Isidore?
No, he’s not here. It was a dream. He seemed so real, but I was dreaming.
Where am I now? What’s all that noise? Whose blanket is this?
Wait, I remember. La Becede. I’m in La Becede. And I must have fallen asleep . . . yes, that’s right. In the corner of this room. Maura let me have a blanket, and a pile of old bandages and palliasse covers to sleep on.
She’s not here now, though. Neither is Grazide. The brazier’s out, and the lines overhead have been stripped of wet washing. Outside, it’s very bright. Full day. How high is the sun? What time is it? Why is everyone making so much noise?
Oof, my back!
It’s so confusing, because of the dream. I can still see Isidore’s house; it had a Great Hall like the one here, only there were paintings on the walls. Paintings of saints and angels. Though my eyes might be looking at smoke-stained rafters and discarded pea-pods and torn, smelly clothes, my head’s full of golden wings and glass goblets.
I have to get out of this pigsty. I have to get out and find Isidore, before the French come. Only I don’t have much time . . .
Damn. It’s just as I thought—this gown is too long. If I don’t want to trip over the hem I’ll have to bunch it up around my waist under my girdle, and that will make me look pregnant. As for the bliaud, it’s much too short. It barely covers my backside.
Oh, well. Who cares? I’m not exactly on the prowl for a husband.
Yeow!
God, the light is bright! And the sun—it’s way up there! I can’t believe it’s so late. How can I have slept for such a long time? It must be nearly noon. Anything could have happened!
In fact, something already has happened. I can tell, just by one glance at the bailey. There are too many people. Men are running everywhere, shouting and gesturing and swarming all over a half-built wooden frame, pounding in nails with mallets. There are women, too, huddled near doorways with their children. Armed soldiers are stamping about in full chain mail. There’s a dreadful screeching noise, as someone sharpens a blade on a whetstone. There’s even a small flock of sheep squeezed into a makeshift pen over by the eastern tower; their anguished bleats are adding to the confusion.
I can hear a lot of shouting too. Faint cries of ‘whoreson dung-eaters’ and ‘go suck up your own pizzle’ are drifting down from the battlements.
Wait! Who’s that over there? He looks familiar.
‘You! Boy!’ It’s that boy from last night. The one who was trying to pick lice off his own scalp. Seeing him in broad daylight, I now understand why no one else would do it. He’s one of those children you wouldn’t touch with tongs: his eyes are leaking yellow gum, his nose is pouring green snot, and his face is covered in dry, reddish, scaly patches. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Dim.’
‘Dim?’ What sort of a name is that? It’s worse than Babylonne. ‘What’s going on, Dim?’
‘Don’t you know?’ He gawps at me in astonishment, blinking through blobs of pus. ‘The French are here.’
Oh no.
‘Here?’ What do you mean, here? I don’t see any French. ‘Where are they? Show me.’
‘Out there.’ He points. ‘Beyond the walls.’
Beyond the walls. As he runs off on some vital errand (a trip to the latrines, no doubt), everything becomes clearer. Of course. It all makes sense now. That wooden frame—it’s probably going to be a trebuchet, or a mangonel. Something to hurl rocks with, in any case. And all the women must have come in from the village. As for those insults, they must be aimed at the French.
Ah God. The French.
They always come back. We beat them off and we beat them off and they never go. All my life, they’ve kept returning with their war machines and their bloodthirsty bishops and their endless troops—wave after wave of them—like a recurring nightmare. Why can’t they leave us alone?
I’m trapped here now. I’ll never find Isidore, now!
‘. . . Fulk of Toulouse,’ someone says nearby, and the name stings me like a hornet. It makes me drop my hands from my face and turn, just in time to spot Vasco, the sergeant, passing me on his way to the keep. He’s with someone else—someone I don’t know—and they’re discussing the French.
‘I recognise him,’ Vasco continues. ‘He was with the French King last year.’
‘The Bishop of Toulouse?’ his friend says. ‘That Fulk? The one who preached against the Count? Who took the French side at Muret?’
‘If there are French about, my brother, Fulk will be with them. Kissing their arses. Trust him to show up with his gaggle of pet priests.’
The two men disappear into the keep, and I can’t hear any more. But I don’t need to. I know all there is to know about Fulk of Toulouse. I know that he was with Simon de Montfort when they murdered my mother. I know that he was cast out of Toulouse by the will of its Count and its populace.
I have to see him. I have to look at the face of evil.
Oops! But not until I can see again. The sun is so bright that a plunge into the nearest tower practically blinds me. Everything’s so dark. I’ll have to wait for my eyes to adjust. That’s it. And now I can pick out details: a brace of lances, propped against one wall. Bales of straw and flax. Empty oil-pots, their mouths gleaming. Not a soul in sight.
But the staircase is more crowded. It’s partly blocked by one soldier carrying a huge stone. Other soldiers almost knock me over on their way down; ‘Move your fat arse!’ one of them shouts. A glimpse of the second floor guardroom reveals palliasses, a pile of conical helmets with attached nose-plates, and a man restringing his bow.
Someone’s been spitting all over these stairs— they’re very slippery.
‘Stand aside!’ grunts the man with the rock. ‘Look out! Stand aside!’
And here we are at the top of the tower. It’s a frenzied scene: the whole room is stuffed with men, and there’s even one woman. (I can see Maura peering out through an arrow-slit.) Someone’s greasing up arrowheads that are wrapped in flax and tow. He’s surrounded by a scattering of shields, all of them made of leather on wood with bits of horn attached, and all of them looking as if they’ve seen better days. The man with the rock dumps his burden on a small pile of similar rocks and turns to head downstairs again.
Without removing her eye from the arrow-slit, Maura says, ‘What are on those ox-carts?’
‘Siege machines,’ replies a man wearing a horn cap. ‘The French love their machines. I heard that Simon de Montfort spent twenty-one livres a day on the carpenters who worked his.’
‘You! Girl!’ The shout’s so close, it makes me jump. ‘What are you doing here?’
Who? Me?
‘Go and make yourself useful!’ A piece of gristle in quilted leather waves his arms at me. ‘Go and get water! Bring water!’
Oh, all right. All right, I heard you. Water. Water for the defence.
There are more stones coming up the stairs, borne by panting, red-faced men. To dodge them means delaying in the second-floor guardroom, which has an arrow-slit of its own—and no line of people waiting to use it (yet). I wonder if I could just have a little peek? I don’t see why not. They’re not desperate for water yet, are they? And that archer doesn’t seem very interested in me.
‘Mind where you’re treading,’ he says. All around, on the floor, are arrows stacked in bunches. But they’re easy enough to avoid.
The wind cuts through the arrow-slit like a knife, making my eye water. Still, I can see some things. Smoke rising. White tents. Hobbled horses. And what’s that? A faraway sound. A distant voice . . .
If I put my ear to the arrow-slit instead of my eye, I might be able to hear better. Yes. That’s it. A few words carried on the wind: ‘Mercy of King Louis . . .’ and ‘. . . will of the Holy Spirit . . .’
Are they parleying, out there? By the blood of all believers, we’re not going to surrender, are we?
Ow!
Who did that?
‘Are you waving your backside around for a reason?’ leers the man who must have pinched me. Oafish churl. He reaches for me again, but stumbles on some arrows; the archer cries sharply, ‘Pick up your feet!’ and here’s my chance to duck for cover.
Garrisons are all the same. They’re raw and rude, with no trace of restraint anywhere. You get tanners and salt-sellers drunk with their own martial glory, turning into beasts before your very eyes. As for the mercenaries, they’re even worse. There’s nothing human about them. They’re all pigs. Crows. Mad dogs.
Whoops! And here’s Gerard de la Motta, standing at the bottom of the staircase. (I knew that he’d never get out of La Becede in time.)
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks. ‘This is no place for you.’
‘I’m fetching water.’
‘You should go to the kitchens. With the other women.’
‘I’ve been told to fetch water.’ And that’s what I’m going to do, so you’d better not get in my way! ‘You should fetch water too. We must all work together, if we’re to defeat the French.’
‘Wait. Come back . . .’
But he’s too late to stop me. I’m off to the laundry-room, where there are buckets to be found. The question is, where’s the well? Oh—there it is. Over there, near the stables. Almost hidden by the people clustered around it.
I wonder why they need water up there on the battlements? To drink? To extinguish burning bolts? To boil up and pour through deadfalls onto French heads? Onto the tonsured pate of Bishop Fulk?
I’d like to see his brains boil. I’d like to see the skin hanging off his flesh in long, flayed ribbons.
‘Oh!’ And here’s Grazide, curled around a hairy man with bare legs. It’s so dark in this laundry-room; they’re going to break someone’s neck, rolling around down there. ‘I just—um—I have to get a bucket. Sorry.’ If you could just roll out of my way . . . Thanks.
So Maura was right. Grazide is popular. It’s enough to turn your stomach—especially when you consider her appalling taste—but I’m not going to think about that. I’ve got other things to think about. The well, for instance. I must draw water from the well.
There are many, many people around the well, every one of them an armed man (though some only have knives at their belts). They’re all large and loud and unshaven, lolling about as if they have nothing else to do, scratching their balls and passing around a wineskin and laughing at jokes that are probably all about lopped-off limbs or castrated husbands. One by one they stop laughing when they see me.
A few of them spit.
‘Who are you?’ says a man who seems to be missing most of his nose.
‘I am Babylonne, cousin of Bernard Oth, Lord of Montreal.’ It’s no good knuckling under to men like this. You have to put your chin up and look them straight in the eye. ‘I have come for water. They need water on the battlements.’
‘Bernard Oth?’ someone says. ‘Is Bernard Oth here?’
‘No, no,’ Master Noseless replies. ‘I’ve heard about this one. She came with Lord Pons last night.’
A snort from somewhere to my left. ‘Pons never did have much taste in women,’ somebody mutters, before the winch starts turning. Its squeals put a stop to any further conversation; we all just stand in silence as the smallest, weakest, youngest member of the group draws some water. His friends stare at me, some chewing, some leering, some doing lewd things with their tongues.
Why doesn’t anybody ask them what the hell they’re up to? Where’s Lord Olivier? Where’s Lord Pagan? On the battlements, probably. Parleying with Humbert de Beaujeu and that Devil’s spawn Fulk.
‘Here,’ says the Noseless Wonder. ‘Give me that.’ And he takes my bucket, which he fills from another bucket on the end of the rope. ‘Now,’ he adds, holding my bucket out of reach. ‘What do I get for it?’
God give me patience. If only I had my pepper!
‘Well?’ He leans forward. ‘What about a kiss, eh?’
What about a punch in the mouth, Bowels-for-brains? ‘Here.’ Here’s my payment. The first coin that comes to hand is a Caorsin. ‘Have this.’
One flick and it disappears into their midst. Immediately they all go mad. They dive for it like hens on a worm, because they probably think that it’s silver or gold. Noseless abandons my bucket without a second thought, wading into the fight. Quick, Babylonne! Get away, while you still can! And don’t forget your bucket.
What am I going to do now? I can’t go back to that well—not until someone clears all the scum away. Once I’ve delivered this water, I’ll have to find some other method of making myself useful.
This water is heavy. It’s dragging my arm out of its socket. Gerard’s no longer in the tower, thank God, but there are many others, buzzing about like flies. They keep knocking into me, spilling my water onto the stairs. ‘Stand aside!’ You morons. ‘Stand aside!’ But nobody takes the slightest bit of notice.
Whoops! Just my luck. Another obstruction, blocking my way. The last one was noseless, and this one’s as drunk as a bishop. There’s wine on his breath, he’s sweating like a piece of cheese, and his nose is the colour of cock’s comb.
‘Aha!’ he cries. ‘What’s this? A little fresh chicken for our comfort?’
By all that’s holy. ‘Get out of my way.’
‘Got to pay the toll first, my dear.’ And he reaches for me.
Splash!
The water hits him so hard, he lands on his backside. (Take that, you sot.) As the crowd behind him roars with amusement, he flaps around like a landed fish, cursing and spluttering. But what’s this? Help!
‘Let go!’
Someone’s grabbed me from behind! Get off! Stop it! Arms tighten around my chest, lifting me—pinning me—and the drunkard in front of me is lunging again!
WHOOMP!
This time the bucket fells him for good, the cur. ‘Let go, damn you to hell!’ Whoever’s got me doesn’t listen, though. He swings me around, through the door of the second-floor guardroom, and this is bad—this is very bad—all the men behind us are cheering and hooting . . . I can feel a foul breath on my cheek . . .
God. Oh, God—
But here’s Loup de Montguiscard. Straight in front of me, not six steps away.
He’s head to head with the archer, in deep conversation about gut, or ballistas, or some such thing. He looks tired and tousled, and as thin as a pike; his sword-belt is almost sliding off his narrow hips, and his surcoat could do with Maura’s attention.
When he sees me, he frowns.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he asks— but he’s not addressing me. (Corpse-breath mumbles something in my ear, the turd.) ‘Who gave you permission to leave your post?’ Loup continues, as the grip around my chest loosens. ‘What do you think this is, market-day? Who do you think you are, the Archbishop of Narbonne? Get back up on the walls! Now!’
Release! My feet hit the floor as Corpse-breath beats a hurried retreat; he’s smaller than I thought, and older, with a face that looks as if it’s been used as a whetstone for the last thirty years, all scored and pitted.
‘By the by,’ Loup adds, in a bored, impatient voice that he raises for the benefit of those on the stairs, ‘if you lay a hand on this one, you’ll have Pons de Villeneuve to answer to. This one’s kin to Bernard Oth.’
He nods at me before turning back to the archer. And here I am, on my own, abandoned again. What shall I do? Thank him? Slip out quietly, back into that crowd of rutting swine? Try to fetch another bucket of water?
Maybe I’d be better off with the women after all. Maybe Gerard de la Motta was right. God, I’m starting to shake. Like a triple-damned coward.
I can’t do this. I can’t bear this. I wish Isidore was here.
‘Well, it’s all fresh sinew,’ the archer is saying. ‘Useless until it’s dried . . .’
Wait. What’s that sound? Horns? Trumpets? Loup lifts his head. So does the archer. Everyone on the staircase falls silent, listening.
It’s Loup who finally speaks. In a harsh drawl that matches the crooked line of his mouth, he says, ‘Well— there’s the parley come to an end. Now at last the fight will begin.’
And his chain mail clinks as he shifts his weight to his back foot.
Once there was a beautiful princess who lived trapped in a mighty castle ...
No. On second thoughts, I don’t want to be a princess. I don’t want to live in a castle.
One morning, Babylonne woke up in her own bedroom in the house of Father Isidore Orbus. When she got dressed, she put on a pair of boots and a silk-lined gown. Then she went downstairs, where Father Isidore was waiting. He smiled and said, ‘It’s time for your reading lesson—unless you’d like to go and buy pen and ink first?’
Father Isidore. I hope he’s all right. It’s been a week, now—anything could have happened.
Lord our Heavenly Saviour, let him be all right. I’m so worried about him.
‘Oh, we’ll be fine,’ Maura’s saying. She and Grazide are sitting across the room from me, near their stone trough. But they’re not washing. They’re just sitting and talking as they delouse each other. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Grazide, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.’
‘But the food can’t last forever.’ Grazide is beginning to fret. ‘What if it runs out? What if we have to surrender?’
Maura waves a careless hand. ‘Listen,’ she replies, ‘I was at the siege of Montferrand sixteen years ago. I’ve been through it all before, and let me tell you this: the garrison never comes out of it well, but people like us . . . pah!’ She clicks her fingers. ‘We’re not important enough to attract attention.’
‘But—’
‘Besides, no matter what a man’s fighting for, he always needs his washerwomen. Men are all the same—they can cook for themselves, they can draw water and milk cows and make bread if they have to, but they won’t wash clothes. I’ve never met a man yet who’ll scrub his own drawers. So don’t worry—we’re safe.’
‘But what if they start rationing water?’ It’s Dim who speaks, in his hoarse little voice. He’s been hanging around a lot—I don’t know why. I don’t know who he belongs to, or where he comes from. He just seems to spend most of his time curled up near the laundry woodpile. ‘I’ve heard that the water in the well might get low,’ he adds. ‘What if you can’t wash clothes any more?’
‘Then we’ll find something else to do,’ Maura retorts. ‘We’ll empty crap-buckets or scrape blood off the walls. Don’t worry—there’ll always be some unpleasant job that no one else wants to get stuck with. You watch.’
Suddenly she stops, listening hard. It’s that singing again, faint and sweet. The Roman priests must be marching around outside the walls barefoot, singing their Latin songs. I saw them at it the day before yesterday, when I was up on the ramparts bringing rocks to hurl at the French.
God, I’m so tired.
‘There they go,’ says Maura, straining to catch the sound of the distant chorus. ‘You’d think they’d have better things to do.’
‘It’s the same time every day, have you noticed?’ Grazide remarks. ‘I wonder why?’
Maura shrugs. ‘Personally, I don’t mind it,’ she confesses, turning her attention to Grazide’s scalp. ‘I wish they’d change their tune, though. Sing something a bit livelier. Like “The Red-combed Cock”, for instance.’
She and Grazide laugh, the way they always do when they hear a smutty joke. Grazide actually starts to sing about a red-combed cock perching in a lady’s chamber, but she stops suddenly as someone sticks his head through the door.
Whoops! It’s Gerard de la Motta.
With any luck he won’t see me, though. I chose this seat deliberately, because I’m shielded by a great big pile of dirty washing.
‘Are you looking for Babylonne, Master?’ Maura says cheerfully. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you sure?’ I can’t see Gerard’s face any more, but he sounds suspicious. ‘She doesn’t seem to be anywhere else.’
‘You can have a look if you like.’ Maura farts before continuing. ‘Mind those silk drawers, though. If you touch ’em when they’re wet, it will leave a stain. And I just cleaned all the stains off.’
‘Um—er—no, that’s all right,’ Gerard mutters. There’s a brief silence, broken at last by Grazide’s guffaw.
‘ “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 pretends 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.