Pagan's Daughter (29 page)
Probably because his wounds weren’t tended by Gerard de la Motta.
CRA-A-SH!
Another rock hits the bailey, and another spoonful of egg hits the floor. I can’t help jumping, though I should be used to it by now; that trebuchet never seems to stop.
I hope no one got hurt. We’re running out of room in this chapel.
‘It’s all right.’ Peitavin’s voice is shaking like a palsied crone. He’s not convincing anyone—least of all the breathless man whose brow he’s mopping. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all right.’
All right? What a laugh. If this is all right, I’m the Sultan of Baghdad. Our water’s running low. Our food is running low. We hardly have any linen left for the bandages. (Which reminds me: I must take some linen now and hide it away, before the bloody flow strikes me at the end of this month.) Even our mangonel is a paltry thing, compared to the French trebuchet. Didn’t I hear Vasco say that we’re fighting at a disadvantage, because our machine is worked with twisted ropes instead of weights and pulleys?
Finally, on top of everything else, we have Gerard de Motta treating our wounded. God, I hate him. God, but he’s a bladder-headed big-mouth. Listen to him, prating on about an amputation right in front of the poor soul who’s going to lose his leg.
‘Up high,’ Gerard’s saying. ‘Up high, well above the green part. Only we must be careful, or the marrow will run out of the bone, and he’ll die instantly . . .’
Aaugh. I have to get out of here. I need some fresh air.
‘Babylonne!’ Trust Gerard. He just can’t leave me alone. ‘Babylonne, where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Babylonne!’
‘Please, Holy Father, I think my monthly flow has started.’
Hah! That’s done it. Gerard positively blanches. Peitavin flinches. Here they are, surrounded by vile smells and oozing pus and burning, swollen skin, and the dreadful thought of female filth nearly unmans them.
‘Oh—uh—yes.’ Gerard flutters his hands at me. ‘Yes, go. Go!’
If you say so, frog-face. Hell on earth, I feel dizzy. It’s so hot. This keep is like an oven. And the latrines—don’t even
talk
to me about them.
You have to bat your way through the flies as you pass the latrines, which smell even worse than the chapel.
CRA-A-ASH!
Oh,
stop
! Just stop it, damn you! I don’t know if they’re misfiring or if they’re trying to frighten us, but I can feel every impact in my bowels. And this time they must have hit someone, because there’s shouting from the bailey. Shouting and groaning.
I suppose that I’d better go out and help. It’s my job. My appointed task. The trouble is, I . . .
God, I can’t do it. Not yet. Just give me a moment while I close my eyes and breathe out, and breathe in, and lean against the wall, and think about something else. About Isidore. About his house.
Isidore would keep a clean house, I know he would. All the walls would be whitewashed. All the beds would have pots under them. He wouldn’t spit on his floor, either.
And he would scatter lavender among the rushes, for a nice smell.
‘Babs.’
I know that voice. Yes, it’s Maura. She must have come out of the latrines; she’s hauling herself along as if she has bricks on her back. Poor Maura. She’s already lost weight.
The flux is a terrible thing.
‘How are you, Maura?’
‘Not good,’ she croaks. ‘It’s a bad dose, this one.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll lose half my guts if it goes on.’
‘Isn’t there medicine that you can take?’
‘Not any more. It’s all gone. The fennel. The dried blackberries.’ She winces. ‘Too many sloppy bowels, around here.’
‘Maybe you should stay away from those latrines.’ (I never use them.) ‘It can’t be good for you, dragging yourself upstairs all the time.’
But she’s not listening. Her mind is on other things: namely, the fresh cramp that’s just hit her. Bent double, her face contorted, she spins around and stumbles back upstairs, towards the latrines.
I have to admit, I’m worried about Maura. The flux can be deadly. It killed the last King of France. It killed the last Viscount of Carcassonne. Sieges always bring it on, fast and furious: why should this siege be any different? Half the time, it’s not the fighting or the lack of water that ends a siege. It’s disease among the defenders.
I’m surprised that the French haven’t been hurling dead animals over the walls.
‘No, no!’
Hell’s cloven hoofs. What on earth was that? It came from the bailey; what’s happening out there? The growling doesn’t sound frightened, it sounds exultant. And there’s movement in the Great Hall—scraping benches and thudding footsteps—as if everyone in it is heading outside.
Yes, I thought so. The Great Hall is empty. There’s nothing but overturned stools and slimy rushes and greasy tables and a month’s worth of scraps: bones and rinds and fruit-stones and nutshells, with a lone rat in the midst of the bounty, perched on someone’s discarded helmet.
Over it all, the arched ribs of the vaulted ceiling— studded with their fine carvings of harps and vines— look impossibly pure and delicate.
‘God’s death!’ That’s Pons. Pons de Villeneuve, framed in the doorway, dark against the sun. But as he enters the Great Hall, it becomes clear that he’s wounded. He’s holding his wrist and grimacing. His surcoat is smeared with blood.
‘My
lord
?’ Oh no! ‘What happened?’
‘What happened?’ He lurches to the nearest table. ‘We lured ’em in, that’s what happened. Ambushed ’em near the barbican.’
‘Your arm . . .’
‘It’s nothing.’ He picks up an empty jug with his good hand, and shakes it. ‘Any wine?’
‘You should dress that. My lord? It’s bleeding.’
‘It’s
nothing
.’ He laughs wildly. ‘You should see what I did to
him
!’
To him? ‘To whom?’
‘Go and look,’ he says hoarsely, nodding at the door. Through it, I can make out milling bodies wrapped in a pall of dust. There are sticks waving and swinging; screams and curses; cries of triumph.
The sun hits my scalp like a hammer, and pierces my eyeballs like a knife. Whoops! Watch yourself, Babylonne, or you’ll take a tumble down those stairs into the bailey. The dust is making me cough. And what’s going on out here? What’s all the excitement? Why all the cheers?
Oh.
Sweet mercy of Christ.
‘Mon Dieu ...’
It’s a Frenchman. A captured Frenchman. He’s on his knees, his hands lifted in supplication. He can hardly speak through the blood trickling from his swollen lips. Most of his clothes have been torn from his body.
And there’s another one, dead on the ground with his throat cut. And another. Stripped. Groggy. His face pouring blood. Someone kicks him in the head, so that he topples over and lies there, his hands waving feebly. Someone else dances around, waving his bloody surcoat in the air like a flag.
That Frenchman is only a boy. He can’t be any older than I am.
He’s crying.
‘Let’s cut out
your
eyes, and see how
you
like it!’ cries a beast in human form, who can’t be serious—oh no,
no
!
‘Stop!’ What are you doing? ‘You can’t! Wait! My lord!’ (Thank God! Here comes Olivier!) ‘My lord, help, please!’
Olivier is striding across the bailey towards us. He can’t have taken part in this ambush, because he’s not wearing his chain mail—just his
hacqueton
, loosely tied under his sword-belt. All his clothes are too big for him, now; he’s been whittled away to almost nothing, and his eyes are looking huge in his small, sallow face.
Vasco and Guillaume de Minerve are in attendance, hurrying to keep up with him. They’re both blinking with fatigue.
‘Where’s Pons?’ Olivier demands sharply, scanning the turmoil in front of the keep.
‘In there, my lord!’ I have to raise my voice over all the commotion; when he spots me, Oliver frowns. ‘Lord Pons is in the Great Hall, my lord, he’s wounded.’
‘Badly?’
‘I—I don’t think so.’ Not like these Frenchmen. In the name of all that’s holy, can’t you see what’s going on? Can’t you hear the pleading? How can you just
stand there
? ‘Please, my lord—this is not . . . not . . .’
Not what? Not fair? Not human? Of course the French must pay for their crimes—they are wicked and cruel—but surely we’re better than they are? The
French
cut out people’s eyes; they’re famous for it. We’re not like them, though. Are we?
Unless they deserve it. Perhaps they do. Perhaps I’m being weak. Female. I can’t seem to think clearly any more.
‘
Silence
!’ Olivier thunders. And of course everyone obeys, because he’s held in such respect. Everyone obeys except the French, who are still whimpering and moaning. They probably don’t even understand.
You can almost see the dust settling as all move-ment stops.
Olivier coughs to clear his throat. He surveys the scene before him: the filthy, panting footsoldiers with their dangling sickles and mattocks; the boots and swords and knitted garments that have passed from hand to hand; the naked corpse in the pool of drying blood; the sobbing boy with his hands wrapped around his head . . .
‘These are the captives?’ Olivier asks.
‘Yes, my lord,’ someone pipes up. ‘God rot them, my lord, they came and—’
Olivier lifts a hand for silence. ‘No other casualties?’ he inquires.
‘No, my lord.’
‘But Pons was hurt?’
‘In the arm, my lord.’
A brief silence. Olivier runs his fingers through his lank, brown hair. He looks exhausted.
‘All right,’ he says at last. ‘We’ll hang these two from the walls. I want the French to see them kicking.’
A growl of approval.
‘As for the dead one . . .’ Olivier turns to Vasco. ‘Bring an axe. We’ll chop him up and put the pieces in the mangonel. Send him back bit by bit.’
A savage roar greets this command. The Frenchmen suddenly disappear behind a rush of bodies. A cry of alarm is cut short by a
thump
.
Those churls are actually fighting. Fighting over who gets the spoils, and who has the honour of dragging the prisoners up to the ramparts.
I can’t believe it. I thought . . . I was hoping . . .
I don’t know.
‘Well?’ It’s Olivier. He’s standing there, on the stair below mine. Hands on hips.
Oh! I’m blocking his path.
‘
Well?
’ he repeats impatiently. ‘What is it?’
What should I say? What’s the right question? I must look like a stranded fish.
But as he begins to brush past me, the words suddenly spew from my mouth like blood from a fatal wound.
‘Is this because of Loup?’
He stops. His bleak gaze fixes on me, dark and unyielding. ‘What?’ he says.
‘This . . . butchery.’ (There’s no other way of describing it.) ‘Is this for Loup’s sake?’
He narrows his eyes intently, as if he’s seeing me for the first time. He seems interested in something, but it’s not my question. My question is dismissed with a careless shrug.
‘This isn’t Loup,’ he says. ‘This is war.’
And that’s that. No more discussion; he doesn’t have time. Instead he disappears into the keep, moving briskly—and I might as well follow, for all that the keep is a noisome cesspit.
I can’t stay here.
If I don’t leave now, I might see Vasco return with the axe.
Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl whose father died. On his deathbed, her father begged his dearest friend to care for the girl, who had no one except a cruel aunt in her life. So the friend, who was a good and gentle man, took the girl into his house, and gave her nice clothes, and tasty food, and a room of her own. And he taught her to read and write, and to look after his books, and she became his very own daughter.
CRA-A-ASH!
Oh God. God help us.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name—
‘Here! Over here!’ Someone needs my rock. He’s gesturing wildly, coughing and pointing, but I can hardly see him through all the dust. Where am I supposed to take this? Where do they need it—in the breach? Over there? Or do they want it for ammunition?
The fighting on the walls is getting desperate. The French must have thrown up ladders, and I still don’t know what’s going on: we seem to be holding the breach that they made in the battlements, but have they got through elsewhere yet? Have they struck another weak point, knowing that we’re busy trying to mend that huge rent?
There are so many weak points. So many gaps in our defences, because of all the ill and injured. And now this hole—this great, yawning wound on the ramparts . . .
CRA-A-ASH
!
That shot was fired wide, thank God. Most of their shots seem to be aimed at the breach, now, but that one hit the wall of the keep. Bounced straight off.
Luckily.
Someone snatches the rock from my hands, and it’s passed to the next man in the chain, which winds its way across the bailey into the western tower and up the stairs. All the stone that fell when the breach was made—all that stone has to be returned to the ramparts, so the breach can be mended. Before the French overwhelm us.
