have been scraped by a flying stone-chip.

  ‘Loup is bait,’ says Olivier, breathlessly. (To Lord Pagan?) ‘They’re trying to keep us up here.’ He’s hunkered down so low that I can see his face, and it’s not what I expected. It’s bright—flushed—with eyes keen and sparkling. ‘Bring rocks!’ he hisses. ‘Stay on your knees and roll them over here! Now! No—not you, Bernard. You and your brother wait for my signal.’

  Rocks. All right, I’ll bring rocks. Where are they? Oh. I see. Piled up by the door. Someone’s already reached them: the man with no ears. He’s dragging a broken building-block from the top of the pile. Shoving it ahead of him, towards the battlements.

  I can do that.

  ‘What the hell?’ says Pons. He’s staring straight at me with bloodshot eyes. (Now that everyone’s on my level, I was bound to get noticed.) ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I can bring rocks.’ Please—please let me help! ‘I’m strong enough!’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go!’

  WHUMP! Another bolt hits the wall, fired wide and striking stone harmlessly, a long way below us. It distracts Pons, though; he turns, and grabs one end of the rope as the other end is cast over the parapet. Four other men do the same, without much regard for the French ballista.

  Perhaps they know exactly how long it takes to winch back a bolt.

  ‘A rock to each crenel, quick!’ Olivier rasps, flapping his hand at us while he peers over the edge of the wall. What’s he doing? What’s his plan? He’ll get a bolt in the brain if he’s not careful, waving his head about like that. Lord Pagan, too. Lord Pagan’s silhouette must be clear against the sky.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Pagan squeaks. ‘Loup will never reach us! They’ll stop him before he gets to the walls!’

  ‘Let them come,’ Olivier replies.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Let them come closer.’

  ‘Loup!’ Pons bawls. ‘There’s a rope! To your right!’

  Oh God. I understand now. The French have sent Loup back to us so that we’ll stay up here, clear targets for their ballista. But Loup’s drawing close, now, and the French are getting uneasy. They’ll advance to retrieve him, and then—

  ‘Now!’ yells Olivier, heaving.

  THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! Half a dozen rocks hit the ground far below. There’s a terrible shriek. More rocks follow the first barrage. Olivier whirls to address Bernard and his brother. ‘Fire!’ he cries. ‘Quick, while you can!’ The two archers jump to their feet, taking aim. The terrible shrieking continues. WHUMP! Another bolt from the ballista—and someone falls! The steward falls, beside me! ‘Loup!’ Pons wails. ‘We hit Loup, oh God!’ There’s blood spilling onto the ramparts, but Pons doesn’t see. He grabs Olivier’s arm. ‘Loup’s dead!’ Pons cries. ‘We killed him!’

  And Olivier says, calmly, ‘It’s good that we did.’

  Oh Lord our Saviour, preserve us in your mercy. I can’t be here. I can’t do this.

  Isidore, help me. Where are you?

  I can’t stand it any more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  This man is doing better than I would have expected. It’s a good sign that he can actually suck egg from my spoon. Yesterday I thought that the final fever had hit him, but he’s much improved, today.

  Probably because his wounds weren’t tended by Gerard de la Motta.

  CRA-A-SH!

  Another rock hits the bailey, and another spoonful of egg hits the floor. I can’t help jumping, though I should be used to it by now; that trebuchet never seems to stop.

  I hope no one got hurt. We’re running out of room in this chapel.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Peitavin’s voice is shaking like a palsied crone. He’s not convincing anyone—least of all the breathless man whose brow he’s mopping. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all right.’

  All right? What a laugh. If this is all right, I’m the Sultan of Baghdad. Our water’s running low. Our food is running low. We hardly have any linen left for the bandages. (Which reminds me: I must take some linen now and hide it away, before the bloody flow strikes me at the end of this month.) Even our mangonel is a paltry thing, compared to the French trebuchet. Didn’t I hear Vasco say that we’re fighting at a disadvantage, because our machine is worked with twisted ropes instead of weights and pulleys?

  Finally, on top of everything else, we have Gerard de Motta treating our wounded. God, I hate him. God, but he’s a bladder-headed big-mouth. Listen to him, prating on about an amputation right in front of the poor soul who’s going to lose his leg.

  ‘Up high,’ Gerard’s saying. ‘Up high, well above the green part. Only we must be careful, or the marrow will run out of the bone, and he’ll die instantly . . .’

  Aaugh. I have to get out of here. I need some fresh air.

  ‘Babylonne!’ Trust Gerard. He just can’t leave me alone. ‘Babylonne, where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Babylonne!’

  ‘Please, Holy Father, I think my monthly flow has started.’

  Hah! That’s done it. Gerard positively blanches. Peitavin flinches. Here they are, surrounded by vile smells and oozing pus and burning, s
wollen skin, and the dreadful thought of female filth nearly unmans them.

  ‘Oh—uh—yes.’ Gerard flutters his hands at me. ‘Yes, go. Go!’

  If you say so, frog-face. Hell on earth, I feel dizzy. It’s so hot. This keep is like an oven. And the latrines—don’t even talk to me about them.

  You have to bat your way through the flies as you pass the latrines, which smell even worse than the chapel.

  CRA-A-ASH!

  Oh, stop! Just stop it, damn you! I don’t know if they’re misfiring or if they’re trying to frighten us, but I can feel every impact in my bowels. And this time they must have hit someone, because there’s shouting from the bailey. Shouting and groaning.

  I suppose that I’d better go out and help. It’s my job. My appointed task. The trouble is, I . . .

  God, I can’t do it. Not yet. Just give me a moment while I close my eyes and breathe out, and breathe in, and lean against the wall, and think about something else. About Isidore. About his house.

  Isidore would keep a clean house, I know he would. All the walls would be whitewashed. All the beds would have pots under them. He wouldn’t spit on his floor, either.

  And he would scatter lavender among the rushes, for a nice smell.

  ‘Babs.’

  I know that voice. Yes, it’s Maura. She must have come out of the latrines; she’s hauling herself along as if she has bricks on her back. Poor Maura. She’s already lost weight.

  The flux is a terrible thing.

  ‘How are you, Maura?’

  ‘Not good,’ she croaks. ‘It’s a bad dose, this one.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll lose half my guts if it goes on.’

  ‘Isn’t there medicine that you can take?’

  ‘Not any more. It’s all gone. The fennel. The dried blackberries.’ She winces. ‘Too many sloppy bowels, around here.’

  ‘Maybe you should stay away from those latrines.’ (I never use them.) ‘It can’t be good for you, dragging yourself upstairs all the time.’

  But she’s not listening. Her mind is on other things: namely, the fresh cramp that’s just hit her. Bent double, her face contorted, she spins around and stumbles back upstairs, towards the latrines.