Pagan's Daughter Read Free Page A

If we’re not, he might throw our little convent out of this miserable house. And stick someone in it who can actually pay him rent.
    Arnaude fusses around, putting things away. ‘They’ve summoned two of the Good Men, in case she dies . . .’
    All at once, Gran thumps the table-top. She wants to eat. Now .
    ‘We can discuss the Good Men later,’ Navarre declares, and fixes me with an eye like a spear-head.
    Oh. Right. Is it my turn again?
    ‘Uh—um—’ Where’s the bread? There it is. I nearly drop it as I present it to Navarre with a bow. ‘Tell me if this is acceptable to you.’
    ‘May God inform you if it is acceptable to Him,’ Navarre intones.
    ‘Bless us.’ Another bow.
    ‘May the Lord bless you,’ Navarre replies, without really meaning it. (If God ever blessed me , Navarre would give Him what for.)
    ‘Bless and have mercy upon us. The meal is ready. You may go to the table when it is acceptable to God and to yourself.’
    ‘May God reward you well,’ Navarre chants, and turns to the others. They’re all standing in their places, by now—except for Gran, who’s sitting, because Grandmother Blanche stands for no one. ‘Bless and have mercy upon us, my sisters.’
    ‘May the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit indulge us and have mercy on all our sins,’ everyone replies (except Gran, who’s peering around for her bowl of mushy bread).
    ‘Let us adore the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,’ Navarre goes on, absent-mindedly reaching for the jug of water.
    ‘He is worthy and just.’
    ‘Let us adore the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’
    ‘He is worthy and just. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name ...’
    And so on, and so on. Yawn. Just another fourteen paternosters to go. You could drop dead of starvation with the bread sitting right in front of you. Gran’s beginning to drool. Arnaude’s desperate to tell us about the Good Men; you can tell by the way she keeps rocking from foot to foot, like someone who’s bladder’s about to burst. Dulcie’s clasping her hands together, her pale face raised to the ceiling, her eyes firmly closed.
    Navarre’s serving out the portions. She always does. And I always end up with the smallest piece of bread.
    ‘. . . and-lead-us-not-into-temptation-but-deliver-us-from-evil-amen,’ she babbles. ‘Let us adore the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’
    ‘He is worthy and just.’
    ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be always with us all.’
    ‘Amen.’
    ‘Bless us, have mercy upon us. Be seated, my sisters. Babylonne, you can feed the Lady Blanche, today.’
    Sybille smirks. Everyone’s had to wait and wait and now I won’t be able to eat until Gran’s finished her meal. No wonder Sybille’s looking pleased.
    I wish her mother would die. Then maybe her father might change his mind about dumping her here with us, and summon her back to his castle to look after him, and we wouldn’t have to put up with her forked tongue any more.
    ‘So tell us about the Good Men,’ Navarre says to Arnaude, munching on a mouthful of dry bread. ‘When did they arrive?’
    ‘This morning,’ answers Arnaude. ‘They stopped at Laurac on their way up from Montsegur, but Bernard Oth threw them out.’
    ‘Ah!’ Dulcie presses a pale hand to her breast. ‘How could Lord Bernard imperil his immortal soul like that?’
    What a stupid question. Why else would you imperil your immortal soul, unless it’s to save your mortal skin? Cousin Bernard is a coward. No more and no less. He was afraid of the French King’s army when it came down into Languedoc last year, so he made his submission. And now he’s persecuting the Good Christians because that’s what the King of France wants him to do.
    Why else would he have told his own grandmother to get out of Laurac?
    ‘If I were my sister,’ says Aunt Navarre, ‘I would be ashamed of having a son like Bernard.’
    Suddenly Gran stirs. The hairs on her chin tremble, her toothless