Tching!
‘Fire!’ shouts Pons. A couple of archers release their bowstrings, aiming high. They’re shooting at the other archers. And look! The old man has found a plank of wood. He’s dragging it towards this parapet.
Down there, straight underneath us, I can see the French: a raging crowd of them, attacking the door of the keep. They break up suddenly, as a bag of crossbow bolts hits its target.
‘Ya-a-ah!’ screams Dim, in excitement. ‘Got ’em!’
The old man throws his plank, which spins as it falls. A Frenchman dodges it.
Quick! What else can we drop? We need fire. We need oil. We need boiling water. There aren’t even any rocks up here!
‘Bring sacks!’ Pons cries. ‘Crocks! Stools! Anything!’ And he’s talking to me.
Yes. Ammunition. That’s my job. Pons has turned back to his archers, now; he’s dividing them into two groups. Some are aiming high, some low. Dim has found an iron pot. His arms are so feeble that he can barely lift it.
He needs help.
‘Here! Dim!’ He looks up and grins. The dagger is stuffed into his belt, because he needs both hands.
So do I. This pot is heavy.
‘Up on the merlon!’ Dim gasps. ‘We can push it from there!’
Tching! (Damn those arrows!) I can’t help staggering beneath the weight of this thing. But it’s up there at last; all we have to do is push it.
‘On the count of three.’ My voice sounds odd. ‘One, two, three . . . go!’
Suddenly the pot has vanished. There’s a crunch, and a scream, and—
‘Aah—aah .. .’ Dim groans. His face is pouring blood. He’s been hit by a glancing arrow.
‘Babylonne!’ It’s Pons. Beside me. Using my name. ‘We need more! Now! Anything you can, quick!’
‘But—’
‘Go!’
Yes. Go. I’ll go. But where? There’ll be nothing heavy enough in the chapel. The Great Chamber’s full of bolsters and blankets (too soft) and linen chests (too heavy)—
‘Babylonne.’ This time it’s Dim. He’s down at my feet. There’s blood in his mouth.
His dagger is shaking in his hand.
‘Take it,’ he wheezes.
‘What?’
‘In case . . . they come . . .’
In case they come? God help us if they do. But I’ll take it. Of course I will.
The buttery has knives too. And stone mortars. And firewood. Maybe I’ll try down there.
‘I’m sorry, Dim.’
I hate to leave him, but what else can I do? Pons needs me. He needs my help. Whoops! Nearly slipped in that vomit. (Who’s been puking on the staircase?) Those miserable, louse-ridden Perfects are busy praying aloud in the chapel, and I want to throw them off the roof, though they wouldn’t make much of an impact. Too skinny. Unless you tied them together in a bunch.
CRA-A-ASH!
The trebuchet. Please God that it didn’t hit anyone up on the roof—Pons especially. We need Pons. Pons needs me. Hell in a harness, what shall I bring him? I have to find something. I have to!
Buttery . . . buttery. Where is it? Over here. This way. Just off the Great Hall, round the back, down a few steps . . . and a little further down. But what’s that? Is that . . . is that . . .
Don’t tell me that’s steel on steel?
A clashing sound. Unmistakeable. There’s nothing new about the shouts or the groans or the thumps, but the ringing of metal from the Great Hall—it means blade against blade. It means hand-to-hand fighting.
It means that they’ve broken through.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Oh God. Oh God, they must have broken through while I was passing the chapel. Now they’re in the Great Hall, between me and Pons, and they’re heading upstairs, to stop him. And what can I do?
Nothing. I can’t help, now. I have to keep going. Quick, Babylonne, down to the cellar, hurry! You can do it. You can make it. Watch your step—don’t trip up—fast but not too fast.
They’re coming. They’re inside the keep. But here I am, I’ve reached the cellar, there’s no one around and . . . Where shall I hide? I’ll have to pick a good place, or there’s no point hiding. They’ll find me behind that coil of rope. They’ll find me behind the barrels. There’s not enough firewood left to conceal me. Those pots are useless.
BANG-CRASH!
Quick! Don’t just stand there gawping, move! Make a decision!
The sacks won’t work. They’re too small to hide in, and I couldn’t tie them shut from the inside anyway. But those barrels . . .
What about those barrels?
They’re big enough to climb inside. And they’re empty, too. If I could wrench off one of their lids, I could pull it back afterwards. I could stick this knife into the wood, and pull the lid down on top of me.
This one, for example. Just stick the blade down that crack, and use it as a lever. (Come on, damn you, I can hear them coming!) And see how many barrels there are! Twoscore at least! How long will it take until they’ve tapped every one: a day or two? By which time I’ll have slipped away, please God, because the bloodlust will have eased, and the French will be sleeping off their crazed slaughter, and I’ll have a better chance of surviving—or at least of killing Bishop Fulk.
If I have to die, I’d like to take him with me. In revenge for my mother. I’d have a better chance, in this barrel; if they come to tap it before I escape, I’ll burst out and stab one in the throat with my dagger. Take them all by surprise, before they throw me down the well. And then I’ll dodge them, and find Fulk, and . . .
Hell’s dung, my hands are shaking. I can hardly hold this damn knife, and now there’s more shouting from upstairs.
Hooray!
That’s done it. The lid’s off, and the smell of wine is overpowering. It’s damp in here, too. Just a trace of dampness. No worse than Navarre’s chest, not really. Where’s my knife? Here. Stabbing and stabbing until the tip of the blade is stuck in the lid like an axe in a log, and I can pull the lid down on top of me. There’s a thunder of feet on the stairs close by; is it Pons coming down, or the French going up? Both, perhaps. But I’m in my barrel. The lid slides into place as if it’s been greased with honey. No trouble at all.
I even have a bung-hole to breathe through. Not big enough for anyone to peer into (not in this light) but big enough to keep me from passing out. It’s the ideal hiding place. I’ll be safe now, I know I will. No one will look in here. No one will think that it’s big enough to bother with.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven ...
I’d better pull this dagger out of the lid, in case I need it. I have to be ready. They won’t find me—of course they won’t—but just in case they do, I’ll be armed. If I yank and jerk and twist and . . . there! The knife’s free now. I’m all prepared. If only this smell didn’t make me want to cough. If I cough, I’m dead. I have to swallow and swallow again. I have to think of something else.
Father Isidore, for example.
I never said goodbye. I never even said thank you. He was my good angel, and I served him with scorn. I wish that I could tell him how sorry I am. I wish he was here. And I wish I knew what was happening—it’s hard to follow the fighting, from this barrel. The noises aren’t clear. I don’t even know if someone’s in the cellar or not.
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Except that I don’t. I don’t forgive those who trespass against me; is that why I’m in this position? And now there are definitely sharp sounds nearby. They’re even penetrating this barrel. God have mercy on a poor sinner, I’m so scared. I’m such a coward. But I can’t cry or someone might hear me. I can’t cough. I can’t move. I must ignore my bladder, and the pains in my knees, and the suffocating smell.
What’s happened to Pons? To Dim? To Lord Pagan? What’s happened to Isidore? If I die today, wh
at will happen to me? Have I lived a good life? Will I go to Heaven? Somehow I don’t think so. There’s a weight like a stone in my gut, and I fear the worst. I don’t even know what to believe any more.
But I’ll be safe here. As long as I don’t make a noise, no one will find me. I’ll just wait until . . .
Until what?
How will I know when to get out? How will I know whether it’s day or night, down here in the cellar? How will I know how much time has passed, if I can’t see the sun or hear a church bell?
Suppose the French billet their servants in this gloomy den, and I find myself surrounded by quarrelsome stable hands?
Perhaps if I put my ear to the bung-hole instead of my mouth, I might have a better idea of what’s going on. There. That’s better. Not much better, but at least I can tell that someone’s calling to someone else. I can’t make out the words, though. I don’t even know what language they belong to.
That’s why I have to stay very still, like a little mouse. Because I’m pretty sure that whoever called out is in this cellar. Searching it, perhaps? Or looking for a bolt-hole? I don’t know. Surely, if it’s a search, it would only be a cursory one? For fleeing soldiers? The French won’t be tapping barrels, yet—not while they’re still fighting. Will they?
Oh God, oh God, please don’t let them find me. If they throw me down the well, or . . . no, I won’t think about that. Not here. Not now. After all, I might be lucky. Remember what Maura said? She said that the garrison always suffers, but that people like her—like me—aren’t worth bothering about. So the French might not bother about me. They might let me go (after emptying my purse and stealing my boots, naturally). And if they do that, then I won’t go back to Toulouse. No, nor to the King of Aragon either. I’ll go to Compostela, and find Father Isidore. That will be my pilgrimage. I’ll walk all the way there, barefoot if I have to. And if I don’t find Isidore at the end of my journey, I’ll turn around and walk to Bologna.
Though perhaps I’ll stop at Boulbonne first of all. Just to find out whether he arrived there.
If he didn’t make it, I might as well . . . what? I don’t know. I can’t see beyond that. It would be like a door slamming shut, and no other way out. Because if I have to crawl back to Gran, I might as well lie down and die. Right here, today, in this stinking barrel.
What else is there for me? For a girl like me? If I was a boy it might be different, but if I was a boy the French probably wouldn’t let me go. There’s nothing dangerous about a girl. Nothing useful. I’m like a piece of rubbish that they’d throw off the walls, into a ditch. It’s always been like that, hasn’t it? Except with Father Isidore.
Wait a moment. What’s that smell?
It’s smoke. That’s smoke. Someone must be carrying a torch, out there—a blazing torch. And you wouldn’t be carrying a torch if you were looking for somewhere to hide.
So the French must be searching this cellar. Very quietly, too, because I can’t hear a thing. No voices. No footsteps. My cheek is itchy, but I’d better not move to scratch it. And what’s that noise? Is somebody stamping on dry twigs?
Oh no. There’s a cough rising in my throat, and I must swallow it down. The smoke is making me cough. And the smell is getting worse, I know it is; the smoke is getting thicker. That’s no torch burning. That’s a fire, crackling and spitting and pouring smoke.
The French have lit a fire. They must have set fire to the sacks, or the wood, or the barrels.
What am I going to do?
I can’t stay here. But if I leave, they’ll be waiting. Why light a fire, unless you’re trying to smoke people out?
Somebody coughs.
Clearly, I’m not alone in this cellar. Either the French are posted, waiting, just a few steps away, or I’m not the only one hiding among the stores. Or am I right on both counts? Because there’s more coughing, and a bang, and shouts that tell me everything I need to know.
The French have been waiting at the nearest exit. They’ve smoked out one of my compatriots, and now they’re busy with him.
Go, Babylonne! Take the back stairs!
The lid of my barrel makes a terrible noise, hitting the floor with a crash. Someone shouts—in French—but it’s too late. I’m on my way. Move, Babylonne! Move, move, move! The smoke is so thick, it wrings a cough from my lungs; the fire is straight in front of me. There’s still room to go around, though. The tow is burning, and some of the barrels as well. I would have been roasted alive.
‘Arretez!’ (They’re French, all right.) ‘Stop!’
I hope they haven’t found the back stairs. Please God, please God, please—ouch! My toe! It’s so hard to see, with all the smoke and the shadows, except that there’s filtered light from the back stairs, and they’re clear! It’s a clear run!
‘Arretez!’
No door to slam behind me, not at the foot of the stairs. I can hardly breathe—the Frenchman’s closing— there’ll be French in the buttery—where shall I go?
‘Ooof!’
It’s a soft collision, but not soft enough. Suddenly I’m sitting down. Help! Don’t touch me! ‘Get out of my way!’ (Whoever you are.) ‘I have a knife, I . . .’
Isidore?
I know his boots. I’d know them anywhere. They’re right in front of my nose.
‘Babylonne?’
It’s him. That’s his mantle, and his girdle, and that’s his face, way up there, hanging over me. All smudged with dirt.
It can’t be. I’m seeing things. Am I dead? Am I dying?
‘Babylonne.’
He swoops down like an enormous crow—swoops down from the step above mine and enfolds me in layers of soot-black wool and velvet. Yes, I must be dead. He must be dead. The Frenchman must have killed me, and Isidore’s come to take me up to Heaven.
Except that he seems very solid, for an angel of death. What’s more, I can feel his heart beating. Thump, thump, thump, under my ear.
And when he pulls me up, his knees crack.
‘Arretez!’ The Frenchman? No—Isidore. He’s speaking. He’s speaking in French, to the Frenchman. The Frenchman protests sharply (I can understand the tone, though I can’t understand the language very well), and Isidore responds with a volley of angry words that resonate through his rib-cage.
He’s not dead. I’m not dead either. I’m still in La Becede, alive, in the middle of a siege, and Isidore is here too. He came for me.
He came.
‘Are you hurt?’ he says. His breath ruffles my hair. ‘Babylonne? Did they hurt you?’
‘You came.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry it took so long.’
‘You came.’ I’m not going to let him go. Not ever. He is my good angel. ‘You came, you came . . .’
‘Shh. It’s all right.’ His arms tighten around me. ‘I won’t let them hurt you, Babylonne.’ And he says something else, in Latin—something that sounds like a prayer—as he rests his chin or his cheek against the top of my head.
I could stay like this forever. I’ve never felt so safe. But he shifts slightly, moving one arm.
‘Give me that dagger,’ he says. ‘You don’t need it any more.’
‘Father.’
‘Yes. I’m listening.’
‘Take me away. Take me away from here.’
‘That’s my intention, Babylonne. That was always my intention.’ He lays a hand on my head. ‘You’ll have to move, though. Can you move, now? Come. We’ll take it step by step.’
Step by step. Yes, we can’t stay here. I don’t want to let him go, but I have to. I must force myself.
His face is thinner than ever, and his eyes are rimmed with red. His skin has a sick, greyish tint to it, except where his cheeks are flushed.
‘Are you ill, Father?’
‘Ill? No, I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping.’
‘How did you get here?’ (How did you know?) ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘I’ll tell you as we go. We can’t linger, Babylonne.’
There’s fighting everywhere. Dust and smoke everywhere. We have to leave while we still can. But where are we? Ah—yes. I see. The Great Hall is just around that corner.
‘We should go this way, Father. If the door isn’t blocked.’ Which it might be. ‘It’ll be dangerous, though.’
‘If I managed to get in,’ Isidore replies, ‘then I’m sure we can both get out.’
‘The French—’
‘They know who I am, Babylonne. They’ll not lay a hand on me.’
‘The French aren’t the only ones with swords, Father.’
‘Maybe not. I’m afraid, however, that they are the only ones in the Great Hall. At least, they were when I passed through it.’
He’s right. The Great Hall is taken. There’s no fighting in it any more—just people rifling corpses, and dragging them across the floor to a pile in one corner. (I won’t look.) Armed men have been posted at every exit.
The rushes are soaked with blood. Isidore leads me across them, one arm draped around my shoulder. People stare, but do nothing. Say nothing. Perhaps they’re too weary.
None of the corpses is Lord Pagan’s, thank God. But where is he, in that case?
‘What happened to Lord Pagan?’
‘I don’t know,’ Isidore replies.
‘And Lord Olivier?’
‘I don’t know.’ Passing into the hard, bright sunshine, Isidore screws up his eyes. ‘Take care. The stairs are gone.’
They certainly are. We’re going to have to climb down into the bailey using the ladders that have been placed here. Isidore goes first. I’d better concentrate hard on not falling, because there’s a tremor in my hands and my knees.
Steady . . . steady . . .
There.
‘God is good, Babylonne,’ Isidore says, drawing me to him. ‘Every night I prayed that I would find you safe, and I did. By His mercy.’
‘But how did you find me? I don’t understand.’
‘It was difficult,’ Isidore admits. He seems to be scanning the bailey for something as we walk—for something in particular. I don’t want to follow his example, because the bailey is a scene of utter devastation. I’d rather concentrate on Father Isidore, instead. ‘The knights who took you mentioned Humbert de Beaujeu,’ he continues. ‘They talked of reaching a destination before he did. So I decided to find Lord Humbert—after I’d purchased a horse from the abbey of Boulbonne. It occurred to me that Lord Humbert might lead me to Olivier de Termes, and thence to you. Even so, I couldn’t be sure. It was a terrible uncertainty.’
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