‘No, no.’ You already have twice as much as I do. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Pull up your hood, Babylonne. It will protect you from the sun.’
‘Nutshells.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nutshells. These weren’t here yesterday.’ Nor was all this horse dung. Why on earth would any horse want to drop a load halfway up a cliff? Fear, perhaps? Or do malicious French horses simply like to annoy people by blocking narrow paths with piles of excrement?
Oh well, at least it’s horse dung, and not the human variety. I wouldn’t put anything past those French. I’m sure they take a squat wherever they please, whether it’s on a path, a road, or the back of a wagon.
And here we are, at last. The campsite.
Filthy, of course.
‘I’ve not much of a talent for reading tracks,’ Isidore remarks, instinctively lowering his voice in the presence of so many warm, smoking ashes, fresh piles of dung and gleaming gobs of spittle. ‘But it looks to me as if they swung around to the west, don’t you think? The ground over there is very much torn up.’
‘Yes.’
‘It would make sense, if they’re following the road from Saverdun,’ Isidore adds. ‘Another reason why we should avoid it, don’t you agree?’
I do. Though if the army’s heading north, and we’re heading south, the risk of our running into each other wouldn’t be high, even if we did take the road to Saverdun. We’d probably hit that road long after the French had passed. As Isidore turns and strides off towards the east, along the shaded bed of the dry watercourse, an unwelcome picture springs to mind. Will the French overtake Bremond and his company? Would Lord Humbert dare to plunder and murder a party of Roman pilgrims?
Might as well ask if a wolf would kill a sheep.
‘Gui said that we should follow this dry stream to a path that leads off to the right,’ Isidore remarks, from some distance ahead. He stops and turns, waiting for me to catch up. ‘Then we take that path to the first of the monastery vineyards.’
‘Mmmph.’ I’m not deaf. I heard what Gui said.
‘Are you sure you’re not overburdened, Babylonne?’
‘I told you. I’m fine.’
‘I could take that wine-skin.’
‘I’m fine.’ Is he always like this? Doesn’t he realise that I’ve spent my whole life dragging around great loads of firewood and wet laundry? ‘I’m just slower than you because my legs are shorter.’ In case you hadn’t noticed.
‘Your boots are thinner too,’ he says, matching my pace. ‘They’re poor, cheap things.’ (Don’t let Gran hear you say that! She’d have your guts for a girdle.) ‘I wish now that I had bought you a new pair of boots at Muret.’
‘Oh well.’ Try not to pant, Babylonne, or he’ll probably offer to carry you. ‘Maybe I should hollow out two small logs, and wear those instead. Like Bremond.’
Isidore laughs. (Come to think of it, I’ve never heard him laugh before.) ‘And then,’ he drawls, ‘if we come to a river, you can simply float across it. Really, what a sensible and practical alternative it would be to an ordinary shoe.’
‘Especially when you have to fend off sword thrusts, or start fires.’ I can’t help grinning as I catch his eye. But the smile on his own face disappears instantly, swallowed by an expression of the most profound pain. ‘What is it?’ Did you step on a thorn? ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He turns away.
‘Was it something I said?’
‘No, no.’
‘You look as if you just bit down on a nut and broke your tooth.’
He shakes his head. All right, then. If that’s the way you’re going to be, I won’t talk either.
He’s right about these boots, though. They’re too soft for terrain like this. I can feel every sharp stone prodding at my instep.
Maybe wooden soles wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,’ Isidore suddenly explains, in a tight voice. He’s still not looking at me. ‘You have Pagan’s smile.’
Is that meant to be a compliment?
‘When you look up at me like that, and smile . . .’ He swallows. ‘I’m sorry. It was such a terrible loss, and such a recent one—but I mustn’t burden you with my sorrows.’ A pause. ‘I only wish that you had known him, Babylonne. He was a great man. He had the finest mind and the biggest heart . . . he was the bravest, most eloquent, most accomplished teacher . . . so funny and quick . . . such a devoted friend and noble spirit . . .’
Isidore’s voice cracks. He can’t even speak. I never realised, until this moment, how deeply he must have loved my father. A ‘father in all but blood’, that’s what he said. I thought it simply a turn of speech, but I was wrong.
Have I ever loved anyone as much?
My mother, perhaps, when I was a baby. The mother I never knew. But how can you really love a person you’ve never known? Or even known much about?
How can you love someone who isn’t clear in your head?
‘Forgive me.’ He’s speaking more firmly now. ‘Your own loss is far greater than mine, of course. You never met him, whereas I enjoyed his company for many years. At least I had that blessing. You did not.’
True. On the other hand, I can think of many other things that I’ve wanted a great deal more than my father’s company.
‘Well . . .’ What can I say? ‘You can’t miss what you never knew.’ And never particularly wanted to know, either. But the sadness in Isidore’s face makes me sad as well. He doesn’t deserve to be so miserable—not really. Though he might be a Roman priest, he’s also a good man. I can see that now. He wouldn’t have stood around watching my mother die, I’m sure of it. ‘For your sake, I wish that my father was alive.’ There. I said it. ‘Just so that you would be happy again, and not grieve so much.’
Isidore stops in his tracks. He peers around at me, his expression softening.
As up ahead, someone shouts.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Horses. Men on horses.
Run!
‘Wait.’ Isidore catches my arm. ‘You cannot outrun them,’ he says under his breath. ‘Don’t even try.’
‘But—’
‘Shh.’ He lifts a hand in greeting, while placing himself between me and the mounted men. There are six of them—no, eight. Their horses are big, powerful beasts, well caparisoned and hung about with all manner of things: rolled blankets, leather bags, halberds, maces, spiked mauls, even pot-helmets. They clank and jingle as they pick their way between the smooth river-rocks, laying their hoofs down with a delicacy that you wouldn’t expect in such huge, heavily laden animals.
The men riding them are no less well equipped. Some even wear chain mail under their surcoats, and quilted hacquetons under their chain mail; their cloaks are stained and faded from long days in the sun. There’s a short sword on every belt, and a beard on every face.
Slowly they fan out, as if to surround us—though I didn’t hear any order being given. The very young man on the sturdy chestnut, who has leather vambraces strapped to his forearms, says, ‘Who are you?’
Hooray! He speaks the langue d’oc! Not only that, he speaks it well.
This is no Frenchman. Whatever else he is, he’s no Frenchman.
Isidore bows. ‘I am Father Isidore Orbus, of the University of Bologna,’ he replies, his tone as calm and sweet as I’ve ever heard it. ‘I am a pilgrim on the road to Compostela.’
‘Compostela?’ Vambraces lifts an eyebrow. (His eyes are large and brown and set wide apart in a sallow, triangular face.) ‘Then you are well off your road, Father.’
‘I know it, my dear son,’ Isidore says. ‘But at present we are directing our steps towards the monastery of Boulbonne, which is not far from here.’
I don’t know if he’s trying to point out, in a subtle way, that any brutal murder in broad daylight is unlikely to go unnoticed by the large number of Cistercian monks who live nearby. If that’s his purpos
e, I doubt it will do any good. Men like this would see no threat in the proximity of a monk. Or, indeed, of a hundred monks.
Oh God.
Oh no.
That face over there—I recognise that face! The scarred cheek, the broken nose, the little screwed-up eyes . . .
It’s Pons de Villeneuve! Cousin Bernard’s old friend!
Perhaps if I put my head down, and stay behind Isidore—but no. Pons has spotted me. Jerking his head and stiffening in the saddle, he addresses Isidore without wrenching his gaze from my profile.
‘What is a priest from Bologna doing with the granddaughter of Blanche de Laurac?’ he asks in a low, rumbling voice.
Isidore catches his breath. Vambraces turns to stare at his friend. ‘Whose granddaughter?’ he demands.
‘She’s Mabelia’s by-blow,’ Lord Pons rejoins. (Damn him! Damn him to hell and all his broken bones along with him! He’s going to ruin everything—he’s going to tell them everything!) ‘I’ve seen her in Toulouse, and in Laurac too before Bernard Oth threw the Lady Blanche out on her ear. I’d recognise this one anywhere: they say she has Arab blood.’
‘Is this true?’ Vambraces is speaking to me now. ‘Are you indeed a girl?’
How can I deny it? They could prove it for themselves easily enough, and I don’t want that to happen. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Babylonne.’
‘That’s it! Babylonne!’ The gates of Lord Pons’s memory have been opened. He slaps his forehead. ‘Her father was a Roman priest—though not this one, I wouldn’t think, to look at him.’
‘No,’ says Isidore, before I can open my mouth. His fingers have closed around my elbow. ‘I am merely her father’s heir. And you, my lord? Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
He’s very brave, is the priest. Here we are, surrounded by armed and mounted knights, and he demands their names as coolly as you would demand a dish of soup from an innkeeper.
Vambraces eyes him sombrely.
‘You are addressing Lord Olivier de Termes,’ he replies, ‘and Lord Pons de Villeneuve, and Lord Loup de Montguiscard, and this is Lord Guillaume de Minerve . . .’
Olivier de Termes! Son of Lord Raymond de Termes! I don’t believe it!
Here he is, in the flesh. Olivier de Termes. I’ve heard so many stories: when he and his father were defending Termes against Simon de Montfort, they used to raid his camp and capture his flags, which they hung from the castle ramparts. And they once killed the man standing beside Simon with a crossbow bolt. And one night, when they had run out of water and had agreed to open their gates the very next morning, a shower of rain straight from heaven filled their cisterns again.
He died though, poor Lord Raymond. Simon de Montfort overcame Termes at last, and Lord Raymond died in a cell below his own citadel. Leaving his son to become one of the noblest and bravest of all the disinherited faidits.
Lord Olivier. The man himself.
I thought he’d be bigger.
‘My lord.’ Even if I dropped to one knee, it wouldn’t be enough. By rights we should both be grovelling, Isidore and I. ‘My lord, I am your humble and devoted servant.’
‘Did you abduct Mabelia’s daughter?’ Lord Pons asks of Isidore (ignoring me). Almost at once, I can feel them all tensing. Perhaps it’s the creak of leather as their muscles tighten, or the way their hands drop casually to their sword hilts.
Oh dear.
‘No, no!’ You don’t understand! ‘No, I ran away! Truly! Lady Blanche was going to marry me to Hugues Saquet!’
A honk of laughter from Lord Pons. Lord Olivier says, ‘Who is Hugues Saquet?’
‘Oh, a toothless old lump of suet from Lanta,’ Lord Pons replies. ‘You could cut off his head and it wouldn’t make much difference.’
‘They want me to marry him because I would never have children or do anything wrong.’ (I wish that Lord Pons would stop laughing.) ‘But I don’t want to marry him, I can’t!’
‘Don’t blame you,’ says Lord Pons.
‘So you ran off with a priest?’ Lord Olivier’s sounding more and more perplexed.
‘I—I—’ I don’t know what to say. Isidore releases my elbow and puts a hand on my shoulder instead.
‘I knew her father,’ he explains quietly. ‘Upon finding her in pursuit of a fool’s errand, I took her under my wing. For her father’s sake, I owe her my protection.’
Fool’s errand? Why you—you—
‘Protection, do you call it?’ Lord Pons leers. ‘We call it something else, in this part of the country. Trust a Roman priest to get himself a bedfellow. Even on pilgrimage.’
Bedfellow!
Isidore’s grip tightens.
‘You are mistaken,’ he murmurs, as Lord Olivier frowns.
‘Fool’s errand? What fool’s errand?’ he wants to know.
‘It was not a fool’s errand!’ (How dare they call it that!) ‘I wished to join the faidits in Aragon, and offer them my service! Is that so foolish?’
Lord Pons obviously thinks so. He almost falls off his horse, trying to stifle his laughter. The other knights also look amused. One of them smirks. Another rolls his eyes, and shakes his head sadly at my blind stupidity.
At my fruitless hopes . . .
These men don’t want me. They would never want me. How could I have imagined that they would? To them, I’m nothing but a nuisance.
Isidore was right. Just look at their faces. Just look at Olivier’s astonished expression.
‘You’re going to Aragon?’ he splutters. ‘On foot?’
‘We had horses,’ Isidore interjects. ‘They were taken last night by the French.’
If he had suddenly sprouted dragon’s wings, his words couldn’t have had a more alarming effect. On all sides there’s a tossing of horses’ heads as hands jerk at reins and backsides shift in saddles. Blades flash in the sunlight, half-drawn from their scabbards. Eyes scan the surrounding hills.
‘The French?’ Lord Olivier snaps, his unlined face suddenly hard and alert. ‘You mean Humbert’s crew?’
‘Some of them. They camped near the forcia back there.’ I have to tell him this. It will be important to him. ‘It’s not far, but they’re gone now. We think they went west this morning.’
‘West?’ Lord Olivier frowns. ‘Back to the Saverdun road, you mean?’
‘We think so.’
‘God’s grace,’ Lord Pons mutters. ‘That would have been a merry meeting!’
‘Too soon for my taste,’ Lord Olivier agrees, under his breath.
‘We’ll be hard put to outrun them at this rate. What if they arrive there before we do?’ Lord Pons is addressing Lord Olivier, who flashes him such a fierce look that even the battle-scarred Pons flinches.
Suddenly, for the first time, Lord Loup speaks out.
‘We cannot delay,’ he declares. He’s very dark— almost as dark as I am—with cascades of shiny black hair, one thick eyebrow across his forehead, and brown smudges beneath his eyes. He’s not as big as Lord Pons, but he looks just as dangerous. ‘If they passed near here this morning . . .’
‘You’re right,’ says Lord Olivier. ‘We cannot linger. We must go.’
‘And these?’ Lord Guillaume’s voice is a big surprise. It’s high up in his nose—almost a whine, in fact—and it doesn’t suit the rest of him, because he’s the oldest and largest of the lot, red-faced and broad-chested, with a belly spilling out over his sword-belt and feet the size of Garonne barges.
It’s like hearing an ox cheep.
‘We can’t leave her here,’ Lord Pons interrupts, nodding at me. ‘Blanche will have my head if we do. Bernard, as well. I’ll never hear the end of it. Blanche will tell every Perfect from here to Montsegur, and they’ll be at me as well.’
Lord Olivier sighs. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘You can bring her. I suppose we’ll have to sort something out. Send her back to the Lady Blanche, somehow.’
What? Oh no. Not Gran. You can’t. If y
ou don’t want me, then leave me here—don’t send me back to Gran!
‘As for you, priest,’ Lord Olivier continues, circling Isidore, ‘I could kill you here, but I won’t. If your story is true, then for watching over the daughter of Mabelia de Laurac you deserve to live, at the very least. Get on your way. Get out of this country.’
‘No, wait! My lord!’ You don’t understand! ‘I don’t want to go back to Toulouse! You won’t take me back, will you? I don’t want to marry Hugues Saquet!’ But Olivier isn’t listening! And Lord Pons is bearing down on me—help!
‘My lord!’ Isidore sees Pons coming too. He grabs me with both hands. ‘Lord Olivier, please, you must let me come with you!’
‘No,’ says Olivier, and there’s a flurry of movement as Pons surges past, his horse’s hoofs ringing against hard stone, his harness creaking, his body swinging, his arm reaching—
‘Aagh!’ Let go! Let go!
‘No, please!’ It’s Isidore’s voice, and he must be clinging to my tunic! God, I’ll be torn apart!
‘Ow! Ouch!’ Ah. That’s better. Except . . .
Except that it’s not better! Because I’m up here on the horse, in front of Pons, and Isidore is down there!
‘No! You can’t do this! Let me go!’ You brigand, you— ‘Get off me!’
‘A kindly warning, priest,’ Olivier says. ‘I have many friends between here and the court of Aragon. If I find that you have told anyone about meeting us here, my vengeance will be visited upon you.’
‘Wait—my lord, please.’ It’s Isidore speaking. If I twist around—there! I can see him, hanging off Olivier’s stirrup. He’s dropped his saddlebag He can’t let them take me. ‘My lord,’ he pleads, ‘I owe a duty to her father—’
‘And I owe a duty to her cousin, for all that he’s a snivelling turncoat,’ Olivier replies, kicking hard to release Isidore’s grip. Isidore stumbles backwards; he nearly falls. ‘Go on your way, priest, and leave this country. You are not welcome here.’
‘Wait! Please!’ Isidore’s voice cracks. ‘Where are you going? Let me follow—let me come after you!’
‘Father!’ (I can’t get down! You must help me!) ‘My lord, please, he’s my friend, I can’t—I can’t leave him!’ Not with the French so close . . . ‘Over here—Father—I don’t want to go!’ Get me down, hurry, please!
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