Pagan's Daughter (5 page)

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.

There once was a beautiful princess who was imprisoned at the bottom of a deep, dark well. The well was so deep and dark that all she could see above her was a pinprick of light like a shining star. Every day, the wicked witch who had imprisoned her would winch down a loaf of bread and an apple. And some cheese. And a roast chicken. And perhaps a few dried grapes.

Then one day, as she was waiting for her food, something else tumbled into the well. It was a ladder made of golden rope, held by a noble knight in silver armour ...

CHAPTER FIVE

‘She’s sixteen years old, Holy Father. Sixteen years old!

And for all those years I have striven to make her a Good Christian, according to her mother’s wishes. But she is a crooked stick. She will not obey God’s law. It’s the priest’s blood, I am certain—her mother was never like this.’

Aunt Navarre is doing what she likes best: abusing me in front of other people. Namely, in front of Benedict de Termes, the Good Man. The Perfect. I remember him quite well from his visit to our house in Laurac. It must have been early last year, before the King’s army drove us into Toulouse, because Dulcie had joined our little convent.

She kept trying to kiss Benedict’s disgusting, horny feet.

He’s a little older, a little greyer, but essentially the same. Neck like a chicken’s leg. Ears like slabs of lichen. Teeth like flecks of rotten meat, all black and green.

I can’t believe that he’s wearing dark blue. Dark blue and sandals. He might as well be wearing a sign saying
I Am A Heretic
. Does he
want
the Roman idolaters hereabouts to start pelting him with rotten eggs?

What a fool.

‘Has she been punished?’ he asks Navarre, in his hollow, tired voice.

‘Oh, many times. Many, many times.’ Navarre begins to count on her fingers, which are bandaged where I scratched them. ‘With fasting, with prayers, with the rod. We’ve forbidden her to speak. We’ve stuffed her mouth with tow. We’ve shaved off her hair, once or twice. We’ve even locked her in that chest over there. And she remains incorrigible. She’s eaten up with sin, Holy Father, I don’t know what to do with her any more. She’ll never be a Perfect. She gets worse and worse as she gets older.’

‘She’s a Roman priest’s bastard,’ Gran suddenly rumbles, from her ancestral chair. ‘What do you expect?’

I wonder if the others can hear this? They’ve all been sent upstairs, but I
know
what it’s like upstairs. You can hear practically everything if you put your ear to the floor. I bet Sybille has her ear to the floor. And Dulcie. And Arnaude. I bet Sybille’s really enjoying the fact that Aunt Navarre can’t say a single nice thing about me. Not a word about how hard I work, or how helpful I am. According to her, I’m just a bottomless pit of vice.

Well, I might be a sinner, but Navarre is worse. What kind of Good Woman goes after one of her novices with an axe? Navarre has the heart of a rampant wolf. As for Gran, she doesn’t fool me. I know that she can do more than she pretends. I know that she just wants us waiting on her hand and foot.

‘Babylonne.’ With an obvious effort, Benedict turns to look at me. He seems exhausted, as if he can barely summon up the energy to raise an eyebrow. ‘Tell me,’ he sighs, ‘do you wish to be saved, Babylonne?’

What sort of a question is that? What does he expect me to say? No?

‘Yes, Holy Father.’

‘Then why do you torment your friends and family?’

‘I don’t torment them.’ (It might be worth pointing this out. He might actually listen.) ‘They torment me.’

A gasp from Aunt Navarre. ‘Wicked girl!’ she exclaims. ‘Holy Father—’

‘I never beat
you
! I never threw scalding water on
you
, and burned
your
leg!’ Is everyone blind, in this house? Look at my face! Look at my feet! ‘I never pushed
you
down the ladder!’

‘Don’t listen, Father, she has a serpent’s tongue.’

‘Please.’ Benedict lifts one languid hand, which doesn’t look much better than his feet. ‘You both scold like peasants. You offend my ears.’