Pagan's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

corner of his lair, she slipped by him like the scent of lavender on an evening breeze ...
    I’ll be safe now. I know I will. I’m out of the market. I’m almost out of the city quarter. Just a few more steps, past the town hall and the church of St Quentin, and I’ll be through the Portaria, into the Bourg.
    Surely he won’t come looking for me in the Bourg?
    It must have been a coincidence. What terrible luck! I hardly ever set foot outside the house, and when I do—boom! The priest is there, buying a nice trout for his dinner. Except that priests don’t buy trout. Not if they’re living together in a cloister. Their servants buy the food. Their servants cook it.
    So what was that priest doing at the market? Was he passing through, on his way to back from one of the hospitals?
    He can’t have been looking for me. He can’t have been. Ouch!
    Get out of my way, pissbrain!
    Well—at least I can protect myself now. At least I have more pepper. That was smart, to stop at the pepperer’s on Cervun Street. Smart girl, Babylonne. The trouble is, pepper costs so much. Two whole fish, for three pinches of pepper! Aunt Navarre will be suspicious. Very, very suspicious.
    She might not let me buy fish ever again.
    Here’s the Street of the Taur, and there’s the friars’ monastery. (Stay well clear of that .) I wonder if Sybille will find her way back? She doesn’t know Toulouse the way I do. She’s so feeble and whiny and useless—what if she gets lost?
    If she does, I’ll be blamed for it. No matter what I say. Because I’m always blamed for everything. Who gets her ears boxed when the oats are mouldy? Babylonne. Who gets her backside kicked when someone steals the lamp oil? Babylonne.
    If I had a weak skull, I would have turned into an idiot long ago. Navarre would have pounded my brain into soup. I wish that I had a livre for every time she’s cracked a broom across my face.
    God curse her.
    I can smell the river at last. (Not far now.) I can smell the tanneries. Around this corner, across the street and past the tavern—the Golden Crow. I might just slow down to see if there’s a fight going on in the tavern’s downstairs room. Or maybe a knot of strangely dressed, bleached-looking northerners on their way to Compostela. Or perhaps even a jongleur , singing or dancing or juggling cups. I’ve been praying for another jongleur . The last one I saw here had the voice of an angel. He sang about a beautiful princess, and a brave knight.
    Pity I never found out what happened to the princess. When Aunt Navarre caught me dawdling in the street, listening to a sinful jongleur , she practically knocked my head off my shoulders.
    No. There’s nothing to see in the Golden Crow. And now that I’m almost home, I don’t want to be here. I’m sweating like a coward. My mouth is dry.
    She’s going to give me such hell about these fish.
    ‘Babylonne?’
    There she is. Navarre. Leaning out the downstairs window, flanked by flapping wooden shutters.
    ‘Where’s Sybille?’ She’s scowling. ‘Where’s Berthe?’
    All I can do is spread my hands. (Look—no tongue!)
    ‘Come in here!’ she scolds, and pulls back into the house. The shutters slam.
    My feet don’t want to move.
    They have to be dragged, step by step, over the threshold. Inside, I can see Gran, Arnaude and Dulcie, but no Sybille. No Berthe.
    Arnaude’s tending something on the fire. Dulcie’s spinning. Gran’s belching to herself, thoughtfully.
    ‘Well? Where are the others?’ Navarre demands, snatching my bag of fish from me. I put my finger to my lips (I’ve been muted, remember?) and . . .
    Whoomp!
    Ouch! God save us!
    Give Navarre her due—she’s fast with her fists.
    ‘Don’t be clever with me, you little sow!’ she roars. ‘I give you permission to speak! Now speak! Where are the others?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ Hell’s breath. My ears are ringing. My teeth are humming. ‘They wandered off while I was buying the fish. They left me