Isidore lunges. He grabs at the horse underneath me; he catches at the girth with one hand and the stirrup with the other.
My hand! Grab my hand!
Pons moves. I can feel his whole body convulse. There’s a flash of silver. A splash of red.
A scream.
‘Father!’ Oh God! Oh God, what happened? He’s cut! He’s hurt! Pons just slashed him with a knife! ‘You cur! You turd! Let me go!’ I’ll kill you! God damn you to hell, I’ll rip out your eyes for that!
A roar from Pons because—yes! I got him! I scratched his cheek!
‘Ooof!’
Wha—who—?
Dizzy.
Going to fall?
No. There’s an arm in the way.
‘Behave yourself,’ Pons growls, his ribcage vibrating, ‘or you’ll get another one.’
Another what?
Oh. He must have hit me.
Hit me.
Isidore!
I have to crane my neck, but I can still see him. He’s already so far behind, staggering and holding his arm, shouting something—I can’t hear it.
Pons must have cut his arm. He’s bleeding. Bleeding.
‘Isidore!’
Oh God. God help me, what shall I do? They cast him down in the dust. He’s hurt and abandoned. I’ve lost him.
He’s disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who was abducted by a cruel giant. The giant had a dungheap for a nose, a cesspit for a mouth, and hair like a heap of dry entrails. Whenever he spoke, those around him would flee in terror, thanks to the stench of his breath and the stupidity of his words.
But the beautiful princess saved herself from the cruel giant with the help of ...of ...
Of a saint dressed all in white, with beautiful pearly teeth and the gentlest face in the whole world.
When are they ever going to stop?
Can they really be human? I’m so tired and sore and thirsty—my bladder is full and my stomach is howling— but they keep riding and riding without pause. How can they do it? They haven’t even passed around a wineskin, let alone stopped to stretch their legs.
They must be thirsty. Pons has been sweating like a cellar wall. He hasn’t been crying, of course (like me), but he’s been losing enough salt water to float a merchant ship, steaming pile of pigs’ offal that he is. I could kill him. I could kill them all. Curse them and their issue, how could they do this? When I think about Isidore . . . when I picture him all alone, lost and wounded . . .
But I can’t. I have to stop thinking about him, or I’ll go mad. After all, the monks were nearby. They’ll take care of him. He can recover at Boulbonne, and press on from there to Compostela, the way he planned. He won’t have to buy me another horse. He won’t have to hide from everyone because of me. He’s better off, really. I just wish . . . I just wish . . .
Oh God, I can’t bear it.
‘Are you snivelling again?’ Pons rasps. ‘If you are, I swear, I’ll drag you along by the heels.’
I’m not. Look. I’m not crying, it’s just my nose. It’s stopped bleeding now, but it’s still running. What do you expect, when you throw punches at it?
My sleeves are a mess.
‘Where are we going, anyway?’ I know that we crossed the road to Carcassonne, a while back. ‘Didn’t we pass the Abbey of St Papoul, on the right?’
‘Shut up.’
‘I lived in Castelnaudary for a few months, but I’ve never been to the Black Mountains. Are we going to Saissac?’
‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’
He means it, unfortunately. If I don’t want my teeth punched through the back of my skull, I’d better keep quiet.
I’m right, though. This is all so familiar. We’re in the foothills of the Black Mountains, and over there on the left—that’s the hill to the north of Castelnaudary. I keep catching glimpses of it through the trees. And we’re slowing now, because of the steepness of the road. Even Olivier is slowing, though he’s the lightest horseman and the fastest, as well as the most accomplished. You almost forget, watching him, that he and his mount are two separate creatures.
Mind you, that wiry little sergeant—Vasco—he’s a good rider, too. It’s funny: I never knew that sergeants rode horses. But they do. Of the eight men in this company, only four are knights. The rest are sergeants or squires or some such thing. (No one’s bothered to introduce me, but it’s clear enough who gives the orders around here.) I think one of them may even be Catalan. I certainly can’t understand a word he says.
‘Hold,’ says Olivier, with a gesture that everyone else seems to understand, and he swerves off the path towards slightly higher ground. Pons follows. There are branches to dodge, and rocks to avoid, and why are we heading in this direction? This won’t lead us anywhere, except over the edge of a cliff.
Ah. I see. A clearing.
And beyond it—what a sight! The lands of the Lauragais, spread out before us. There’s Castelnaudary way off in the distance, clinging to a silver ribbon of river (I recognise the church spire) and—oh! There’s St-Martin-la-Lande! A tiny huddle of roofs, small enough to hold in your palm, set in a spider’s web of white roads. There are stripy vineyards, and straggling woods, and what’s that over there? That dark mass spilling across a field, glinting as it moves?
Hell’s barbed teeth. Is it Humbert?
‘The French!’ Look there! ‘It’s them, I know it is!’
‘Shut up,’ says Pons, before turning to Olivier. (He’s hardly even out of breath.) ‘They’re moving fast, don’t you think? For a force that size.’
Olivier shrugs. ‘Seven leagues in two days?’ he retorts. ‘It’s not such a great accomplishment.’
‘They’ll not resist St-Martin, surely?’ Loup actually sounds tired. ‘A little place like that? They’re bound to attack it. And if they do, it will slow them down.’
‘Perhaps.’ Olivier’s eyes are narrowed to dark slits as he stares out over the Lauragais countryside, one hand resting lightly on his hip, the other twisted around his reins. ‘Mark their route, though. It’s wide of Castelnaudary.’
‘Oh, they’ll never attempt Castelnaudary.’ Guillaume dismisses the notion with a snort. ‘There aren’t enough of them. They wouldn’t reach halfway around the walls.’
‘Then we are well placed,’ Olivier declares, with a quick glance at Pons. And suddenly we’re moving again. Again! Lord help me! I thought we might at least stop at the clearing, but I was wrong. Plunging back onto the road, which is getting less like a road and more like the scar of an endless rockfall, Olivier takes the lead ahead of Loup, Guillaume and the sergeants. As for Pons, he’s last in line.
My weight is slowing him down.
‘Are we going to Saissac?’ I’ve never been there, but I thought it was more to the east—and the setting sun is on our left now. ‘Will we reach it before nightfall?’
‘One more word and I’ll cut out your tongue,’ Pons snarls.
No help there. But I don’t think that we’re going to Saissac. We’re not heading the right way. If it wasn’t pure madness, I’d say that we were riding to intercept the French—though for what purpose, I can’t imagine. Four knights against an army? Even Olivier de Termes wouldn’t risk those odds.
No, there’s more to it than that. Olivier is bent on reaching a goal. A destination. And it’s not Saissac, and it’s not Castelnaudary, and Montferrand is much too far.
Where’s La Becede?
I could ask Pons, but it wouldn’t be wise. La Becede. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. I’ve never been there, and I don’t know much about it, but people from La Becede used to sell squirrel skins at the Castelnaudary markets.
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?’