Pagan's Daughter by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online Page A

little drop and the worst part’s over. Come on, you coward, jump!
    Ow!
    Curse it! Damnation! Damn the day! Ouch—my ankle! But it’s nothing. A little bruise. A slight limp. I can still walk.
    Down the alley, into the street.
    Can’t see anyone. Wouldn’t expect to. The light’s very murky between the tall houses; if you stayed in the shadows, lurking in alleys and doorways, you’d be invisible. Someone’s coughing his lungs out, upstairs in the Golden Crow.
    Pick up the pace, Babylonne.
    It’s so quiet, and the air’s so still. My own footsteps echo off the brick walls on either side of me—slap, slap, slap. There’s a rumble of cart wheels from somewhere far away. Another cockcrow.
    And here’s the first corner. Look right; look left. Someone’s shuffling along, heading west with a sack on his back. There’s a dog nosing around in the gutter. Not another sign of life.
    So far, so good.
    Which gate should I take, once I’m through the Portaria? The St Etienne Gate, and then skirt the walls until I reach the Chateau Narbonnais? Or should I head straight through the city, and out the Chateau Gate? That would certainly be faster. And safer, too. You don’t know who you’re going to run into outside the city walls. Riff-raff. Prostitutes. Drunken barge-men. People on the lookout for a lone traveller . . .
    I hope I’m doing the right thing. I hope no one bothers me, or takes advantage. It’s going to be hard, all by myself; people are going to notice me. They’re going to wonder what I’m doing on my own. Even as a boy, I’m going to be noticed. It would be so much easier if I was with someone.
    Maybe I should attach myself to a party of pilgrims. Or merchants. Or farmers returning from the markets.
    But if I do, they’ll start to ask questions. And then what will I say?
    Maybe I should have thought about this more.
    ‘Wait.’
    Ah!
    Help!
    ‘It’s all right.’ A voice. A man. (He won’t let go of my wrist!) ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he whispers.
    Oh God.
    It’s him.
    It’s the priest.
    ‘Stop—wait— stop it! ’ He grabs my other wrist. He’s got both of them now. He must have snuck up behind me. ‘ Ow! ’ He dodges my kick, skipping backwards. But he doesn’t let go. ‘Calm down, will you?’
    My scissors. If I could just—
    Wait. My bundle. Where is it?
    I dropped it!
    ‘Listen. I have to talk to you.’ Bare feet. He has bare feet, glowing white in the dimness. That’s why I didn’t hear him. ‘Oh, no you don’t. No biting,’ he grunts. Help! I can’t—he’s so strong! ‘Listen,’ he begs. ‘Please listen to me.’
    Help!
    ‘I knew your father!’
    What?
    It’s hard to see his face, because the light’s so bad and because he’s wearing a hood. A brown hooded cloak, over something drab and green.
    Where are his priest’s clothes? Where are his boots?
    Why is he here?
    ‘I knew your father,’ he repeats, in a soft voice. He leans forward, his fingers still clamped around my wrists. ‘Your father was Pagan Kidrouk, was he not?’
    By all the Devils of Death’s Dominion.
    It’s true. Pagan Kidrouk. That was his name: Pagan Kidrouk, Archdeacon of Carcassonne. That was my father.
    ‘I knew at once,’ the priest continues. His voice is breathless. Unsteady. ‘If Pagan had looked in a mirror, he would have seen your face. It’s a miracle. It’s as if he’s been resurrected.’
    Ah! ‘So he’s dead, then?’
    The priest flinches. I can feel it through his hands. He has to wait a moment before replying.
    ‘Yes,’ he says, even more quietly. ‘Yes, he’s dead.’
    ‘Good.’ (Will you let go of me?) ‘He was an evil man, and I hope his soul is trapped in the body of a maggot! Let go!’
    ‘Shh!’ He won’t let go. And I can’t raise my voice—I can’t summon help—because I don’t want to attract attention. Maybe he knows that. He keeps talking, looming over me like a great, dark tree. ‘I must speak with you. Now. Where are you going? Are