I could say something about being in hell already, but I won’t. I don’t have time. We must leave now, before Bremond comes looking for a place to empty his bladder.
‘You’ve a shepherd’s taste in women, Father!’ Drogo hisses after us. ‘Black as a crow, skinny as a whip and a tongue like a scorpion’s tail! Bedding her must be like bedding a scythe!’
No comment from Isidore. He probably didn’t even hear.
He’s in too much of a hurry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
You’ll find that it gets easier. What a lie that was.
My knees won’t bend properly. My backside feels as if it belongs to someone else. My thighs would be screaming if they had mouths to do it with.
This isn’t what I would call easier, Isidore.
Not that you’re the slightest bit worried about me. Oh no. I can tell exactly what’s troubling you, and it’s not the state of my muscles. You’re worried about your reputation.
‘It’s all right, you know.’ In case you haven’t worked it out. ‘Drogo won’t say anything. He’ll be too frightened in case we happen to run into them all again, and say something about his murky past.’ So cheer up, can’t you? ‘He’s a coward, that one. I can smell it on him.’
Isidore says nothing. He looks very grave and thoughtful; though he’s staring straight ahead, it’s obvious that he doesn’t see the dusty road unrolling in front of us, or the little copses clustered about meandering streams, or the pathetic remnants of someone’s failed attempt to raise oats: upended stumps, piles of rocks, overgrown furrows.
His gaze is turned inwards.
‘In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if he had more to hide than the true faith.’ (I refuse to call it heresy—not when I don’t have to.) ‘I’d be willing to lay a wager that he’s been a thief in his time, with that sly look of his. And whatever happened to that old madman? Why did he disappear so suddenly? If you ask me, Drogo had something to do with it. He looks like the sort of person you get working on barges down by the wharves in Toulouse; they’re all of them exiles. It’s no coincidence that the river keeps spewing up corpses around the water mills. If you want a hired assassin, you always head for the wharves.’
Isidore remains silent. And it’s beginning to annoy me. I refuse to be condemned out of hand, without being given the chance to defend myself.
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Are you blaming me for all this? ‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’
‘I know you didn’t,’ says Isidore, shedding his preoccupied air like a wet cloak. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Babylonne.’
‘Then why are you angry with me?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are!’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No, I’m simply beginning to wonder if I’ve done the right thing.’
Oh, curse it.
He’s having second thoughts. He is fretting about his reputation. He’ll abandon me at the next town, and I’ll have to go on by myself, with only my scissors to protect me—because I used up all my pepper on Drogo.
Do you think he’d give me this horse, if I asked for it nicely? Probably not. And anyway, how would I feed it? Not with the money I’ve got in my purse, that’s for sure.
I don’t know why I’m so scared, suddenly. Why my stomach just turned over. It’s stupid, because I don’t need this priest. In many ways I’m better off without him.
‘If you want to travel alone, I don’t care.’ Not much, anyway. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Oh, Babylonne.’ He sounds startled. ‘I’m not going to leave you. I would never do that. I just feel . . . well, you must see yourself that this isn’t the best course.’
‘What do you mean?’ If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d feel sick with relief. ‘What isn’t?’
He’s a little ahead of me, the way he often is, and drops back so that he can peer straight into my face without having to twist in the saddle. I envy the way he can do that—namely, look sideways while he’s riding.
If I try to glance sideways for more than an instant, I start pulling my horse’s head around in the same direction. I can’t help it.
‘Babylonne,’ he says quietly, ‘you must know that this is an empty dream.’
What?
‘You’re not a stupid girl. What do you really expect to find in Aragon? How do you expect to live there?’
What do you mean? ‘I told you. I’m going to serve the faidit knights.’
‘In what way?’
I told you this! ‘By cooking and cleaning and—’
‘You are being simple.’ His voice is hard and dry, like the rocks beneath us. ‘Even if you reach these men, they are not angels in armour. They are not monks, labouring away under vows of chastity. What kind of service do you think they will expect from a woman?’
Oh!
How dare you? They are good men! Noble men!
‘They are fighting men, exiled,’ Isidore continues. ‘What makes you think that they’ll be any different from Drogo? They’ll upend you at the first opportunity.’
My spit hits his cheek, and I’m away. One swift kick in the ribs and—Help! My horse bolts like a hare— I never expected this—whoops! Whoa!
This is no good. I have to use the reins; I can’t keep my arms wrapped around its neck. But if I let go, I’ll fall off . . .
‘Babylonne!’
Ah. A rise. Quite a steep rise, and we’re slowing. I can do this now. If I grab the reins . . . that’s it . . . that’s it.
The priest’s drawing level. He’s reaching out, but I’m fine. Go away. Can’t you see it’s all under control?
‘Dominus Deus!’ Isidore exclaims, and his horse shies beside me.
Good. He’s not trying to snatch at my reins any more, and now I have the upper hand. With the slope falling away in front of us, and small stones tumbling from under my palfrey’s staggering hoofs, I can—
Oh God.
I don’t believe it.
Spread out in the distance, heaving and glittering, speckled with bright colours, lies a vast, reaching pool like a stretch of floodwater. Only it’s not water, it’s chain mail.
‘Get back!’ God help us, they must be the French! Humbert de Beaujeu’s plundering savages! ‘Quick! Turn around, or they’ll see us!’
I’m trying to remember. How many knights? People used to talk about them, back in Toulouse—didn’t I hear something about fifty squads of bowmen? There must be at least that many, judging from all the fluttering standards. And the great, straggling mess of carts. And the horses! Did you see all the horses? (Unless some of them were mules . . .)
This horse is so utterly confused, it doesn’t know what it’s doing.
‘Here.’ Isidore has managed to manoeuvre his own horse into position beside mine, bringing the two animals shoulder to shoulder. I don’t know how he does it. (He’s much more nimble on horseback than he is on the ground.) Catching my bridle, he guides us all back over the ridge to safety.
‘It’s the French army, it must be!’ I couldn’t make out the standards, but a force that size has to be the French. ‘They’re taking this road!’
‘Shh. Calm down.’
‘We can’t let them see us!’ They’re still a long way off. They might not have spotted us—two lonely horsemen up on a hill. And now the hill stands between us and the army; we’ll be well concealed until they breast it. ‘We must leave the road. We must hide somewhere, in a ditch or a copse.’
‘But why?’ He seems genuinely puzzled. ‘I am a man of the Church, and a pilgrim to boot. I am not a local lord, or a heretic.’ (There’s that word again.) ‘Why would they harm me?’
‘Why?’ You fool. ‘Because they can, that’s why! You told me yourself that the French killed Lord Roland— and he was a monk!’
‘But that was an entirely different situation, Babylonne.’
Hah! ‘And you call me simple? Father, they’re fighting men, exiled! It doesn’t matter who we are, don’t you understand? We�
��re here! We’re weak! We have money!’ He’s still not convinced, so it’s time for the clinching argument. ‘And on top of everything else, they probably haven’t been paid in six months. Why wouldn’t they just ride straight over us?’
Now he’s thinking. I can tell by his puckered brow.
‘Anyway, I thought we were trying to avoid people who might find out who I am? If they steal my clothes, they’ll certainly work out that something’s wrong.’ Oh come on, will you? We have to get out of here! ‘Please, Father, let’s go. We can’t stay on this road, we have to head across country.’
‘You’re right.’ (Hooray!) ‘You’re right, we can’t be certain of their goodwill.’ He hesitates, chewing his bottom lip as he scans the surrounding trees and rocks and bushes. ‘But there are so many of them. They won’t keep to the road, they’ll spread out.’
‘I know. That’s why we have to go right around them. All the way around.’
Which could be leagues. Realisation dawns in his face, and abruptly he kicks his horse into a canter, veering off the road. Heading east.
This is going to be hard.
I’m not a good rider. I’m bad enough on the road; what am I going to be like on rough terrain? Horrendous, that’s what. Certainly not good enough to match his pace. Ouch! And there’s the proof, if you need it. I didn’t even see that branch coming.
‘Father!’
He looks around. His palfrey slows. ‘What happened to your face?’ he demands.
‘I just hit something.’ Whoops! And that ditch nearly unseated me. Isidore clicks his tongue.
‘We’ll have to get down,’ he says. ‘You can’t manage this.’
‘Yes I can. I have to.’ We must put some distance between ourselves and the French. ‘If we walk, they might catch us.’
‘If we don’t walk, you might break every bone in your body.’ Isidore swings himself to the ground in one fluid movement. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Don’t dawdle.’
I can’t really argue. Not when he’s right. Yeowch! And of course I make a complete mess of dismounting, because my knees have lost their strength; one of them buckles as I put my weight on it, and I have to grab for the nearest strap.‘It’s all right.’ He’s there behind me. (How did he cover so much ground in such a short time?) ‘I’ve got you.’
‘Let go.’
‘Are you sure you can stand?’
‘Let go!’ It all comes back to me in a rush. He called me simple. He compared the noble faidit knights to Drogo the talking eel.
He can go and eat slime off the Bazacle piers.
When I push him away he steps back, relinquishing his hold. He knows better than to cross me. He knows that I still have my scissors. Crunch-crunch-crunch. Dry sticks break under my feet. You see? I can stand. I can even walk. And the horse is coming too.
Down into this gully, don’t you think? That would be the safest route. It’s also going in the right direction, more or less.
I just hope that we don’t get lost.
‘Babylonne.’
Shut up. I’m not talking to you.
‘Babylonne, please.’ I can hear him fumbling down the slope behind me, as he leads his horse into the gully after mine. There’s still some water lying in pools among the smooth, grey rocks. A tiny bird flits out of my way. ‘Listen,’ he says, keeping his voice low. ‘You don’t need those exiled lords any longer. You have me now. I’ll look after you.’
‘Oh yes? In what way?’ Don’t make me laugh. ‘You expect me to spend the rest of my life in boys’ clothes? Washing your drawers? No thank you.’ If I have to wash drawers, they’re going to belong to brave young men in gleaming armour.
‘Of course we couldn’t continue in this fashion. I never intended it.’ If he’s offended, he’s not letting it show. Not in his voice, at any rate. I can’t see his face, because I’m walking ahead of him. ‘I’ll take you back to Bologna. Babylonne? Are you listening? We can turn around right now. Go north. Make for Bologna.’
In your dreams, my friend.
‘Babylonne, you might be headstrong but you’re not stupid. Consider what you’re proposing.’ He’s speaking very calmly and reasonably, without a spark of impatience. ‘You are a woman, not a soldier. You have no training with a sword or a bow. You cannot read or write. You can’t even ride with any confidence. Of what use can you possibly be to the faidit resistance?’
‘Mind your own business!’ Ferret-face! ‘I’m more useful than you are!’
‘How? Tell me.’
But I’m not going to talk to him. He can go and jump in the nearest well. I know what I’m doing. I’m not stupid. I’m going to watch my feet, and keep alert, and if the shadows start falling differently, it will mean that the gully has changed its direction.
And after we’re clear of the French, I’ll . . . well, I’ll think about that later.
‘Perhaps you intend to continue with this perilous deception of yours,’ Isidore adds. ‘If you do, the Viscount of Carcassonne might take you on as a humble foot soldier, so that he can throw you into an assault to protect himself from the spears and arrows of his enemies. Unless, of course, the other soldiers discover your secret first. And you know what will happen then.’
Every word is like a nail being hammered into my guts. I can’t stand it any more. The Viscount won’t betray me. Olivier de Termes won’t betray me, nor any of the others either.
‘Just hold your tongue!’ You whining mosquito! ‘I know exactly what I’m doing!’
‘Do you? Really?’ He’s not taunting me. He’s in earnest. ‘I don’t believe you do. I don’t believe you’ve thought this through at all. Please think, Babylonne. Think. It won’t work.’
Yes, it will. It has to.
What else is there?
‘This ceaseless war is no place for you,’ he argues softly. ‘You have other choices, now. You can come with me to Bologna. Arrangements can be made . . .’
‘Such as what?’ (You expect me to live in a chest under your staircase?) ‘How am I supposed to share a house with you? Everyone will think I’m a whore!’
Wait. He’s stopped. Why isn’t he moving?
Oh. Of course. It’s because I’ve stopped too.
‘I can find you somewhere else to stay,’ he says, with a little less confidence than usual. ‘Perhaps a nunnery.’
‘A nunnery?’ You must be joking. ‘You expect me to become a nun?’
‘Shh. Not so loud.’
‘I knew it would come to this!’ At last the truth is revealed. He’s two-faced, just like every other Roman priest. ‘All this time you’ve been humouring me, in the hope that I’ll convert to your misguided faith!’
His face takes on a rigid expression. ‘I wish only to keep you safe, Babylonne—’
‘Safe in the arms of Rome, you mean!’
‘This is hardly the time to debate theological principles.’ He’s about to say more, but something stops him. The noise of a distant horn, faint on the breeze. If it was the Last Trump, sounding the Day of Judgement, it couldn’t be less welcome. I can see my own dismay reflected in the gaze that he turns on me.
Isidore is right. This isn’t the time to talk religion.
We have to get out of here.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There are two stone structures, and one made of wood and daub. But the mud has almost washed away; the wood is split and sun-blistered; the stone is scattered and crumbling. Thorny plants have grown up inside former rooms, which are now open to the sky; I can even see black scorch marks on the walls, so it’s not hard to guess what happened to the thatch. Or to the vanished inhabitants.
‘A deserted village?’ Isidore speculates, in a low voice.
‘No. Too small.’ Someone’s been grazing his sheep here recently. There are pellets all over the ground. ‘See those stone fences? Those mark the boundary. This looks like a forcia to me. A fortified farm.’
‘Not fortified enough, apparently,’ says Isidore, his gaze fixed on the scorch marks.
‘We can always check.’ Isidore squints around, shading his eyes from the hot afternoon sun. Nothing stirs. Even the air is still. ‘Perhaps we might rest here for a short time,’ he adds. ‘Refresh ourselves. The Abbot gave me bread and cheese, and some pickled olives.’
Pickled olives! Mmmm. But let me just have a look at this well first, because there’s something about it . . .
There. I thought so.
‘Father!’ When I start hauling on the rope, it comes up so quickly that there can’t be anything on the end of it. No. No bucket. Even so, it’s in a suspiciously pristine state. ‘Father, this rope’s almost new. Someone’s been here very recently.’ Sure enough, the end of the rope is wet. ‘We can use this ourselves. To water the horses. Is there anything we can use as a bucket?’
‘We could finish the wine in the first wine-skin,’ Isidore suggests, joining me at the rim of the well. ‘Tie that to the end of this rope.’
‘I suppose we could even soak a piece of clothing. Soak it and wring it out.’
‘Into what?’
‘I don’t know. Is there an old trough anywhere?’ Scanning the ruins to our left, I can see nothing that resembles a trough. Or a pot. Or even a hollowed-out stone. But that overgrown patch in the corner—could that be what I think it is?
‘Look!’ Of course. I should have been keeping an eye out for lush greenery. Every farm must have its kitchen garden, and every kitchen garden must be fed with manure. It’s the kind of treatment that bears fruit for years, even without constant tendance. ‘Look, Father, beans!’
‘Beans?’
‘We can pick them!’
But some have been picked already. There’s been a bit of weeding, too. Not much: just a little space cleared around the roots of the beanstalks.
By passing shepherds, perhaps?
‘Here. Hold out your skirts. Like this.’ I’d better demonstrate, because he seems confused. ‘To put the beans in. We can take them with us.’
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