‘Have you ever been to Vezelay, Father?’ Boniface the priest is asking, as he walks along beside Isidore’s grey palfrey.
‘No, I fear not.’
‘You’re aware that the monks there claim to have the relics of Mary Magdalene?’
‘Uh—’
‘They say that, after the Magdalene and Lazarus landed at Aix-en-Provence, a monk of Vezelay took their bones back to his country,’ Boniface drones. ‘And that he left the Magdalene’s bones at Vezelay, and the bones of Lazarus at Autun. But that is a terrible lie. For Lazarus—who was the first Bishop of Marseilles—was interred at St Victor de Marseilles, and lies there still.’
‘Really,’ says Isidore, and we exchange a quick glance. Why doesn’t he just kick his horse into a gallop? We can’t stay here—just look at these people! Petronilla is shuffling along behind me, murmuring to herself and kissing something that could be a finger bone (or possibly a very old toenail). Gervaise is twiddling his index finger in a lascivious way, to amuse the witless matrons; they shriek, and slap his arm, and giggle together. Gilbert the Fool is gawping at this horse as if it’s a miraculous vision. Bremond and his wife are clunking along with strange wooden soles strapped to their boots. The mad old man from the Rhinelands is haranguing a stump.
They’re all insane.
‘Furthermore, the monks at Vezelay still claim that they have the bones of St Martha,’ Boniface waffles, ‘when those remains actually lie at Tarascon, in Provence. It can be proved, too, for did not St Martha tame the river monster of the Rhone and lead it around on a leash?’
‘Did she?’ Isidore’s beginning to sound a little desperate. ‘I had no idea. But—’
‘Also, many years ago, a visit to St Martha’s tomb in Tarascon cured King Clovis of a kidney ailment . . .
‘Eh!’ Someone taps my leg. ‘Boy!’
Curse it. Drogo. The man with the yellow face. What does he want?
‘Are you his student or his servant?’ Drogo queries, squinting up at me. He’s like a horsefly, hovering around my palfrey’s hindquarters.
I don’t want to talk to you, pizzle-wit.
‘You look too poor to be a student,’ he says, in heavily accented langue d’oc. ‘But whoever heard of a servant riding a mount like this?’
Go away. I’m not interested.
‘Or maybe you’re his catamite,’ Drogo remarks slyly. ‘You know—his pretty boy.’
What?
My foot seems to lash out of its own accord. It catches him in the brow and my horse reacts sharply, swerving. (Help!) It nearly tramples the witless Gilbert, who runs like a startled deer.
‘Whoa!’ Isidore catches my reins. Everyone else scatters, some to a safer distance than others. Gilbert’s cowering behind a bush. The madman is running around in circles.
‘Calm down . . . tha-a-at’s it.’ I don’t know if Isidore is speaking to me or to the horse. ‘Shh, now. Shh.’
‘What happened?’ Bremond gasps, from behind his mule. ‘What’s wrong?’
Isidore’s breathing heavily. But he has things under control, and is able to answer the wine merchant with a fair degree of politeness.
‘I fear, Master Bremond, that this horse is not accustomed to travelling in crowds,’ he says. ‘Also, my servant isn’t much of a horseman. It might be hard to match your pace, I think—we should probably press on without you.’
Aha! Well put! But the spotty priest objects. ‘Can’t you just get down and walk?’ he whines, from halfway up a tree. To which Bremond responds, ‘Walk? When they have horses? No, no. How foolish would that be?’
‘But with horses, there’s more protection for all of us,’ Boniface protests. (The whimpering coward!)
‘On the contrary,’ says Isidore, in smooth tones. ‘I am concerned that our presence will make you more of a target. Horses are always a guarantee of wealth, are they not? Truly, you are better off without us.’
You can’t help admiring him. How quickly he thought up that argument! But he’s a doctor of canon law, so I suppose he’s been trained to think on his feet.
‘No doubt we’ll meet up again in Saverdun,’ he finishes, and lifts a hand to give everyone a quick blessing. Petronilla immediately falls to her knees.
Saverdun? Wait a moment. I thought we were going to that Cistercian monastery? Eaunes, or whatever it’s called? That’s what he told me this morning. That’s what the priests of St Sernin advised, isn’t it?
But I can’t ask him yet. I’ll have to wait until we put a bit of distance between ourselves and the pilgrims. Looking back, I can see them all staring after us. Even the old madman is staring after us.
He’s also shaking his fist, and yelling at the top of his voice.
At last a dip in the road snatches them from view.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Isidore, as I open my mouth. ‘We’re not going to Saverdun. We’re going to Eaunes.’
I wish he wouldn’t do that. I wish he wouldn’t look into my head and anticipate my questions.
‘So you’re laying a false trail, then?’
‘I have to.’ He sounds tired. ‘I don’t want them finding out who you really are. We can’t afford to mix with anyone.’
‘We can’t afford to mix with them.’ They’re all mad. ‘Did you see the wooden shoes? Did you see all the amulets? There must have been a round dozen. And she was kissing a finger bone, did you see?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Relics!’ What a farce they are. ‘As if kissing an old toenail is going to bring you closer to God! As if anything on earth is going to do that!’ You’d have to be stupid to believe such a thing. ‘I once heard someone say that, if all the pieces of the “true cross” were nailed together, you would see a whole forest instead of a single cross.’
The words are hardly out of my mouth before I regret them. I’m talking too much. Not only that, but I’m challenging Isidore. He’s a priest, after all; he trafficks in relics and amulets.
Still, he doesn’t look offended. Just fatigued.
‘You think me foolish, travelling to Compostela?’ he inquires delicately. ‘People go there to see the saint’s remains, you know.’
Oh dear. I should learn not to flap my jaw.
‘Not that everyone goes for the same reason,’ he continues. ‘Your father made the pilgrimage a few years ago. My mother was killed on the same route, making the same pilgrimage. But I doubt that two such different people had similar needs, or sorrows.’ With a sigh, he adds, ‘We are all on our own quests, Babylonne. And we all have our own relics.’ He shoots me a measured glance. ‘Have you discarded your mother’s hair, for instance?’
By the rock that felled Montfort! That was a jab I didn’t see coming. He’s quick, isn’t he? Much sharper than I first thought.
I’ll have to watch this one.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When the beautiful princess ran away from her wicked stepmother, she travelled many leagues until, footsore and weary, she knocked on the door of a friendly brotherhood. ‘Welcome,’ they said, beckoning her into a great hall full of tables and benches. ‘Welcome to our feast.’
Little did the princess know that she was to be the main dish!
Oh no. That’s stupid. Nobody’s going to eat me. There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is just a monastery. There are no monsters. There are no blood-sucking man-beasts lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
I just wish that Isidore hadn’t left me alone. I keep hearing strange noises. Rushing noises like water, and clanging noises like chains. And a scritch-scritch-scritch that might be a rat in the eaves, though this place seems too clean for rats. I can tell by their scent that the rushes were freshly laid this morning, on a newly swept floor. And the whole room has been aired; there isn’t so much as a whiff of smoke. And the table-top is still damp from washing.
There are lots of wine stains around, but you can’t blame the monks for that. (It’s almost impossible to get red wine out of wood, even with salt. I’ve tried.)
Though you do wonder who’s been throwing red wine at the roof. And who’s been pissing on that wall. All I can say is, there must have been some pretty high-spirited guests passing through this guest house. That’s probably why it’s so simply furnished. The last thing you’d want, if you were an Abbot, would be to have your tapestries trampled underfoot and your painted chests set on fire by a bunch of drunken pilgrims.
The door creaks, and it’s Isidore. Returning.
Thank the Lord.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘There you are.’
Of course I’m here. Where else would I be? You told me to stay in the guest house refectory.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he continues, shutting the door behind him. ‘The monks here sleep in dormitories. There are no cells. Just a couple of spare rooms in the Abbot’s quarters, and he doesn’t want to share them with you. With me, but not with you.’ Throwing out his long arms, he stretches them until they crack at the joints. ‘I didn’t like the idea of being separated,’ he sighs, ‘so I told him that we’d sleep in the guest house.’
I see.
Hmmm.
‘There are two dormitories, Babylonne. One for men, one for women.’ His arms flop back to his sides. ‘Since we’re alone, we can take one each. You can even push something up against your door, if you like.’
I may, at that. Or I may not. I’ve changed my mind about Isidore. I don’t think he’ll try anything unseemly—I really don’t.
Apart from anything else, he looks far too tired.
‘Did they bring the baggage? Good.’ He comes over and begins to forage in one of his saddlebags. I can see a comb made of horn (or ivory?) and a knife with a silver hilt. I can see fur-trimmed gloves and my father’s books.
My father’s books. That reminds me.
‘Uh—can I ask you something?’ I’ve been thinking about this, and I have to know. Even if it means resorting to flattery. ‘Father?’
There. I said it. I never thought I could, but I did.
Isidore looks up, almost warily. He’s suddenly still. Waiting.
‘Yes?’ he replies.
‘Well . . .’ Taking a deep breath. ‘You said that Lord Roland was a monk.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And that he died in Carcassonne, during the siege.’
‘Yes.’
‘So how did he die? Did the French kill him? Were they killing monks? Or was it just the flux—something like that?’
Isidore glances away. His hands start to move again. He draws a tumbled garment from his saddlebag. Folds it neatly. Places it on the table.
‘Lord Roland died fighting on the walls of Carcassonne,’ he finally says.
‘A monk?’ That’s new. ‘Died fighting? But I thought you said he threw away his sword?’
‘He did.’ Isidore folds a heavy cloak, speaking flatly, as if he’s discussing the route to Pamiers. ‘He only took it up again in my defence. We were on the walls because I needed air. If he hadn’t taken me up there, he wouldn’t have died.’
Oh.
Isidore empties his saddlebag with precise, careful movements, item by item. Everything that he picks up looks somehow more precious—more delicate—in his long white hands. Even the old heel of bread. Even the dirty socks.
‘Well . . . it wasn’t your fault.’ I have to break the silence somehow, and these are the first words that enter my head. ‘The French were to blame, not you. You didn’t kill anyone.’
For a moment he pauses in the act of arranging his quill pens. When he turns to study me, his face has softened.
I think he’s about to say something. But . . .
Bang!
A door slams somewhere in the distance. There’s a murmur of muffled voices. And a familiar clonk-clonk-clonk.
Oh no. Those can’t be—surely they’re not—wooden soles?
The horror that I feel is mirrored in Isidore’s eyes, as we stare at each other.
‘. . . Moissac? Oh yes, I know it well.’ That’s Bremond’s voice. Rapidly approaching. ‘We come from Agen . . .’
I don’t believe it!
‘Quick!’ Isidore thrusts a wad of clothes into my arms. ‘Get beds!’ he hisses. ‘Good ones! Quick!’
Beds! Right! We have to grab the best beds. And they’ll have to be in the men’s dormitory—oh dear, this is bad—which one is the men’s? I don’t suppose it matters.
Stumbling through the first door I reach, I can hear pilgrims spilling into the room that I just vacated. (Noisy, aren’t they?) In front of me stretch two rows of beds, six to a row; would we be better off near the window or the door, I wonder? Probably the door. In case we have to make a rapid escape.
There. We’ll take this bed and this bed. I’ll have the one closest to the wall.
‘Why, Father!’ That’s Bremond, speaking in the next room. ‘So you didn’t make it to Saverdun after all?’
‘No, I . . .’ (Isidore mumbles something. He sounds almost sheepish.)
‘What a happy chance! Now I can find out your name, because you never introduced yourself . . .’
What shall I do? Stay here? Go back?
If I stay here, I can protect our beds. Oops! And here’s the first wave, swarming over the threshold: Gervaise, with his two lady friends.
They halt and blink at me.
‘Uh . . . hic ...viri?’ Gervaise asks. But I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.
He turns to the widows, and says something in English. This time I’ve got a pretty good sense of what it means.
Sure enough, the widows squeal and slap his arms. Oh yes. I’d lay a wager on it. Without question, he just said, ‘You girls can sleep in my bed.’
‘Oh.’ And here’s Boniface the priest, with Drogo at his heels. Drogo is almost lost to view behind the baggage he’s carrying. ‘Oh,’ says Boniface, ‘is this the arrangement? I don’t know if I care for this.’
‘Men in one, women in the other!’ Bremond calls, from the refectory. The babble of English that follows must be a translation, because Gervaise immediately sags, and addresses the two widows mournfully, rolling his eyes in the most exaggerated display of heartbreak I’ve ever seen.
Agnes and Constance burst into a fresh torrent of giggles. As they withdraw from the room, arm in arm, they throw back a comment—in English—which seems to come as a slightly unpleasant surprise to Gervaise.
He winces, and says something in Latin to Boniface (who’s surveying the beds, trying to decide which one he wants).
‘Oh.’ Boniface scowls. ‘Well, that’s all we need.’
‘What’s all we need?’ asks Bremond, waddling in on his wooden soles. Clonk-clonk-clonk.
‘Their servant snores,’ Boniface replies.
‘Ah well.’ Bremond shrugs. ‘Poor Gilbert. I’d be surprised if he didn’t, with his nose in the state it is.’ The wine merchant collapses onto one of the beds with a groan. ‘He’s hoping to be cured, you know, when he reaches Compostela. Agnes has promised him the face of an angel if he makes this pilgrimage.’
Oh no. How cruel.
‘Well, be that as it may,’ says Boniface, who obviously wouldn’t care if Gilbert’s face was growing out of his backside, ‘I vote that we put all servants in the refectory for the night. I can’t be expected to sleep in the same room as my own servant.’
Whump! Drogo dumps the priest’s baggage onto a bed, by way of comment. And suddenly Isidore speaks.
He’s right behind me. He must have slipped in like a fox, the way he does.
I didn’t even notice.
‘My servant is sleeping with us,’ he declares calmly. ‘In here.’
And that’s that. Not even Boniface has the courage to argue, though he’d like to, I’m sure. Bremond has unstrapped his wooden soles and kicked off his boots; he’s now rubbing his feet, his face screwed up in ecstasy. ‘Ahh,’ he says. ‘You know, these sandals are my son-in-law’s idea, and they wear very well, but they’re mortally hard on the feet.’
&nbs
p; ‘Where is the old man?’ Isidore inquires, and my heart turns over. Of course! The old madman!
We don’t have to sleep in the same room as him, do we?
‘Ah. Yes. Our aged friend,’ says Bremond. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’
Gone? How?
‘He wandered off. I don’t know why.’ Bremond’s still rubbing his feet, which smell like something scraped out of an eel’s belly. ‘We just looked around and he’d disappeared. Isn’t that right, Father?’
He’s addressing Boniface, who’s busy unpacking, and answers with a shrug. Gervaise has wandered out of the room, probably in search of the widows. Gilbert passes Gervaise on the threshold; he looks around in awe, as if he’s never seen a roof from the inside before.
Drogo’s got his head down. Hmmm. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Drogo had strangled the old madman behind a tree.
There’s something about that fellow.
‘Bremond!’ It’s Galerna’s voice, from the next room. ‘Everyone! The food’s here!’
Food? What food? Have the monks brought food?
Drogo sprints past and out the door, in the blink of an eye. (It’s like a flash of lightning.) Boniface bustles after him, walking very quickly but not breaking into a run. (You’re probably trained to do that, when you live in a cathedral cloister.) Bremond hobbles off with his boots in his hand, lured back into the refectory by a warm, spicy smell that makes my stomach rumble.
Isidore waits. He waits until the very last man has left the room before sitting down beside me on my bed.
‘Will you be all right?’ he whispers. ‘Is this all right for you?’
‘I—I think so.’ After all, no one knows that I’m a girl, so why should I be bothered during the night? And I don’t have to use a piss-pot, around here. There are latrines. We passed them on the way in. ‘I just won’t talk. Or take too many clothes off.’
‘I’m sorry, Babylonne.’
‘Benoit. Remember? Benoit.’
He nods. Rises. Leads me into the refectory, where two monks are serving out food. One of them is an even sadder sight than Gilbert; he looks as if his face has been turned inside out and left to dry in the sun for a year before being worn as a shoe. I suppose that’s what Agnes is giggling at, over there. Unless Gervaise just pinched her.