Pagan's Daughter (8 page)

Not that I’ve seen much outside the guest house. Perhaps, in their own quarters, the nuns sleep on bolsters stuffed with goose-down. Perhaps they eat roasted swans off snow-white trenchers with golden knives—or even golden forks! (I’ve heard about forks, though I’ve never seen one.)

Perhaps it’s just in the guest house that the palliasses are stuffed with straw, and the walls are bare even of painted stars, and the cups are made of earthenware rather than silver.

I tell you what, though—this skinny priest isn’t lacking for money. Just look at what’s piled up on his bed! A fur-lined cloak. A spare pair of boots. A leather water-bag. And books. Real books!
Three
of them!

They must be worth a king’s ransom.

Do you think he’d mind if I touched one? I’ve never been so close to a book before. I wouldn’t hurt it; I wouldn’t even open it. I’d just touch it.

He’d never know, would he? After all, he’s not in the room.

The binding feels odd. As smooth as metal, only it’s not metal. It’s not even leather, I don’t think. It’s something very thin and hard, like dry fat.

Whoops!

I didn’t hear him coming. He moves so quietly for such a big man. (Who, me? Touch your books? Never.)

‘How fortunate it is that you’re dressed as a boy,’ the priest says, shutting the door behind him. ‘It’s made everything so much simpler.’ Turning, he catches my eye. ‘I’ve just said goodbye to the Abbess, so we can leave whenever we want. Before we do, however, we need to talk.’ He sits down on the bed, taking care to leave some distance between us. ‘Tell me who your mother is.’

I wish he was still wearing that disguise he had on at the inn. Those heavy black robes he’s wearing now— they’re like the walls of a fortress. They make him look taller and stronger and grimmer, and as white as salt.

I can see why he put them back on before he went to meet the Abbess. Even an
archbishop
would think twice about lording it over someone carved out of alabaster, who’s as tall as a church spire and wearing a mantle trimmed with black velvet.

I don’t know if I should talk about my mother.

‘Is she one of the women living with you in that house?’ he asks carefully.

‘No.’ God forbid he should ever think
that
. ‘My mother is dead.’

‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry.’

Well, so am I. But that’s not going to solve anything.

He’s smoothing his black robe over his knees.

‘I too was orphaned at an early age,’ he finally says. ‘As was your father. We were both alone in the world.’

‘Oh,
I’m
not alone.’ (I come from a big family! A noble family!) ‘I have many aunts and uncles and cousins.’

‘Is that where you’re going? To one of your aunts or uncles or cousins?’

‘No.’ I can’t decide. Should I tell him the truth? Would there be any harm in it? Probably not. Besides, I’ve already said that I’m heading south. ‘I’m going to serve one of the
faidit
lords—maybe the Viscount of Carcassonne. He’s with the King of Aragon now, and I’m going to offer him my loyal service.’

The priest’s hands stop moving. He might be startled, but I’m not sure; his face is hard to read. He looks up and studies me with pale, expressionless eyes.

‘What kind of service do you intend to offer?’ he inquires at last.

‘I’ll cook and clean and sew. I can spin and chop wood. I’ll even fight if I have to.’

He turns his attention back to his knees, and once more his hands start to move. Stroke, stroke, stroke. He’s going to wear out the nap on that cloth, if he’s not careful.

‘Who was your mother, Babylonne?’ he says. ‘Who gave you that name of yours?’

What do you mean? ‘What’s wrong with my name?’

‘“Babylon the Great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird”.’

Huh?

‘“Odaughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed: happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us”.’
The priest stops chanting, and resumes speaking in his normal voice. ‘Have you never heard these words? They are the words of King David and John the Divine. They are words from the Holy Scriptures.’ He flashes me a quick glance. ‘Can you read, Babylonne?’

‘Of course not!’ What do you think I am, a monk? ‘And if you want to know about my name, well . . .’ A habitation of devils? A hold of every foul spirit? It’s worse than I thought. (How they must have hated me!) ‘Well, I . . . I should never have been born, in case you don’t realise. My body is an unclean cage, entrapping a fragment of the angelic spirit which is exiled here in the abode of the Devil until death and the mercy of God should release it.’

Briefly, he closes his eyes. I should have realised that he was very learned. He probably knows the Holy Scriptures off by heart.

Even the bad bits of the Holy Scriptures, which aren’t really holy at all.

‘Is there nothing about a Babylonian exile in the Holy Scriptures?’ It seems an odd question, but I have to find out. ‘My grandmother used to talk about a Babylonian exile before she lost most of her teeth, and . . . well . . .’ I’m afraid that it can’t be denied, unfortunately. ‘I don’t really know what she was on about.’

The priest sighs. He doesn’t seem to want to answer. Instead he says, ‘Who is your grandmother, Babylonne?’

My grandmother? For your information, Master Redhead, my grandmother is one of Languedoc’s great ladies.

‘My grandmother is Blanche de Laurac, widow of Lord Sicard.’

Of course I’m expecting some kind of reaction. You don’t often find the granddaughter of a noble lord skulking around the Bourg in boy’s clothes.

Even so, the priest’s response is quite a surprise. His face loses so much colour, it’s hardly even white any more. The shadows under his eyes look almost green.

‘You’re—you’re not Mabelia’s daughter?’ he gasps.

What?

We stare at each other. I can’t believe my ears. But I recover my breath before he does, and manage to speak—though I have to clear my throat first.

‘Did you know my mother?’

He rises abruptly; goes to the window; puts one hand on the wall, as if to steady himself.

When he murmurs something, I can’t quite make out what it is. Except that it’s probably Latin.

‘What do you know about my mother?’ Well?
Well?
‘You have to tell me!’

He turns, and retraces his steps. Though his expression is blank, he lowers himself back onto the bed as if his knees are troubling him.

‘How old are you, Babylonne?’ he asks hoarsely.

‘Me? I was born on the same day that a hundred and forty Good Christians were burned by Simon de Montfort in Minerve.’ Not that this means anything to him. He simply looks dazed. (What would a Roman priest know about our sufferings?) So I have to explain further. ‘I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.’

He stares at me, but I don’t think he sees me. He’s working something out in his head.

When he’s finished, he remarks, ‘I thought you must be older. I thought—I thought it must have happened before I met him—’

‘Did you know my mother?’

‘Yes.’ It’s almost a groan. He drops his gaze to the floor. ‘I knew your mother.’

‘How?’

‘We travelled with her from Laurac to Lavaur, your father and I. About eighteen years ago, after escaping the siege of Carcassonne.’

After
what?

‘
You
were at the siege of Carcassonne?’ I don’t believe it. ‘But you are a foreigner! You
look
like a foreigner!’

He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I grew up not far from here. Near Pamiers.’

‘But—’

‘I was your father’s scribe. We fought with the Viscount of Carcassonne—the
former
Viscount—and then we escaped when Carcassonne fell to the French, and made our way to Laurac. To your grandmother’s household.’ He seems to be having trouble getting air into his lungs. ‘Then the French came to Laurac, so we had to flee again,’ he continues. ‘We were making for Montpellier, your father and I, and we couldn’t take the direct route because the French were in our way. We had to go around their line of battle, via Lavaur. We were delayed at Lavaur . . . has no one ever told you this?’

It’s like an accusation. Listen, here, Master Priest: I’m not putting up with
that
kind of tone.

‘No one ever had to tell me.’ (So go eat dogs and die, why don’t you?) ‘I know all that I need to know.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Which is that my father raped my mother!’

He recoils, and his eyes widen.

‘Oh no,’ he chokes. ‘No, you must believe me—Pagan never did that!’

‘He did!’

‘I was there. I knew him. He would never have harmed any woman, in any way.’

Hah! ‘You mean he
didn’t
hurt my mother by abandoning her while she was carrying his child?’ (You venomous servant of the Lord of Lies!) ‘Maybe you’d better tell
her
that! Oh, but you can’t. Sorry. Because she’s
dead!
’

He covers his face with one hand. Is it all an act? Surely he must be well aware that his wonderful friend and master was a suppurating wound on the stinking right buttock of sinful humanity?

Perhaps not.

He knew my mother, though. He can tell me . . . more. Apart from how good she was. And how cruelly used. And how holy.

The way Navarre talks about her, you wouldn’t think she was flesh and blood at all.

‘You have to understand,’ he suddenly says, uncovering his face, ‘that your father was not himself. He—he had lost a very dear friend at Carcassonne. He was full of grief. I think he would not have done what he did, had he not . . .’

The priest trails off, as if he can’t find the strength to finish his sentence. It’s necessary to give him a kind of verbal nudge.

‘Had he not what?’ Pressing hard. ‘You must tell me.’

‘Had he not been in very great need of comfort,’ says the priest, forcing it out.

Hmmph. ‘So because he needed comfort, he raped my mother.’

‘
No!
’ The retort is so sharp, it makes me jump. He brings his hand down, hard, onto the bed. ‘Your mother was in love with him.’

What?

You devil.

‘That’s a lie!’

‘Shh.’

‘You’re a
liar
!’ You—you—‘My mother was
good
!’

‘I know. I know she was. Babylonne, I knew her.’ Each word falls from his mouth like a feather or a snowflake. He casts the net of his speech as if he’s scattering rose petals. ‘She was lovely and sweet and kind. Humble. Obedient. In need of love and support. Your grandmother . . .’ A pause, as his gaze fastens on my nose. ‘Is Blanche the one who beats you, Babylonne?’

I can’t help touching my bruise. Ouch!

‘No. She’s not.’

‘Well, she used to beat your mother. She was very strong and . . . shall we say, certain in her mind? She knew what she wanted. She wanted your mother to be a . . .’ Again he hesitates, searching for the right word.

Go on, say it. Say ‘heretic’. And watch me stick my scissors into your guts.

‘She wanted your mother to become as she was,’ he proceeds delicately, glancing away. ‘A ministrant of your beliefs.’

Hmmph.

‘Your mother tried to please her, Babylonne. Always, in everything. But her heart betrayed her.’

Her heart betrayed her. What a beautiful phrase.

I wish I could speak like this priest. I wish I could use my voice like a
vielle
, and play music upon it.

He’s as good as a
jongleur

‘When the French drove us from Laurac, we went first to Castelnaudary,’ the priest narrates. ‘Your grandmother remained there, but she sent us on to Lavaur, to be with your Aunt Guiraude. To seek her protection. While we were in Lavaur . . .’

He stops, looking tired and drawn.

Well? Continue!

‘I was mistaken in my beliefs,’ he admits. ‘I knew that they—that your father and mother shared a deep affection. But I thought it was chaste. I’m sure it would have been, had Pagan not been . . . that is to say, had he been more himself.’ The priest rubs his high forehead in a distracted manner. ‘I do know that he wanted your mother to come with us. He didn’t want her to stay in Lavaur; he told me this several times. I believe it was his intention that she should accompany us to Montpellier, and enter a nunnery there. Something of the sort. I had no idea . . .’

‘That my mother was raped?’

These are all lies. This can’t be true.

‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘She was not raped. I saw them together. There was no fear. No anger or shame. There was only sorrow, and respect, and tenderness.’

‘She
said
she was raped!’

‘Well, of course she did.’ For the first time he sounds impatient. ‘Have some sense, Babylonne. What else could she have said, once the evidence was in her belly? Think about it. She only confessed to her transgression after we were gone. After there was no concealing it. Why? Why not bring down all the curses of heaven on Pagan’s head
before
we were out of reach? Why was Pagan never accused of raping her to his face? While we were still at Lavaur?’

Because . . . because . . . um . . .

‘I swear to you, Babylonne, they had nothing but devotion, each for the other. He was wrong to do what he did, but he offered her no violence. There was no violence in him. And he would have taken her away, had she agreed to come. Had she not been so afraid of her mother and her sister and the world.’ The priest shakes his head, in grief and pity. He’s so desperately gaunt, you can practically see his skull beneath his skin. ‘She was a timid soul,’ he observes. ‘As fine and frail as a spider’s web. Pagan took her under his wing, much as he did me; we were both lost souls. He gave her strength, I think, but not enough. She couldn’t act. She felt too guilty. She couldn’t save herself.’ The priest looks up. ‘Not like you, Babylonne.’

What do you mean? What are you saying? I can’t— I’m not— I won’t cry.

I
won’t cry
. Not in front of a Roman priest.

‘What happened to her?’ he inquires, so gently that it makes the tears burn behind my eyes. ‘Did she die when you were born?’