Pagan's Daughter (3 page)

‘Why did you say that eating cheese is wrong?’ You brainless bean-pole! I can’t believe that even
Sybille
could be so stupid. ‘You shouldn’t go around saying that. Not in public.’

Sybille scowls at me. Even when she’s scowling, she takes care not to screw up her pretty face too much. Just in case she gets wrinkles.

‘Why shouldn’t I say it?’ she demands. ‘Eating cheese is wrong. Because it’s a product of fornication.’

God give me patience. But Dulcie beams at Sybille in that patronising way she has.

‘You are right, Sybille,’ says Dulcie. ‘You are a good witness to the true faith.’

‘You can be a good witness to the true faith without being stupid!’ (I mean, where have you people been for the last year?) ‘Toulouse isn’t like Laurac. There are Dominican friars living down the road. We have to be more careful.’

‘I am
not
stupid!’ Sybille’s face has gone red. ‘What else should I have said? That cheese is my favourite food?’

‘Well, yes.’ That would have been a good start. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it would have been a lie,’ Dulcie points out. ‘And we don’t tell lies. You should know that by now, Babylonne.’

‘Well, fine.’ I have to steady Gran’s arm as she shuffles over to the table, or she’ll fall—corns over crown— and end up with her nose spread across her face like a rotten pear. ‘Then what about saying, “I don’t want to share a cheese with someone who smells worse than his cheese does”?
That
would have been the truth, wouldn’t it?’

‘Why should I say any such thing?’ Sybille is looking to Dulcie for support.
‘I’m
not ashamed of being a Good Christian. Maybe you are, Babylonne! Maybe you would have gone with him because he had a cheese!’

Maybe I would, at that. But I’m not going to tell her so. ‘Listen.’ (Peabrain.) ‘The point I’m making is that we shouldn’t go looking for trouble. Lady Navarre is right. There are too many worshippers of Rome in this city. As long as we keep our heads down, they won’t pay us any mind, but you
know
what can happen. We all know what can happen. It happened to my mother, remember?’

Dulcie opens her mouth. Before she can comment, however, Arnaude bustles through the front door. She’s squat and broad and purple-faced, like a turnip with legs.

‘You’re late,’ says Navarre. ‘How’s Lombarda?’

‘Not good,’ Arnaude replies. ‘Very ill.’

Ah! So
that’s
where Arnaude has been—comforting Lombarda de Rouaix. Now that we’re in exile again, and living on the charity of Alamain de Rouaix, we have to be extra nice to his poor, sick wife. If we’re not, he might throw our little convent out of this miserable house. And stick someone in it who can actually pay him rent.

Arnaude fusses around, putting things away. ‘They’ve summoned two of the Good Men, in case she dies . . .’

All at once, Gran thumps the table-top. She wants to eat.
Now
.

‘We can discuss the Good Men later,’ Navarre declares, and fixes me with an eye like a spear-head.

Oh. Right. Is it my turn again?

‘Uh—um—’ Where’s the bread? There it is. I nearly drop it as I present it to Navarre with a bow. ‘Tell me if this is acceptable to you.’

‘May God inform you if it is acceptable to Him,’ Navarre intones.

‘Bless us.’ Another bow.

‘May the Lord bless you,’ Navarre replies, without really meaning it. (If God ever blessed
me
, Navarre would give Him what for.)

‘Bless and have mercy upon us. The meal is ready. You may go to the table when it is acceptable to God and to yourself.’

‘May God reward you well,’ Navarre chants, and turns to the others. They’re all standing in their places, by now—except for Gran, who’s sitting, because Grandmother Blanche stands for no one. ‘Bless and have mercy upon us, my sisters.’

‘May the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit indulge us and have mercy on all our sins,’
everyone replies (except Gran, who’s peering around for her bowl of mushy bread).

‘Let us adore the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,’ Navarre goes on, absent-mindedly reaching for the jug of water.

‘He is worthy and just.’

‘Let us adore the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’

‘He is worthy and just. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name ...’

And so on, and so on. Yawn. Just another fourteen paternosters to go. You could drop dead of starvation with the bread sitting right in front of you. Gran’s beginning to drool. Arnaude’s desperate to tell us about the Good Men; you can tell by the way she keeps rocking from foot to foot, like someone who’s bladder’s about to burst. Dulcie’s clasping her hands together, her pale face raised to the ceiling, her eyes firmly closed.

Navarre’s serving out the portions. She always does. And I always end up with the smallest piece of bread.

‘. . . and-lead-us-not-into-temptation-but-deliver-us-from-evil-amen,’ she babbles. ‘Let us adore the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’

‘He is worthy and just.’

‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be always with us all.’

‘Amen.’

‘Bless us, have mercy upon us. Be seated, my sisters. Babylonne, you can feed the Lady Blanche, today.’

Sybille smirks. Everyone’s had to wait and wait and now I won’t be able to eat until Gran’s finished her meal. No wonder Sybille’s looking pleased.

I wish her mother would die. Then maybe her father might change his mind about dumping her here with us, and summon her back to his castle to look after him, and we wouldn’t have to put up with her forked tongue any more.

‘So tell us about the Good Men,’ Navarre says to Arnaude, munching on a mouthful of dry bread. ‘When did they arrive?’

‘This morning,’ answers Arnaude. ‘They stopped at Laurac on their way up from Montsegur, but Bernard Oth threw them out.’

‘Ah!’ Dulcie presses a pale hand to her breast. ‘How could Lord Bernard imperil his immortal soul like that?’

What a stupid question. Why else would you imperil your immortal soul, unless it’s to save your mortal skin? Cousin Bernard is a coward. No more and no less. He was afraid of the French King’s army when it came down into Languedoc last year, so he made his submission. And now he’s persecuting the Good Christians because that’s what the King of France wants him to do.

Why else would he have told his own grandmother to get out of Laurac?

‘If I were my sister,’ says Aunt Navarre, ‘I would be ashamed of having a son like Bernard.’

Suddenly Gran stirs. The hairs on her chin tremble, her toothless mouth opens, and bits of soggy bread spray across the table-top.

‘Bernard is his father all over again,’ she croaks. ‘Guillaume was a Roman, so Bernard is a Roman at heart.’

‘That’s true.’ Navarre wouldn’t disagree with her mother if Gran said that the King of France was a giant toenail. ‘Not wishing to speak ill of the dead, but Guillaume probably came back to earth as a dung-worm in a cesspit.’

There she goes again. Navarre never has a good word to say about anyone. Personally, I always admired my Uncle Guillaume. He might have believed all those Roman lies, but
he
never betrayed the Count of Toulouse. Not like his son Bernard.

Uncle Guillaume set his face against the French and fought them until the day he died.

‘I blame Bernard’s wife,’ Navarre continues. ‘She’s a Roman. She’s poisoned his mind.’

‘I thought you said that they loathed each other?’ (Have I missed something here?) ‘Last week you said that they weren’t speaking to each other. How can she have poisoned his mind, if they haven’t been speaking to each other?’

Aunt Navarre frowns and colours. She hates to be caught out. Berthe goggles, and Dulcie pretends not to hear.

Gran coughs.

‘Bastards should always keep their mouths shut at the table,’ she creaks.

Dead silence. I’m not going to blush. I am not going to blush. I’m going to quietly, calmly, and very, very gently push this battered metal spoon
right down the old bitch’s throat, if she talks to me like that again!

No, I’m not. I’m going to swallow the insult, as usual. What else can I do?

Sybille is smiling. Arnaude has her head down. Navarre says, ‘Yes, hold your tongue, Babylonne, you let it wag too much. Now what other news from the Good Men, Arnaude? Tell us more.’

Everyone leans forward (except Gran). Arnaude raises her head. She seems embarrassed to be the subject of such intense scrutiny.

‘They had a hard time crossing from Montsegur, because Lord Humbert de Beaujeu is laying waste to the lands south of here,’ she replies. ‘He’s pulling up vines and burning houses . . . they had to hide in a cave near Pamiers for three days. No one would take them in, for fear of Lord Humbert.’

‘Who is Lord Humbert?’ asks Sybille, puckering her seamless brow.

‘You know.’ Arnaude speaks patiently. ‘Remember we talked about this? Lord Humbert is a vassal of the King of France. He was left here with five hundred knights to make trouble after the King went back to France last year. He’s been pestering all our lords who are still faithful to the Count of Toulouse.’

‘Did the Good Men have no protectors on their journey?’ Dulcie inquires, as Gran slowly rises. She doesn’t want any more bread. After dishing out all those vigorous insults, she needs another nap.

At last I can eat my own dinner.

‘Two knights were with them for part of the way, in case they ran into the French, but left them near Castelnaudary,’ says Arnaude, and Dulcie clicks her tongue.

‘They should not have left the Good Men.’ Dulcie’s tone is very solemn. ‘God will punish them for that.’

And suddenly there’s a squawk. A squawk from behind us.

Oh no.

Catastrophe.

Grandmother Blanche has sat on my egg.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s so good to get away from St Pierre des Cuisines. It’s so good to get away from the
smell
of that parish.

I’m sure that we’re all very grateful to Alamain de Rouaix for lending us one of his houses, but did he really have to stick us in the middle of the leather-workers’ district?

‘Sybille?’ It’s Berthe speaking. I wish she’d shut up. I wish she and Sybille would
both
shut up, and let me enjoy the smell of the spice shops in peace.

‘Yes, Berthe?’ Sybille replies.

‘Yesterday, Lady Blanche said that Babylonne was a bastard.’ Berthe skips over a pile of horse manure. ‘Why is she a bastard?’

‘Because her parents were not married to each other,’ Sybille responds gravely. I’m trying to ignore them. It’s easy to ignore them, with so much to look at. The Saracen wall, for example—that’s very interesting. You can see where those wicked French knocked the tops off all the towers, the last time they got in here.

‘Sybille?’

‘Yes, Berthe?’

‘Isn’t it a
good
thing that they weren’t married? I thought it was bad to marry?’

‘It is bad to marry, Berthe.’ Sybille’s so glad that Berthe was placed in my grandmother’s care. Now she can finally lord it over somebody else. ‘It’s also bad to have children, because it’s bad to fornicate.’ A pause. ‘Especially when you’re a Perfect,’ she adds, ‘and you fornicate with a Roman priest.’

That’s aimed directly at me. I know it is, even though I can’t see Sybille’s face. She’s walking behind me, but I can feel her sly gaze boring into my back.

Not that I’m going to pay any attention. Here’s the Portaria, its twin towers looming above us. I wish I could climb a tower, one day. It would be good to see Toulouse from the top of a tower.

‘Oh!’ says Berthe. ‘Did a Perfect fornicate with a Roman priest?’

‘Yes,’ Sybille sighs. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Who?’ asks Berthe. ‘Who was it?’

‘It was Babylonne’s mother. Lady Mabelia.’

I’m not going to listen. I
refuse
to listen. There’s the house of Bernard de Miramonte, the richest man in Toulouse. He’s a knight, but I heard that he married an armourer’s daughter.

No wonder Navarre keeps saying that the nobles in this town are poisoning their own wells.

‘Oh no!’ Berthe sucks in her breath. ‘Did your mother fornicate with a priest, Babylonne?’

‘Don’t talk to Babylonne.’ Sybille’s practically preening herself; I can hear it in her voice. ‘She’s not allowed to talk for three days, remember? Because she lied about the egg, and her tongue is cursed with the venom of deceit.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Berthe. ‘I forgot.’

Pause. Look at that man over there—I’ve never seen a hat like that. He must be a foreigner. Oh! And smell that bakery!

My stomach’s growling.

‘Sybille?’

‘Yes, Berthe?’

‘Why did Lady Mabelia fornicate with a Roman priest, if she was a Good Woman? Perfects like her aren’t allowed to fornicate.’

God give me patience. I can’t stand this any more. Here we are, on Pujol Street. One of the town consuls lives down there somewhere . . .

‘I don’t know why she did it, but I do know that she was punished for it.’ There’s relish in Sybille’s voice. ‘Her throat was cut by the evil French knights when they captured Lavaur.’

‘Because she fornicated with a priest?’

‘Because she was a Perfect, you moron!’ Swinging around to confront them both. I don’t care who’s listening. I don’t care what happens. ‘Because she was a Good Woman! Because the French killed
all
the Perfects in Lavaur!’