Pagan's Daughter (19 page)

And here we are, at last. There’s more growth up here than I expected—must be something to do with the creek-bed, which is all fissured mud and dry pebbles. There’s even a wild olive, I notice. And beyond it, over to the south, a glimpse of the
forcia
, back on our level.

Now I understand where we are.

‘There’s a rear entrance just up here,’ says Gui, whose boils look worse than ever against the sweaty red flush that’s engulfed his face. ‘If we leave the horses in this copse, they might not be seen. And even if they are,’ he adds, ‘the back entrance is practically invisible.’

‘We’ll have to unload everything,’ says Isidore. ‘We’ll have to bring the saddles and the halters—’

‘Hurry, then. Can’t you hear it?’

I can hear it, all right. The roll of drums. Quick! We have to move!

‘I’ve nothing to tie the horses with,’ Isidore frowns, already unstrapping the saddlebags. ‘No ropes or thongs.’

‘We shouldn’t tie them.’ Keeping my voice down serves to disguise it. ‘If we tie them, we’re leaving a trail.’

‘But—’

‘If we let them loose, they might easily have wandered.’

‘If we let them loose, they
will
wander,’ Isidore protests, working away furiously. ‘And then we’ll lose them.’

‘Better to lose our horses than to lose our lives.’

‘Will you please
hurry
?’ Gui hisses, from over near a patch of nettles. ‘We haven’t
time
for this!’

‘We’ll leave the halters on,’ Isidore suddenly decides, hauling the saddle off his palfrey. ‘Just drape your bridle over that branch, as if it’s snagged there accidentally—’

‘And leave the other one free.’ Of course! ‘If my horse has been caught, his friend might stay.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Come
on
!’ grunts Gui, who’s struggling with a great weight. A rock, is it? He’s crouched near a patch of pink flowers—and he’s not the only one struggling with a great weight. By the black bile of Beelzebub, this saddle is heavy!

‘In here.’ Gui has rolled aside several rocks, to reveal a hole in the ground. A very small, dark hole in the ground. ‘If you crawl through this tunnel,’ he explains, ‘you’ll come to the cave where Imbert is hiding. I’ll roll the rocks back after you, and return the other way.’

But—

‘Quick!
Quick
!’ Gui’s boils are practically erupting, he’s so frightened. ‘Get
in
!’

‘I’ll go first,’ says Isidore, who’s brought up the rear with his saddle
and
his saddlebags. (I hope they’re all going to fit.) ‘You can follow me, Benoit.’

‘Couldn’t we—um—light a candle or something?’ It looks awfully murky in there.

‘You won’t need a candle. There are fissures and cracks that let in the light until you’re nearly at the cave. Then you’ll see Imbert’s lamp.’ Gui gives me a push. ‘Go on!’

Isidore’s already crawling into the hole, which is like a burrow. It seems to ease him down gently. Once his hands and face have been swallowed up, the rest of his black shape simply merges with the shadows, disappearing more quickly than I would have thought possible. I can’t help thinking of gullets. And graves. And wolves’ eyes shining yellow in the darkness.

‘Go on,’ Gui repeats, already poised to cover the gaping, toothless mouth.

Now it’s my turn.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There once was a beautiful princess who was swallowed by a giant whale. For three long days she wriggled down its throat, and on the fourth day she emerged into its stomach, which was as big as a cathedral. All around her were gold and silver and precious gems, because the whale had swallowed more kings and kingdoms than there were stars in the sky. And the princess took the treasure, and travelled to the end of the world, and laid her priceless gift before the band of noble knights who awaited her in their ivory castle ...

I almost wish that this was a whale’s throat. At least it would be softer on the knees. (Ouch!) And now Isidore has stopped again, for about the tenth time.

Surely he’s skinny enough to get through this tunnel? I’m not crawling out of here backwards—I don’t care how small it gets.

‘What is it?’ Go on! ‘Why are you stopping?’

‘Wait,’ he gasps. There’s a flurry of feet and skirts and all at once he’s disappeared. Disappeared!

In his place I can see a flickering light, dancing about like an insect.

‘Come,’ croaks Imbert. ‘There’s a bit of a drop.’

As if to demonstrate, the saddle that I’ve been pushing in front of me suddenly falls away. Vanishes.
Thump
. Hands reach for me—Isidore’s hands—and fasten themselves to my arms. Ow! Wait! Don’t pull yet, I’m—

Whoops!

I’m on the ground. All tangled up in Isidore’s soft, black robe. Above me, the mouth of the tunnel yawns like the end of a pipe: a round, dark hole punched into the wall.

‘Are you hurt?’ Isidore demands.

‘No.’ You broke my fall. ‘Is this it?’

‘Apparently.’ He doesn’t sound very enthusiastic, and I don’t blame him. It’s not nearly as big as I expected. The ceiling is so low that even
I
can barely stand upright. The ground is so uneven that there’s only enough flat space to allow one person a good night’s sleep. (You
might
fit two people, providing that they slept nose to nose, with their arms wrapped around each other.) Everything else is jagged rock, some of it too sharp to sit on. There’s a blanket, and a bucket, and a few little rag-wrapped bundles that might be food. There’s also a jug that’s missing a handle. I hope the jug is a piss-pot. I’d hate to think that the Perfects were using their water-bucket to piss in.

‘Welcome,’ says Imbert, timidly. He settles onto one of the rocks, folding his hands in his lap. Isidore begins to stack the saddles and baggage on a kind of stony shelf, and I suppose that I’d better sit opposite the Perfect. Leaving as much distance between us as I can, naturally.

At last Isidore finishes. Sidling past Imbert, he wedges himself next to me, barking his shin in the process.

What happens now, I wonder?

‘We must be very quiet,’ Imbert mutters. ‘If we speak too loudly, it will be heard outside. Just as we can hear the people who pass overhead.’

‘We are in no danger yet, though, I think,’ says Isidore. ‘The hoofbeats of so many horses would shake the very ground, would they not?’

Imbert doesn’t reply. He’s listening hard—for Gui, probably. Gui must be retracing his steps, coming back down the side of the valley and entering via the front entrance, which is almost certainly around that corner over there.

In the silence, my stomach rumbles.

‘Sorry.’ How embarrassing.

‘Would you like some food, Benoit?’ Isidore murmurs.

My nod propels him to his feet again; he’s rummaging through his saddlebags when a noise from outside makes Imbert stiffen. Oh dear. What was that?

We ought to have a sword, you know. Or at least a big stick. Something to use if an armed man ever penetrates this fastness. We could ambush him. Cut off his head as soon as he stuck it around that corner.

An unconvincing owl’s hoot seems to reassure Imbert, who releases a great sigh. The owl’s hoot must have been a signal.

‘Gui,’ says the old man, as Isidore turns from the baggage, bread in one hand, cheese in the other.

Sure enough, Gui suddenly appears. His thin hair is full of straw and burrs. He collapses onto a spire-shaped rock that must be
very
uncomfortable, though perhaps not for a holy man like Gui. Gui probably sleeps on iron spikes when he can find them.

‘Nothing yet,’ he gasps. ‘But the drums are getting louder.’ His gaze follows Isidore, who’s stumbling back to his seat. Damn, damn, damn.

How can I eat cheese in front of these Perfects?

‘You are welcome to our food,’ says Isidore, as if he’s suddenly become conscious of all the attention he’s attracting. ‘Our food is your food, now that you’ve shared your hearth with us.’

‘We do not eat cheese,’ Gui replies. ‘It is a sin to eat cheese.’

Oh dear, oh dear. We’re not going to discuss religion, are we? Isidore regards Gui for a moment, his eyes calm and thoughtful under pale, heavy eyelids. Finally he begins to wrap the cheese back up in its linen swaddling-cloth, saying, ‘I would not offend mine host in his own domicile.’

‘You are not offending me, but the Lord,’ Gui rejoins, wincing as he shifts about, trying to find a more comfortable spot. ‘Cheese comes from milk, and milk is the product of fornication, which is anathema to God. For St Paul said “Flee fornication”, by which he enjoins us to flee all things that stem from it—like milk, and cheese, and eggs, and meat. St Paul said, “It is good neither to eat flesh nor to drink wine”. Therefore we live according to the injunctions of St Paul.’

Ho hum. I must have heard
that
more times than I’ve trimmed my toenails. I could almost be back in my grandmother’s house; this whole place puts me in mind of it, what with the dry bread and water, and the uncomfortable seats, and the fact that there aren’t enough blankets.

‘St Paul did say “It is good neither to eat flesh nor to drink wine”,’ Isidore agrees quietly, breaking his bread into equal portions. ‘But he finished with the words “. . . nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth or is offended, or is made weak”. It is all of a piece with his other rulings; he tells us, for example, “Wherefore if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth, lest I make my brother to offend”. He does not describe it as wrong in itself, I think, except insofar that it might trouble others. And therefore I will put my cheese away.’

‘But you
do
offend,’ Gui insists, ‘in that you do offence against all people.’

‘I think not,’ says Isidore.

‘No, I assure you! Eating meat is wrong.’ (Gui is beginning to preach. I can hear the strength building in his voice.) ‘Because you should not kill a living thing, nor condemn its spirit to another earthly body.’

‘But St Paul would not have it so.’ Isidore doesn’t speak like a preacher. He passes me a piece of bread, his tone gentle and soothing. ‘He said, in his first epistle to St Timothy, “Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving head to seducing spirits and doctrines of evil; speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron; forbidding to marry, and commanding to abstain from meats, which God hath created to be received with thanksgiving of them which believe and know the truth. For every creature of God is good, and nothing is to be refused, if received with thanksgiving”.’

Hmmm.

How beautifully he speaks. And the words that fall from his mouth—are they truthful? Did St Paul really write them? If they are the words of St Paul, then . . . then perhaps we
shouldn’t
be abstaining from meats.

Even Imbert looks a bit startled.

‘Ah!’ Gui exclaims ‘But you’re speaking about two different worlds. Nothing is to be refused in the world of the
spirit
, by the truly faithful souls of the Saved. St Paul is not referring to this world, for this world is the realm of the Devil. Because if “every creature of God is good”, then how could God have created the bad things, like wicked dragons, and poisonous snakes? Remember, as the Blessed John says, “God is light and in Him there is no darkness”. So this world is not of God. This world is full of darkness, and full of the Devil.’

Well? What do you say to that, Father Priest? Isidore gives a piece of bread to Imbert, who stuffs it down almost guiltily, chewing awkwardly on unreliable teeth.

‘If this world is not God’s creation,’ Isidore replies, ‘then why does St Paul say of Christ that he is “the image of the invisible God, the first-born of every creature, for in him were all things created in heaven
and
on earth, visible and invisible”?’

Yes. Why does he say that, if this world is really the Devil’s realm? Gui is beginning to look cross. He hesitates, his mouth working. Hasn’t he an answer to this argument?

‘St Paul also says that “there be gods many and lords many”,’ he finally splutters. ‘And St Matthew says, “No man can serve two masters”, meaning that Satan is the lord and master of this world.’

‘Oh, my friend.’ The pity in Isidore’s voice seems to surprise everyone—even Isidore. He catches himself, and moderates his tone. ‘You must know that a master is not a god,’ he continues. ‘In the same text of which you speak, St Paul tells us, “For though there be those that are called gods, either in Heaven or on earth, yet to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things”. All things, you see. In Heaven and on earth.’

I’ve never heard anyone argue like this before; I’ve only heard preaching. It makes you think, doesn’t it? It makes you wonder. I’ve always thought that it was holier not to eat meat. But if the Scriptures say it isn’t— if St Paul says it isn’t—then could the Perfects be wrong? Could the Romans be
right
?

Surely not. Surely the
Romans
couldn’t be right! Though I have to admit, Isidore certainly seems to know the Scriptures very well. Better than Gui, who only uses small snatches of text—not big slabs of it, like Isidore. Unless Isidore is lying? Unless he’s quoting from false Scriptures? There
are
false Scriptures, I know. The Perfects always talk of them. But Gui didn’t accuse Isidore of falsifying the words of St Paul. Perhaps Gui doesn’t even know the Scriptures well enough to recognise falsehoods.