Pagan's Daughter (22 page)

‘We had horses,’ Isidore interjects. ‘They were taken last night by the French.’

If he had suddenly sprouted dragon’s wings, his words couldn’t have had a more alarming effect. On all sides there’s a tossing of horses’ heads as hands jerk at reins and backsides shift in saddles. Blades flash in the sunlight, half-drawn from their scabbards. Eyes scan the surrounding hills.

‘The French?’ Lord Olivier snaps, his unlined face suddenly hard and alert. ‘You mean Humbert’s crew?’

‘Some of them. They camped near the
forcia
back there.’ I have to tell him this. It will be important to him. ‘It’s not far, but they’re gone now. We think they went west this morning.’

‘West?’ Lord Olivier frowns. ‘Back to the Saverdun road, you mean?’

‘We think so.’

‘God’s grace,’ Lord Pons mutters. ‘That would have been a merry meeting!’

‘Too soon for my taste,’ Lord Olivier agrees, under his breath.

‘We’ll be hard put to outrun them at this rate. What if they arrive there before we do?’ Lord Pons is addressing Lord Olivier, who flashes him such a fierce look that even the battle-scarred Pons flinches.

Suddenly, for the first time, Lord Loup speaks out.

‘We cannot delay,’ he declares. He’s very dark— almost as dark as I am—with cascades of shiny black hair, one thick eyebrow across his forehead, and brown smudges beneath his eyes. He’s not as big as Lord Pons, but he looks just as dangerous. ‘If they passed near here this morning . . .’

‘You’re right,’ says Lord Olivier. ‘We cannot linger. We must go.’

‘And these?’ Lord Guillaume’s voice is a big surprise. It’s high up in his nose—almost a whine, in fact—and it doesn’t suit the rest of him, because he’s the oldest and largest of the lot, red-faced and broad-chested, with a belly spilling out over his sword-belt and feet the size of Garonne barges.

It’s like hearing an ox cheep.

‘We can’t leave
her
here,’ Lord Pons interrupts, nodding at me. ‘Blanche will have my head if we do. Bernard, as well. I’ll never hear the end of it. Blanche will tell every Perfect from here to Montsegur, and
they’ll
be at me as well.’

Lord Olivier sighs. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘You can bring her. I suppose we’ll have to sort something out. Send her back to the Lady Blanche, somehow.’

What? Oh no. Not Gran. You can’t. If you don’t want me, then leave me here—don’t send me back to
Gran
!

‘As for you, priest,’ Lord Olivier continues, circling Isidore, ‘I could kill you here, but I won’t. If your story is true, then for watching over the daughter of Mabelia de Laurac you deserve to live, at the very least. Get on your way. Get out of this country.’

‘No, wait! My lord!’ You don’t understand! ‘I don’t want to go back to Toulouse! You won’t take me back, will you? I don’t want to marry Hugues Saquet!’ But Olivier isn’t listening! And Lord Pons is bearing down on me—
help
!

‘My lord!’ Isidore sees Pons coming too. He grabs me with both hands. ‘Lord Olivier, please, you must let me come with you!’

‘No,’ says Olivier, and there’s a flurry of movement as Pons surges past, his horse’s hoofs ringing against hard stone, his harness creaking, his body swinging, his arm reaching—

‘Aagh!’ Let go! Let go!

‘No, please!’ It’s Isidore’s voice, and he must be clinging to my tunic! God, I’ll be torn apart!

‘Ow! Ouch!’ Ah. That’s better. Except . . .

Except that it’s not better! Because I’m up here on the horse, in front of Pons, and Isidore is down there!

‘No! You can’t do this! Let me go!’ You brigand, you— ‘Get
off
me!’

‘A kindly warning, priest,’ Olivier says. ‘I have many friends between here and the court of Aragon. If I find that you have told anyone about meeting us here, my vengeance will be visited upon you.’

‘Wait—my lord, please.’ It’s Isidore speaking. If I twist around—there! I can see him, hanging off Olivier’s stirrup. He’s dropped his saddlebag He
can’t
let them take me. ‘My lord,’ he pleads, ‘I owe a duty to her father—’

‘And I owe a duty to her cousin, for all that he’s a snivelling turncoat,’ Olivier replies, kicking hard to release Isidore’s grip. Isidore stumbles backwards; he nearly falls. ‘Go on your way, priest, and leave this country. You are not welcome here.’

‘Wait! Please!’ Isidore’s voice cracks. ‘Where are you going? Let me follow—let me come after you!’

‘Father!’ (I can’t get down! You must help me!) ‘My lord, please, he’s my friend, I can’t—I can’t leave him!’ Not with the French so close . . . ‘Over here—Father—I don’t want to go!’ Get me down, hurry,
please
!

Isidore lunges. He grabs at the horse underneath me; he catches at the girth with one hand and the stirrup with the other.

My hand! Grab my hand!

Pons moves. I can feel his whole body convulse. There’s a flash of silver. A splash of red.

A scream.

‘
Father!
’ Oh God! Oh God, what happened? He’s cut! He’s hurt! Pons just slashed him with a knife! ‘You cur! You turd! Let me
go
!’ I’ll kill you! God damn you to hell, I’ll rip out your eyes for that!

A roar from Pons because—yes! I got him! I scratched his cheek!

‘Ooof!’

Wha—who—?

Dizzy.

Going to fall?

No. There’s an arm in the way.

‘Behave yourself,’ Pons growls, his ribcage vibrating, ‘or you’ll get another one.’

Another what?

Oh. He must have hit me.

Hit me.

Isidore!

I have to crane my neck, but I can still see him. He’s already so far behind, staggering and holding his arm, shouting something—I can’t hear it.

Pons must have cut his arm. He’s bleeding.
Bleeding
.

‘Isidore!’

Oh God. God help me, what shall I do? They cast him down in the dust. He’s hurt and abandoned. I’ve lost him.

He’s disappeared from sight.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who was abducted by a cruel giant. The giant had a dungheap for a nose, a cesspit for a mouth, and hair like a heap of dry entrails. Whenever he spoke, those around him would flee in terror, thanks to the stench of his breath and the stupidity of his words.

But the beautiful princess saved herself from the cruel giant with the help of ...of ...

Of a saint dressed all in white, with beautiful pearly teeth and the gentlest face in the whole world.

When are they ever going to stop?

Can they really be human? I’m so tired and sore and thirsty—my bladder is full and my stomach is howling— but they keep riding and riding without pause. How can they do it? They haven’t even passed around a wineskin, let alone stopped to stretch their legs.

They
must
be thirsty. Pons has been sweating like a cellar wall. He hasn’t been crying, of course (like me), but he’s been losing enough salt water to float a merchant ship, steaming pile of pigs’ offal that he is. I could kill him. I could kill them all. Curse them and their issue, how could they do this? When I think about Isidore . . . when I picture him all alone, lost and wounded . . .

But I can’t. I have to stop thinking about him, or I’ll go mad. After all, the monks were nearby. They’ll take care of him. He can recover at Boulbonne, and press on from there to Compostela, the way he planned. He won’t have to buy me another horse. He won’t have to hide from everyone because of me. He’s better off, really. I just wish . . . I just wish . . .

Oh God, I can’t bear it.

‘Are you snivelling again?’ Pons rasps. ‘If you are, I swear, I’ll drag you along by the heels.’

I’m not. Look. I’m not crying, it’s just my nose. It’s stopped bleeding now, but it’s still running. What do you expect, when you throw punches at it?

My sleeves are a mess.

‘Where are we going, anyway?’ I
know
that we crossed the road to Carcassonne, a while back. ‘Didn’t we pass the Abbey of St Papoul, on the right?’

‘Shut up.’

‘I lived in Castelnaudary for a few months, but I’ve never been to the Black Mountains. Are we going to Saissac?’

‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’

He means it, unfortunately. If I don’t want my teeth punched through the back of my skull, I’d better keep quiet.

I’m right, though. This is all so familiar. We’re in the foothills of the Black Mountains, and over there on the left—that’s the hill to the north of Castelnaudary. I keep catching glimpses of it through the trees. And we’re slowing now, because of the steepness of the road. Even Olivier is slowing, though he’s the lightest horseman and the fastest, as well as the most accomplished. You almost forget, watching him, that he and his mount are two separate creatures.

Mind you, that wiry little sergeant—Vasco—he’s a good rider, too. It’s funny: I never knew that sergeants rode horses. But they do. Of the eight men in this company, only four are knights. The rest are sergeants or squires or some such thing. (No one’s bothered to introduce me, but it’s clear enough who gives the orders around here.) I think one of them may even be Catalan. I certainly can’t understand a word he says.

‘Hold,’ says Olivier, with a gesture that everyone else seems to understand, and he swerves off the path towards slightly higher ground. Pons follows. There are branches to dodge, and rocks to avoid, and why are we heading in this direction? This won’t lead us anywhere, except over the edge of a cliff.

Ah. I see. A clearing.

And beyond it—what a sight! The lands of the Lauragais, spread out before us. There’s Castelnaudary way off in the distance, clinging to a silver ribbon of river (I recognise the church spire) and—oh! There’s St-Martin-la-Lande! A tiny huddle of roofs, small enough to hold in your palm, set in a spider’s web of white roads. There are stripy vineyards, and straggling woods, and what’s that over there? That dark mass spilling across a field, glinting as it moves?

Hell’s barbed teeth. Is it
Humbert
?

‘The French!’ Look there! ‘It’s them, I know it is!’

‘Shut up,’ says Pons, before turning to Olivier. (He’s hardly even out of breath.) ‘They’re moving fast, don’t you think? For a force that size.’

Olivier shrugs. ‘Seven leagues in two days?’ he retorts. ‘It’s not such a great accomplishment.’

‘They’ll not resist St-Martin, surely?’ Loup actually sounds tired. ‘A little place like that? They’re bound to attack it. And if they do, it will slow them down.’

‘Perhaps.’ Olivier’s eyes are narrowed to dark slits as he stares out over the Lauragais countryside, one hand resting lightly on his hip, the other twisted around his reins. ‘Mark their route, though. It’s wide of Castelnaudary.’

‘Oh, they’ll never attempt Castelnaudary.’ Guillaume dismisses the notion with a snort. ‘There aren’t enough of them. They wouldn’t reach halfway around the walls.’

‘Then we are well placed,’ Olivier declares, with a quick glance at Pons. And suddenly we’re moving again. Again! Lord help me! I thought we might at
least
stop at the clearing, but I was wrong. Plunging back onto the road, which is getting less like a road and more like the scar of an endless rockfall, Olivier takes the lead ahead of Loup, Guillaume and the sergeants. As for Pons, he’s last in line.

My weight is slowing him down.

‘Are we going to Saissac?’ I’ve never been there, but I thought it was more to the east—and the setting sun is on our left now. ‘Will we reach it before nightfall?’

‘One more word and I’ll cut out your tongue,’ Pons snarls.

No help there. But I don’t think that we’re going to Saissac. We’re not heading the right way. If it wasn’t pure madness, I’d say that we were riding to intercept the French—though for what purpose, I can’t imagine. Four knights against an army? Even Olivier de Termes wouldn’t risk those odds.

No, there’s more to it than that. Olivier is bent on reaching a goal. A destination. And it’s not Saissac, and it’s not Castelnaudary, and Montferrand is much too far.

Where’s La Becede?

I could ask Pons, but it wouldn’t be wise. La Becede. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. I’ve never been there, and I don’t know much about it, but people from La Becede used to sell squirrel skins at the Castelnaudary markets.