‘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?’
I can’t speak.
I want to, but I can’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘This is a hard thing for you.’
‘It’s not hard.’ I’m strong. I’m Toulousain. I can talk, even if my voice is squeaky. ‘My mother died a glorious martyr’s death.’ (So there!) ‘She was killed with all the other Perfects after the siege of Lavaur. Simon de Montfort cut her throat.’ Seeing the priest swallow, I drive the point home. ‘That was after he hanged my uncle Aimery, and threw my Aunt Guiraude down a well and stoned her to death.’
The priest says something else in Latin—something abrupt and urgent, like steam hissing from a covered pot. He takes a deep breath.
‘I didn’t know this,’ he says. ‘We didn’t know this, Babylonne. We heard that the French had taken Lavaur, but we hoped—we thought . . .’ He crosses himself, sending a shiver down my back.
When he starts to recite a prayer, I can’t be polite any longer.
‘My mother wouldn’t want your prayers!’
‘Are you sure?’ He doesn’t seem offended. He speaks calmly. ‘You didn’t know her, Babylonne.’
‘And whose fault is that? It’s the fault of the Roman church, which sent French knights here to kill all the Good Christians, and trample the land, and conquer the true lords of Languedoc, all in the name of a false God!’ Suddenly it occurs to me that I’m in a convent, thanks to the priest’s quick glance at the door. I suppose I’d better lower my voice. ‘But we will never submit.’ (Whispering, now.) ‘The Count of Toulouse will never submit—no, nor the Viscount of Carcassonne, nor Olivier de Termes, nor any of the faidit lords! They will fight, and I will fight alongside them. The French will never be our masters, even if we have to kill every Frenchman who comes here, and send their heads back to the King their master on the pikes of our armies!’
I might as well be throwing pebbles at a fortress wall. My words just seem to bounce off the priest’s pale, motionless features.
He’s watching me like an owl, without blinking.
‘We’d better go,’ he says after a while. ‘If we leave now, we should reach Braqueville by nightfall. Perhaps even Muret.’
‘Muret?’ If we had wings, perhaps. I’m trying to think. Muret? That’s past Portet. ‘It was daybreak when we left Toulouse, and the bells were ringing for terce when we got here. We have to get back to Toulouse, then go around it, and then from Toulouse to Muret it has to be half a day’s walk at least—’
‘We’ll be riding, not walking,’ he interrupts, and climbs to his feet. Gazing down at me, he adds, ‘I bought you a horse. From the Abbess.’
Huh?
‘Come.’ He jerks his chin. ‘You can help me to pack.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
What a day it’s been.
First the escape. Then the shock of the priest. Then the nunnery. And now the horse.
I can’t believe that I’m actually sitting on a horse. A living, breathing brown palfrey with a leather saddle on its back.
Not that you could really call it sitting. Slipping and sliding, maybe. Bumping and swaying. Holding on for dear life, because I’ve never ridden a horse before. No one’s ever considered me good enough for a horse.
Yet the priest bought me one to ride on. This is what I can’t understand. Why would he do such a thing? It must have cost him at least three livres tournois. Perhaps more. And how much will it cost to feed? And shelter? And—
Whoops!
Almost slipped off sideways.
You see, this is why I haven’t been able to talk. This is why I’ve hardly even noticed where we are. The moment I stop concentrating and start looking around at the scenery—bang!
I find myself dangling off the stirrup like a loose strap.
Perhaps it’s just as well, though. If I’d had my wits about me while we were skirting Toulouse, I would have had a very sweaty time of it. I would have been terrified that someone might start shouting and pointing: There she is! The thief! The heretic thief! She stole money and scissors and a good pair of fur-lined boots! Luckily, though, I was so worried about keeping more or less upright that I hardly spared a thought for what might be happening inside the city walls.
And now here we are, past Braqueville already.
I remember this stretch of road. We came this way from Laurac, last year. I remember all the vineyards (so many vineyards!), and the river flats, and the distant, gentle hills, and the river—so clean here, upstream from Toulouse, with its ducks and its reeds and a fallen tree that’s damming its flow. (Someone really should clear that away.)
Whoops!
‘You must grip with your knees, Babylonne,’ the priest advises, reaching across to steady me. He keeps saying that, but it’s all right for him; he has long legs. My legs are sticking out like roof-beams, because they’re so short and this horse is so wide. How am I supposed to grip with my knees when they’re on top of the horse’s back, instead of hanging down against its flanks?
‘Use your stirrups to help you,’ the priest adds. ‘Remember what I said?’ He speaks kindly, and his expression is calm, but I know that he must be laughing inside. He’s such a good rider, he must scorn anyone who can’t even sit on a horse. Look at the way he moves, as if his bottom half is separate from his top half. Well, he shouldn’t be riding anyway. True pilgrims shouldn’t ride, they should walk. He says that he’s riding because it’s too dangerous to walk across this country at present, but that’s just an excuse. He’s riding because he’s a Roman priest, and Roman priests are greedy and luxurious and always attentive to their own comfort. What true pilgrim, for example, would burden himself with three books on his journey?
If he’s worried about the trip being dangerous, he should have left those books behind. You might as well be wearing an archery target on your back. Even one of those books would buy any passing brigand a perfectly good fortified farm with attached vineyard and fruit trees.
But the priest would never part with his books. Oh no, he says—they were a gift from Father Pagan. Another lame excuse. In fact he’s probably lying. All priests are liars. And fornicators. And murderers. That’s why I have to be so careful with this one. Though he might seem kind, he’s almost certainly pretending.
I can’t afford to relax my guard for an instant.
He’s always watching me, too. I’ve noticed that. I’ll glance at him and he’ll be gazing off at a distant flock of sheep or a toiling serf, but I can tell that he’s only just looked away from me. Perhaps he’s worried that I’m going to fall off my horse. On the other hand, there might be another reason. A more sinister reason.
He’s sitting there now as if he got lost on his way to Heaven—as if he wouldn’t know a sin if it came up and introduced itself in a loud voice. He was right when he said that I should be the one in disguise. No one could mistake him for anything but a priest, even in artisan’s clothes. It’s something about his sombre face. And his quiet voice. And the way he keeps his arms against his sides. It’s something about his hands, which are long and smooth and graceful: a priest’s hands.Only his hair looks out of place. Too boisterous and noisy. Though it’s hidden by his hood, at the moment.
I should have brought a hat with me. It’s awfully hot in this sun.
‘We must buy you a hat,’ says the priest, and my heart almost drops through my belly, I get such a shock. Can he see into my head? Can he read my thoughts? ‘I know what pain the sun can inflict,’ he adds. ‘Even on a Moorish skin like yours.’
What’s that? A Moorish skin? ‘What do you mean?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Your father was an Arab,’ he explains. ‘Didn’t you know? He came from the Holy Land.’
I don’t understand. ‘You—you mean he went there? To fight the Infidels?’
‘No, no. He was born there. He was a Christian Arab. He fought Saladin before he travelled to Languedoc —oops!’ His hand shoots out, and he grabs my arm. ‘Don’t lose your balance, now.’
‘He fought Saladin?’ I don’t believe it. ‘How?’
‘He was
squire to a Templar knight. He was born in Bethlehem. Don’t you know this?’
Of course I don’t! How could I, if I never knew my father? I’m waiting, now—waiting for more—but the priest stops speaking. What shall I do? I want to hear more. I want to hear more without asking for more. I don’t want to seem too interested in my fornicating father, who really isn’t worthy of my attention. Even if he didn’t rape my mother, he certainly went off and left her. Alone.
Besides, I don’t know what to call this priest. I can’t call him ‘Father’. He’s not my father, and I don’t believe in calling Roman priests ‘Father’, anyway; they don’t deserve that much respect. He says that he’s a Doctor of Canon Law—a teacher from the University of Bologna, north of Rome. So maybe I should call him ‘Doctor’, as his students do.
‘Um . . .’ What should I say? I want to ask about my father without seeming to ask about him. What kind of a priest was he? One of those fighting priests? ‘Um . . . when Simon de Montfort killed my mother, many priests helped him.’ (Priests like my father, perhaps?) ‘There are many Roman priests who would rather fight than pray.’
‘I fear so,’ says the priest, with a sigh. Mmmm. How odd. I didn’t expect him to agree with me.
That’s all he’s going to do, though. Agree with me. He isn’t going to comment, not without a prod.
‘When Simon de Montfort besieged Lavaur, the Bishop of Paris was with him.’ Hint, hint. ‘And the Archdeacon of Paris, who built Simon’s siege machine.’
The priest frowns. ‘How do you know this?’ he asks.
‘I was there.’
‘You were there?’
‘I was only a baby. I don’t remember. But I was told about it. The garrison was murdered, and all the Perfects as well, but they let the rest of us go. Riscende de Castanet brought me back to Toulouse, and passed me on to my Grandmother.’ (Sometimes I wonder why she bothered.) ‘It was a great battle, you know. The siege at Lavaur lasted a month. Once the French pushed an armoured tower up to the castle moat, and tried to fill the moat with wood and branches. But my uncle Aimery dug a tunnel that reached almost to the tower, and one night he came and took all the wood and branches back into the castle.’ You have to laugh, when you think about it. ‘He also threw burning flax and fat and other things at the tower, to make it catch fire. But the French put the fire out. They smoked the tunnel. They won, in the end. They cut a hole in the castle wall.’ God curse them and all their offspring for eternity.