Pagan's Daughter Read Online Free PDF

there.’
    ‘You mean you left them .’ Oh no. She’s opened the bag. She’s gaping into the bag, her face a mask of astonishment. ‘What do you call this?’
    ‘I—’
    ‘Three fish for one pourgeoise? Is this all you could get?’
    I can’t talk. I can only swallow, and nod.
    ‘You’re lying!’ Her spit is flying through the air. ‘Last week you got four! Four big fish!’
    What can I say? That the catches are smaller this week? If only she hadn’t clouted me over the ear, I could think more clearly.
    But as I open my mouth, someone bursts through the door behind me.
    ‘Babylonne!’ It’s Sybille. She looks as if she’s been dragged by her feet through a thicket of thorns, then hung upside down in a cow-byre and milked. ‘You ran away! You left us! Where did you go?’
    ‘Where did you go?’ This is going to require some quick thinking. ‘I looked around and you’d disappeared.’
    ‘We did not!’ Sybille throws herself on Navarre’s mercy. She practically throws herself on her knees, in fact. ‘Babylonne told us to wait near the church of St George!’ she cries. ‘We waited and waited, but she didn’t come! We asked for her at the fishmonger’s stall, but he said that she’d gone already!’
    ‘Babylonne told you to wait by the church?’ Dulcie echoes.
    Oh no.
    Now I’m in trouble.
    ‘You were talking? ’ says Navarre, narrowing her eyes at me.
    Sybille claps a hand over her mouth. I don’t know what to say. Should I—? What if I—?
    ‘You were talking?’ Navarre repeats. ‘Without permission?’
    She’s advancing towards me. One step. Two steps. When I try to retreat, there’s a wall in the way.
    ‘What would you expect, from a Roman priest’s bastard?’ mutters Gran.
    Navarre raises a hand and— whump!
    It’s just a slap, but it stings.
    ‘Ow!’
    ‘Have you no shame?’ Whump! ‘Have you no respect?’ Whump! ‘Where would you be, if it wasn’t for our mercy?’ Whump! ‘Do you think you’re welcome here? A mark of shame like you?’
    ‘Lady Navarre!’
    It’s Berthe. Berthe’s home. Thank God—she’ll be a distraction.
    As Navarre turns, I manage to shield my face.
    ‘What?’ Navarre snaps.
    ‘There’s a priest!’ Berthe is panting like a dog. She’s wild-eyed and shrill-voiced. ‘There’s a priest outside! A Roman priest!’
    Oh God. No.
    Not the priest.
    ‘A what?’ says Navarre, frowning.
    ‘A priest! There’s a priest!’ Berthe begins to cry. ‘He followed us! He came after us!’
    He must have heard Sybille ask about me. He must have trailed her all the way from the market.
    Mercy. Oh mercy in the Lord.
    Navarre strides to the door, pushing Berthe aside. Sybille and Dulcie are cowering. Arnaude rises, and stumps after Navarre. The two of them peer cautiously through the door into the street beyond. Navarre advances a few more steps, until the sun is beating down on her uncovered head. She puts her hands on her hips. She looks to her left, and to her right.
    She glances back over her shoulder.
    ‘Where is he, Berthe?’ she says. ‘Show me.’
    Berthe whimpers. She’s gnawing at her thumb, and doesn’t want to go out again. But Sybille gives her a shove, and she stumbles over the threshold.
    I can hear a horse’s hoofs. The priest wouldn’t be riding, though.
    No. The clop-clop-clop is fading away.
    There’s blood on my lip.
    ‘Is he gone?’ Sybille squeaks. Dulcie seems to be mumbling a prayer. Navarre hustles Berthe and Arnaude back inside; she bolts the door behind them.
    ‘He’s gone,’ she says, and swings around to face me. ‘Do you know anything about this priest?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’re lying! You’ve been consorting with Roman priests! ’
    ‘I have not!’
    ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ Gran rasps, and Arnaude puts out a timid hand.
    ‘Maybe he was a Dominican,’ she suggests nervously.
    ‘Maybe he saw that she was wearing sandals, and realised she must be a Good Christian. Maybe he’s one of those