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wandering preachers, and he wants to convert her.’
    Navarre, however, isn’t listening. Her face is blotched with red. She grabs me by the collar.
    ‘Is that where you got the egg?’ she spits. ‘Did a priest give it to you?’
    ‘No! I told you! I found it!’ Christ save us. Has she gone mad? Her eyes are popping out of her head. ‘A—a man tried to take the wool from me, and I pushed him, and I ran, and I hid behind a cart, and the egg was there on some straw! A stray hen must have laid it!’
    ‘You’re a liar.’ She shakes me. Ow! The back of my head hits the stone wall, again and again. ‘You’re a liar and a thief and a glutton and a whore!’
    ‘Let go!’
    ‘You’ve been trading—’ ( Thump! ) ‘—your favours—’ ( Thump! ) ‘—with Roman priests!’
    That’s enough. Get off me! ‘I have not!’ A mighty push makes her stagger. (Take that, you cow!) But she doesn’t fall. She doesn’t even stop shouting.
    ‘Again and again we have forgiven you!’ she cries.
    ‘For doing all the work around here?’ Duck, Babylonne! ‘For tending the fire and chopping the wood and fetching the water—’ ‘You have a black soul, like the soul of your father before you! You poison our wells and fill our house with strife!’
    What? What did you say?
    ‘I’m filling our house with strife?’ I’ve had enough of this. ‘You’re the one with the temper! I never broke a sack of beans over anyone’s head! I never punched a horse, or kicked a hole in a barrel!’
    ‘Have you no shame?’ She’s screaming like a slaughtered pig, and she asks me if I have no shame? What about the neighbours? ‘When I think of your martyred mother, I weep tears of blood!’
    Oh no. Not my martyred mother. When Navarre starts talking about my martyred mother, I’m in serious trouble.
    Tears of blood aren’t a good sign, either.
    My retreat’s blocked off. Arnaude’s in the way. But if I can just—
    ‘Ow! Aah!’
    Let go! Let go of my hair!
    ‘Something must be done about you.’ Navarre jerks, tugs, drags—yeowch! ‘The Good Men will decide.’
    What’s she—? Oh no. No!
    ‘No!’ Not the chest! ‘Wait! Stop!’
    ‘In you get.’
    ‘No!’
    Get off! Let go! You can’t! Scratch—kick—bite— STOP!
    Thump .
    The lid comes down. She must be sitting on it, because I can’t push it open. She’s locking it! No!
    ‘NO! HELP!’
    ‘There’s air enough in there, Babylonne. Air enough for a sinner like you.’
    ‘Let me out!’
    ‘Not until you repent. You’re a wicked girl, and you belong in an abode of darkness until you mend your ways.’
    She wants me to beg. But I’m not going to beg, I’m going to calm down. Calm down, Babylonne. Breathe slowly. That’s it. There’s a crack up there. A crack with light coming through it. The money’s digging into my back, but there’s fur next to it . . . soft fur . . .
    I’m not going to cry. There’s nothing to cry about. This isn’t so bad. I could have been thrown down a well and stoned to death by the French, like my Aunt Guiraude. I could have been hanged, like my Uncle Aimery. I could have had my throat cut, like my mother.
    I wish my mother was here.
    There once was a beautiful princess who was imprisoned at the bottom of a deep, dark well. The well was so deep and dark that all she could see above her was a pinprick of light like a shining star. Every day, the wicked witch who had imprisoned her would winch down a loaf of bread and an apple. And some cheese. And a roast chicken. And perhaps a few dried grapes.
    Then one day, as she was waiting for her food, something else tumbled into the well. It was a ladder made of golden rope, held by a noble knight in silver armour ...

CHAPTER FIVE
    ‘She’s sixteen years old, Holy Father. Sixteen years old!
    And for all those years I have striven to make her a Good Christian, according to her mother’s wishes. But she is a crooked stick. She will not obey God’s law. It’s the priest’s blood, I am