Pagan's Daughter

  In the silence, my stomach rumbles.

  ‘Sorry.’ How embarrassing.

  ‘Would you like some food, Benoit?’ Isidore murmurs.

  My nod propels him to his feet again; he’s rummaging through his saddlebags when a noise from outside makes Imbert stiffen. Oh dear. What was that?

  We ought to have a sword, you know. Or at least a big stick. Something to use if an armed man ever penetrates this fastness. We could ambush him. Cut off his head as soon as he stuck it around that corner.

  An unconvincing owl’s hoot seems to reassure Imbert, who releases a great sigh. The owl’s hoot must have been a signal.

  ‘Gui,’ says the old man, as Isidore turns from the baggage, bread in one hand, cheese in the other.

  Sure enough, Gui suddenly appears. His thin hair is full of straw and burrs. He collapses onto a spire-shaped rock that must be very uncomfortable, though perhaps not for a holy man like Gui. Gui probably sleeps on iron spikes when he can find them.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he gasps. ‘But the drums are getting louder.’ His gaze follows Isidore, who’s stumbling back to his seat. Damn, damn, damn.

  How can I eat cheese in front of these Perfects?

  ‘You are welcome to our food,’ says Isidore, as if he’s suddenly become conscious of all the attention he’s attracting. ‘Our food is your food, now that you’ve shared your hearth with us.’

  ‘We do not eat cheese,’ Gui replies. ‘It is a sin to eat cheese.’

  Oh dear, oh dear. We’re not going to discuss religion, are we? Isidore regards Gui for a moment, his eyes calm and thoughtful under pale, heavy eyelids. Finally he begins to wrap the cheese back up in its linen swaddling-cloth, saying, ‘I would not offend mine host in his own domicile.’

  ‘You are not offending me, but the Lord,’ Gui rejoins, wincing as he shifts about, trying to find a more comfortable spot. ‘Cheese comes from milk, and milk is the product of fornication, which is anathema to God. For St Paul said “Flee fornication”, by which he enjoins us to flee all things that stem from it—like milk, and cheese, and eggs, and meat. St Paul said, “It is good neither to eat flesh nor to drink wine”. Therefore we live according to the injunctions of St Paul.’

  Ho hum. I must have heard that more times than I’ve trimmed my toenails. I could almost be back in my grandmother’s house; this whole place puts me in mind of it, what with the dry bread and water, and the uncomfortable seats, and the fact that there aren’t enough blankets.

  ‘St Paul did say “It is good neither to eat flesh nor to drink wine”,’ Isidore agrees quietly, breaking his bread into equal portions. ‘But he finished with the words “. . . nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth or is offended, or is made weak”. It is all of a piece with his other rulings; he tells us, for example, “Wherefore if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth, lest I make my brother to offend”. He does not describe it as wrong in itself, I think, except insofar that it might trouble others. And therefore I will put my cheese away.’

  ‘But you do offend,’ Gui insists, ‘in that you do offence against all people.’

  ‘I think not,’ says Isidore.

  ‘No, I assure you! Eating meat is wrong.’ (Gui is beginning to preach. I can hear the strength building in his voice.) ‘Because you should not kill a living thing, nor condemn its spirit to another earthly body.’

  ‘But St Paul would not have it so.’ Isidore doesn’t speak like a preacher. He passes me a piece of bread, his tone gentle and soothing. ‘He said, in his first epistle to St Timothy, “Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving head to seducing spirits and doctrines of evil; speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron; forbidding to marry, and commanding to abstain from meats, which God hath created to be received with thanksgiving of them which believe and know the truth. For every creature of God is good, and nothing is to be refused, if received with thanksgiving”.’

  Hmmm.

  How beautifully he speaks. And the words that fall from his mouth—are they truthful? Did St Paul really write them? If they are the words of St Paul, then . . . then perhaps we shouldn’t be abstaining from meats.

  Even Imbert looks a bit startled.

  ‘Ah!’ Gui exclaims ‘But you’re speaking about two different worlds. Nothing is to be refused in the world of the spirit, by the truly faithful souls of the Saved. St Paul is not referring to this world, for this world is the realm of the Devil. Because if “every creature of God is good”, then how could God have created the bad things, like wicked dragons, and poisonous snakes? Remember, as the Blessed John says, “God is light and in Him there is no darkness”. So this world is not of God. This world is full of darkness, and full of the Devil.’

  Well? What do you say to that, Father Priest? Isidore gives a piece of bread to Imbert, who stuffs it down almost guiltily, chewing awkwardly on unreliable teeth.

  ‘If this world is not God’s creation,’ Isidore replies, ‘then why does St Paul say of Christ that he is “the image of the invisible God, the first-born of every creature, for in him were all things created in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible”?’

  Yes. Why does he say that, if this world is really the Devil’s realm? Gui is beginning to look cross. He hesitates, his mouth working. Hasn’t he an answer to this argument?

  ‘St Paul also says that “there be gods many and lords many”,’ he finally splutters. ‘And St Matthew says, “No man can serve two masters”, meaning that Satan is the lord and master of this world.’

  ‘Oh, my friend.’ The pity in Isidore’s voice seems to surprise everyone—even Isidore. He catches himself, and moderates his tone. ‘You must know that a master is not a god,’ he continues. ‘In the same text of which you speak, St Paul tells us, “For though there be those that are called gods, either in Heaven or on earth, yet to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things”. All things, you see. In Heaven and on earth.’

  I’ve never heard anyone argue like this before; I’ve only heard preaching. It makes you think, doesn’t it? It makes you wonder. I’ve always thought that it was holier not to eat meat. But if the Scriptures say it isn’t— if St Paul says it isn’t—then could the Perfects be wrong? Could the Romans be right?

  Surely not. Surely the Romans couldn’t be right! Though I have to admit, Isidore certainly seems to know the Scriptures very well. Better than Gui, who only uses small snatches of text—not big slabs of it, like Isidore. Unless Isidore is lying? Unless he’s quoting from false Scriptures? There are false Scriptures, I know. The Perfects always talk of them. But Gui didn’t accuse Isidore of falsifying the words of St Paul. Perhaps Gui doesn’t even know the Scriptures well enough to recognise falsehoods.

  Oh dear. I wish that I could read. Then I could read the Scriptures for myself, and work out who’s right.

  ‘But Christ said, “My kingdom is not of this world”,’ Gui proclaims, as if he’s about to wave his hand in the air. ‘Therefore Christ is not king of this world!’

  ‘It is confusing, is it not?’ says Isidore, sympathetically. ‘It could be argued, however, that Christ, in using the word “of”, was not using it in the sense of “over this world” but “from this world”. In which case He was reminding us that the world did not give Him His power—’

  ‘Shh!’ It’s Imbert. He’s sitting up straight, staring at the rocky ceiling. His eyes are wide and scared in the light of his oil lamp. ‘Listen!’

  I can hear them myself now. Muffled shouts and rhythmic thumps. All very faint, but clear enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

  ‘It’s them,’ Gui breathes. He’s rigid, his argument forgotten. ‘They’re coming.’

  ‘The forcia might lure them away,’ Isidore whispers, but Imbert flaps a nervous hand at him.

  ‘Shh! No talking!’ the old man hisses.

  Please God, don’t let Humbert find the horses
. Let him loot the beans in the forcia and ride past satisfied, without stopping. How late is it now? Surely not too late. Without the sun, it’s hard to say. But I’m certain the sun hasn’t set yet. It can’t be time for vespers. If the French ride hard, they would reach Eaunes before nightfall. Camping around Eaunes would be much more comfortable than camping in this out-of-the-way spot, even if it does have a working well.

  How hard it is, sitting here. Not knowing where the soldiers are, or what they’re up to. Though I have to admit, it sounds as if they might be right overhead now. I can actually hear voices: honks and barks and hoots filtering through the layers of rock that shield us. Suddenly, there’s a patter near my foot.

  Help!

  ‘Shh.’ Isidore’s hand closes on mine. ‘It’s earth,’ he hisses. ‘Earth falling from the roof.’

  Dislodged by the impact of a heavy object? Someone directly above us must have jumped off his horse. Or dropped a load of weapons.

  A metallic jingle sounds so close that Gui sucks air through his teeth in alarm. Someone’s crashing around in the brush outside the front entrance of our hole. A man’s voice shouts something about firewood.

  Firewood?

  Hell’s belly!

  They must be settling in for the night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My mother’s hair slips silently through my fingers. Even when I flick it against my palm, it doesn’t make a sound. It’s the one thing I can fiddle with that won’t betray us—as long as I keep it away from my nose, of course. Or it might make me sneeze.

  I can’t believe that it’s come to this. I’m actually counting my own breaths, just to keep my mind off my bladder. It’s going to rupture soon, if I don’t get some relief.

  A hundred and eighty-four. A hundred and eighty-five. A hundred and eighty-six . . .

  ‘Psst!’

  Is that Isidore? It must be. I can hear him scuffling around at the entrance.

  ‘Psst!’ he says. ‘They’re gone!’

  Gone?

  ‘You can come out now,’ he declares.

  Glory to God. Glory to God. Praise the Lord for all his mercies, at last I can take a piss!

  Baggage first, though. Got to get the baggage.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Gui, watching me edge towards the shelf above Imbert’s head. Silly fool. What does he think I’m doing?

  ‘Leaving.’ Bogbrain. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’

  ‘Oh no.’ The very thought seems to appal him. ‘It can’t even be noon yet. They only left around sunrise— they can’t have gone very far. Suppose they see you? You should stay a little longer.’

  After sitting on a full bladder all night? No thanks.

  It’s all very well for people who can piss standing up. Those of us who can’t would have a hard time disguising the fact, in a space this size.

  And here’s Isidore, looking ruffled and out of breath. His skirts are studded with grass seeds; he has a smear of dirt on his cheek.

  ‘Don’t bother with the saddles,’ he says abruptly. ‘We won’t be needing them.’

  What . . .?

  No.

  ‘The horses are gone?’ Gui says it before I can. Isidore looks tired and dejected. I’d be surprised if he got much sleep last night.

  ‘The horses are gone,’ he confirms.

  ‘Oh no!’ They found the horses! They took them away! My poor brown horse—the gentle horse that Isidore bought for me with his own money!

  But I won’t cry. It’s not a good time for tears, just now.

  ‘They may have found the horses, but at least they didn’t find us.’ Isidore is suddenly beside me, helping to drag down the saddlebags—though not the saddles. ‘We can still make our way, Benoit. We have food and money.’

  But can we carry it all? It’s going to slow us up. Gui and Imbert mutely watch us sharing out our load; they eye Isidore’s ivory comb with grave displeasure. When we come to the books, Isidore hesitates. They’re very heavy. He knows that.

  At last he turns to Gui, cradling the thickest of the books.

  ‘Master Gui,’ he says quietly, ‘we are of different minds, you and I, but our discussion last night put me in mind of happier days, before the French came to this country—days when men such as yourself, and men such as I, used to debate our theologies without resorting to violence. I cannot agree with your beliefs, Master Gui, but I can see that they are faithfully and honestly held. And I would wish that a man of your generosity and fervour might open his heart to the truth.’ As Gui goggles like a dead fish, Isidore offers him the book in his hand. ‘Please honour me by accepting this pledge of my gratitude,’ Isidore continues, ‘which, if you sell it, will provide you with every article that you could possibly require for your continued existence—and which, if you do not sell it, will provide you with an even greater gift. For the mind and the soul are less easily fed than the body. And this book is a fount of spiritual wisdom from which no man can safely turn away.’

  Sometimes, when Isidore speaks, it’s as if the angels themselves are singing. Is this something you learn at university, I wonder? Gui is so overwhelmed—so astonished—that he accepts the book without a murmur.

  Imbert says, ‘But he cannot read.’

  What? Isidore blinks. Gui says savagely, ‘He means that I cannot read Latin. I can read our language well enough.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should have someone read this book to you,’ Isidore suggests. ‘Before you let it pass from your sight.’ He jerks his chin at me, and moves back towards the entrance, his saddlebag flung over his shoulder.

  Gui rises.

  ‘Farewell, then,’ he says awkwardly, laying the book on the ground. Before I can stop him, he puts both hands on my cheeks, and inclines his head three times. ‘Your blessing, your blessing, your blessing,’ he mutters. ‘You should tread with care, boy. He may be your good master, as you say, but his honey is poisoned. For Rome has inserted a black needle into his heart, and all his noble kindness is cankered with the bitterness of lies.’

  So I’ve heard tell, my friend. But do you know, as I cast my mind back, I can’t think of one lie that he has told me yet? Not one.

  Now I’d better get out, or you’ll start wondering why there isn’t a trace of down on my upper lip.

  ‘Wait! Father!’ Don’t forget about me. ‘I’m coming!’

  The entrance is closer than I thought—around the corner, five short steps and here I am. It’s a wide fissure in the cliff face, hidden by a trailing curtain of vines that drag at my hair as I push through. The undergrowth beyond it seems to be armoured; it’s like walking through a crop of miniature spears. (Ouch!) The low trees look as if they’re crouching, ready to spring, their gnarled arms spread wide.

  Isidore has used the creek-bed as a path. He stands in a pool of shade, his hood pulled up and his load carefully balanced.

  ‘I am sorry that we had to relinquish that book,’ he says. ‘I had no choice—the other two are all we can manage. One each.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I will find you another, I promise. Even if I have to sell one of my own.’

  The whole business seems to be bothering him immensely; I don’t know why. ‘It doesn’t matter to me.’ (Shrugging.) ‘I can’t read anyway. And I just want to take a piss, do you mind? Over there.’

  He can’t exactly object. In fact he practically falls over his own feet, trying to get out of my way. ‘Yes . . . yes, of course,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ll wait behind the . . . I’ll just . . . yes.’

  Yes. This bush will do nicely.

  Ahhhhh.

  It’s like a fleeting glimpse of Heaven.

  ‘Where are we going, do you have any idea?’ (Talking loudly might cover up any embarrassing noises.) ‘The sun’s over there, so south must be that way. Back past the forcia’.

  ‘Um . . . yes.’ He has his back turned, so he won’t see me emerge from behind my bush. ‘But we have to reconsider our options, Babylonne. We are on foot now, and very vulnerable.
Whether it’s to the south or not, we have to find the nearest place of safety and seek refuge there before deciding on our final destination. Don’t you agree?’

  Agree with what? ‘So you’re saying . . .’

  ‘I’m saying that we should head for the monastery of Boulbonne. We know where it is, thanks to what Gui was saying last night, and it’s closer than anything else— even the Saverdun road. From Boulbonne we can make our way to . . . well, wherever it is we decide to go. North to Bologna or south to Aragon.’ He swings around, and waits for me to adjust my girdle. ‘You know my feelings on that subject, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss them.’

  Discuss them? There’s nothing to discuss. Not now, not ever. I’m going south, whether you like it or not.

  You’re right, though, first things first. ‘Very well.’ Boulbonne it is, then. ‘So we should be striking out to the east, if we’re heading for Boulbonne. East from the top of the waterfall.’

  ‘I believe those were Gui’s instructions.’

  ‘And we’ll have to climb up that cliff again?’

  ‘Much easier this time, Babylonne. Without the horses.’

  Without the horses. Yes. I feel so bad about the horses. It still hurts my heart to think of them, stolen away by the cruel and greedy French. Please God the French aren’t hungry. Please God they need pack animals more than they need meat. Fifty squads of bowmen—that’s a lot of mouths to feed. I fear what might happen if they run out of farms to pillage and flocks to slaughter.

  Speaking of the French, I can see where they’ve been. They must have passed so close to us last night; there are many flattened fronds and freshly turned stones, hereabouts. Even a footprint in the dust. Not to mention the smell of stale piss, carried on a fitful breeze.

  But no ashes. They must have lit their fires up above. Near the back entrance of the cave, or over in the forcia.

  ‘Can you carry that bag? Is it too heavy?’ Isidore wants to know. He’s paused at the foot of the stony rise that we mounted yesterday on our way to the cave’s back entrance. ‘I can take more.’