serve one of the faidit lords—maybe the Viscount of Carcassonne. He’s with the King of Aragon now, and I’m going to offer him my loyal service.’
The priest’s hands stop moving. He might be startled, but I’m not sure; his face is hard to read. He looks up and studies me with pale, expressionless eyes.
‘What kind of service do you intend to offer?’ he inquires at last.
‘I’ll cook and clean and sew. I can spin and chop wood. I’ll even fight if I have to.’
He turns his attention back to his knees, and once more his hands start to move. Stroke, stroke, stroke. He’s going to wear out the nap on that cloth, if he’s not careful.
‘Who was your mother, Babylonne?’ he says. ‘Who gave you that name of yours?’
What do you mean? ‘What’s wrong with my name?’
‘“Babylon the Great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird”.’
Huh?
‘“Odaughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed: happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us”.’ The priest stops chanting, and resumes speaking in his normal voice. ‘Have you never heard these words? They are the words of King David and John the Divine. They are words from the Holy Scriptures.’ He flashes me a quick glance. ‘Can you read, Babylonne?’
‘Of course not!’ What do you think I am, a monk? ‘And if you want to know about my name, well . . .’ A habitation of devils? A hold of every foul spirit? It’s worse than I thought. (How they must have hated me!) ‘Well, I . . . I should never have been born, in case you don’t realise. My body is an unclean cage, entrapping a fragment of the angelic spirit which is exiled here in the abode of the Devil until death and the mercy of God should release it.’
Briefly, he closes his eyes. I should have realised that he was very learned. He probably knows the Holy Scriptures off by heart.
Even the bad bits of the Holy Scriptures, which aren’t really holy at all.
‘Is there nothing about a Babylonian exile in the Holy Scriptures?’ It seems an odd question, but I have to find out. ‘My grandmother used to talk about a Babylonian exile before she lost most of her teeth, and . . . well . . .’ I’m afraid that it can’t be denied, unfortunately. ‘I don’t really know what she was on about.’
The priest sighs. He doesn’t seem to want to answer. Instead he says, ‘Who is your grandmother, Babylonne?’
My grandmother? For your information, Master Redhead, my grandmother is one of Languedoc’s great ladies.
‘My grandmother is Blanche de Laurac, widow of Lord Sicard.’
Of course I’m expecting some kind of reaction. You don’t often find the granddaughter of a noble lord skulking around the Bourg in boy’s clothes.
Even so, the priest’s response is quite a surprise. His face loses so much colour, it’s hardly even white any more. The shadows under his eyes look almost green.
‘You’re—you’re not Mabelia’s daughter?’ he gasps.
What?
We stare at each other. I can’t believe my ears. But I recover my breath before he does, and manage to speak—though I have to clear my throat first.
‘Did you know my mother?’
He rises abruptly; goes to the window; puts one hand on the wall, as if to steady himself.
When he murmurs something, I can’t quite make out what it is. Except that it’s probably Latin.
‘What do you know about my mother?’ Well? Well? ‘You have to tell me!’
He turns, and retraces his steps. Though his expression is blank, he lowers himself back onto the bed as if his knees are troubling him.
‘How old are you, Babylonne?’ he asks hoarsely.
‘Me? I was born on the same day that a hundred and forty Good Christians were burned by Simon de Montfort in Minerve.’ Not that this means anything to him. He simply looks dazed. (What would a Roman priest know about our sufferings?) So I have to explain further. ‘I’m
The priest’s hands stop moving. He might be startled, but I’m not sure; his face is hard to read. He looks up and studies me with pale, expressionless eyes.
‘What kind of service do you intend to offer?’ he inquires at last.
‘I’ll cook and clean and sew. I can spin and chop wood. I’ll even fight if I have to.’
He turns his attention back to his knees, and once more his hands start to move. Stroke, stroke, stroke. He’s going to wear out the nap on that cloth, if he’s not careful.
‘Who was your mother, Babylonne?’ he says. ‘Who gave you that name of yours?’
What do you mean? ‘What’s wrong with my name?’
‘“Babylon the Great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird”.’
Huh?
‘“Odaughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed: happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us”.’ The priest stops chanting, and resumes speaking in his normal voice. ‘Have you never heard these words? They are the words of King David and John the Divine. They are words from the Holy Scriptures.’ He flashes me a quick glance. ‘Can you read, Babylonne?’
‘Of course not!’ What do you think I am, a monk? ‘And if you want to know about my name, well . . .’ A habitation of devils? A hold of every foul spirit? It’s worse than I thought. (How they must have hated me!) ‘Well, I . . . I should never have been born, in case you don’t realise. My body is an unclean cage, entrapping a fragment of the angelic spirit which is exiled here in the abode of the Devil until death and the mercy of God should release it.’
Briefly, he closes his eyes. I should have realised that he was very learned. He probably knows the Holy Scriptures off by heart.
Even the bad bits of the Holy Scriptures, which aren’t really holy at all.
‘Is there nothing about a Babylonian exile in the Holy Scriptures?’ It seems an odd question, but I have to find out. ‘My grandmother used to talk about a Babylonian exile before she lost most of her teeth, and . . . well . . .’ I’m afraid that it can’t be denied, unfortunately. ‘I don’t really know what she was on about.’
The priest sighs. He doesn’t seem to want to answer. Instead he says, ‘Who is your grandmother, Babylonne?’
My grandmother? For your information, Master Redhead, my grandmother is one of Languedoc’s great ladies.
‘My grandmother is Blanche de Laurac, widow of Lord Sicard.’
Of course I’m expecting some kind of reaction. You don’t often find the granddaughter of a noble lord skulking around the Bourg in boy’s clothes.
Even so, the priest’s response is quite a surprise. His face loses so much colour, it’s hardly even white any more. The shadows under his eyes look almost green.
‘You’re—you’re not Mabelia’s daughter?’ he gasps.
What?
We stare at each other. I can’t believe my ears. But I recover my breath before he does, and manage to speak—though I have to clear my throat first.
‘Did you know my mother?’
He rises abruptly; goes to the window; puts one hand on the wall, as if to steady himself.
When he murmurs something, I can’t quite make out what it is. Except that it’s probably Latin.
‘What do you know about my mother?’ Well? Well? ‘You have to tell me!’
He turns, and retraces his steps. Though his expression is blank, he lowers himself back onto the bed as if his knees are troubling him.
‘How old are you, Babylonne?’ he asks hoarsely.
‘Me? I was born on the same day that a hundred and forty Good Christians were burned by Simon de Montfort in Minerve.’ Not that this means anything to him. He simply looks dazed. (What would a Roman priest know about our sufferings?) So I have to explain further. ‘I’m
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