Pagan's Daughter
Pagan's
Daughter
First published in 2006
Copyright © Catherine Jinks, 2006
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Jinks, Catherine, 1963—.
Pagan’s daughter.
ISBN 174114 769 7.
1. Albigenses – Juvenile fiction. 2. Heresies, Christian – Juvenile
fiction. 3. Languedoc (France) – Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
A823.3
Cover and text design by Zoe Sadokierski
Set in 12pt Celestia Antiqua by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Teachers’ notes available from
www.allenandunwin.com
To Emma and Molly Jinks, the new girls
SUMMER,
1227
Table of Contents
Oh no.
I’ve killed the chicken.
How could I have killed it? How could this have happened? I wasn’t trying to kill it—I was trying to shut it up, the stupid thing! What was I supposed to do? Let it squawk away until they found me?
It’s all floppy now, like a bolster that’s lost most of its stuffing. Did I squeeze it too hard? Did I smother it by putting my hand around its beak? This is bad. I’m in so much trouble. If Gran ever finds out about this, I’ll be eating wool-grease and nutshells for a month.
But she won’t find out. She won’t. I’m going to hold my breath, and keep quite still, and with any luck . . . with any luck . . .
They’re nowhere near this fowl-house. I can hear their footsteps; they’re poking around behind the broad beans. Rustle, rustle. Mumbling to each other in some strange language that must be Latin. I’ve heard people praying in Latin, and it’s all ‘um’ and ‘us’, like the stuff I’m hearing now. They say that monks speak Latin to each other, and these men are probably monks. Or priests. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t stand still long enough to get a good look at them.
Let your breath out slowly, Babylonne. That’s it. Very slowly. Very quietly. There are feathers every-where, stuck to my skirt and my sleeves and my hair. Please God don’t let me sneeze. Please God keep the feathers away from my nose.
Please God keep those priests away from this fowl-house.
I’m very sorry that I killed the chicken. I honestly didn’t mean to. I was only looking for eggs, because eggs aren’t animals. I mean, you can’t really kill an egg, can you? Eating an egg isn’t like eating a chicken. Not as far as I’m concerned. There might be a chicken inside the egg
somewhere
, but if this world is truly the Devil’s realm—as Gran says—then you’re doing that chicken a great service, aren’t you? Making sure that it never hatches?
Wait a moment. Those footsteps: are they coming closer, or moving away? I think . . . I think . . .
They’re moving away.
Listen hard, Babylonne. Is that a door creaking? It is. I know it is. There’s a door almost directly opposite the fowl-house I’m sitting in. It must be the door to the cloister. Those priests must have gone back into their cloister.
To fetch some more priests, do you think? Or have they decided that the chickens were making a fuss about nothing?
It’s lucky that I’m so small. They probably weren’t expecting someone my size. If they had been, they would have had a good look inside this fowl-house, instead of just glancing through the door. Whoever did that, he couldn’t have seen much. He couldn’t have seen me, crushed into this corner. Oh
please
, please don’t be suspicious. Please don’t come back. Just go away and eat up your pork and your cheese and your honey, and forget about the eggs. Would you really miss a few eggs? You’d hardly have room for an egg in those great, swollen guts of yours—not after all the roasted peacocks and spiced pigeons and sugar cakes and whatever else it is that you pack into your paunches, day after day, while the rest of us live on bones and millet.
Swinish, bloated,
greasy
idolaters that you are. It’s a wonder you saw me at all over the swell of your own enormous bellies.
I think they’ve gone. There isn’t a sound. And I should make a move now, in case they do come back. Take it slowly, Babylonne. Carefully . . . quietly . . . don’t disturb the chickens. The
other
chickens. The ones who can still enjoy a nice dust-bath before bedtime.
Not like poor old Floppy, here.
The fowl-house door is only slightly bigger than my head. Beyond it, the sun blazes down onto rows and rows of peas and beans, leeks, marrows, strawberries, all laid out like a feast on a table. I tell you, these priests of Rome eat like kings. How dare they make a fuss over one poor egg?
Anyway, it’s their own fault. If one of those evil priests hadn’t dug himself a secret hole under the garden wall (probably in search of women, because all gluttons have hot blood), then I would never have come in here, would I? I would never have been tempted. They can thank their own unbridled lusts if they lose a few eggs. It’s not stealing when you take from priests of Rome. Men who call themselves holy should be fasting, not feasting.
Hmmm. No one to the right. No one to the left. There’s the door to the cloister, straight in front of me across the feathery vines, and it’s standing open. That means the priests might be coming back.
I’d better run the other way. Off you go, Babylonne. One, two, three, go!
I’d better head for the— ‘
Haah!
’
Oh no.
‘Thieving whore!’ (Where did he—? How did he—? It’s as if he sprang out of the ground!) ‘Give me that chicken!’