Pagan's Daughter (23 page)

A poor village, no doubt, but at least it’s not Toulouse. I can’t go back to Toulouse. If I’m going to die, I’d rather be killed by the French than by Aunt Navarre. Because she’ll kill me, I know she will. She’ll never forgive me for taking her scissors.

My
scissors, now. I still have them in my purse, so I’m not entirely defenceless. No pepper, though; I wish I hadn’t wasted it all on Drogo. What am I going to do tonight? It’s getting dim under the trees—there’s a greenish twilight creeping out of the thickets that we pass. Birds are calling and wheeling. Sometimes we hit pockets of cool air, flowing out of low, dank, shadowy places. Soon we’ll have to stop and camp. Soon it will be night.

Oh God, how I wish that Isidore were here!

Isidore. What’s happened to him? Has he reached Boulbonne yet? I hope so. Lord Jesus our Saviour, please let him be safe. Let him be resting on a bed somewhere, with his arm bandaged, and a jug of wine at his side. (Wine! I’m so thirsty!) Surely he reached Boulbonne? Surely he’s all right now? Except that he couldn’t have carried his saddlebags, not with that wounded arm. Not both saddlebags, anyway.

Please God, let his books be safe too. If he loses them it will break his heart.

‘Stop leaning on me,’ Pons rumbles, and—ouch!

Prods me in the ribs.

‘Sorry.’

‘Sit up straight, what’s the matter with you?’

What’s the
matter
with me? I’m in agony, that’s what’s the matter with me! ‘My back’s sore . . .’

‘Something else will be sore, if you don’t stop whining.’ And suddenly, after half a day’s silence, Pons begins to talk. I don’t know why. Is fatigue making him lightheaded? ‘When did you last see your cousin?’ he asks.

My cousin? ‘Which cousin?’

‘Don’t get smart with me,’ he barks, snapping my cheek with his fingers. ‘You know which cousin, your cousin Bernard!’

‘Oh.’
That
cousin. ‘Well . . . not for a long time. Not since we left Laurac.’

Pons grunts. After a while, he says, ‘Haven’t seen him myself, since winter. Keeping his head low, these days.’

I’m not surprised. After making his submission to the King of France, Bernard Oth can’t have many friends left.

‘And his wife?’ Pons continues. ‘You haven’t seen anything of her?’

Nova? ‘No.’

‘She didn’t join your little crew? That gaggle of women Blanche has been dragging around with her?’

Our convent, you mean? ‘No.’ This is interesting.

‘Why, was she going to?’

A bark of laughter. ‘Not if she could help it, no,’ says Pons. ‘Bernard Oth wanted her to—or so he told me. But she wouldn’t be persuaded.’

I don’t understand. ‘Why would he want her to do such a thing?’

‘Why? Because it would put an end to their marriage, that’s why.’

Ah. I see.

‘He’ll get rid of her somehow, though, you mark my words,’ Pons muses, more to himself than to me. ‘He has a stubborn streak, does Bernard. Mind you, I don’t blame him. There’s nothing worse than a woman with a big mouth.’

This is aimed at me, I’m sure. It means that I’m to speak only when I’m spoken to.

Suddenly, up ahead, someone shouts. Dusk has been settling like smoke, and it’s harder than ever to see Olivier, who’s still in the lead. Only Loup’s white horse, and Vasco’s white surcoat, are clearly visible. But there’s something rearing up in front of us all, jagged and dark against the red-streaked sky. It’s studded with flickering lights, and there’s a flag snapping over it, coiling and unfurling in the wind.

By the bargemen of Bazacle! Can it be La Becede?

‘In the name of the Count!’ Olivier cries, and there’s an exchange of greetings with one of the garrison. Yes, this must be La Becede. (What else could it be?) It’s a citadel, like Muret’s, only smaller. Even in the dim light I can see stone walls that tower above us, their battlements swathed in shadow save where torches have been lit. There’s a smell of cess and animals; the woods have been cleared all around us, and replaced by little terraced gardens, with here and there a stunted fruit tree or poor thatched house. As for the citadel, it seems to be well placed—up high, with bald, rocky approaches on at least two sides. (Perhaps on three, but it’s hard to tell in this light.) A village is huddled beneath it, behind the wall that we’re skirting now: a wall that could be higher, and better preserved, but which presents a formidable barrier even so.

And here’s the garrison. Or some of it, anyway. Men are spilling from what must be a gate—yes, it’s a barbican—wearing helmets and
hacquetons
and even chain-mail hauberks. They seem ecstatic that Olivier’s arrived, kissing his feet or throwing themselves on their knees in gratitude. Olivier ignores most of them. He fixes his attention on one man only, an older fellow in blue, who’s attended by two torch-bearers and who seems to take charge of the whole procession.

Because we’re a procession now: a line of horses, flanked by milling foot soldiers and led by a silver-haired official (a steward, perhaps?), winding its way through the village—which isn’t a big village. You could practically spit from one end of it to the other. There isn’t even a church that I can see. Just a handful of houses, all tightly packed, and one or two gardens. Pigs squeal somewhere off in the shadows.

If there are women around, they’re not showing their faces.

‘Welcome to La Becede!’ someone yells, so I was right. And the lord of La Becede is . . . who? I can’t remember. My mind’s a blank.

I’m so tired and thirsty.

‘Bernard Bontard!’ Pons exclaims. He’s peering at a fellow with unruly black hair like a ram’s fleece. ‘Is that you? Is your master here?’

‘He is, my lord,’ comes the reply.

‘Well that’s a mercy,’ Pons mutters, and raises his voice, which is hoarse with fatigue. ‘Loup! Do you hear? Guillaume de Puylaurens has already brought his men!’

‘God be praised,’ Loup responds dully. And here we are at the castle. Our horses’ hoofs clatter over some kind of bridge; there’s a short, steep climb to the second gate, which is small and high and squeezed between two monstrous towers. More foot soldiers greet us with joyful shouts as we pass under the portcullis. At last we reach the great stone bailey that would probably seem bigger if its walls weren’t lined with ramshackle structures made of wood and daub and flapping blankets.

But there’s a keep too, and it looks invincible: large, tall and practically windowless, with a narrow tower on each corner.

Do they have a well in this place? I certainly hope so.

‘The Lord of Termes!’ someone cries. ‘What a blessing!’ Whoever he is, this noisy fellow, he’s advancing on Olivier with his long arms spread wide, wearing a green surcoat that must have been good once, to judge from the silky gleam on its lining. (His boots are very handsome too.) When Olivier dismounts, the two men embrace, and it becomes obvious that I’m in the presence of another lord. The lord of La Becede, probably. He’s a tall man with the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen, thick and wavy and touched with gold, like the hair of certain painted angels in the church of St Etienne. He also has the biggest nose I’ve ever seen, which spoils his beauty, somewhat; it sticks out like a crow’s beak, or the rudder on a boat’s stern.

Beside him, Olivier looks almost dainty, and very, very tired.

‘Off you get.’ Pons prods me in the ribs, and— whoops! Help!

But hands reach out and catch me, easing me to the ground. It’s hard not to stagger like a drunkard. If I wasn’t being held up, I’d be flat on my face.

‘Thank you.’ It comes out as a croak because I’m so thirsty. And here’s wine! A whole cup! ‘Thank you . . . bless you . . .’

God
, that’s good!

Pons drops from his horse beside me, as heavy as a load of firewood. ‘Give me that,’ he says, snatching the cup from my hand. As he drains it, Lord Big-nose approaches. (His nose comes first, followed by the rest of him.)

‘Pons, my brother!’ he says, taking Pons by surprise. Pons is still wiping his mouth when Big-nose embraces him; the whole exchange is a bit clumsy.

‘My lord Pagan,’ says Pons.

Pagan? Lord
Pagan
? The name sends a chill down my back—as though I’m suddenly confronting my own father. But I’m not, of course. This is just Lord Pagan of La Becede. I remember his name, now. Navarre has mentioned it. Cousin Bernard, too.

I suppose it’s not an uncommon name, hereabouts.

‘And this?’ Lord Pagan is almost giddy with joy; I can see it in the pale, glittering eye that he’s turned on me. He’s so happy that he’s even deigned to notice the varlets. ‘Who is this, your squire?’

‘Hell, no.’ Pons sounds alarmed at the very thought. ‘This is the niece of Bernard Oth, Lord of Montreal.’

‘The
niece
?’ Lord Pagan exclaims, and there’s a rippling murmur all around us.

‘She was living with Lady Blanche de Laurac, in Toulouse, but she ran away,’ Pons continues. ‘We picked her up this morning down near the Abbey of Boul-bonne, silly bitch.’

Stinking pig. Keep a courteous tongue in your head, why don’t you? Lord Pagan’s high spirits have all drained away. He’s wearing a troubled expression.

‘Maybe you should have left her,’ he says. ‘We’re living lean here, my friend.’

But Pons shakes his head.

‘Have you ever
met
Blanche de Laurac?’ he retorts.

‘She’d tear strips off me if it ever came out that I left her granddaughter on the road to Compostela. With a
Roman priest
.’

‘A Roman priest?’ Lord Pagan echoes. ‘But I thought half that family were Good Christians?’

‘They are. That’s what I mean. You can’t turn around in this part of the world without bumping into one of ’em, and they’re mostly believers.’ Pons accepts a second cup of wine. ‘Even Bernard Oth isn’t too friendly with his local bishops, though he’s been flying the King’s colours lately, of course. I don’t want him turning on me if the wind changes and we find ourselves defending the same keep. Like this one, for instance.’ He nods at Lord Pagan’s inner defences. ‘He’s got a mad temper, has Bernard Oth.’

‘Very well, then.’ Lord Pagan has stopped listening. He beckons to the silver-haired steward before turning back to Pons. ‘Isn’t Lady Blanche a Perfect?’ he asks. ‘Living with Perfects?’

‘In a kind of nunnery,’ Pons confirms. ‘People send their daughters to her.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Lord Pagan addresses Silver-top. ‘Take this girl to the chapel. She can sleep with Gerard de la Motta, and the other Perfects.’

With whom? With
Gerard de la Motta
?

Oh no.

I don’t believe this.

I spend four days travelling across the length and breadth of the Lauragais, and I end up with
Arnaude’s cousin
!

CHAPTER TWENTY

So that’s Gerard de la Motta. He doesn’t look much like his cousin Arnaude. But he does remind me of someone. Who is it?

Oh yes. He reminds me of Bernard Oth’s lymer hound. The one with the dewlaps and the drooping cheeks and the rolls of loose skin over its eyes.

Even the set of his shoulders looks glum.

‘What is your name?’ he asks in a spiritless voice.

‘Babylonne.’ It’s nice of Silver-top to abandon me at the door, with barely a word of explanation. I feel as if I’ve been dumped in a corner. Discarded like a grape-pip. ‘My mother was Mabelia de Laurac.’

‘Ah.’ He’s heard about her. I can tell by the way his gaze skitters away from me, towards the chapel altar— which is bare, of course. A bare block of stone under a small, high, unglazed window. There’s ribbed vaulting overhead, but nothing else to distinguish this chapel from an armoury, or a guardroom, or even a rather large latrine that happens to have been requisitioned as a dormitory.

Four thin palliasses are laid out on the floor, around a single oil-lamp. Three other Perfects are huddled together on one of these palliasses like sheep on a raft. I recognise the young Perfect with the shaved head and the lazy eye. He’s from Montreal, and he lived in Laurac for a while. His name is Peitavin. The others I don’t recognise. There’s a tall one and a short one, but they’re both skinny, of course. (I’ve yet to meet a fat Perfect.) The short one has that wrung-out, sweaty look of someone enduring a painful dose of the flux. The tall one stares at me bug-eyed, as if I’m the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Even with a great stretch of stone floor lying between us, he’s obviously afraid that I’m going to corrupt him somehow.

‘Why did you run away from the Lady Blanche?’ Gerard asks me suspiciously, without bothering to introduce his friends. ‘To commit fornication?’

‘No!’ You twisted scrap of boiled ox-tripe, how
dare
you? ‘To
avoid
fornication! My grandmother was trying to marry me off!’

Gerard blinks. ‘I can’t believe that,’ he says. ‘Lady Blanche is a Good Woman. She is no friend to matrimony.’

‘For me she is.’ Anyway, what would you know? I’ve never seen
you
in her house, for all that your cousin’s been living with her for a year. I’ve heard of you, naturally, because Arnaude’s always dropping your name, but I’ve never seen you. How would
you
know anything about my grandmother? ‘That’s why I don’t want to go back to Toulouse.’