Once there was a beautiful princess whose wicked stepmother wanted her to marry an evil sorcerer. But if she did marry him, the sorcerer would cast a spell on the princess. During the day, she would turn into a donkey. Only at night would she return to her true shape.
The princess didn’t want this to happen. So she had no choice but to open her dead mother’s magic chest, and take out her dead mother’s magic boots, which would take her halfway across the world in the blink of an eye ...
Will this night never end? I seem to have been lying in bed forever.
It’s so uncomfortable, too, with all this stuff hidden underneath me. I can feel the money digging into my back: two livres tournois and a handful of Caorsins. That’s a fair share, I think. It’s much less than my dowry would be. Navarre would be losing more than two livres tournois, if I was stupid enough to stay around. And the scissors—well, I must have the scissors. As well as Gran’s winter hose and fur-lined boots. I mean, I can’t wear sandals, can I? And boots don’t really work without hose.
Scissors, boots, hose, money. Altogether, they’d be worth less than the dowry I’d have to pay that crazy old man and his son. It’s not as if I’m stealing. I’m just solving Navarre’s problem in another way. In a better way.
I can hear her snoring over there near Gran. They’re both snoring. Gran has to sleep downstairs because of the fire, and Navarre has to sleep downstairs because of Gran. As for me, I’m the one who gets clouted if the fire goes out, so I get to sleep downstairs as well.
Aaagh! Speaking of clouts, my nose is a mess. Throb, throb, throb. (Navarre can’t seem to look at me without hitting me, any more.) But it’s just as well, I suppose, or I might have fallen asleep by accident. I don’t want to miss the first cockcrow. This is my only chance. Unless I make it to the city gates before Dulcie wakes up at sunrise, I’m finished. Navarre will find out that I’ve taken the money and the scissors and the clothes from her chest, and she’ll kill me. She really will. She’ll chop me up with an axe before she can stop herself.
I have to get out of here.
A strangled sound. But the snoring resumes, and all is well. Somewhere a cricket chirps. Somewhere in the distance a baby’s crying. I can’t believe that I’ve come to this point. I can’t believe that it’s really happening. To have actually laid hands on Navarre’s keys—well, that’s a feat in itself, because she’s a notoriously light sleeper. But I did it. I snuck the keys off her belt. I opened the chest. I took out the money, and the scissors, and the clothes. And then I slid the keys back under her blankets.
If I can do all that, I can certainly do the rest. I can certainly reach the Kingdom of Aragon.
That’s the best place for me. Over in Aragon, with all the exiled faidit lords—the ones who lost their ancestral lands to the King of France. Like the Viscount of Carcassonne, for example. Or Olivier de Termes. I could cook for them and clean for them. I could mend clothes and throw rocks. I could help them win back Carcas-sonne and Termes from the King, and I would do it proudly. Because I would be serving those valiant knights who have never bent their knees to France. Who are honourable and brave. Unlike Bernard Oth, my cousin.
I would rather die with the noble faidit lords than live locked up with a useless old madman who thinks I’m a giant olive.
The princess knew what she had to do. One night, when all in the castle were sleeping, she disguised herself as a squire and escaped from her wicked stepmother. She went off to join a band of noble nights in shining armour, who had sworn to slay the venomous serpent laying waste to her country.
There! The cockcrow!
Off you go, Babylonne. Quickly, now. Quietly. Don’t make a sound. And don’t forget your bundle—you can’t go without that.
The back door creaks a bit, but it’s all right. Nobody’s moved. (Close the door behind you, remember. And watch out for that chopping block!) Already the sky is lightening, over in the east. Where are my scissors? There. Right.
Hair first.
Ouch! Yeowch! It’s harder than I thought; these scissors must need sharpening. And without a mirror, I can’t be cutting straight. I hope I don’t look too odd. I don’t want to attract attention. And what am I going to do with all this discarded hair? Stick it in my bundle, maybe. Get rid of it afterwards.
If Navarre sees it lying around on the ground, she’ll know what I’ve done. She’ll know that I’ve cut my hair short.
Now for the skirt. Knee-level, I think. It’s going to fray, but I can’t help that. Save the leftover cloth; it might be useful. Stuff it into the bundle too. In fact wrap the money in it, so that the coins won’t chink. Now for the hose. They’re not too big. I was afraid that they might be, but they could be a lot worse.
The boots smell like very, very old cheese—the kind that frightens little children. I hope they last. I have to cross the Pyrenees in these boots, and they already look as if they’re about to lie down and die.
Oh well. I have money. If I must, I’ll buy more boots.
Another cockcrow. I have to hurry, or I’m going to get caught. I won’t throw the bundle over the wall because someone might pick it up before I get to it. I’ll bring it up the woodpile with me.
Careful, now. Here’s the tricky bit. I’m not at all sure about this woodpile. I don’t think it’s very stable. And everything’s so dark, I can hardly see where I’m . . .
Whoops!
That was close. God save us, that log almost rolled out from under me! And the wood’s so noisy, too. It’s rattling. It’s crunching. It’s going to wake somebody up.
One step. Two steps. That’s it. Nicely done. Watch your bundle. Just a bit further.
There.
How high this garden wall is! I never expected . . . God’s angels, I’m going to break my leg, jumping down from here!
No, I’m not. Come on, Babylonne, you’ve made it this far. Just one little drop and the worst part’s over. Come on, you coward, jump!
Ow!
Curse it! Damnation! Damn the day! Ouch—my ankle! But it’s nothing. A little bruise. A slight limp. I can still walk.
Down the alley, into the street.
Can’t see anyone. Wouldn’t expect to. The light’s very murky between the tall houses; if you stayed in the shadows, lurking in alleys and doorways, you’d be invisible. Someone’s coughing his lungs out, upstairs in the Golden Crow.
Pick up the pace, Babylonne.
It’s so quiet, and the air’s so still. My own footsteps echo off the brick walls on either side of me—slap, slap, slap. There’s a rumble of cart wheels from somewhere far away. Another cockcrow.
And here’s the first corner. Look right; look left. Someone’s shuffling along, heading west with a sack on his back. There’s a dog nosing around in the gutter. Not another sign of life.
So far, so good.
Which gate should I take, once I’m through the Portaria? The St Etienne Gate, and then skirt the walls until I reach the Chateau Narbonnais? Or should I head straight through the city, and out the Chateau Gate? That would certainly be faster. And safer, too. You don’t know who you’re going to run into outside the city walls. Riff-raff. Prostitutes. Drunken barge-men. People on the lookout for a lone traveller . . .
I hope I’m doing the right thing. I hope no one bothers me, or takes advantage. It’s going to be hard, all by myself; people are going to notice me. They’re going to wonder what I’m doing on my own. Even as a boy, I’m going to be noticed. It would be so much easier if I was with someone.
Maybe I should attach myself to a party of pilgrims. Or merchants. Or farmers returning from the markets.
But if I do, they’ll start to ask questions. And then what will I say?
Maybe I should have thought about this more.
‘Wait.’
Ah!
Help!
‘It’s all right.’ A voice. A man. (He won’t let go of my wrist!) ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he whispers.
Oh God.
It’s him.
It’s the priest.
‘Stop—wait—stop it!’ He grabs my other wrist. He’s got both of them now. He must have snuck up behind me. ‘Ow!’ He dodges my kick, skipping backwards. But he doesn’t let go. ‘Calm down, will you?’
My scissors. If I could just—
Wait. My bundle. Where is it?
I dropped it!
‘Listen. I have to talk to you.’ Bare feet. He has bare feet, glowing white in the dimness. That’s why I didn’t hear him. ‘Oh, no you don’t. No biting,’ he grunts. Help! I can’t—he’s so strong! ‘Listen,’ he begs. ‘Please listen to me.’
Help!
‘I knew your father!’
What?
It’s hard to see his face, because the light’s so bad and because he’s wearing a hood. A brown hooded cloak, over something drab and green.
Where are his priest’s clothes? Where are his boots?
Why is he here?
‘I knew your father,’ he repeats, in a soft voice. He leans forward, his fingers still clamped around my wrists. ‘Your father was Pagan Kidrouk, was he not?’
By all the Devils of Death’s Dominion.
It’s true. Pagan Kidrouk. That was his name: Pagan Kidrouk, Archdeacon of Carcassonne. That was my father.
‘I knew at once,’ the priest continues. His voice is breathless. Unsteady. ‘If Pagan had looked in a mirror, he would have seen your face. It’s a miracle. It’s as if he’s been resurrected.’
Ah! ‘So he’s dead, then?’
The priest flinches. I can feel it through his hands. He has to wait a moment before replying.
‘Yes,’ he says, even more quietly. ‘Yes, he’s dead.’
‘Good.’ (Will you let go of me?) ‘He was an evil man, and I hope his soul is trapped in the body of a maggot! Let go!’
‘Shh!’ He won’t let go. And I can’t raise my voice—I can’t summon help—because I don’t want to attract attention. Maybe he knows that. He keeps talking, looming over me like a great, dark tree. ‘I must speak with you. Now. Where are you going? Are you going to meet your lover?’
‘My lover?’ How dare you! I can’t spit; my mouth’s too dry.
So I stamp on his soft, white foot instead.
It must hurt. He winces, and sucks air through his teeth. Still, however, he doesn’t release his grip.
‘Don’t do that,’ he gasps. ‘Please.’
‘Filthy priest! I have no lover!’
‘All right. I’m sorry.’
‘Whoreson lecherous stinking—’
‘Shh! We’re wasting time!’ He gives me a little shake. ‘Why are you running away, then? Because they beat you?’
‘That’s not your concern!’
‘Yes, it is.’ His tone suddenly changes. It becomes dry and strong and cold. ‘Listen to me. Your father was my father, in all but blood. Everything that I have, I owe to God and your father. Therefore, having found you, how can I let you pass out of my sight?’
What is he talking about? This means nothing to me. And the sun is rising! It’s getting brighter!
‘Please! Let me go!’ They’ll catch me, if I stay here. ‘I don’t want your help!’
‘You’re going to need it, though.’ Still the same dry, hard voice. ‘How far do you think you’ll get, in this disguise? How far are you going?’
Oh God, oh God, I’ll be caught. There’s a man opening shutters.
‘For a whole day I roamed the streets in search of you,’ the priest goes on, oblivious to the splash of night-soil hitting cobblestones. ‘Then I tried the markets. When I discovered where you lived, I took a room in the inn across the way. I’ve been watching your house from the window, day and night. Waiting for a chance to speak to you.’ I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are shadowed. ‘Do you think I’m going to walk away now?’ he says.
‘Please.’ I won’t cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction. ‘Please, you must . . . I have to get out. I have to leave the city, please.’
‘Then we’ll both go.’
And he drops my wrists, fastening his hand on my shoulder instead.
I can’t seem to move. Too dazed.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘We will walk out of Toulouse together, side by side. We will go to Lespinasse.’
‘L—Lespinasse?’
‘The convent. Don’t you know it? Lespinasse is about a quarter day’s walk north of here. It’s where I’m staying.’ He stoops, and picks up my bundle. ‘Come,’ he says.
This can’t be happening. I have to think. He has my bundle. I can’t leave without my bundle. And his fingers are anchored firmly in the folds of my tunic.
‘I am not a canon of St Etienne,’ he continues, as we walk along. ‘Do you realise that? I am a canon—I’ve taken orders—but I was in the cathedral to visit an acquaintance. And then I saw you, and stayed longer here than I intended. But most of my possessions are with the nuns of Lespinasse.’ He speaks very gently and precisely. Everything that he says sounds like a prayer. ‘So we’ll go back to Lespinasse,’ he explains, ‘and I will say that you are my new servant, and we’ll discuss our plans in peace. In my room.’
In your room?
Oh no.
Wait just a moment.
‘What is it?’ He stops alongside me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Are you mad?’ (What do you think I am, an idiot? Do you think I have bees in my brain?) ‘I’m not going with you. Especially not to your room.’
‘Why not?’ He looks down his long, pale, freckled nose. ‘Can you think of a better place to talk?’
‘To talk?’ Is that what you call it? ‘I know what you’re after, and you can think again!’
He blinks. When he draws himself erect, it’s frightening to watch because he gets even taller. His tone is as dry as my mouth.
‘My dear girl—’
‘I’m not your dear girl! I’m not anybody’s girl—no, nor anybody’s whore, either! You priests are all the same! You and my father are spun from the same bale!’
‘Listen—’
‘I don’t want your help! My father is nothing to me! If he was here I’d spit in his face! Just leave me alone, I can take care of myself!’
‘You have the tolls, then?’
What?
He’s watching me closely. I can sense that, though I can’t see his eyes yet. They’re still shaded by his hood. Someone nearby is shouting at someone else about eating all the meat. I can smell chicken manure.
What tolls?
‘You know there are tolls to be paid on most of the roads that lead out of this city?’ the priest remarks in his calm, gentle fashion. ‘Which route are you taking?’
‘I—I—’
‘North? South? East?’
‘South.’
‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘South by way of Foix, perhaps?’
‘Yes.’ If it’s any of your business.
‘Then you’ll have to pay a toll at Pamiers. And another at Ax-les-Thermes. And at Marens . . .’
‘How much?’
He tilts his head. ‘Does it matter?’ he asks.
Of course it matters. He knows it does, too. Though his face is set like stone, I can feel a growing confidence in the way he holds himself. In the timbre of his speech.
But I’ll not be defeated.
‘I don’t have to keep to the roads. I can go through the fields, and the forests.’
‘And get lost? And be eaten by wolves? If the tolls were easy to avoid, do you think they would ever be paid? Listen.’ He squeezes my shoulder, and bends low to speak in my ear. ‘I swear on the Holy Sepulchre that I’ll not harm you. I swear on the blood of Christ—and I am a priest, so I hold to my oaths. I want to keep you from harm, if only for your father’s sake. And if you’re travelling south—well, then, God is good. Because I too will be travelling south, once I leave Lespinasse. I’m on a pilgrimage to St James of Compostela. Perhaps, if we travel in each other’s company, you will be safe. And I will be happier, knowing that you are safe.’
He’s lying. He must be, though he does sound as if he means it. And when he sees me peering and peering, he suddenly pushes back his hood, exposing his face to the strengthening light. It picks out the puffiness under his eyes and the hollows where his cheeks should be. He’s all skin and bone.
‘Do you realise what would happen to me, if I was discovered fornicating in the guest house of Lespinasse?’ he adds, with a lift of his eyebrow. ‘I would be extremely lucky to escape with all my organs intact.’
Ha! I certainly don’t believe that! Everyone knows that priests are lechers. Everyone knows that they don’t wear drawers under their long skirts.
‘Besides, you have your pepper, do you not?’ he says, and a smile flicks across his mouth. It’s a crooked smile, but for some reason it’s reassuring. For a fleeting instant, it makes him look kind. ‘Your pepper and many other weapons too, I feel sure,’ he murmurs. ‘You should know, for example, that I have a weak left knee. The slightest knock can reduce me to agony. One kick would disable me for days.’ He releases my shoulder and steps back. ‘Come,’ he finishes. ‘Kick me and you’ll see. I’m telling the truth. Everything I tell you is the truth.’
Hmmm.
He’s still clutching my bundle. Would he give that back? His expression is grave. Almost melancholy. He just stands there, waiting.
What shall I do?
He knows about the tolls. He probably knows about a lot of things. If he’s telling the truth—if he really is travelling south—then perhaps he might be useful. At least for a while. He could pay the tolls and ask directions. He could provide a shield. He could certainly get me through the city gate, no questions asked.
And once I have my bundle, I can duck away whenever I want. I don’t have to stay with him. I have my scissors and my pepper and he can’t keep a grip on me all the time. It’s true, what he says. I’ll be safer with him than I would be on my own. Even if I am disguised as a boy.
Who would dare ask questions of a boy travelling with a priest? Who would dare rob him, or murder him, without bringing down the wrath of Rome?
‘You promise not to touch me?’
‘I promise not to lay a hand on you,’ he replies, watching me intently.
‘You swear that you’re telling the truth?’
‘I swear on the life of the Holy Virgin.’
‘Mmmph.’ It doesn’t mean much, but I suppose it will have to do. And I can’t linger. I have to go. Now. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’
‘My name is Isidore. Father Isidore Orbus.’ He holds out my bundle. ‘And your name?’ he inquires. ‘I still don’t know what to call you.’
I could give him a false name, I suppose, but—oh, curse it, I’ll just forget who I’m supposed to be.
‘Babylonne.’ Give me that bundle. ‘My name is Babylonne.’