can kiss my guts goodbye. Stumbling along in her wake, between dripping beanstalks, ghostly turnip greens, makeshift wooden fences. Under a low branch. Around a puddle.
This girl must have eyes like an owl’s.
And suddenly, the wall. Looming dense and dark against a paler sky. Ow! Owch! Spiny bushes growing along its base. ‘Here,’ she whispers, ‘here it is.’
Where? I can’t see a thing. She pulls me down and guides my hand to a small pile of rubble.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘It’s the hole. Right here.’
‘Would I fit through, do you think?’
‘Maybe.’ She sounds dubious. ‘I don’t know.’
Well, then, perhaps I’d better not try. The last thing I need is to get stuck in a hole.
‘It doesn’t matter. We can talk here.’ Trying to retrieve my hand, but she won’t let go. She just clutches it more tightly, and carries it to her lips.
Cold, fervent kisses.
‘Don’t.’ (Let go!) ‘Please – don’t do that.’
‘Oh Father. Oh Father.’ She’s sobbing and sniffing. ‘Thank you so much –’
‘Let go, will you? Please. And don’t call me Father.’
‘But you came, you came! I never thought you would. I never, never thought you would . . .’
‘Then why were you waiting?’
‘I was waiting for R-Roquefire.’ Her voice wobbles tearfully. ‘I thought he might – I thought – I’ve been waiting and waiting –’
Oh Lord. Patting her on the back as she groans and gulps and heaves, poor thing. Waiting for Roquefire? Don’t tell me it’s a lovers’ tiff.
‘So what’s the problem? You’d better tell me, I can’t stay long, you know.’
‘It’s Roc – Roc –’
‘Roquefire? What about him?’
‘He won’t see me!’ she wails. (Hush, girl, keep it down.) ‘He won’t talk to me any more!’
‘What do you mean, he won’t talk to you?’
‘It’s been two weeks . . . he hasn’t touched the stone . . . won’t open the door . . . I can’t get in, without people seeing . . .’ Her voice is soggy and incoherent. ‘When I ask at the gate, he won’t come out. They say he’s not allowed to . . .’
Hmmm.
‘He said . . .’ (Hiccup.) ‘He said he was going to m-marry me!’
‘Shhh, calm down.’ Squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t cry, there’s no need to cry.’
‘But what did I do? I d-didn’t do anything . . .’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ The question is, who did? A monk? A cook? Perhaps Montazin found out, and had a quiet word with Roquefire.
Or perhaps Roquefire has found someone more to his taste. Anything’s possible.
‘I’m very sorry, Saurimunda, but I don’t quite see what you want. From me, that is.’
A pause. You can hear her gulping away in the darkness, trying to regain some measure of self-control. At last she says: ‘I just want to see him. I want to ask him why he’s doing this.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘All I need is to get in. Through one of the doors.’ She strokes my hand as if it were a dog. ‘ You could let me in,’ she adds shyly.
‘Oh no.’ Wrenching my hand away. ‘No.’
‘But he won’t come out! I can’t get in to see him, and he won’t come out! He never comes out!’
‘Yes he does.’ Suddenly remembering. ‘He leaves the abbey grounds every Tuesday.’
‘With a monk,’ she groans. ‘There’s always a monk with him –’
‘Be quiet. Just listen to me.’ Trying to think. What was the name? Mazzi –? No. Mazeroles? That’s it. That’s the one. ‘Now look, Saurimunda. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’
‘Oh,’ she says breathlessly, ‘I promise.’
‘Do you swear by the Holy Virgin?’
‘I swear. I swear by the Holy Virgin.’
‘All right. Well, it just so happens that every Tuesday, Roquefire goes with the almoner into Carcassone, where they visit a house belonging to a widow called Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux. But Roquefire doesn’t go into the house. He waits outside, for the almoner.’ Peering into the shadows; I wish I could see her
This girl must have eyes like an owl’s.
And suddenly, the wall. Looming dense and dark against a paler sky. Ow! Owch! Spiny bushes growing along its base. ‘Here,’ she whispers, ‘here it is.’
Where? I can’t see a thing. She pulls me down and guides my hand to a small pile of rubble.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘It’s the hole. Right here.’
‘Would I fit through, do you think?’
‘Maybe.’ She sounds dubious. ‘I don’t know.’
Well, then, perhaps I’d better not try. The last thing I need is to get stuck in a hole.
‘It doesn’t matter. We can talk here.’ Trying to retrieve my hand, but she won’t let go. She just clutches it more tightly, and carries it to her lips.
Cold, fervent kisses.
‘Don’t.’ (Let go!) ‘Please – don’t do that.’
‘Oh Father. Oh Father.’ She’s sobbing and sniffing. ‘Thank you so much –’
‘Let go, will you? Please. And don’t call me Father.’
‘But you came, you came! I never thought you would. I never, never thought you would . . .’
‘Then why were you waiting?’
‘I was waiting for R-Roquefire.’ Her voice wobbles tearfully. ‘I thought he might – I thought – I’ve been waiting and waiting –’
Oh Lord. Patting her on the back as she groans and gulps and heaves, poor thing. Waiting for Roquefire? Don’t tell me it’s a lovers’ tiff.
‘So what’s the problem? You’d better tell me, I can’t stay long, you know.’
‘It’s Roc – Roc –’
‘Roquefire? What about him?’
‘He won’t see me!’ she wails. (Hush, girl, keep it down.) ‘He won’t talk to me any more!’
‘What do you mean, he won’t talk to you?’
‘It’s been two weeks . . . he hasn’t touched the stone . . . won’t open the door . . . I can’t get in, without people seeing . . .’ Her voice is soggy and incoherent. ‘When I ask at the gate, he won’t come out. They say he’s not allowed to . . .’
Hmmm.
‘He said . . .’ (Hiccup.) ‘He said he was going to m-marry me!’
‘Shhh, calm down.’ Squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t cry, there’s no need to cry.’
‘But what did I do? I d-didn’t do anything . . .’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ The question is, who did? A monk? A cook? Perhaps Montazin found out, and had a quiet word with Roquefire.
Or perhaps Roquefire has found someone more to his taste. Anything’s possible.
‘I’m very sorry, Saurimunda, but I don’t quite see what you want. From me, that is.’
A pause. You can hear her gulping away in the darkness, trying to regain some measure of self-control. At last she says: ‘I just want to see him. I want to ask him why he’s doing this.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘All I need is to get in. Through one of the doors.’ She strokes my hand as if it were a dog. ‘ You could let me in,’ she adds shyly.
‘Oh no.’ Wrenching my hand away. ‘No.’
‘But he won’t come out! I can’t get in to see him, and he won’t come out! He never comes out!’
‘Yes he does.’ Suddenly remembering. ‘He leaves the abbey grounds every Tuesday.’
‘With a monk,’ she groans. ‘There’s always a monk with him –’
‘Be quiet. Just listen to me.’ Trying to think. What was the name? Mazzi –? No. Mazeroles? That’s it. That’s the one. ‘Now look, Saurimunda. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’
‘Oh,’ she says breathlessly, ‘I promise.’
‘Do you swear by the Holy Virgin?’
‘I swear. I swear by the Holy Virgin.’
‘All right. Well, it just so happens that every Tuesday, Roquefire goes with the almoner into Carcassone, where they visit a house belonging to a widow called Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux. But Roquefire doesn’t go into the house. He waits outside, for the almoner.’ Peering into the shadows; I wish I could see her
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