face. ‘Now, Carcassone isn’t even a day’s walk from this abbey. So if you can somehow get to Carcassone, and find the house of Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux –’
‘I can wait for him there!’ she squeals, and grabs my hand again. More passionate kisses. ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! You are my friend! You are my dear Father–’
‘Will you stop doing that!’ Trying to shake her off. God preserve us; it’s driving me mad. ‘And for the last time, I’m not a father. I’m just a novice. You can call me Pagan.’
‘Pagan,’ she murmurs. ‘Heaven bless you, Pagan. You are so good. You are my angel of the Lord –’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ God, this is excruciating. ‘And don’t thank me, I don’t even know where the house is. Do you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her voice is high and hopeful, but still a little 111 unsteady. ‘Lord Gilles owns a vineyard where my father works.’
‘Lord Gilles –?’
‘Lord Gilles de Castronovo. He’s the father of Lady Beatrice.’
‘ Castronovo? ’
‘What’s wrong?’ A frightened squeak. ‘What did I say?’ ‘Nothing. Nothing, it’s – it’s all right. Really.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Castronovo! That’s Montazin’s name! And if Beatrice is a Castronovo . . .
Then I’ve found the connection.
‘What else do you know about Lady Beatrice?’ Stay calm, Pagan, don’t frighten the poor girl. ‘Does she have any brothers?’
‘No.’
‘What about cousins?’
‘I don’t know.’ (Snuffle.) ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Really. You’ve been a great help.’
Yes indeed, a great help. Well that’s it, then. Either Aeldred is in love with Montazin’s relative – and Montazin approves – or Montazin is somehow making Aeldred visit her. Perhaps to give her alms money. But if that’s the case, why is Aeldred involved? He can’t be related. He doesn’t even come from this part of the world: somebody said he was born in Normandy. Or was it Burgundy? No matter. The point is, why would he be helping Montazin? Friendship? Money? Fear? Blackmail? If only I could find out. If only I knew what was going on.
‘Listen, Saurimunda.’ Groping about. Finding her hand. ‘Could you do something for me?’
‘What?’ She sounds nervous.
‘It won’t be difficult. I want to write to this widow, Lady Beatrice, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing. So I need you to take my letter to Carcassone. Will you do that?’
‘Ohh . . .’ She expels a long, awe-struck sigh. ‘You mean a letter? To read?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You’ve written one? A real one?’
‘Not yet, but I will. Tomorrow.’ Let’s think, now. Think hard. What’s the best course of action? ‘If I was to leave it right here, under a stone, could you pick it up?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’
‘And you could give it to someone at the widow’s house?’ ‘I would do anything for you, Pagan. You are my good angel –’
‘Yes, yes, all right, I know.’ (Give it a rest, will you?) ‘But Saurimunda, listen to me. You mustn’t say who wrote it. Is that clear? Do not say who wrote it. ’
‘No, Pagan, I won’t.’
‘Good.’ Dropping her hand. Rising to my feet. I can hear the swish of her skirts as she moves. ‘And now I’m leaving; I’ve been here much too long already. Can you show me how to get back to the kitchen?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you, Pagan –’
‘Don’t mention it.’
She grabs my sleeve and makes for the low black bulk of Saint Martin’s. Wet leaves slapping at my ankles. Squelch, squelch, squelch through a patch of mud. I hope it doesn’t stick to my boots; the Toothless Terror would be sure to notice. But even if he does, so what? I’m still glad I came. It’s given me a chance to stir the pot a little. Just to see what rises to the surface.
Who knows? I may be able to scare this widow off. I may be able to plug the leak in the almonry.
‘Here.’ Saurimunda stops, and drags on my
‘I can wait for him there!’ she squeals, and grabs my hand again. More passionate kisses. ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! You are my friend! You are my dear Father–’
‘Will you stop doing that!’ Trying to shake her off. God preserve us; it’s driving me mad. ‘And for the last time, I’m not a father. I’m just a novice. You can call me Pagan.’
‘Pagan,’ she murmurs. ‘Heaven bless you, Pagan. You are so good. You are my angel of the Lord –’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ God, this is excruciating. ‘And don’t thank me, I don’t even know where the house is. Do you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her voice is high and hopeful, but still a little 111 unsteady. ‘Lord Gilles owns a vineyard where my father works.’
‘Lord Gilles –?’
‘Lord Gilles de Castronovo. He’s the father of Lady Beatrice.’
‘ Castronovo? ’
‘What’s wrong?’ A frightened squeak. ‘What did I say?’ ‘Nothing. Nothing, it’s – it’s all right. Really.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Castronovo! That’s Montazin’s name! And if Beatrice is a Castronovo . . .
Then I’ve found the connection.
‘What else do you know about Lady Beatrice?’ Stay calm, Pagan, don’t frighten the poor girl. ‘Does she have any brothers?’
‘No.’
‘What about cousins?’
‘I don’t know.’ (Snuffle.) ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Really. You’ve been a great help.’
Yes indeed, a great help. Well that’s it, then. Either Aeldred is in love with Montazin’s relative – and Montazin approves – or Montazin is somehow making Aeldred visit her. Perhaps to give her alms money. But if that’s the case, why is Aeldred involved? He can’t be related. He doesn’t even come from this part of the world: somebody said he was born in Normandy. Or was it Burgundy? No matter. The point is, why would he be helping Montazin? Friendship? Money? Fear? Blackmail? If only I could find out. If only I knew what was going on.
‘Listen, Saurimunda.’ Groping about. Finding her hand. ‘Could you do something for me?’
‘What?’ She sounds nervous.
‘It won’t be difficult. I want to write to this widow, Lady Beatrice, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing. So I need you to take my letter to Carcassone. Will you do that?’
‘Ohh . . .’ She expels a long, awe-struck sigh. ‘You mean a letter? To read?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You’ve written one? A real one?’
‘Not yet, but I will. Tomorrow.’ Let’s think, now. Think hard. What’s the best course of action? ‘If I was to leave it right here, under a stone, could you pick it up?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’
‘And you could give it to someone at the widow’s house?’ ‘I would do anything for you, Pagan. You are my good angel –’
‘Yes, yes, all right, I know.’ (Give it a rest, will you?) ‘But Saurimunda, listen to me. You mustn’t say who wrote it. Is that clear? Do not say who wrote it. ’
‘No, Pagan, I won’t.’
‘Good.’ Dropping her hand. Rising to my feet. I can hear the swish of her skirts as she moves. ‘And now I’m leaving; I’ve been here much too long already. Can you show me how to get back to the kitchen?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you, Pagan –’
‘Don’t mention it.’
She grabs my sleeve and makes for the low black bulk of Saint Martin’s. Wet leaves slapping at my ankles. Squelch, squelch, squelch through a patch of mud. I hope it doesn’t stick to my boots; the Toothless Terror would be sure to notice. But even if he does, so what? I’m still glad I came. It’s given me a chance to stir the pot a little. Just to see what rises to the surface.
Who knows? I may be able to scare this widow off. I may be able to plug the leak in the almonry.
‘Here.’ Saurimunda stops, and drags on my
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