Free Pagan's Daughter by Catherine Jinks

saying that, but it’s all right for him; he has long legs. My legs are sticking out like roof-beams, because they’re so short and this horse is so wide. How am I supposed to grip with my knees when they’re on top of the horse’s back, instead of hanging down against its flanks?
    ‘Use your stirrups to help you,’ the priest adds. ‘Remember what I said?’ He speaks kindly, and his expression is calm, but I know that he must be laughing inside. He’s such a good rider, he must scorn anyone who can’t even sit on a horse. Look at the way he moves, as if his bottom half is separate from his top half. Well, he shouldn’t be riding anyway. True pilgrims shouldn’t ride, they should walk. He says that he’s riding because it’s too dangerous to walk across this country at present, but that’s just an excuse. He’s riding because he’s a Roman priest, and Roman priests are greedy and luxurious and always attentive to their own comfort. What true pilgrim, for example, would burden himself with three books on his journey?
    If he’s worried about the trip being dangerous, he should have left those books behind. You might as well be wearing an archery target on your back. Even one of those books would buy any passing brigand a perfectly good fortified farm with attached vineyard and fruit trees.
    But the priest would never part with his books. Oh no, he says—they were a gift from Father Pagan. Another lame excuse. In fact he’s probably lying. All priests are liars. And fornicators. And murderers. That’s why I have to be so careful with this one. Though he might seem kind, he’s almost certainly pretending.
    I can’t afford to relax my guard for an instant.
    He’s always watching me, too. I’ve noticed that. I’ll glance at him and he’ll be gazing off at a distant flock of sheep or a toiling serf, but I can tell that he’s only just looked away from me. Perhaps he’s worried that I’m going to fall off my horse. On the other hand, there might be another reason. A more sinister reason.
    He’s sitting there now as if he got lost on his way to Heaven—as if he wouldn’t know a sin if it came up and introduced itself in a loud voice. He was right when he said that I should be the one in disguise. No one could mistake him for anything but a priest, even in artisan’s clothes. It’s something about his sombre face. And his quiet voice. And the way he keeps his arms against his sides. It’s something about his hands, which are long and smooth and graceful: a priest’s hands.Only his hair looks out of place. Too boisterous and noisy. Though it’s hidden by his hood, at the moment.
    I should have brought a hat with me. It’s awfully hot in this sun.
    ‘We must buy you a hat,’ says the priest, and my heart almost drops through my belly, I get such a shock. Can he see into my head? Can he read my thoughts? ‘I know what pain the sun can inflict,’ he adds. ‘Even on a Moorish skin like yours.’
    What’s that? A Moorish skin? ‘What do you mean?’
    He raises his eyebrows. ‘Your father was an Arab,’ he explains. ‘Didn’t you know? He came from the Holy Land.’
    I don’t understand. ‘You—you mean he went there? To fight the Infidels?’
    ‘No, no. He was born there. He was a Christian Arab. He fought Saladin before he travelled to Languedoc —oops!’ His hand shoots out, and he grabs my arm. ‘Don’t lose your balance, now.’
    ‘He fought Saladin? ’ I don’t believe it. ‘How?’
    ‘He was squire to a Templar knight. He was born in Bethlehem. Don’t you know this?’
    Of course I don’t! How could I, if I never knew my father? I’m waiting, now—waiting for more—but the priest stops speaking. What shall I do? I want to hear more. I want to hear more without asking for more. I don’t want to seem too interested in my fornicating father, who really isn’t worthy of my attention. Even if he didn’t rape my mother, he certainly went off and left her. Alone.
    Besides,