Pagan's Daughter (15 page)

There. We’ll take this bed and this bed. I’ll have the one closest to the wall.

‘Why, Father!’ That’s Bremond, speaking in the next room. ‘So you didn’t make it to Saverdun after all?’

‘No, I . . .’ (Isidore mumbles something. He sounds almost sheepish.)

‘What a happy chance! Now I can find out your name, because you never introduced yourself . . .’

What shall I do? Stay here? Go back?

If I stay here, I can protect our beds. Oops! And here’s the first wave, swarming over the threshold: Gervaise, with his two lady friends.

They halt and blink at me.

‘Uh . . .
hic ...viri
?’ Gervaise asks. But I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.

He turns to the widows, and says something in English. This time I’ve got a pretty good sense of what it means.

Sure enough, the widows squeal and slap his arms. Oh yes. I’d lay a wager on it. Without question, he just said, ‘You girls can sleep in my bed.’

‘Oh.’ And here’s Boniface the priest, with Drogo at his heels. Drogo is almost lost to view behind the baggage he’s carrying. ‘Oh,’ says Boniface, ‘is this the arrangement? I don’t know if I care for this.’

‘Men in one, women in the other!’ Bremond calls, from the refectory. The babble of English that follows must be a translation, because Gervaise immediately sags, and addresses the two widows mournfully, rolling his eyes in the most exaggerated display of heartbreak I’ve ever seen.

Agnes and Constance burst into a fresh torrent of giggles. As they withdraw from the room, arm in arm, they throw back a comment—in English—which seems to come as a slightly unpleasant surprise to Gervaise.

He winces, and says something in Latin to Boniface (who’s surveying the beds, trying to decide which one he wants).

‘Oh.’ Boniface scowls. ‘Well, that’s all we need.’

‘What’s all we need?’ asks Bremond, waddling in on his wooden soles.
Clonk-clonk-clonk
.

‘Their servant snores,’ Boniface replies.

‘Ah well.’ Bremond shrugs. ‘Poor Gilbert. I’d be surprised if he didn’t, with his nose in the state it is.’ The wine merchant collapses onto one of the beds with a groan. ‘He’s hoping to be cured, you know, when he reaches Compostela. Agnes has promised him the face of an angel if he makes this pilgrimage.’

Oh no. How
cruel
.

‘Well, be that as it may,’ says Boniface, who obviously wouldn’t care if Gilbert’s face was growing out of his backside, ‘I vote that we put all servants in the refectory for the night.
I
can’t be expected to sleep in the same room as my own servant.’

Whump!
Drogo dumps the priest’s baggage onto a bed, by way of comment. And suddenly Isidore speaks.

He’s right behind me. He must have slipped in like a fox, the way he does.

I didn’t even notice.

‘My servant is sleeping with us,’ he declares calmly. ‘In here.’

And that’s that. Not even Boniface has the courage to argue, though he’d like to, I’m sure. Bremond has unstrapped his wooden soles and kicked off his boots; he’s now rubbing his feet, his face screwed up in ecstasy. ‘Ahh,’ he says. ‘You know, these sandals are my son-in-law’s idea, and they wear very well, but they’re mortally hard on the feet.’

‘Where is the old man?’ Isidore inquires, and my heart turns over. Of course! The old madman!

We don’t have to sleep in the same room as
him
, do we?

‘Ah. Yes. Our aged friend,’ says Bremond. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’

Gone? How?

‘He wandered off. I don’t know why.’ Bremond’s still rubbing his feet, which smell like something scraped out of an eel’s belly. ‘We just looked around and he’d disappeared. Isn’t that right, Father?’

He’s addressing Boniface, who’s busy unpacking, and answers with a shrug. Gervaise has wandered out of the room, probably in search of the widows. Gilbert passes Gervaise on the threshold; he looks around in awe, as if he’s never seen a roof from the inside before.

Drogo’s got his head down. Hmmm. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Drogo had strangled the old madman behind a tree.

There’s something about that fellow.

‘Bremond!’ It’s Galerna’s voice, from the next room. ‘Everyone! The food’s here!’

Food? What food? Have the monks brought food?

Drogo sprints past and out the door, in the blink of an eye. (It’s like a flash of lightning.) Boniface bustles after him, walking very quickly but not breaking into a run. (You’re probably trained to do that, when you live in a cathedral cloister.) Bremond hobbles off with his boots in his hand, lured back into the refectory by a warm, spicy smell that makes my stomach rumble.

Isidore waits. He waits until the very last man has left the room before sitting down beside me on my bed.

‘Will you be all right?’ he whispers. ‘Is this all right for you?’

‘I—I think so.’ After all, no one knows that I’m a girl, so why should I be bothered during the night? And I don’t have to use a piss-pot, around here. There are latrines. We passed them on the way in. ‘I just won’t talk. Or take too many clothes off.’

‘I’m sorry, Babylonne.’

‘Benoit. Remember?
Benoit
.’

He nods. Rises. Leads me into the refectory, where two monks are serving out food. One of them is an even sadder sight than Gilbert; he looks as if his face has been turned inside out and left to dry in the sun for a year before being worn as a shoe. I suppose that’s what Agnes is giggling at, over there. Unless Gervaise just pinched her.

I notice that Gervaise has wedged himself neatly between the two of them—between Agnes and Constance. No surprises there. Beside Constance, on the right-hand bench, sits Galerna, then Bremond. Boniface has chosen a place on the opposite side of the table; he waves at Isidore, and I know what that means.

‘Come!’ says the spotty priest. ‘Please do us the honour, Father Isidore. I’ve saved a seat for you.’

Though not for me, apparently. I’m supposed to eat down at the other end of the table, with Drogo and Gilbert. Isidore hesitates, but there’s not much he can do. If he insists that I sit beside him, it will look as if I
am
his pretty boy.

I suppose I’m lucky that I don’t have to eat off the floor.

Speaking of meals off the floor, what’s Petronilla doing? She’s on her knees in front of the gargoyle-faced monk, her hands clasped together in prayer. When he tries to step around her, she crawls after him.

She must be expressing her gratitude. That’s the only explanation.

‘Silly old bitch,’ Drogo mutters, as I slide onto the bench next to him—keeping a good three handspans of naked wood between us. ‘She’ll trip him up in a moment, and then what will happen? We’ll lose our soup.’

No comment from me. No comment from Gilbert, who probably can’t understand. (Who probably can’t
talk
, in fact.) The ugly monk is handing out trenchers of bread, murmuring some kind of prayer as he does so. It looks as if—yes, it will be one trencher each. That’s good. But only four large bowls of stew, so I’ll be sharing one with Gilbert and Drogo. That’s not good.

‘. . . my next pilgrimage will be to Canterbury,’ Boniface is saying, as he picks at his bread. He’s talking to Isidore, naturally, but Isidore isn’t listening. Not really. He nods and grunts, but all his attention is on me. I can feel it. He keeps glancing my way. He keeps frowning, even when Boniface is laughing. ‘. . . Oh yes, Father, the state of the beds in that abbey . . .’ the pimply priest bores on.

Hello.

Did I just see what I thought I saw?

Drogo made the sign. Over his food. Here was I, telling myself
not
to make the sign, and he did it himself, without thinking.

Well, well, well. So Drogo’s a Good Christian, is he? Or is he?

I might be mistaken. It was very quick. Perhaps where he comes from—Lombardy, is it?—that’s not a believer’s sign at all.

‘So. Benoit,’ he remarks, as he scoops up stew with a piece of bread. (Mmmm. Bacon and beans.) ‘You look like a Moor. Are you a Moor?’

I have to shake my head. It will seem odd if I don’t.

‘No? You’re as black as mud, though; you must be something.’ He stuffs the bread in his mouth, but it doesn’t shut him up. ‘Jew?’ he mumbles, chewing. ‘Are you circumcised?’

I won’t dignify that question with an answer. It’s not right to talk so rough, not at the table. Gilbert’s making noises like fifteen pigs at a trough. It’s not his fault, I suppose—with a face like his, it must be hard to eat—but that doesn’t make him any nicer to listen to. Boniface is still droning away. ‘. . . better food in Nimes . . . plenary indulgence . . . blah, blah, blah . . .’ Bremond is banging the table with his goblet.

‘A prayer before we eat, Father, I beg you,’ he says to Isidore. ‘A prayer of thanks for our safe arrival.’

Hah! Look at Drogo. With a shifty, sideways glance, he stops chewing and swallows. Isidore gets up. He gives us a prayer in Latin, his voice as gentle as a drift of silk. It certainly seems to calm the widows, who fold their hands and bow their heads in pious unison.

Gervaise is scratching his backside. The two monks wait, shuffling their feet; having served up the food, they’re now holding jugs of wine.

‘. . . cum Sancto Spiritu in gloria Dei Patris, Amen,’
Isidore finishes. Everyone murmurs ‘Amen’ except Gilbert, who honks it like a goose. Isidore settles back onto his seat, with a quick glance in my direction. (It’s all right, Isidore, I’m coping.) Petronilla approaches Isidore on her knees, babbling something in English.

‘I think she wants your blessing, Father,’ Bremond advises, from across the table. ‘She’ll only eat if she has your blessing.’

Isidore sighs, and traces a cross over her head.

The monks start pouring wine.

Drogo pokes me in the ribs with his good hand.

‘Where
do
you come from?’ he mutters. ‘Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. Are you something he picked up in the Holy Land? One of those Infidel bastards?’

Closer than you think, piss-face, but you still don’t deserve an answer. Besides, I’m busy. Busy eating.

Ouch!

His hand is like a smith’s clamp. Right on my upper thigh. Digging in.

‘I like a boy who can keep his mouth shut,’ he leers.

Get
off
! The table shudders as I jump up, knocking against it; wine flows from a fallen cup. Everyone gapes at me.

‘Benoit?’ Isidore rises too. ‘What’s wrong?’

Speechless.

What can I say? I can’t speak. I mustn’t.

‘Are you ill?’ says Isidore.

Yes. Yes, I’m ill. That’s it. Drogo has turned my stomach.

A nod will do the trick.

‘Leave him,’ says Boniface, catching at Isidore’s sleeve. ‘He’ll be fine.’

Oh no, I won’t. Where shall I go? Back to bed? Yes. Back to bed.

I don’t want anyone to see me like this, shaking and sweating. I don’t know what to do. Is that greasy, smirking Lombard trying to tell me something? Does he know that I’m a girl? Or does he like young boys? Maybe he’s trying to scare me by making me
think
that he likes young boys.

Here I am, back in the dormitory. Safe. There’s a candle burning—who lit that? One of the monks? Shut the door . . .

My knees are giving way, but that’s all right. The bed’s here. Sit down, Babylonne. Sit down and think.

‘Benoit?’ The door creaks. It’s Isidore. He slips inside, pushing the door shut behind him. Ignoring my frantic gestures.

‘No! No!’ As softly as I can. ‘Go back! They’ll wonder!’

‘What is it?’ He’s barely audible. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you ill? Or is it something else?’ He narrows his eyes, crouching beside me. ‘Is it Drogo?’

By the balls of the Beast, he’s quick. How did he work that out?

‘What did he do?’ Isidore breathes. ‘Why did you kick him, back there on the road? What’s he been saying?’

Knock-knock-knock
.

‘Hello?’ It’s Bremond. ‘May I come in?’ Without waiting for an answer, he thrusts his head into the room. Isidore immediately springs to his feet, stepping in front of me. Shielding me.

‘If it’s the flux,’ says Bremond, ‘my wife has a good draught that the boy can take. It’s very effective.’

‘No, thank you.’ Isidore speaks firmly. ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘Or the monks might help. They have an infirmary here.’

‘Benoit’s fine. He’s very tired. All he needs is rest. But thank you.’ Isidore turns back to me. ‘You go to bed, Benoit. Sleep is the cure. I’ll be in soon.’ As Bremond’s head disappears, Isidore leans forward, and lowers his voice. ‘I’m here. Understand? I’m here.’ (It’s amazing how much strength he can force into a whisper.) ‘I won’t let him near you.’

And all at once the room is empty. All at once I’m alone with the candle. Maybe I should get undressed before anyone else comes in.

Or maybe I shouldn’t get undressed at all.

‘CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Wake up.’

Wha—? Who—?

‘Shh!’

Isidore. Yes. That’s Isidore, and I’m—where am I?

His hand’s on my mouth. Gagging me. The light’s very dim, but I can just make out his dark shape against the paler shadows beyond.