‘But—’
‘I want you to wait here. Right here.’ We’re at the entrance to the church of St George. All around us are surging crowds: men with sacks on their backs, women with legs of pork under their arms, and children scanning the ground for fallen nuts or rotten fruit. ‘Stay here, and I’ll come back for you.’
‘But—’
‘I know what I’m doing. I’ve done it before.’ (When I was allowed to take care of things by myself, without having the pair of you sent along to spy on me.) ‘Just stay here, all right? Don’t move.’
It’s all a lie, of course; Berthe doesn’t look any hungrier than I do. But I don’t want the pair of them hanging off my skirts while I talk to Master Vital. It would be like swimming in the river with chains on my feet.
‘Master Vital!’ There he is—big and round and bristling with curly hair. He’s always smiling, because his teeth are so good. The man beside him must be another fishmonger, judging from the silver scales all over his hands, and the nasty stains on his tunic. ‘Master Vital, I’ve come to buy some fish.’
‘Aha.’ Master Vital has very small, sharp eyes, like chips of black marble. ‘Been in the wars again, Little Hornet?’
‘What? Oh.’ That’s right. My bruises. Navarre gave them to me for stealing the egg. ‘Oh no. I fell over.’
‘A likely story.’ Master Vital turns to his fishmonger friend. ‘Eleven years ago, when Simon de Montfort was burning the city, I saw this little one throwing a stone at an armed knight after he split open some poor fellow’s head with an axe. She hasn’t changed since then.’
‘Yes I have. I’m taller.’
‘You think so? Well—maybe.’ Master Vital grins. ‘I remember your mother running after you, telling you to stop.’
‘It wasn’t my mother.’ I don’t want to get into this. ‘Simon de Montfort killed my mother.’
‘Ah?’ His grin fades, but his eyes remain bright and piercing. ‘Well, it was the women of Toulouse who killed that stinking spawn of Satan with a big, fat stone from their catapult, so your mother got her revenge. Now—you want fish? I have a very special fish for you today. I set it aside, with you in mind.’
‘This one? This is my fish?’
‘This one, yes.’
‘Yes, I think I recognise it. It’s the same fish you gave me last week.’
Master Vital’s friend laughs. Master Vital raises a shocked eyebrow. But I’m not going to yield.
‘Little Hornet, this fish is fresh,’ Master Vital insists. ‘It was pulled out of the Garonne this morning.’
‘It is not fresh. Look how milky its eye is!’
‘You won’t be eating the eye, Little Hornet.’
‘I won’t be eating the fish, Master Vital.’ How I love this kind of haggling! ‘Show me another, if you please, or I will go elsewhere.’
I will, too. I don’t mind. The longer I spend in this market, the better. I love it here.
‘Very well.’ Master Vital heaves an elaborate sigh, and reaches across the eels for something that gleams as bright as silver in the sun. I like the look of that fish. I like its clear eye and its clean smell. It feels good, too. Meaning that it will taste even better.
I’m so glad that we’re allowed to eat fish. It’s lucky that fish spring miraculously from the water, and don’t hatch out of eggs the way chickens do. ‘Yes, I’ll take this one.’ Even Navarre couldn’t complain about a fish like this. ‘And those ten others over there, as well. For one pourgeoise.’
Master Vital reels back. ‘One copper pourgeoise!’ he exclaims. ‘For all that good fish? Little Hornet, are you trying to sting me again?’ (He’s enjoying himself.) ‘I had a customer here this morning—for ten of those fish he gave me one livre tournois!’
What? Oh, please. ‘One livre tournois!’ What do you think I am, a fool? ‘That must have been after you told him they were the fish Christ our Lord used, when He fed the five thousand.’
Master Vital’s friend laughs again. Even Master Vital’s lips twitch. But he recovers himself quickly.
‘Little Hornet,’ he says, in grave tones, ‘I would not be ashamed to feed these fish to our Lord. Only look how fat they are.’
And I’m opening my mouth when I see him. The priest.
The red-headed priest.
He’s over there, staring straight at me. White-faced. Long-nosed.
I think I’m going to be sick.
‘I’ll—I’ll have five, then.’ Quick! Quick! I have to get out of here! ‘Five fish for one pourgeoise.’
Master Vital looks surprised. He was expecting more of an argument.
‘Five?’ he rumbles. ‘Well, now . . .’
‘That’s reasonable. You know that’s reasonable.’ Come on, will you? Come on! ‘Just give them to me!’
Master Vital regards me for a moment, his expression blank. (Perhaps he’s a little offended?) But at last he shrugs, and begins to lay the fish in my bag. Where’s Sybille? There. Over there. I can glimpse her through the moving crowds, gaping at a man with a brace of dead hares.
Time to go.
Grab your bag, Babylonne. Keep your head low. Slap down the money. Duck behind the trestle. Scramble under it, past a barrel of pickled herring, a forest of shuffling legs, a puddle of fish guts. Scurrying along, bent double; weaving through clusters of gossiping women and bleating livestock. At last—a portico. The pillars are nice and thick.
Thick enough to hide behind.
God, I can hardly breathe. And here I am, pressed to the back of a pillar before the astonished stare of a snot-nosed, bare-bottomed afterthought of a child. What are you staring at, pigswill?
When I gnash my teeth, he toddles away.
But I’ll have to risk a look. I must find out if the priest saw me. What if he did? What if he learns who I am? Would they flog me, for stealing an egg?
Carefully . . . carefully . . . one peek around the smooth, stone shaft . . .
And there he is. Redhead. He’s so tall that he stands out like a torch in a crypt. I can see him craning over the milling heads, peering around, searching for me. He walks forward. Stops. Scans the square again. In the hard sunlight he looks paler than ever; his hair has drained all the colour and warmth from his skin. He has the coldest, longest, most immovable face I’ve ever seen. A face like the ones on the stone saints that are carved over the south door of St Etienne.
I have to get out of here.
Now.
CHAPTER FOUR
The beautiful princess draped the magic cloak about her, and was suddenly invisible. Though the evil sorcerer searched every corner of his lair, she slipped by him like the scent of lavender on an evening breeze ...
I’ll be safe now. I know I will. I’m out of the market. I’m almost out of the city quarter. Just a few more steps, past the town hall and the church of St Quentin, and I’ll be through the Portaria, into the Bourg.
Surely he won’t come looking for me in the Bourg?
It must have been a coincidence. What terrible luck! I hardly ever set foot outside the house, and when I do—boom! The priest is there, buying a nice trout for his dinner. Except that priests don’t buy trout. Not if they’re living together in a cloister. Their servants buy the food. Their servants cook it.
So what was that priest doing at the market? Was he passing through, on his way to back from one of the hospitals?
He can’t have been looking for me. He can’t have been. Ouch!
Get out of my way, pissbrain!
Well—at least I can protect myself now. At least I have more pepper. That was smart, to stop at the pepperer’s on Cervun Street. Smart girl, Babylonne. The trouble is, pepper costs so much. Two whole fish, for three pinches of pepper! Aunt Navarre will be suspicious. Very, very suspicious.
She might not let me buy fish ever again.
Here’s the Street of the Taur, and there’s the friars’ monastery. (Stay well clear of that.) I wonder if Sybille will find her way back? She doesn’t know Toulouse the w
ay I do. She’s so feeble and whiny and useless—what if she gets lost?
If she does, I’ll be blamed for it. No matter what I say. Because I’m always blamed for everything. Who gets her ears boxed when the oats are mouldy? Babylonne. Who gets her backside kicked when someone steals the lamp oil? Babylonne.
If I had a weak skull, I would have turned into an idiot long ago. Navarre would have pounded my brain into soup. I wish that I had a livre for every time she’s cracked a broom across my face.
God curse her.
I can smell the river at last. (Not far now.) I can smell the tanneries. Around this corner, across the street and past the tavern—the Golden Crow. I might just slow down to see if there’s a fight going on in the tavern’s downstairs room. Or maybe a knot of strangely dressed, bleached-looking northerners on their way to Compostela. Or perhaps even a jongleur, singing or dancing or juggling cups. I’ve been praying for another jongleur. The last one I saw here had the voice of an angel. He sang about a beautiful princess, and a brave knight.
Pity I never found out what happened to the princess. When Aunt Navarre caught me dawdling in the street, listening to a sinful jongleur, she practically knocked my head off my shoulders.
No. There’s nothing to see in the Golden Crow. And now that I’m almost home, I don’t want to be here. I’m sweating like a coward. My mouth is dry.
She’s going to give me such hell about these fish.
‘Babylonne?’
There she is. Navarre. Leaning out the downstairs window, flanked by flapping wooden shutters.
‘Where’s Sybille?’ She’s scowling. ‘Where’s Berthe?’
All I can do is spread my hands. (Look—no tongue!)
‘Come in here!’ she scolds, and pulls back into the house. The shutters slam.
My feet don’t want to move.
They have to be dragged, step by step, over the threshold. Inside, I can see Gran, Arnaude and Dulcie, but no Sybille. No Berthe.
Arnaude’s tending something on the fire. Dulcie’s spinning. Gran’s belching to herself, thoughtfully.
‘Well? Where are the others?’ Navarre demands, snatching my bag of fish from me. I put my finger to my lips (I’ve been muted, remember?) and . . .
Whoomp!
Ouch! God save us!
Give Navarre her due—she’s fast with her fists.
‘Don’t be clever with me, you little sow!’ she roars. ‘I give you permission to speak! Now speak! Where are the others?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hell’s breath. My ears are ringing. My teeth are humming. ‘They wandered off while I was buying the fish. They left me there.’
‘You mean you left them.’ Oh no. She’s opened the bag. She’s gaping into the bag, her face a mask of astonishment. ‘What do you call this?’
‘I—’
‘Three fish for one pourgeoise? Is this all you could get?’
I can’t talk. I can only swallow, and nod.
‘You’re lying!’ Her spit is flying through the air. ‘Last week you got four! Four big fish!’
What can I say? That the catches are smaller this week? If only she hadn’t clouted me over the ear, I could think more clearly.
But as I open my mouth, someone bursts through the door behind me.
‘Babylonne!’ It’s Sybille. She looks as if she’s been dragged by her feet through a thicket of thorns, then hung upside down in a cow-byre and milked. ‘You ran away! You left us! Where did you go?’
‘Where did you go?’ This is going to require some quick thinking. ‘I looked around and you’d disappeared.’
‘We did not!’ Sybille throws herself on Navarre’s mercy. She practically throws herself on her knees, in fact. ‘Babylonne told us to wait near the church of St George!’ she cries. ‘We waited and waited, but she didn’t come! We asked for her at the fishmonger’s stall, but he said that she’d gone already!’
‘Babylonne told you to wait by the church?’ Dulcie echoes.
Oh no.
Now I’m in trouble.
‘You were talking?’ says Navarre, narrowing her eyes at me.
Sybille claps a hand over her mouth. I don’t know what to say. Should I—? What if I—?
‘You were talking?’ Navarre repeats. ‘Without permission?’
She’s advancing towards me. One step. Two steps. When I try to retreat, there’s a wall in the way.
‘What would you expect, from a Roman priest’s bastard?’ mutters Gran.
Navarre raises a hand and—whump!
It’s just a slap, but it stings.
‘Ow!’
‘Have you no shame?’ Whump! ‘Have you no respect?’ Whump! ‘Where would you be, if it wasn’t for our mercy?’ Whump! ‘Do you think you’re welcome here? A mark of shame like you?’
‘Lady Navarre!’
It’s Berthe. Berthe’s home. Thank God—she’ll be a distraction.
As Navarre turns, I manage to shield my face.
‘What?’ Navarre snaps.
‘There’s a priest!’ Berthe is panting like a dog. She’s wild-eyed and shrill-voiced. ‘There’s a priest outside! A Roman priest!’
Oh God. No.
Not the priest.
‘A what?’ says Navarre, frowning.
‘A priest! There’s a priest!’ Berthe begins to cry. ‘He followed us! He came after us!’
He must have heard Sybille ask about me. He must have trailed her all the way from the market.
Mercy. Oh mercy in the Lord.
Navarre strides to the door, pushing Berthe aside. Sybille and Dulcie are cowering. Arnaude rises, and stumps after Navarre. The two of them peer cautiously through the door into the street beyond. Navarre advances a few more steps, until the sun is beating down on her uncovered head. She puts her hands on her hips. She looks to her left, and to her right.
She glances back over her shoulder.
‘Where is he, Berthe?’ she says. ‘Show me.’
Berthe whimpers. She’s gnawing at her thumb, and doesn’t want to go out again. But Sybille gives her a shove, and she stumbles over the threshold.
I can hear a horse’s hoofs. The priest wouldn’t be riding, though.
No. The clop-clop-clop is fading away.
There’s blood on my lip.
‘Is he gone?’ Sybille squeaks. Dulcie seems to be mumbling a prayer. Navarre hustles Berthe and Arnaude back inside; she bolts the door behind them.
‘He’s gone,’ she says, and swings around to face me. ‘Do you know anything about this priest?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying! You’ve been consorting with Roman priests!’
‘I have not!’
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ Gran rasps, and Arnaude puts out a timid hand.
‘Maybe he was a Dominican,’ she suggests nervously.
‘Maybe he saw that she was wearing sandals, and realised she must be a Good Christian. Maybe he’s one of those wandering preachers, and he wants to convert her.’
Navarre, however, isn’t listening. Her face is blotched with red. She grabs me by the collar.
‘Is that where you got the egg?’ she spits. ‘Did a priest give it to you?’
‘No! I told you! I found it!’ Christ save us. Has she gone mad? Her eyes are popping out of her head. ‘A—a man tried to take the wool from me, and I pushed him, and I ran, and I hid behind a cart, and the egg was there on some straw! A stray hen must have laid it!’
‘You’re a liar.’ She shakes me. Ow! The back of my head hits the stone wall, again and again. ‘You’re a liar and a thief and a glutton and a whore!’
‘Let go!’
‘You’ve been trading—’ (Thump!) ‘—your favours—’ (Thump!) ‘—with Roman priests!’
That’s enough. Get off me! ‘I have not!’ A mighty push makes her stagger. (Take that, you cow!) But she doesn’t fall. She doesn’t even stop shouting.
‘Again and again we have forgiven you!’ she cries.
‘For doing
all the work around here?’ Duck, Babylonne! ‘For tending the fire and chopping the wood and fetching the water—’ ‘You have a black soul, like the soul of your father before you! You poison our wells and fill our house with strife!’
What? What did you say?
‘I’m filling our house with strife?’ I’ve had enough of this. ‘You’re the one with the temper! I never broke a sack of beans over anyone’s head! I never punched a horse, or kicked a hole in a barrel!’
‘Have you no shame?’ She’s screaming like a slaughtered pig, and she asks me if I have no shame? What about the neighbours? ‘When I think of your martyred mother, I weep tears of blood!’
Oh no. Not my martyred mother. When Navarre starts talking about my martyred mother, I’m in serious trouble.
Tears of blood aren’t a good sign, either.
My retreat’s blocked off. Arnaude’s in the way. But if I can just—
‘Ow! Aah!’
Let go! Let go of my hair!
‘Something must be done about you.’ Navarre jerks, tugs, drags—yeowch! ‘The Good Men will decide.’
What’s she—? Oh no. No!
‘No!’ Not the chest! ‘Wait! Stop!’
‘In you get.’
‘No!’
Get off! Let go! You can’t! Scratch—kick—bite— STOP!
Thump.
The lid comes down. She must be sitting on it, because I can’t push it open. She’s locking it! No!
‘NO! HELP!’
‘There’s air enough in there, Babylonne. Air enough for a sinner like you.’
‘Let me out!’
‘Not until you repent. You’re a wicked girl, and you belong in an abode of darkness until you mend your ways.’
She wants me to beg. But I’m not going to beg, I’m going to calm down. Calm down, Babylonne. Breathe slowly. That’s it. There’s a crack up there. A crack with light coming through it. The money’s digging into my back, but there’s fur next to it . . . soft fur . . .
I’m not going to cry. There’s nothing to cry about. This isn’t so bad. I could have been thrown down a well and stoned to death by the French, like my Aunt Guiraude. I could have been hanged, like my Uncle Aimery. I could have had my throat cut, like my mother.
I wish my mother was here.