Pagan's Daughter (12 page)

You know what? He’s right. It’s
true
. What else can cheese possibly be for? Why would God have bothered to create cheese, if no one was going to eat it?

Unless the Devil was responsible for cheese?

‘I also brought you this,’ Isidore continues, dragging something out from under his arm. I didn’t notice it before, but it’s a kind of hood. A blue hood. ‘You must wear it tomorrow.’

I don’t believe this. He remembered. He said that he’d get me a hat, and he did.

It feels clean, too.

‘Now,’ Isidore continues, calmly closing the door, ‘a few words about tonight before I leave you. We have to be circumspect. Do you understand? This isn’t a big place, and if you leave this room, you’re bound to run into someone. Someone who’s curious. That’s why I want you to stay here, no matter what.’

Yes, yes. I understand.

‘You must be exhausted, in any case,’ he says, using his gentlest voice. His prayer-before-bedtime voice. ‘It’s been a long day. Did they give you a—um—a receptacle?’

‘Yes.’ See? ‘It’s over there.’

‘Good. So there’s no need to come out until tomorrow morning.’ He puts his hand on the door-latch. ‘I’m sorry, Babylonne, but it’s safer this way. I wouldn’t risk subjecting your disguise to close scrutiny.’

Why not? ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, my dear.’ He seems mildly amused, to judge from his half-smile. ‘You’re much too pretty to be a boy.’ The smile fades. ‘Except when you scowl like that, of course. When you scowl like that you resemble a basilisk.’

He turns to go. But I’ve just thought of something— wait!

‘Wait!’

He stops. Looks around.

‘Wait.’ Where’s my purse? Ah. Here. ‘How much for the food?’

‘What?’

‘The food. How much do I owe you?’

Every trace of expression leaves his face. It takes on a familiar chiselled-stone look.

‘The canons gave me that food,’ he replies flatly. ‘You owe me nothing.’

‘And the hood?’

‘I bought the hood from one of the other guests. But it’s a gift.’

‘How much did you pay?’

‘It’s a gift, Babylonne.’

‘Here.’ Here’s a Caorsin. Probably more than the hood is worth, but I don’t have anything smaller. ‘Here, take it.’

Isidore doesn’t reply. He simply looks away. Opens
the door.

‘If you don’t take the money, I won’t wear the hood!’
I’m not standing beholden to you, my friend. Not at any
price. ‘I mean that! I do!’

He pauses. Thinks. When at last he turns back to
me, he’s doing his imitation of a church-door statue:
hard, cold, immovable.

What are you afraid of?’ he says. ‘That I’ll ask for
something in return? You still think that of me?’

Maybe. How should I know?

‘This is a gift, Babylonne. For your father’s sake.’

Hah! ‘I will accept
nothing
for my father’s sake!’

This time it’s frightening. This time he doesn’t even
blink-just stares at me with those pale, heavy eyes, and
slowly leans against the door until it shuts behind him,
blocking my escape.

Oh no. He’s not going to beat me, is he?

Help!

‘Do you know what your father did in Carcassonne?’
he says, folding his arms.

As if I care what my father did in Carcassonne!

‘He was a great man, Babylonne, and worthy of your
respect. He went with the Viscount to plead with the
French, and rode back ahead of the French army at the
Viscount’s side,’ Isidore narrates. ‘He had the stalls torn
out of the cathedral, to build barricades and mangonels.
He rallied the people when their hearts were failing,
and fought them off with his tongue when they tried to
steal water from the city wells. He would have drawn his sword in defence of Carcassonne, had he been able. But he was a little man, and not strong. Not strong in his body. His strength was in his spirit.’ Suddenly Isidore closes his eyes. His colour changes; he looks quite grey. Is he going to faint? No. No, he’s not going to faint. His eyes are open now. ‘He would have gone with the Viscount, and died in prison, had events not conspired against him,’ Isidore explains wearily. ‘Had the death of his friend not . . . not left him disabled, for a short time.’

‘His friend?’ Oh! I know! ‘You mean the one he was still grieving for, when he went to Lavaur?’

‘Yes. That one.’

‘Who was the friend?’ I can’t help being interested. I don’t want to be but—well, it’s important, isn’t it? It’s important to find out. ‘Did you know him?’

‘I knew him. He was Roland Roucy de Bram, Pagan’s lord. Pagan served him in Jerusalem, before Lord Roland entered a monastery.’

A monastery
? I don’t understand this. These people— they were all monks. Priests. Servants of the Church of Rome. What were they doing, fighting the French army? Fighting the Pope’s own legate, who came here with that army?

And Bram. I know Bram. ‘I heard about the people of Bram.’ (Gran told me once. Or was it Bernard Oth?) ‘Simon de Montfort took one hundred of them, and cut off their noses, and their ears, and their lips. He gouged out their eyes. Then he chained them together and sent them off to Cabaret, led by a man who’d been left with one eye for the purpose of guiding them.’

Isidore sighs. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I heard about that too.’

‘And their lord. Lord Jordan.’ Gran mentioned him, as well. ‘He died in prison. With the Viscount.’

‘Yes. Lord Jordan was Roland’s brother.’

‘So my father was a
friend
of Lord Jordan?’

‘Why do you think he was running from the French?’ Isidore sounds so tired. ‘He was running because he was in danger. A traitor priest. Only God knows what would have happened to him, had Simon de Montfort hunted him down.’

Only God knows? Perhaps. But I can certainly
guess
what might have happened. ‘Probably the same thing that happened to the traitor priest of Montreal who helped my uncle Aimery.’ Simon de Montfort didn’t spare
him
. ‘He was dragged by the heels of a horse until his face was scraped off.’

Isidore winces. ‘By the blood of the Lamb, girl, why do you dwell on these things?’ he demands. ‘All these horrible things?’

Why? Why do you think? ‘Because they must be remembered. Always. Because they must be avenged.’

‘They will not make you happy, Babylonne.’

‘Happy?’ When I shrug, he looks even more pained (if that’s possible). ‘Who can be happy in hell?’

‘You think this world is hell?’ he says.

‘It must be.’

‘Why?’

‘Because . . .’ Well, look around you! ‘It’s a terrible place. It’s the Devil’s realm.’

‘Babylonne, this world is not hell.’

Now it’s my turn to sigh. ‘Are you going to preach to me?’ I knew it. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

‘No. I’m not a preacher. I don’t preach.’ He nods at the food on the chest: at the wine and the bread and the cheese. ‘But I am going to tell you a story. Eat your meal, Babylonne, while I tell you a bedtime story.’

‘A
bedtime
story?’

‘Why not? Have you anything else to do?’

No. Not at present. Even so . . . ‘If it’s a story about some Roman saint, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘It’s not about a saint. It’s about a knight. A golden-haired knight who went to Jerusalem, to fight the Infidels.’ He settles more comfortably against the door, propping it shut with his shoulders. ‘Go on. Sit down, eat up and I’ll tell you.’

Very well, then. It can’t do me any harm. And I’m so
hungry
. That scrap of bread at midday—that wasn’t enough.

Oh! How good this cheese smells!

‘The golden-haired knight was a noble soul,’ says Isidore. ‘When he was only a few years older than you, Babylonne, he decided that he didn’t want to kill people any more. He didn’t think it was a good thing, killing people. He didn’t think it would bring him closer to God.’

Mmmm! The cheese!

‘So he went to an Abbot, and the Abbot sent him to fight for Jerusalem,’ Isidore relates. ‘But when he reached Jerusalem, he found that it was full of thieves and whores and lepers. He didn’t understand why he should be fighting for them. That’s why he joined the Order of the Temple. He became a Knight Templar, because he thought that it would bring him closer to God—Babylonne, slow down! You’ll choke!’

‘It’s good . . .’ (Gulp.) ‘Good cheese . . .’

‘It won’t be if you choke on it. Always remember to chew before you swallow.’ He tries to recover his place. ‘Now. Where was I?’

‘The Order of the Temple.’

‘Yes. The Order of the Temple. The knight became a Templar, and soon afterwards, Saladin attacked Jerusalem. He besieged Jerusalem. And after a lot of hard fighting, Jerusalem finally fell.’ The priest’s gaze is blank as he watches me lick my fingers. (No point wasting a crumb of this cheese!) ‘The defenders were afraid that Saladin would slaughter them all,’ he adds. ‘But that didn’t happen. Instead an agreement was reached about ransoms. As long as they could be ransomed, the Christians were free to leave.’

‘What about the poor people?’ Poor people like me, for instance. ‘What happened to them?’

‘They were ransomed too. The noble knight emptied the Templar coffers, to pay money for the poor. And he decided that he wouldn’t ransom himself, because his ransom would save the lives of ten women. Or fifty children. He decided to sacrifice his one life to save fifty others.’

Really? Is that true? ‘So—so Saladin killed him?’

‘No.’ Isidore shakes his head. ‘Your father pleaded for the knight’s life. He threw himself on his knees before Saladin, and used that nimble tongue of his to free Lord Roland.’

Ah. It was Roland, then. Lord Roland Roucy de Bram was the golden-haired knight.

‘Your father told me that story a long time ago,’ Isidore murmurs. ‘It happened when he was a squire, before Lord Roland threw his sword away and became a monk. Lord Roland had learned, you see, that there can be no salvation through the shedding of blood. That there can be no peace from war.’ All at once, Isidore unfolds his arms. He shifts his weight and pulls the door open. (Don’t tell me he’s leaving?) ‘Please try to remember that, Babylonne. It’s very important.’

And he’s gone. Like a puff of smoke. Before telling me the rest! I want to know—did my father kill anyone? Did he become a monk as well? And if so, how did he end up as Archdeacon of Carcassonne?

Oh well, I don’t care. Why should I care about my father? He didn’t care about me.

Of course, he didn’t actually
know
about me but . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve finished my meal now. I think I’ll go to bed.

Off with the boots first. Where shall I put them? Inside the chest? Under the blankets, perhaps. At the bottom of the bed. That way, I’ll be keeping them within reach.

Off with the hose, next. And my girdle. I should probably sleep on my hose.

Knock-knock-knock
.

What in the name of—?

‘Who is it?’

A voice replies from the other side of my door. ‘It’s me. Father Isidore. I’m sorry. There’s something I forgot to give you.’

And what might that be, exactly? I don’t like the sound of this. It’s getting dark outside. I can hardly see.

‘Please don’t be concerned.’ Isidore’s tone is apologetic. ‘I’m not going to attack you. You have your pepper, do you not? I shan’t even come in.’

He’s right. I have my pepper. And my scissors. He won’t be expecting them.

I can feel the weight of the scissors in my right hand, as I unlatch the door with my left. And slowly drag it open.

He’s in the corridor outside, bearing a tallow candle. It throws strange shadows across his hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes.

‘Gloria Patri et Filio!’
he exclaims, crossing himself. He’s staring at my bare legs. ‘What happened to you?’

What? Oh, that.

‘That was my aunt. She threw scalding water at me.’

He mutters something else in Latin, before saying, ‘No wonder you think the world is hell.’

‘What do you want?’ I’m not going to call you Father. I’m not going to call you anything. ‘You said that you had something for me.’

‘Yes. This.’ He opens his hand, and there’s a plait in it. A small, dark plait of hair. ‘This belonged to your mother,’ he says quietly. ‘She gave it to your father, and he gave it to me. It’s a lock of hair that she cut from her head. As a gift for him. Before he left.’

A lock of—?

Oh no. It can’t be.

‘Take it. Go on.’ He’s letting it dangle. ‘You must take it, Babylonne, it’s your inheritance. Who else should rightfully have it? You are your father’s true heir, not I. So take it.’

It sits in my palm like a feather.

‘When you can read,’ he says, ‘I’ll give you the books as well. But only then. Your father would not want you to sell them—and they’re of no use to you at present.’ He waits, but I can’t speak. So he steps back. ‘Good night,’ he whispers. ‘Sleep well.’

And he drifts away like a shadow, down the long, stone corridor, taking the light with him. All of a sudden everything’s dark. I can hardly see my hand, let alone what it’s holding. My mother’s hair.
My mother’s hair
.

He kept it. All those years, and my father kept it. Could he—could he have loved her after all? Really loved her? If he took her hair, maybe he would have taken her with him too. Had she truly wanted to go.

The plait feels so soft in my clenched fist. I don’t want to crush it, but I have to be careful. I don’t want to lose it in the dark. One puff of air as I shut the door and it could blow away.

The hinges creak. The latch drops. There—I’m safe. I’m alone with my mother’s hair. Plaited in the middle, bound at either end. Each end finishing in a little silken brush.

The brushes touch my jaw like a kiss. Like my mother’s soft cheek. They smell of lavender . . .

Oh no. No, I can’t cry. Not here. Not now.

Someone might be listening.