Pagan's Daughter Read Free

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    Berthe is crying. She’s always crying. (You tend to cry a lot, when you’re eight years old.) Her face is wet and so are her skirts. Sybille’s looking pretty damp, too. They seem to have brought most of the water back on their clothes.
    Sure enough, their bucket’s half empty.
    ‘What happened to all the water?’ Navarre snaps, and the words tumble from Sybille’s rosebud mouth.
    ‘A man came near!’ she stammers. ‘He—he jostled us! He pinched my bottom!’ (What? I don’t believe it. How could you pinch Sybille’s bottom? She doesn’t have any bottom. You don’t, when you’re twelve.) ‘He asked me to come and share his cheese,’ Sybille continues. ‘When— when I said no—when I said that eating cheese would be wrong—’
    ‘He called us heretics!’ Berthe wails. ‘He threw a stone at us!’
    Sighs and grunts. Navarre purses her lips and shakes her head. Dulcie says, ‘God forgive the wicked.’
    Gran farts.
    ‘This would never have happened in Laurac or Castelnaudary,’ Navarre growls. (Here we go again. In Laurac the people had proper respect for us ... ) ‘In Laurac the people had proper respect for us. They were all believers—they revered Good Christians like us. There are too many Roman priests in Toulouse. Too many followers of the Devil. This place is a sink of corruption.’
    ‘Why did you say that eating cheese is wrong?’ You brainless bean-pole! I can’t believe that even Sybille could be so stupid. ‘You shouldn’t go around saying that. Not in public.’
    Sybille scowls at me. Even when she’s scowling, she takes care not to screw up her pretty face too much. Just in case she gets wrinkles.
    ‘Why shouldn’t I say it?’ she demands. ‘Eating cheese is wrong. Because it’s a product of fornication.’
    God give me patience. But Dulcie beams at Sybille in that patronising way she has.
    ‘You are right, Sybille,’ says Dulcie. ‘You are a good witness to the true faith.’
    ‘You can be a good witness to the true faith without being stupid!’ (I mean, where have you people been for the last year?) ‘Toulouse isn’t like Laurac. There are Dominican friars living down the road. We have to be more careful.’
    ‘I am not stupid!’ Sybille’s face has gone red. ‘What else should I have said? That cheese is my favourite food?’
    ‘Well, yes.’ That would have been a good start. ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because it would have been a lie,’ Dulcie points out. ‘And we don’t tell lies. You should know that by now, Babylonne.’
    ‘Well, fine.’ I have to steady Gran’s arm as she shuffles over to the table, or she’ll fall—corns over crown— and end up with her nose spread across her face like a rotten pear. ‘Then what about saying, “I don’t want to share a cheese with someone who smells worse than his cheese does”? That would have been the truth, wouldn’t it?’
    ‘Why should I say any such thing?’ Sybille is looking to Dulcie for support. ‘I’m not ashamed of being a Good Christian. Maybe you are, Babylonne! Maybe you would have gone with him because he had a cheese!’
    Maybe I would, at that. But I’m not going to tell her so. ‘Listen.’ (Peabrain.) ‘The point I’m making is that we shouldn’t go looking for trouble. Lady Navarre is right. There are too many worshippers of Rome in this city. As long as we keep our heads down, they won’t pay us any mind, but you know what can happen. We all know what can happen. It happened to my mother, remember?’
    Dulcie opens her mouth. Before she can comment, however, Arnaude bustles through the front door. She’s squat and broad and purple-faced, like a turnip with legs.
    ‘You’re late,’ says Navarre. ‘How’s Lombarda?’
    ‘Not good,’ Arnaude replies. ‘Very ill.’
    Ah! So that’s where Arnaude has been—comforting Lombarda de Rouaix. Now that we’re in exile again, and living on the charity of Alamain de Rouaix, we have to be extra nice to his poor, sick wife.