Free Pagan's Daughter by Catherine Jinks Page B

replies, and launches into a tangle of Latin. The injured friar doesn’t speak; he’s too busy stuffing his gullet. The other one has grey hair, and a brown, cheerful, dusty face. I think his name must be Durand. That’s what the redhead keeps calling him, anyway.
    I can’t understand what else he’s saying, though. Except ‘Compostela’. And ‘Muret’. Muret is mentioned several times. There’s also a lot of hand-waving: to the south, to the north, to the west.
    ‘And where did you come from, boy?’ Durand suddenly asks me, in pure langue d’oc . ‘You have the look of a Moor about you.’
    ‘I found him in Toulouse,’ the priest says quickly, before I have a chance to reply. (Not that I could ever bring myself to speak to a Dominican .) ‘He is a good servant, this one. Very good.’
    ‘Is he? I’m surprised,’ says Durand, in a jesting tone. ‘There are so few good servants in Toulouse. A very proud city, full of proud people. They are always defying the church. When Father Dominic founded his priory there, the brothers were much troubled by demons.’
    Very proud people! That’s good, coming from a Dominican . Dominicans think that they lead God around on a rope.
    ‘Indeed,’ says the priest, flicking a glance in my direction. ‘Well, that is much to be regretted. But I myself met Father Dominic once, when I was very young. A great and holy man.’
    The friars are thrilled. They jump to their feet and approach the priest’s horse. They start talking about Prouille, and nuns, and preaching, and ‘heretics’, while I sit here biting my tongue and blinking back tears. How can I go on with this priest? How can I share food with a man who reveres Dominic Guzman?
    I too met Dominic once, Master Skinny-Priest. When I was very young.
    And he wasn’t so hospitable to me .
    ‘What troubles you, boy?’ Durand suddenly inquires. (Curse it! He’s noticed my wet eyes!) ‘Are you sorry to leave your home? Be of good cheer, for you are going to a far better place. Compostela is a city blessed by God. Not like Toulouse. Toulouse is a place of pits and snares, of sin and desolation.’
    A nudge from the priest’s foot. But I can’t stop myself. I just can’t.
    ‘Only because there are so many friars in it.’
    Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said that. Two jaws drop. Two pairs of eyes nearly spring from their sockets and bounce off my horse’s fetlocks.
    ‘Benoit!’ the priest says to me, sharply. The torrent of Latin that follows is directed at the friars, who are pushing their jaws shut and blinking their eyes back into their skulls. Having offered his excuses (for that’s what they probably are, all those long and elaborate arrangements of words) the priest turns to me. ‘Beg the Holy Fathers’ pardon,’ he orders.
    What?
    ‘Do it. Now .’ His voice is hard and cold. His face is like chiselled granite. ‘Or you’ll be walking the rest of the way.’
    Is he serious? I can’t tell. But maybe he’s right. I’m behaving like Sybille. No point baiting a trap with your own leg.
    ‘Forgive me, Holy Fathers.’ Whoops! That was a little too squeaky. A little too girlish.
    But the priest puts a hand to his ear.
    ‘What was that?’ he says, each word chipped from a block of flint. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
    ‘Forgive me Holy Fathers and have mercy on a humble sinner, that I might walk in the way of the Lord.’
    It almost sticks in my throat, but I manage to push it out. Hoarse and low. Durand doesn’t look the least bit mollified. He sniffs, and there’s another, endless exchange of Latin.
    Come on, you stupid priest! Let’s go !
    As we finally move away, the friars remain standing on the road, looking after us. They put their heads together and pass a few comments. The priest twists in his saddle; he smiles, nods, lifts a hand. He doesn’t lose his balance, or speak to me, or even glance in my direction. I think he must be waiting until we round the next corner, and are lost from