Pagan's Daughter

  Maybe I should attach myself to a party of pilgrims. Or merchants. Or farmers returning from the markets.

  But if I do, they’ll start to ask questions. And then what will I say?

  Maybe I should have thought about this more.

  ‘Wait.’

  Ah!

  Help!

  ‘It’s all right.’ A voice. A man. (He won’t let go of my wrist!) ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he whispers.

  Oh God.

  It’s him.

  It’s the priest.

  ‘Stop—wait—stop it!’ He grabs my other wrist. He’s got both of them now. He must have snuck up behind me. ‘Ow!’ He dodges my kick, skipping backwards. But he doesn’t let go. ‘Calm down, will you?’

  My scissors. If I could just—

  Wait. My bundle. Where is it?

  I dropped it!

  ‘Listen. I have to talk to you.’ Bare feet. He has bare feet, glowing white in the dimness. That’s why I didn’t hear him. ‘Oh, no you don’t. No biting,’ he grunts. Help! I can’t—he’s so strong! ‘Listen,’ he begs. ‘Please listen to me.’

  Help!

  ‘I knew your father!’

  What?

  It’s hard to see his face, because the light’s so bad and because he’s wearing a hood. A brown hooded cloak, over something drab and green.

  Where are his priest’s clothes? Where are his boots?

  Why is he here?

  ‘I knew your father,’ he repeats, in a soft voice. He leans forward, his fingers still clamped around my wrists. ‘Your father was Pagan Kidrouk, was he not?’

  By all the Devils of Death’s Dominion.

  It’s true. Pagan Kidrouk. That was his name: Pagan Kidrouk, Archdeacon of Carcassonne. That was my father.

  ‘I knew at once,’ the priest continues. His voice is breathless. Unsteady. ‘If Pagan had looked in a mirror, he would have seen your face. It’s a miracle. It’s as if he’s been resurrected.’

  Ah! ‘So he’s dead, then?’

  The priest flinches. I can feel it through his hands. He has to wait a moment before replying.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, even more quietly. ‘Yes, he’s dead.’

  ‘Good.’ (Will you let go of me?) ‘He was an evil man, and I hope his soul is trapped in the body of a maggot! Let go!’

  ‘Shh!’ He won’t let go. And I can’t raise my voice—I can’t summon help—because I don’t want to attract attention. Maybe he knows that. He keeps talking, looming over me like a great, dark tree. ‘I must speak with you. Now. Where are you going? Are you going to meet your lover?’

  ‘My lover?’ How dare you! I can’t spit; my mouth’s too dry.

  So I stamp on his soft, white foot instead.

  It must hurt. He winces, and sucks air through his teeth. Still, however, he doesn’t release his grip.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he gasps. ‘Please.’

  ‘Filthy priest! I have no lover!’

  ‘All right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Whoreson lecherous stinking—’

  ‘Shh! We’re wasting time!’ He gives me a little shake. ‘Why are you running away, then? Because they beat you?’

  ‘That’s not your concern!’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ His tone suddenly changes. It becomes dry and strong and cold. ‘Listen to me. Your father was my father, in all but blood. Everything that I have, I owe to God and your father. Therefore, having found you, how can I let you pass out of my sight?’

  What is he talking about? This means nothing to me. And the sun is rising! It’s getting brighter!

  ‘Please! Let me go!’ They’ll catch me, if I stay here. ‘I don’t want your help!’

  ‘You’re going to need it, though.’ Still the same dry, hard voice. ‘How far do you think you’ll get, in this disguise? How far are you going?’

  Oh God, oh God, I’ll be caught. There’s a man opening shutters.

  ‘For a whole day I roamed the streets in search of you,’ the priest goes on, oblivious to the splash of night-soil hitting cobblestones. ‘Then I tried the markets. When I discovered where you lived, I took a room in the inn across the way. I’ve been watching your house from the window, day and night. Waiting for a chance to speak to you.’ I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are shadowed. ‘Do you think I’m going to walk away now?’ he says.

  ‘Please.’ I won’t cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction. ‘Please, you must . . . I have to get out. I have to leave the city, please.’

  ‘Then we’ll both go.’

  And he drops my wrists, fastening his hand on my shoulder instead.

  I can’t seem to move. Too dazed.

  ‘Come,’ he says. ‘We will walk out of Toulouse together, side by side. We will go to Lespinasse.’

  ‘L—Lespinasse?’

  ‘The convent. Don’t you know it? Lespinasse is about a quarter day’s walk north of here. It’s where I’m staying.’ He stoops, and picks up my bundle. ‘Come,’ he says.

  This can’t be happening. I have to think. He has my bundle. I can’t leave without my bundle. And his fingers are anchored firmly in the folds of my tunic.

  ‘I am not a canon of St Etienne,’ he continues, as we walk along. ‘Do you realise that? I am a canon—I’ve taken orders—but I was in the cathedral to visit an acquaintance. And then I saw you, and stayed longer here than I intended. But most of my possessions are with the nuns of Lespinasse.’ He speaks very gently and precisely. Everything that he says sounds like a prayer. ‘So we’ll go back to Lespinasse,’ he explains, ‘and I will say that you are my new servant, and we’ll discuss our plans in peace. In my room.’

  In your room?

  Oh no.

  Wait just a moment.

  ‘What is it?’ He stops alongside me. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ (What do you think I am, an idiot? Do you think I have bees in my brain?) ‘I’m not going with you. Especially not to your room.’

  ‘Why not?’ He looks down his long, pale, freckled nose. ‘Can you think of a better place to talk?’

  ‘To talk?’ Is that what you call it? ‘I know what you’re after, and you can think again!’

  He blinks. When he draws himself erect, it’s frightening to watch because he gets even taller. His tone is as dry as my mouth.

  ‘My dear girl—’

  ‘I’m not your dear girl! I’m not anybody’s girl—no, nor anybody’s whore, either! You priests are all the same! You and my father are spun from the same bale!’

  ‘Listen—’

  ‘I don’t want your help! My father is nothing to me! If he was here I’d spit in his face! Just leave me alone, I can take care of myself!’

  ‘You have the tolls, then?’

  What?

  He’s watching me closely. I can sense that, though I can’t see his eyes yet. They’re still shaded by his hood. Someone nearby is shouting at someone else about eating all the meat. I can smell chicken manure.

  What tolls?

  ‘You know there are tolls to be paid on most of the roads that lead out of this city?’ the priest remarks in his calm, gentle fashion. ‘Which route are you taking?’

  ‘I—I—’

  ‘North? South? East?’

  ‘South.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘South by way of Foix, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes.’ If it’s any of your business.

  ‘Then you’ll have to pay a toll at Pamiers. And another at Ax-les-Thermes. And at Marens . . .’

  ‘How much?’

  He tilts his head. ‘Does it matter?’ he asks.

  Of course it matters. He knows it does, too. Though his face is set like stone, I can feel a growing confidence in the way he holds himself. In the timbre of his speech.

  But I’ll not be defeated.

  ‘I don’t have to keep to the roads. I can go through the fields, and the forests.’

  ‘And get lost? And be eaten by wolves? If the tolls were easy to avoid, do you think they would ev
er be paid? Listen.’ He squeezes my shoulder, and bends low to speak in my ear. ‘I swear on the Holy Sepulchre that I’ll not harm you. I swear on the blood of Christ—and I am a priest, so I hold to my oaths. I want to keep you from harm, if only for your father’s sake. And if you’re travelling south—well, then, God is good. Because I too will be travelling south, once I leave Lespinasse. I’m on a pilgrimage to St James of Compostela. Perhaps, if we travel in each other’s company, you will be safe. And I will be happier, knowing that you are safe.’

  He’s lying. He must be, though he does sound as if he means it. And when he sees me peering and peering, he suddenly pushes back his hood, exposing his face to the strengthening light. It picks out the puffiness under his eyes and the hollows where his cheeks should be. He’s all skin and bone.

  ‘Do you realise what would happen to me, if I was discovered fornicating in the guest house of Lespinasse?’ he adds, with a lift of his eyebrow. ‘I would be extremely lucky to escape with all my organs intact.’

  Ha! I certainly don’t believe that! Everyone knows that priests are lechers. Everyone knows that they don’t wear drawers under their long skirts.

  ‘Besides, you have your pepper, do you not?’ he says, and a smile flicks across his mouth. It’s a crooked smile, but for some reason it’s reassuring. For a fleeting instant, it makes him look kind. ‘Your pepper and many other weapons too, I feel sure,’ he murmurs. ‘You should know, for example, that I have a weak left knee. The slightest knock can reduce me to agony. One kick would disable me for days.’ He releases my shoulder and steps back. ‘Come,’ he finishes. ‘Kick me and you’ll see. I’m telling the truth. Everything I tell you is the truth.’

  Hmmm.

  He’s still clutching my bundle. Would he give that back? His expression is grave. Almost melancholy. He just stands there, waiting.

  What shall I do?

  He knows about the tolls. He probably knows about a lot of things. If he’s telling the truth—if he really is travelling south—then perhaps he might be useful. At least for a while. He could pay the tolls and ask directions. He could provide a shield. He could certainly get me through the city gate, no questions asked.

  And once I have my bundle, I can duck away whenever I want. I don’t have to stay with him. I have my scissors and my pepper and he can’t keep a grip on me all the time. It’s true, what he says. I’ll be safer with him than I would be on my own. Even if I am disguised as a boy.

  Who would dare ask questions of a boy travelling with a priest? Who would dare rob him, or murder him, without bringing down the wrath of Rome?

  ‘You promise not to touch me?’

  ‘I promise not to lay a hand on you,’ he replies, watching me intently.

  ‘You swear that you’re telling the truth?’

  ‘I swear on the life of the Holy Virgin.’

  ‘Mmmph.’ It doesn’t mean much, but I suppose it will have to do. And I can’t linger. I have to go. Now. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘My name is Isidore. Father Isidore Orbus.’ He holds out my bundle. ‘And your name?’ he inquires. ‘I still don’t know what to call you.’

  I could give him a false name, I suppose, but—oh, curse it, I’ll just forget who I’m supposed to be.

  ‘Babylonne.’ Give me that bundle. ‘My name is Babylonne.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  So here I am. In a nunnery.

  I never thought I’d see the inside of one of these places. It’s different from what I thought it would be. Not as luxurious. I mean, the stonework’s very grand, and the ceilings are very high, but there are no golden lamps or silken tapestries or coloured tiles on the floor. Everything’s hard and grey and terribly clean.

  Do you know, I think they must actually scrub the floors in here?

  Not that I’ve seen much outside the guest house. Perhaps, in their own quarters, the nuns sleep on bolsters stuffed with goose-down. Perhaps they eat roasted swans off snow-white trenchers with golden knives—or even golden forks! (I’ve heard about forks, though I’ve never seen one.)

  Perhaps it’s just in the guest house that the palliasses are stuffed with straw, and the walls are bare even of painted stars, and the cups are made of earthenware rather than silver.

  I tell you what, though—this skinny priest isn’t lacking for money. Just look at what’s piled up on his bed! A fur-lined cloak. A spare pair of boots. A leather water-bag. And books. Real books! Three of them!

  They must be worth a king’s ransom.

  Do you think he’d mind if I touched one? I’ve never been so close to a book before. I wouldn’t hurt it; I wouldn’t even open it. I’d just touch it.

  He’d never know, would he? After all, he’s not in the room.

  The binding feels odd. As smooth as metal, only it’s not metal. It’s not even leather, I don’t think. It’s something very thin and hard, like dry fat.

  Whoops!

  I didn’t hear him coming. He moves so quietly for such a big man. (Who, me? Touch your books? Never.)

  ‘How fortunate it is that you’re dressed as a boy,’ the priest says, shutting the door behind him. ‘It’s made everything so much simpler.’ Turning, he catches my eye. ‘I’ve just said goodbye to the Abbess, so we can leave whenever we want. Before we do, however, we need to talk.’ He sits down on the bed, taking care to leave some distance between us. ‘Tell me who your mother is.’

  I wish he was still wearing that disguise he had on at the inn. Those heavy black robes he’s wearing now— they’re like the walls of a fortress. They make him look taller and stronger and grimmer, and as white as salt.

  I can see why he put them back on before he went to meet the Abbess. Even an archbishop would think twice about lording it over someone carved out of alabaster, who’s as tall as a church spire and wearing a mantle trimmed with black velvet.

  I don’t know if I should talk about my mother.

  ‘Is she one of the women living with you in that house?’ he asks carefully.

  ‘No.’ God forbid he should ever think that. ‘My mother is dead.’

  ‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Well, so am I. But that’s not going to solve anything.

  He’s smoothing his black robe over his knees.

  ‘I too was orphaned at an early age,’ he finally says. ‘As was your father. We were both alone in the world.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not alone.’ (I come from a big family! A noble family!) ‘I have many aunts and uncles and cousins.’

  ‘Is that where you’re going? To one of your aunts or uncles or cousins?’

  ‘No.’ I can’t decide. Should I tell him the truth? Would there be any harm in it? Probably not. Besides, I’ve already said that I’m heading south. ‘I’m going to serve one of the faidit lords—maybe the Viscount of Carcassonne. He’s with the King of Aragon now, and I’m going to offer him my loyal service.’

  The priest’s hands stop moving. He might be startled, but I’m not sure; his face is hard to read. He looks up and studies me with pale, expressionless eyes.

  ‘What kind of service do you intend to offer?’ he inquires at last.

  ‘I’ll cook and clean and sew. I can spin and chop wood. I’ll even fight if I have to.’

  He turns his attention back to his knees, and once more his hands start to move. Stroke, stroke, stroke. He’s going to wear out the nap on that cloth, if he’s not careful.

  ‘Who was your mother, Babylonne?’ he says. ‘Who gave you that name of yours?’

  What do you mean? ‘What’s wrong with my name?’

  ‘“Babylon the Great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird”.’

  Huh?

  ‘“Odaughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed: happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us”.’ The priest stops chanting, and resumes speaking in his normal voice. ‘Have you never heard these words? They are
the words of King David and John the Divine. They are words from the Holy Scriptures.’ He flashes me a quick glance. ‘Can you read, Babylonne?’

  ‘Of course not!’ What do you think I am, a monk? ‘And if you want to know about my name, well . . .’ A habitation of devils? A hold of every foul spirit? It’s worse than I thought. (How they must have hated me!) ‘Well, I . . . I should never have been born, in case you don’t realise. My body is an unclean cage, entrapping a fragment of the angelic spirit which is exiled here in the abode of the Devil until death and the mercy of God should release it.’

  Briefly, he closes his eyes. I should have realised that he was very learned. He probably knows the Holy Scriptures off by heart.

  Even the bad bits of the Holy Scriptures, which aren’t really holy at all.

  ‘Is there nothing about a Babylonian exile in the Holy Scriptures?’ It seems an odd question, but I have to find out. ‘My grandmother used to talk about a Babylonian exile before she lost most of her teeth, and . . . well . . .’ I’m afraid that it can’t be denied, unfortunately. ‘I don’t really know what she was on about.’

  The priest sighs. He doesn’t seem to want to answer. Instead he says, ‘Who is your grandmother, Babylonne?’

  My grandmother? For your information, Master Redhead, my grandmother is one of Languedoc’s great ladies.

  ‘My grandmother is Blanche de Laurac, widow of Lord Sicard.’

  Of course I’m expecting some kind of reaction. You don’t often find the granddaughter of a noble lord skulking around the Bourg in boy’s clothes.

  Even so, the priest’s response is quite a surprise. His face loses so much colour, it’s hardly even white any more. The shadows under his eyes look almost green.

  ‘You’re—you’re not Mabelia’s daughter?’ he gasps.

  What?

  We stare at each other. I can’t believe my ears. But I recover my breath before he does, and manage to speak—though I have to clear my throat first.

  ‘Did you know my mother?’

  He rises abruptly; goes to the window; puts one hand on the wall, as if to steady himself.

  When he murmurs something, I can’t quite make out what it is. Except that it’s probably Latin.