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
‘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
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