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.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
So here I am. In a nunnery.
I never thought I’d see the inside of one of these places. It’s different from what I thought it would be. Not as luxurious. I mean, the stonework’s very grand, and the ceilings are very high, but there are no golden lamps or silken tapestries or coloured tiles on the floor. Everything’s hard and grey and terribly clean.
Do you know, I think they must actually scrub the floors in here?
Not that I’ve seen much outside the guest house. Perhaps, in their own quarters, the nuns sleep on bolsters stuffed with goose-down. Perhaps they eat roasted swans off snow-white trenchers with golden knives—or even golden forks! (I’ve heard about forks, though I’ve never seen one.)
Perhaps it’s just in the guest house that the palliasses are stuffed with straw, and the walls are bare even of painted stars, and the cups are made of earthenware rather than silver.
I tell you what, though—this skinny priest isn’t lacking for money. Just look at what’s piled up on his bed! A fur-lined cloak. A spare pair of boots. A leather water-bag. And books. Real books! Three of them!
They must be worth a king’s ransom.
Do you think he’d mind if I touched one? I’ve never been so close to a book before. I wouldn’t hurt it; I wouldn’t even open it. I’d just touch it.
He’d never know, would he? After all, he’s not in the room.
The binding feels odd. As smooth as metal, only it’s not metal. It’s not even leather, I don’t think. It’s something very thin and hard, like dry fat.
Whoops!
I didn’t hear him coming. He moves so quietly for such a big man. (Who, me? Touch your books? Never.)
‘How fortunate it is that you’re dressed as a boy,’ the priest says, shutting the door behind him. ‘It’s made everything so much simpler.’ Turning, he catches my eye. ‘I’ve just said goodbye to the Abbess, so we can leave whenever we want. Before we do, however, we need to talk.’ He sits down on the bed, taking care to leave some distance between us. ‘Tell me who your mother is.’
I wish he was still wearing that disguise he had on at the inn. Those heavy black robes he’s wearing now— they’re like the walls of a fortress. They make him look taller and stronger and grimmer, and as white as salt.
I can see why he put them back on before he went to meet the Abbess. Even an archbishop would think twice about lording it over someone carved out of alabaster, who’s as tall as a church spire and wearing a mantle trimmed with black velvet.
I don’t know if I should talk about my mother.
‘Is she one of the women living with you in that house?’ he asks carefully.
‘No.’ God forbid he should ever think that . ‘My mother is dead.’
‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry.’
Well, so am I. But that’s not going to solve anything.
He’s smoothing his black robe over his knees.
‘I too was orphaned at an early age,’ he finally says. ‘As was your father. We were both alone in the world.’
‘Oh, I’m not alone.’ (I come from a big family! A noble family!) ‘I have many aunts and uncles and cousins.’
‘Is that where you’re going? To one of your aunts or uncles or cousins?’
‘No.’ I can’t decide. Should I tell him the truth? Would there be any harm in it? Probably not. Besides, I’ve already said that I’m heading south. ‘I’m going to
‘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.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
So here I am. In a nunnery.
I never thought I’d see the inside of one of these places. It’s different from what I thought it would be. Not as luxurious. I mean, the stonework’s very grand, and the ceilings are very high, but there are no golden lamps or silken tapestries or coloured tiles on the floor. Everything’s hard and grey and terribly clean.
Do you know, I think they must actually scrub the floors in here?
Not that I’ve seen much outside the guest house. Perhaps, in their own quarters, the nuns sleep on bolsters stuffed with goose-down. Perhaps they eat roasted swans off snow-white trenchers with golden knives—or even golden forks! (I’ve heard about forks, though I’ve never seen one.)
Perhaps it’s just in the guest house that the palliasses are stuffed with straw, and the walls are bare even of painted stars, and the cups are made of earthenware rather than silver.
I tell you what, though—this skinny priest isn’t lacking for money. Just look at what’s piled up on his bed! A fur-lined cloak. A spare pair of boots. A leather water-bag. And books. Real books! Three of them!
They must be worth a king’s ransom.
Do you think he’d mind if I touched one? I’ve never been so close to a book before. I wouldn’t hurt it; I wouldn’t even open it. I’d just touch it.
He’d never know, would he? After all, he’s not in the room.
The binding feels odd. As smooth as metal, only it’s not metal. It’s not even leather, I don’t think. It’s something very thin and hard, like dry fat.
Whoops!
I didn’t hear him coming. He moves so quietly for such a big man. (Who, me? Touch your books? Never.)
‘How fortunate it is that you’re dressed as a boy,’ the priest says, shutting the door behind him. ‘It’s made everything so much simpler.’ Turning, he catches my eye. ‘I’ve just said goodbye to the Abbess, so we can leave whenever we want. Before we do, however, we need to talk.’ He sits down on the bed, taking care to leave some distance between us. ‘Tell me who your mother is.’
I wish he was still wearing that disguise he had on at the inn. Those heavy black robes he’s wearing now— they’re like the walls of a fortress. They make him look taller and stronger and grimmer, and as white as salt.
I can see why he put them back on before he went to meet the Abbess. Even an archbishop would think twice about lording it over someone carved out of alabaster, who’s as tall as a church spire and wearing a mantle trimmed with black velvet.
I don’t know if I should talk about my mother.
‘Is she one of the women living with you in that house?’ he asks carefully.
‘No.’ God forbid he should ever think that . ‘My mother is dead.’
‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry.’
Well, so am I. But that’s not going to solve anything.
He’s smoothing his black robe over his knees.
‘I too was orphaned at an early age,’ he finally says. ‘As was your father. We were both alone in the world.’
‘Oh, I’m not alone.’ (I come from a big family! A noble family!) ‘I have many aunts and uncles and cousins.’
‘Is that where you’re going? To one of your aunts or uncles or cousins?’
‘No.’ I can’t decide. Should I tell him the truth? Would there be any harm in it? Probably not. Besides, I’ve already said that I’m heading south. ‘I’m going to
Similar Books
