I notice that Gervaise has wedged himself neatly between the two of them—between Agnes and Constance. No surprises there. Beside Constance, on the right-hand bench, sits Galerna, then Bremond. Boniface has chosen a place on the opposite side of the table; he waves at Isidore, and I know what that means.
‘Come!’ says the spotty priest. ‘Please do us the honour, Father Isidore. I’ve saved a seat for you.’
Though not for me, apparently. I’m supposed to eat down at the other end of the table, with Drogo and Gilbert. Isidore hesitates, but there’s not much he can do. If he insists that I sit beside him, it will look as if I am his pretty boy.
I suppose I’m lucky that I don’t have to eat off the floor.
Speaking of meals off the floor, what’s Petronilla doing? She’s on her knees in front of the gargoyle-faced monk, her hands clasped together in prayer. When he tries to step around her, she crawls after him.
She must be expressing her gratitude. That’s the only explanation.
‘Silly old bitch,’ Drogo mutters, as I slide onto the bench next to him—keeping a good three handspans of naked wood between us. ‘She’ll trip him up in a moment, and then what will happen? We’ll lose our soup.’
No comment from me. No comment from Gilbert, who probably can’t understand. (Who probably can’t talk, in fact.) The ugly monk is handing out trenchers of bread, murmuring some kind of prayer as he does so. It looks as if—yes, it will be one trencher each. That’s good. But only four large bowls of stew, so I’ll be sharing one with Gilbert and Drogo. That’s not good.
‘. . . my next pilgrimage will be to Canterbury,’ Boniface is saying, as he picks at his bread. He’s talking to Isidore, naturally, but Isidore isn’t listening. Not really. He nods and grunts, but all his attention is on me. I can feel it. He keeps glancing my way. He keeps frowning, even when Boniface is laughing. ‘. . . Oh yes, Father, the state of the beds in that abbey . . .’ the pimply priest bores on.
Hello.
Did I just see what I thought I saw?
Drogo made the sign. Over his food. Here was I, telling myself not to make the sign, and he did it himself, without thinking.
Well, well, well. So Drogo’s a Good Christian, is he? Or is he?
I might be mistaken. It was very quick. Perhaps where he comes from—Lombardy, is it?—that’s not a believer’s sign at all.
‘So. Benoit,’ he remarks, as he scoops up stew with a piece of bread. (Mmmm. Bacon and beans.) ‘You look like a Moor. Are you a Moor?’
I have to shake my head. It will seem odd if I don’t.
‘No? You’re as black as mud, though; you must be something.’ He stuffs the bread in his mouth, but it doesn’t shut him up. ‘Jew?’ he mumbles, chewing. ‘Are you circumcised?’
I won’t dignify that question with an answer. It’s not right to talk so rough, not at the table. Gilbert’s making noises like fifteen pigs at a trough. It’s not his fault, I suppose—with a face like his, it must be hard to eat—but that doesn’t make him any nicer to listen to. Boniface is still droning away. ‘. . . better food in Nimes . . . plenary indulgence . . . blah, blah, blah . . .’ Bremond is banging the table with his goblet.
‘A prayer before we eat, Father, I beg you,’ he says to Isidore. ‘A prayer of thanks for our safe arrival.’
Hah! Look at Drogo. With a shifty, sideways glance, he stops chewing and swallows. Isidore gets up. He gives us a prayer in Latin, his voice as gentle as a drift of silk. It certainly seems to calm the widows, who fold their hands and bow their heads in pious unison.
Gervaise is scratching his backside. The two monks wait, shuffling their feet; having served up the food, they’re now holding jugs of wine.
‘. . . cum Sancto Spiritu in gloria Dei Patris, Amen,’ Isidore finishes. Everyone murmurs ‘Amen’ except Gilbert, who honks it like a goose. Isidore settles back onto his seat, with a quick glance in my direction. (It’s all right, Isidore, I’m coping.) Petronilla approaches Isidore on her knees, babbling something in English.
‘I think she wants your blessing, Father,’ Bremond advises, from across the table. ‘She’ll only eat if she has your blessing.’
Isidore sighs, and traces a cross over her head.
The monks start pouring wine.
Drogo pokes me in the ribs with his good hand.
‘Where do you come from?’ he mutters. ‘Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. Are you something he picked up in the Holy Land? One of those Infidel bastards?’
Closer than you think, piss-face, but you still don’t deserve an answer. Besides, I’m busy. Busy eating.
Ouch!
His hand is like a smith’s clamp. Right on my upper thigh. Digging in.
‘I like a boy who can keep his mouth shut,’ he leers.
Get off! The table shudders as I jump up, knocking against it; wine flows from a fallen cup. Everyone gapes at me.
‘Benoit?’ Isidore rises too. ‘What’s wrong?’
Speechless.
What can I say? I can’t speak. I mustn’t.
‘Are you ill?’ says Isidore.
Yes. Yes, I’m ill. That’s it. Drogo has turned my stomach.
A nod will do the trick.
‘Leave him,’ says Boniface, catching at Isidore’s sleeve. ‘He’ll be fine.’
Oh no, I won’t. Where shall I go? Back to bed? Yes. Back to bed.
I don’t want anyone to see me like this, shaking and sweating. I don’t know what to do. Is that greasy, smirking Lombard trying to tell me something? Does he know that I’m a girl? Or does he like young boys? Maybe he’s trying to scare me by making me think that he likes young boys.
Here I am, back in the dormitory. Safe. There’s a candle burning—who lit that? One of the monks? Shut the door . . .
My knees are giving way, but that’s all right. The bed’s here. Sit down, Babylonne. Sit down and think.
‘Benoit?’ The door creaks. It’s Isidore. He slips inside, pushing the door shut behind him. Ignoring my frantic gestures.
‘No! No!’ As softly as I can. ‘Go back! They’ll wonder!’
‘What is it?’ He’s barely audible. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you ill? Or is it something else?’ He narrows his eyes, crouching beside me. ‘Is it Drogo?’
By the balls of the Beast, he’s quick. How did he work that out?
‘What did he do?’ Isidore breathes. ‘Why did you kick him, back there on the road? What’s he been saying?’
Knock-knock-knock.
‘Hello?’ It’s Bremond. ‘May I come in?’ Without waiting for an answer, he thrusts his head into the room. Isidore immediately springs to his feet, stepping in front of me. Shielding me.
‘If it’s the flux,’ says Bremond, ‘my wife has a good draught that the boy can take. It’s very effective.’
‘No, thank you.’ Isidore speaks firmly. ‘He’ll be fine.’
‘Or the monks might help. They have an infirmary here.’
‘Benoit’s fine. He’s very tired. All he needs is rest. But thank you.’ Isidore turns back to me. ‘You go to bed, Benoit. Sleep is the cure. I’ll be in soon.’ As Bremond’s head disappears, Isidore leans forward, and lowers his voice. ‘I’m here. Understand? I’m here.’ (It’s amazing how much strength he can force into a whisper.) ‘I won’t let him near you.’
And all at once the room is empty. All at once I’m alone with the candle. Maybe I should get undressed before anyone else comes in.
Or maybe I shouldn’t get undressed at all.
‘CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Wake up.’
Wha—? Who—?
‘Shh!’
Isidore. Yes. That’s Isidore, and I’m—where am I?
His hand’s on my mouth. Gagging me. The light’s very dim, but I can just make out his dark shape against the paler shadows beyond.
What’s that awful noise?
‘Shh.’ His hand falls away from my face as he puts his mouth to my ear. ‘We’re going. Now.’
Now? It’s a bit early, isn’t it?
‘Before the others wake up,’ he adds, under his breath, and of course he’s right. God forbid that we should have to endure another day full of pilgrims.
Pilgrims like Gilbert, for instance. That noise must be him. Snoring.
He sounds like an ox drowning in a cesspit.
Isidore straightens, and his knees crack. (It’s a nasty moment, but no one stirs.) He hands me something— oh! What are these? My boots? I can hardly see in this light.
‘Bring them,’ he whispers.
It’s good that I didn’t really get undressed, last night. Just kicked off my boots and dived under the blankets. Now that I think about it, I didn’t even hear the others come in. I must have been dead to the world. What time is it, I wonder?
Ouch! Ah! My legs! My backside!
‘Shh.’ He’s hushing me again. Oh dear. Did I whimper? But I couldn’t help it—I’m still as stiff as a lance. Sore, too. Whoops! The door creaks. There’s a sleepy sigh; once again, however, no one moves. Perhaps no one heard us through Gilbert’s snoring.
In my hose, it’s easy to move like a fox, padding on silent feet. Yuk! These rushes! They’re all wet! (I hope no one’s been vomiting.)
‘The bags!’ I hiss, but Isidore doesn’t answer. Instead he stops at the table, and picks up two irregular black shapes.
The saddlebags, obviously.
He must have been up for a while, packing and dressing—unless he did it all last night. I certainly wouldn’t have noticed. I wouldn’t have noticed the Last Trump.
He leads the way through the second door, into a cramped little cloister that’s illumined by the first faint glow of daybreak. I can hear a restless bird twittering somewhere nearby. But no monks. Where are they?
‘Are the monks up?’
‘I should think so,’ he replies. ‘Didn’t you hear the bell for lauds?’
‘No.’ I was fast asleep. ‘Where are we going? To the stables?’
‘First I have to make my farewells to the Abbot.’ Isidore peers around, as if in search of something. ‘Do you remember where the stables are?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’ll meet you there, then. See if you can rouse one of the stable hands. There’s bound to be a few of them sleeping in the byres.’
‘Wait.’ I have to grab him. I don’t want to but I have to, because he’s already moving away. ‘I need to go somewhere first.’ You know what I mean. ‘For a quick visit.’
‘The latrines?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go, then. Don’t dawdle.’
And off he strides, his black skirts swinging. Don’t dawdle. Right. I’ll just pull on my boots (ouch!) and— let’s see, now. Where are the latrines? Ah, yes. Over there. Pray God that nobody’s in them.
Normally you can follow your nose to a latrine, but not in this monastery. There was a latrine at Laurac, and people used to pass out in mid-flow, despite all the lavender and rosemary that was tossed around the floor. In these monastery latrines, however, you can breathe quite easily—perhaps there’s water underneath the holes.
Yes, there it is. I can hear it rippling along down there, although the light’s too poor to see anything much. I’ve been told about this kind of latrine. Fresh water in ditches, carrying the refuse away. Who would have thought that I’d actually use one?
My trickle sounds awfully loud, hitting the water. Echoing off the stone. And now what am I supposed to do? Anything? Am I allowed to use this straw? Can I throw it into the water, or am I supposed to put it somewhere else?
Maybe I won’t use the straw. I don’t really need to. I’ll just pull up my drawers, tie up my hose—there!—and be on my way.
‘Well, well, well.’
Oh God.
It’s Drogo.
‘I thought as much,’ he sneers, standing in the door-way with the dormitory candle. ‘Last night I said to myself: There’s precious little between those legs. I asked myself: Is he a girl or a eunuch? And here’s my answer.’
Stupid latrines! The running water—it must have masked his footsteps.
How long has he been watching me?
‘Nothing to say for yourself?’ He moves forward, closing the gap between us. ‘That’s all right. Women should be seen but not heard. If you can keep a secret, so can I.’
My pepper. My scissors.
They’re here in my purse.
‘No point making a fuss, or someone might come,’ he drawls. ‘And you don’t want that to happen, do you? Oops! No, you don’t.’ He grabs me with one hand as I try to push past. ‘You’re staying right here until aaaagh!’
Pepper, straight in the eyes. The candle falls. He’s coughing and cursing, but he’s already behind me. Run. Run!
Out the door. Round the corner. Turn right and right again. Where next? Quick! Where am I?
Wait. I know where I am. That’s the forecourt up ahead, and the stables are on the right. It’s much lighter now, and—yes! The forecourt. With the stables over there, not far, just a short expanse of beaten earth and pray God that someone’s inside . . .
‘Hello?’ When I burst in, I’m greeted by the whinnying of startled horses. It’s dark in here, though—I can’t really see. Everything smells of hay and manure. ‘Hello?’
‘Who’s that?’ A sleepy voice from somewhere to the left.
‘I’m a guest.’ Quick, quick! ‘My master is Father Isidore, from Bologna. We want to leave. Now.’
‘Now?’
‘We need our horses saddled. At once.’
There’s a grunt and a rustle. Something moves over there in the corner. Light’s beginning to creep through chinks in the roof; it’s gleaming on a glossy roan hide, and glinting off—what’s that?
A hatchet?
Just what I need.
I have to go back. I have to stop that stinking, slimy scumbucket before he tells the others. Before he opens his mouth and blabs. I can do it.
After all, I’m not the only one nursing a secret around here.
Someone’s beginning to tramp past the horses, tripping over pails and cursing at rats. He’s too busy to notice if I take this hatchet. I’ll bring it straight back; I just need it for protection while I present my demands. I won’t be long.
The air in the forecourt is fresh and cool. A cock is crowing not far away, but I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about fowl-houses or floppy dead chickens. I have to concentrate. I have to be strong and quick and clear in my mind. Now—here’s the first corridor. It’s like a cloister walk, with stone vaults springing up overhead. Dark as a well, but I can still make out where I’m going. Raising my hatchet, because he might be just around the next corner.
No—nothing. More corridor, with a light at the end where it opens into that little cloister. I can’t see a soul.
I can hear someone, though. Two people. Low voices, muttering.
Where are they?
As I creep along, hugging the cold, stone wall—trying to ignore the pain in my thighs (ouch!)—the voices become clearer. One of them belongs to Drogo; unless I’m mistaken, he’s still near the latrines. Is he spilling his guts? To Boniface, perhaps?
No. That’s not Boniface.
That’s Isidore.
‘. . . don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Isidore’s saying, whereupon Drogo snorts.
‘You know what I’m talking about, Father. You and that little chicken of yours, cosying up together.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
‘You want me to tell the rest of ’em? Father Boniface, maybe? I will. I will unless you make it worth my while not to.’
‘Where’s Benoit?’
‘I’ve seen your books. How many do you have— three? Maybe I’ll take one of those.’
‘Where’s Benoit?’
‘Here I am.’ Anyone would think that I’d knocked over a pile
of iron pots. Isidore jumps like a rabbit. Drogo drops his candle again. They both whirl to face me. ‘Here I am, Father.’ (Swinging my hatchet.) ‘Our horses are nearly ready.’
‘Just listen to her!’ Drogo taunts. ‘She only has to open her mouth, and she betrays herself!’
‘I won’t betray myself.’ You cur. ‘And you won’t betray me either. Not if you’re smart.’
‘Oh-ho! And who’s to stop me, eh? You?’
‘Benoit,’ says Isidore, so calmly that I know he must be strung as tight as a vielle. (I think he’s worried that I’m going to throw this hatchet at Drogo’s head.) ‘Please, Benoit, let me deal with this. Something can be arranged.’
‘You’re right. Something can be arranged.’ And this will be the arrangement. ‘If Drogo keeps quiet about us, we’ll keep quiet about him.’ The spineless maggot’s jaw drops as I advance on him, balancing the hatchet in both hands. ‘Do you want your employer to know that you’re a heretic? Is that what you want?’
Isidore stiffens. Drogo catches his breath.
‘Because I’ll tell him, Drogo. As soon as you let drop the slightest hint about me—’
‘I’m not a heretic!’ he croaks. ‘Not any more!’ Hah! Look at him squirm. Look at him wriggle. ‘That was years ago, I swear it was! In Lombardy!’
‘Do you think Boniface would care if it was years ago? It’s a deadly sin, whenever it happened.’ And Drogo knows it too. I can tell by the way his veins stand out on his forehead. ‘Someone like Father Boniface—he wouldn’t touch you with gloves on, if he knew.’
‘You can’t tell him! You can’t!’
‘I won’t. I won’t if you keep quiet about us.’
There’s a pause. Drogo is panting. I’m worried about the rest of the pilgrims; is that the clatter of a wooden sole hitting a stone floor, in the distance?
I hope not.
‘We’ll go now.’ Come on, Father. Stir your stumps. ‘And you’d better not try to stop us, Drogo, or you’ll suffer for it.’
‘He understands,’ Isidore says suddenly. He moves past Drogo on soundless feet. ‘You understand, do you not, my son?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Drogo spits it out. ‘Damn you to hell for your sins!’