Pagan's Daughter

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘ “If you touch ’em when they’re wet, it will leave a stain”,’ she chuckles. ‘You’re a dirty sow, Maura!’

  ‘It’s not my fault if he’s got a lecher’s mind,’ Maura rejoins. ‘Where’s the girl? Babs, my poppet, he’s gone now. You can come out if you like.’

  Thank you, God. That’s the second time today. Why can’t he leave me alone?

  ‘If you want to know what I think, I think he’s got a yen for you, my Babsy,’ Maura continues, flicking a dead louse off her thumb. ‘Otherwise he wouldn’t always be chasing you around.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ (Can’t you think about anything above the waist?) ‘He just doesn’t like me wandering free. He wants to keep me locked up somewhere, because he’s scared of my grandmother.’

  ‘Hah! Maybe that’s what he says,’ Maura replies. ‘They might say that they’re against a cuddle in the cow-byre, but they’re all cut from the same cloth.’

  ‘Not Good Men, though,’ Grazide objects. ‘Good Men really are chaste.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’ Maura speaks with authority. ‘They all need to plant their standards, and the less they do it, the worse they are. Good Men and Roman priests alike.’

  You’re wrong, Maura. You’re wrong because you don’t know Father Isidore. Father Isidore really is a holy man. He doesn’t even notice if you’re a girl or a boy.

  ‘Anyway, if I were you, I’d keep away from those Good Men,’ Maura adds, dragging a nit out of Grazide’s hair. ‘Because if this place submits, they’ll be first in the fire.’

  ‘I know.’ How could I not know?

  ‘They burned ’em at Minerve. They burned ’em at Les Casses. They’ll burn ’em here,’ Maura continues, as if I never even opened my mouth. ‘There’s only one lot that ever comes out of these things worse than the garrison, and that’s the Perfects. You don’t want anybody thinking you’re one of them.’

  CRA-A-ASH!

  By the beard of Beelzebub! What was that? It shook the very ground—I can hear someone screaming—don’t tell me they’ve broken through!

  Grazide whimpers. Even Maura frowns. Get out of my way, Dim, you stupid boy! Outside, everything’s a mess. There are people running about like startled chickens. Someone’s stretched out on the ground, and . . . ah. I see.

  A rock must have come over the wall, and shattered in the middle of the bailey. That poor soul was hit by a flying splinter.

  Unless I’m mistaken, the French have finally got their trebuchet to work.

  ‘Come on,’ says Maura, from behind me. ‘We’d better take this one up to the chapel.’ And she brushes past, shambling towards the wounded man on the ground.

  I suppose I’d better help, since I’m on infirmary duty. I wish I didn’t have to, though. I hate this job. I’d rather do anything else. I’d rather carry sand, or draw water, or pass bolts to the men who arm the ballista, up on the walls in full view of the French. I’d rather shovel manure than move the wounded.

  Not that there have been many wounded yet, but there will be.

  ‘Mercy on us,’ says Maura, as she rolls the limp figure onto his back. God’s death! That’s too . . . that’s too much. I can’t look.

  He’s lost half his face.

  CRA-A-ASH!

  Help! Another one! But it didn’t sound close—it must have hit the wall. Yes, up there. It must have knocked a merlon off the ramparts.

  ‘Come on!’ Maura snaps. ‘Take his feet, will you?’

  Take his feet. Yes. There’s nothing wrong with his feet. If I keep my eyes fixed firmly on his feet, I won’t be sick. Someone’s still screaming somewhere, and here comes Olivier, running across the bailey. He’s pulling a surcoat on over his chain mail, which chinks with each step. He has the ruffled hair and creased face of a man who’s just woken from a heavy sleep.

  If he’s been sleeping, things can’t be too bad. Can they?

  Vasco is with him.

  ‘. . . aimed at the weakest point,’ Vasco’s saying. ‘But they’re firing wide.’

  ‘We have to get out there somehow,’ Olivier mutters.

  ‘Get out there and burn it.’

  ‘Move, you slug!’ says Maura, and she’s talking to me. Right. Of course. This is no time to stand and stare. As we shuffle towards the keep, I can hear somebody crying. I can see shards of rock scattered around— shards that might be useful, if they’re collected. All the children should be made to collect those chips of rock.

  Suddenly, the wounded man whimpers.

  ‘It’s all right, my lad,’ says Maura. (At least he’s alive.) Inside the keep, there aren’t many people. The Great Hall’s practically empty; everyone must be up on the walls. I recognise the soldier who’s asleep on a pile of straw under a bench. He’s the one who took my Caorsin from me by the well, a couple of days ago.

  Doesn’t he ever do any work?

  CRA-A-ASH!

  Another missile. Closer, this time. God preserve us.

  ‘The French are in a hurry,’ Maura wheezes. The wounded man gurgles with each breath, and it’s a terrible sound. I’d rather hear rocks hitting the walls. At the base of the stairs, Maura shifts her burden. She’s beginning to pant. ‘Got him?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not much farther.’

  Maybe not, but what good will it do? This man is dying, I’m sure of it. And taking him to Gerard de la Motta won’t help. On the contrary. Gerard’s no physician.

  If these stairs don’t kill the poor wretch, Gerard de la Motta certainly will.

  ‘Make way!’ yells Maura—because who knows what careless fool might be hurtling down towards us? Oof! I must be bearing most of the weight now, and it’s quite a load. He’s a big man, this one; his feet are as long as my forearm. We’re leaving a trail of blood behind us. (Somebody’s bound to slip on it.) And here we are at the chapel.

  At last.

  ‘We’ve got another!’ Maura announces, for the benefit of the Perfects who turn to watch us come in. ‘Where do you want him?’

  I’d be laughing, if I wasn’t so heartsick. Look at the way they all cringe at the sight of Maura’s huge, bouncing body and sweaty face! Only the old Gascon sergeant wearing homespun doesn’t seem to notice Maura. He’s more interested in what she’s carrying.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asks in his thick, crunchy voice. (It’s like the sound of seeds being ground in a pestle.) ‘Does anyone know?’

  No one does. At least, no one says anything. Certainly not the half-dozen men lying on the floor, who are probably incapable of speech anyway. The amputee by the altar will never talk again, in my opinion. He’s dying. You can smell his stump from way over here; Peitavin’s been left beside him, to flap the flies away. The rest of the patients simply twitch and moan, or lie unconscious, their faces the colour of tallow.

  Gerard de la Motta ignores them, however. He’s not interested in their suffering. He’s far more interested in mine.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demands, scowling at me. ‘I told you to stay here. At your post.’

  ‘I felt sick.’ This whole place makes me sick. You, especially. ‘I had to get some air.’

  ‘Put him over here,’ the old sergeant commands, taking charge. ‘That’s it. Gently.’

  ‘You shouldn’t wander about, Babylonne.’ Gerard’s still nagging. ‘Why should you do such a thing? Are you courting the attention of lewd men?’

  Oh, will you shut up? ‘I’m bringing in the wounded!’ (In case you haven’t noticed!) ‘Can you help me, please? Before I drop this man?’

  But it’s the old sergeant who catches my load as it slips from my grip—catches it and carefully lowers it onto a palliasse. ‘There’s still a piece of stone buried in that mess,’ he observes, peering into the wound. ‘We have to get it out.’

  ‘Won’t do any good,’ Gerard remarks gloomily. ‘This man isn’t going to live long.’

  ‘So maybe you should just put him out of his misery?’ Maura drawls, and Gerard flushes—though he pre
tends that he didn’t hear.

  ‘I’ll get the implements,’ he announces, in lofty accents. God, but he’s a loathsome louse. Having scraped together a few small knives, a pair of tweezers and a razor, he won’t let anyone else go near them. In his view, there’s only one person entitled to wield such delicate and expensive equipment, and that’s him.

  ‘All we can do,’ says the old sergeant, as Gerard shuffles over to his jealously guarded hoard, ‘is pull out the splinter, bandage him up, and pray.’

  ‘Unless you’ve got some comfrey,’ Maura interjects. She’s bent double, hands on knees, still recovering from that last steep climb. ‘Comfrey or hawthorn. They might do him some good.’

  ‘Be silent, woman!’ It’s Gerard. ‘You have no place here! Get along!’

  ‘No, she’s right,’ the old sergeant rumbles—much to everyone’s surprise. ‘Comfrey can help.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Gerard bustles up to his patient with an armload of knives and grubby bandages. ‘All the authorities agree that wounds must be kept open with padding until the pus drains. Any kind of herbal poultice might impede the flow of pus, and prevent the fever from breaking.’

  ‘Ah, but fevers are no problem,’ Maura declares, straightening up and folding her arms. She really is interested; sickness of any kind is the one thing that she doesn’t laugh about. ‘With a fever, you should pick vervain while you recite a Sunday prayer, and grind it up, and put it in some holy water to drink.’

  ‘Get out of my way!’ Gerard barks, nudging her aside. ‘Get back to your work, you ignorant fool!’

  ‘Where are the tweezers?’ The old sergeant is crouching now, feeling around the shattered head in front of him. ‘We’ll have to get this splinter out.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Gerard insists. ‘You go and soak some bandages in egg white and pork fat, and then we’ll pack the wound.’

  ‘This eye looks bad. Should we leave it there or not?’ asks the sergeant, and I can’t stand it any more. I can’t, I can’t—I’m going to vomit if I listen to another word. Even with my hands over my ears, I can still hear the thin, high-pitched squeal of the injured man.

  Oh God, oh God, I wish I wasn’t here. I feel as if my head’s going to break into a thousand pieces. Why? Why? It’s what I wanted—to fight the French—but now I can hardly put one foot in front of the other. Now I can hardly stop myself from screaming.

  ‘Hold him down!’ Gerard yelps. The clumsy, stupid, prating liver-worm! If only Father Isidore were here! He would do the job properly, I know he would! He’s so learned and kind, with such gentle hands—he wouldn’t hurt a dying man like this.

  I wish he was here now. I can’t believe how much I miss him. I only knew him for three days: why do I miss him so much?

  I think I’m going mad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My mother’s hair is very soft. When I brush it against my cheek, it feels like a kiss or a warm breath. Comforting. Gentle.

  I’m so glad that Isidore gave me this little plait. Now, whenever I wake in the darkest hours of the night, I can hold my mother’s hair close to my mouth and feel it on my skin. I can pretend that my mother is here, though it’s hard. It’s hard because she’s just a blur to me. Navarre never talked about her much. Neither did Gran. I probably learned more from Isidore than I did from them, and even Isidore had very little to say about my mother.

  If only I had asked him more. If only I hadn’t been too proud to ask. If I should ever see him again . . . if we should ever meet one day . . .

  Please God, make that happen. I am a grievous sinner, Lord, and ignorant, and unworthy, but seeing Father Isidore again—it would make me a better person. I know it would.

  Suppose he was with me now, in this room? Suppose he was lying in Maura’s bed, instead of Maura? Sometimes it makes me feel better to imagine such a thing, but sometimes it makes me feel worse. When dawn breaks, and it’s Maura in the bed after all . . . that’s always a bad moment. I have nothing to turn to then, except the hood that he bought me. I have my mother’s hair and Isidore’s hood, and that’s all I have to treasure.

  Wait a moment. What’s that noise?

  There’s something going on in the bailey. It’s the middle of the night, but there’s something going on. Where are my boots? Where’s my sharp stick? I don’t want to be taken by surprise. I don’t want to be killed in my own bed.

  Mind you, it doesn’t sound like a fight, or even a scuffle. I can hear low murmurs, and the clink of metal on stone: no thumps or grunts or heavy breathing. There are people milling around out there, and come to think of it, I was wrong about the time. It’s later than I thought. The touch of moving air on my cheek—the faint sheen in the sky—the distant, sleepy sounds of birds and farm animals . . .

  I think it’s near dawn.

  ‘Shh!’ someone hisses. From the door, it’s easier to see what’s happening. Torches are bobbing about— torches and candles. In their fitful, flickering glow, humble men are shouldering bundles of straw. Knights are donning helmets and adjusting sword-belts.

  There’s Loup de Montferrand, in full armour. He’s even wearing mail vambraces.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I have to know. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Shh!’ For a moment he doesn’t recognise me; his mind is somewhere else, far beyond the walls of this fortress. But slowly recognition dawns in his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘What are you doing, my lord? Where are you going?’ You’re not leaving us, are you? ‘Please don’t go!’

  ‘Shh!’ He motions frantically for silence, replying in a whisper as he does so, ‘Have no fear. We’re going out to burn the trebuchet.’

  ‘Oh!’ But how? ‘Not through the gates, surely?’

  ‘No. We’ll take another route.’ He beckons to his attendant, who passes him a pot-helmet. It’s a huge, heavy thing, and it transforms Lord Loup into something fearsome; only his eyes and mouth are visible, now that his helmet’s on. ‘Pray for us,’ he says, in a muffled voice.

  ‘Oh, yes! I will! God be with you, my lord!’

  It’s a raid, then. And I have to see it. I have to get upstairs. Not onto the ramparts—if there’s too much activity on the ramparts, the French will be alerted—but into one of the towers. That tower over there, perhaps: it’s closest to the French trebuchet. It’s taken most of the blows.

  Lord Loup is heading for another tower entirely. They all are—half a dozen armed men and twice that number of attendants. Is there a door that I haven’t noticed, over in that stretch of wall? A little postern tucked away in a hidden corner, above a steep slope? A tunnel that leads to a copse? They can’t have been digging a tunnel; I would have known about that. Perhaps all the stone that they’ve been bringing up onto the ramparts, lately—perhaps that was stacked across the hidden door, and now it’s been cleared.

  I don’t know. All I do know is that Lord Loup is taking a terrible risk. Does he really think that he’ll be able to approach the trebuchet, set fire to it, and return to this citadel without attracting attention? He doesn’t seem to be taking many men with him. Though that might be because they want to move quickly. No doubt they realise that a swift and glancing raid will be their only chance of survival.

  Please God they return unharmed.

  Chink-chink-chink. One of the armed men has peeled off from the rest; he’s heading back this way, his chain mail softly clinking with every step as he winds himself up in a dark cloak. Behind him scurries a varlet with a torch, and its flaring flame illuminates the shrouded man who’s passing.

  Lord Olivier.

  I haven’t seen much of him, this last week or so; one fleeting glimpse is enough to show that he’s not worn well. There are bags under his eyes, each big enough to cast a shadow. All the flesh has dropped away from beneath his cheekbones, and his chin has been pared so sharp, you could almost cut wood with it. He looks sterner and grimmer than he ever did before—a walking, talking war-machine.

  He disappea
rs into the western tower, and I think that I might follow him. Discreetly. At a distance.

  He must be going up there to watch events unfold.

  Dear Lord Our Father, please by your mercy bring Loup back unharmed. (I should pray, because I promised.) Please protect his companions, oh Lord, in your infinite compassion, Amen. There are bodies all over the floor in here—snoring, twitching, sighing bodies, most of them fully dressed and ready to be roused. It’s so dark that I’ll have to be careful: I don’t want to tread on anyone.

  The stairs are clear, though. They won’t be hard to climb.

  ‘Sst!’

  God save us. That gave me a start! But it’s only Pons de Villeneuve, bringing up the rear.

  He doesn’t bother to pick a path through the slumbering garrison, the way I did. He simply kicks them aside, causing them to roll and groan.

  ‘What are you up to?’ he whispers. ‘Spear-fishing?’

  ‘What?’ Oh. I see. He’s talking about my sharpened stick. ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Been visiting your lover?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I should hope not. Too many bastards in your family as it is.’

  Up your arse, pus-face. He swings past me, taking the stairs two at a time as he ties the strings of his hooded cloak. All these dark cloaks—they suggest that some of the knights are afraid of being seen.

  They must be heading for the ramparts.

  I suppose I’m allowed to go on, am I? Pons didn’t tell me to go back to bed. And here’s some activity, at last— archers in the second-floor guardroom. Filling their quivers and testing their bows. Squabbling in tense and muted voices.

  Whoops!

  ‘Get out of my way!’ snaps the hulking great sergeant who just rounded a turn in the stairs above me. He’s so big, I’ll have to flatten myself against the wall to let him by. I wonder where he’s going in such a hurry? Wherever it is, he’s determined to get there. The look of concentration on his face—it’s the same look that I saw on the faces of those archers.

  I shan’t be bothered by these men. They don’t have time to pinch or kiss or grope. I won’t need my sharpened stick this morning.