Pagan's Daughter by Catherine Jinks

and
slowly leans against the door until it shuts behind him,
blocking my escape.
    Oh no. He’s not going to beat me, is he?
    Help!
    ‘Do you know what your father did in Carcassonne?’
he says, folding his arms.
    As if I care what my father did in Carcassonne!
    ‘He was a great man, Babylonne, and worthy of your
respect. He went with the Viscount to plead with the
French, and rode back ahead of the French army at the
Viscount’s side,’ Isidore narrates. ‘He had the stalls torn
out of the cathedral, to build barricades and mangonels.
He rallied the people when their hearts were failing,
and fought them off with his tongue when they tried to
steal water from the city wells. He would have drawn his sword in defence of Carcassonne, had he been able. But he was a little man, and not strong. Not strong in his body. His strength was in his spirit.’ Suddenly Isidore closes his eyes. His colour changes; he looks quite grey. Is he going to faint? No. No, he’s not going to faint. His eyes are open now. ‘He would have gone with the Viscount, and died in prison, had events not conspired against him,’ Isidore explains wearily. ‘Had the death of his friend not . . . not left him disabled, for a short time.’
    ‘His friend?’ Oh! I know! ‘You mean the one he was still grieving for, when he went to Lavaur?’
    ‘Yes. That one.’
    ‘Who was the friend?’ I can’t help being interested. I don’t want to be but—well, it’s important, isn’t it? It’s important to find out. ‘Did you know him?’
    ‘I knew him. He was Roland Roucy de Bram, Pagan’s lord. Pagan served him in Jerusalem, before Lord Roland entered a monastery.’
    A monastery ? I don’t understand this. These people— they were all monks. Priests. Servants of the Church of Rome. What were they doing, fighting the French army? Fighting the Pope’s own legate, who came here with that army?
    And Bram. I know Bram. ‘I heard about the people of Bram.’ (Gran told me once. Or was it Bernard Oth?) ‘Simon de Montfort took one hundred of them, and cut off their noses, and their ears, and their lips. He gouged out their eyes. Then he chained them together and sent them off to Cabaret, led by a man who’d been left with one eye for the purpose of guiding them.’
    Isidore sighs. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I heard about that too.’
    ‘And their lord. Lord Jordan.’ Gran mentioned him, as well. ‘He died in prison. With the Viscount.’
    ‘Yes. Lord Jordan was Roland’s brother.’
    ‘So my father was a friend of Lord Jordan?’
    ‘Why do you think he was running from the French?’ Isidore sounds so tired. ‘He was running because he was in danger. A traitor priest. Only God knows what would have happened to him, had Simon de Montfort hunted him down.’
    Only God knows? Perhaps. But I can certainly guess what might have happened. ‘Probably the same thing that happened to the traitor priest of Montreal who helped my uncle Aimery.’ Simon de Montfort didn’t spare him . ‘He was dragged by the heels of a horse until his face was scraped off.’
    Isidore winces. ‘By the blood of the Lamb, girl, why do you dwell on these things?’ he demands. ‘All these horrible things?’
    Why? Why do you think? ‘Because they must be remembered. Always. Because they must be avenged.’
    ‘They will not make you happy, Babylonne.’
    ‘Happy?’ When I shrug, he looks even more pained (if that’s possible). ‘Who can be happy in hell?’
    ‘You think this world is hell?’ he says.
    ‘It must be.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because . . .’ Well, look around you! ‘It’s a terrible place. It’s the Devil’s realm.’
    ‘Babylonne, this world is not hell.’
    Now it’s my turn to sigh. ‘Are you going to preach to me?’ I knew it. ‘Is that what this is all about?’
    ‘No. I’m not a preacher. I don’t preach.’ He nods at the food on the chest: at the wine and the bread and the cheese. ‘But I am going to tell you a story. Eat your meal,