CHAPTER 4
From his vantage point on the tavern roof, the boy with the amber eyes and dark blond hair turned to see where the noise was coming from.
A messenger was galloping up through the crowded streets of the Cite from the Porte Narbonnaise, with complete disregard for anybody who got in his way. Men were yelling at him to dismount. Women snatched their children from under the thundering hooves. A couple of unchained dogs jumped up at the horse, barking and snarling and snapping at its hind legs. The rider took no notice.
The horse was sweating badly. Even from this distance, Sajhë could see the lines of white foam on its withers and round its mouth. He veered sharply towards the bridge that led to the Château Comtal.
Sajhë stood up to get a better view, balanced precariously on the sharp edge of the uneven tiles, in time to see Intendant Pelletier on a powerful grey appear between the gate towers, followed by Alaïs, also on horseback. She looked upset, he thought, and wondered what had happened and where they were going. They were not dressed for hunting.
Sajhë liked Alaïs. When she came to visit his grandmother, Esclarmonde, she talked to him, unlike many ladies of the household, who pretended he wasn’t there. They were too anxious about the potions and medicines they wanted Menina, his grandmother, to prepare for them – to reduce a fever, ease a swelling, to bring on childbirth or for affairs of the heart.
But in all the years he’d worshipped Alaïs, Sajhë had never seen her look quite like she had just then. The boy slithered down the tawny tiles to the edge of the roof and lowered himself down, landing with a soft thump and only just avoiding a goat tethered to a lopsided cart.
‘Hey! Watch what you’re doing,’ a woman yelled.
‘I never touched it,’ he shouted, darting out of reach of her broom.
The Cite was buzzing with the sights, smells and sounds of market day. Wooden shutters banged against stone in every thoroughfare and alley, as servants and householders opened their windows to the air before the sun became too hot. Coopers watched their apprentices rolling barrels over the cobbles, clattering and bumping and jolting, racing each other to get to the taverns before their rivals. Carts jerked awkwardly over the uneven ground, their wheels creaking and sticking from time to time as they rumbled towards the main square.
Sajhë knew every shortcut in the Cite and he scampered in and out of the jostling arms and legs, dodging between the tapping hooves of sheep and goats, the donkeys and mules laden with goods and baskets, the pigs, lazy and slow, as they plodded their way through the streets. An older boy with an angry expression on his face was herding an unruly gaggle of geese, which honked and pecked at each other and at the bare legs of two little girls standing close by. Sajhë winked at them and tried to make them laugh. He went right up behind the ugliest bird and flapped his arms.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shouted the boy. ‘Get away!’
The girls laughed. Sajhë honked, just as the old, grey goose spun round, stuck its neck out and hissed viciously in his face.
‘Serves you right, pèc,’ said the boy. ‘Idiot.’
Sajhë jumped back from the snapping orange beaks. ‘You should control them better.’
‘Only babies are scared of geese,’ the boy sneered, squaring up to Sajhë. ‘Is the baby frightened of a harmless little goose? Nenon.’
‘I’m not scared,’ boasted Sajhë, pointing at the girls who were now hiding behind their mother’s legs. ‘But they are. You should watch what you’re doing.’
‘And what’s it got to do with you, è?’
‘I’m just saying, you should watch out.’
He moved closer, switching his stick at Sajhë’s face.
‘And who’s going to make me? You?’
The boy was a head taller than Sajhë. His skin was a mass of purple bruises and red marks. Sajhë took a step back and held up his hands.
‘I said, who’s going to make me?’ repeated the boy, ready for a fight.
Words would have given way to fists had not an old drunk, who was slumped against the wall, woken up and started yelling at them to clear off and leave him alone. Sajhë took advantage of the diversion to slip away.
The sun was just climbing over the higher roofs of the buildings, flooding sections of the street with slats of bright light and glinting off the horseshoe outside the door of the blacksmith’s forge. Sajhë stopped and looked in, feeling the heat from the furnace on his face even from the street.
There was a crowd of men waiting round the forge, as well as several younger écuyers with their masters’ helmets, shields and hauberks, all of which required attention. He presumed the blacksmith in the Château was overwhelmed with too much work.
Sajhë didn’t have the blood or the pedigree to be apprenticed, but it didn’t stop him dreaming of being a chevalier in his own colours. He smiled at one or two of the boys of his own age, but they just stared right through him, as they always did and always would.
Sajhë turned and walked away.
Most of the market traders were regulars and had set up in their usual places. The smell of hot fat filled Sajhë’s nose the moment he walked into the square. He loitered at a stall where a man was frying pancakes, turning them on a hot griddle. The smell of thick bean soup and warm mitadenc bread, made from half barley and half wheat, stimulated his appetite. He walked past stalls selling buckles and pots, woollen cloths, skins and leather, both local goods and more exotic belts and purses from Córdoba or further afield even, but he didn’t stop. He paused a while by a stall offering scissors for shearing sheep and knives, before moving to the corner of the square where most of the live animals were penned. There were always lots of chickens and capons in wooden cages, sometimes larks and wrens, which fluted and whistled. His favourite were the rabbits, all squashed together in a heap of brown, black and white fur.
Sajhë walked past the stalls selling grain and salt, white meats, ale from casks and wine, until he found himself at a stand selling herbs and exotic spices. In front of the table was a merchant. Sajhë had never seen a man so tall, so black. He was dressed in long, shimmering blue robes, a shining silk turban and red and gold pointed slippers. His skin was darker even than that of the gypsies who travelled from Navarre and Aragon over the mountains. Sajhë guessed he must be a Saracen, although he’d never met one before.
The merchant had laid out his display in the shape of a wheel: greens and yellows, oranges, browns and reds, ochre. At the front were rosemary and parsley, garlic, marigold and lavender, but at the back there were more expensive spices, such as cardamom, nutmeg and saffron. Sajhë didn’t recognise any of the others, but he was already looking forward to telling his grandmother what he had seen.
He was about to step forward to get a better look, when the Saracen roared in a voice like thunder. His heavy dark hand grabbed the skinny wrist of a cutpurse who’d tried to steal a coin from the embroidered purse that hung from a twisted, red cord around his waist. He cuffed the boy around the head, sending him flying back into a woman standing behind, who started shouting. Straight away a crowd started to gather.
Sajhë slipped away. He didn’t want to get caught up in any trouble.
Sajhë wandered out of the square towards the taberna Sant Joan dels Evangèlis. Since he had no money with him, at the back of his mind was the idea he could offer to run errands in exchange for a cup of brout. Then he heard someone calling his name.
Sajhë turned and saw one of his grandmother’s friends, Na Marti, sitting with her husband at their stall, waving to attract his attention. She was a weaver and her husband was a carder. Most weeks they could be found in the same spot, spinning and combing, preparing their wool and threads.
Sajhë waved back. Like Esclarmonde, Na Marti was a follower of the new church. Her husband, Sénher Marti was not a believer, although he had come to Esclarmonde’s house with his wife at Pentecost to hear the Bons Homes preach.
Na Marti ruffled his hair.
‘How are you, young man? You’re getting so tall, these days, I hardly recognise you.’
‘Fine, thank you,’ he replied, smiling at her, then turned to her husband who was combing wool into skeins ready to sell. Bonjorn, Sénher.’
‘And Esclarmonde?’ Na Marti continued. ‘She’s keeping well too? Keeping everyone in order as usual?’
He grinned. ‘She’s the same as always.’
‘Ben, ben.’ Good.
Sajhë sat himself down cross-legged at her feet and watched the spinning wheel as it turned round and round.
‘Na Marti?’ he said, after a while. Why don’t you come to pray with us any more?’
Sénher Marti stopped what he was doing and exchanged a worried glance with his wife.
‘Oh, you know how it is,’ Na Marti replied, avoiding his eye. We’re so busy these days. It’s hard to make the journey to Carcassona as often as we’d like.’
She adjusted her bobbin and continued to spin, the rocking of the treadle filling the silence that had fallen between them.
‘Menina misses you.’
‘I miss her too, but friends can’t always be together.’
Sajhë frowned. ‘But then why — ’
Sénher Marti tapped him sharply on the shoulder.
‘Do not talk so loudly,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This sort of thing is best kept to ourselves.’
‘What’s best kept to ourselves?’ he said, puzzled. ‘I only — ’
‘We heard, Sajhë,’ said Sénher Marti, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The whole market heard. Now, no more about prayer, é?’
Confused about what he’d done to make Sénher Marti so angry, Sajhë scrambled to his feet. Na Marti turned on her husband. They seemed to have forgotten all about him.
‘You’re being too harsh on him, Rogier,’ she hissed. ‘He’s just a boy.’
‘And it only takes one person with a loose tongue and we’ll be rounded up with the others. We can’t afford to take risks. If people think we associate with heretics — ’
‘Heretic, indeed,’ she snapped back. ‘He’s only a child!’
‘Not the boy. Esclarmonde. It’s common knowledge she’s one of them. And if it gets out that we go to pray in her house, they’ll accuse us of following the Bons Homes too and we’ll be persecuted.’
‘So we abandon our friends? Just because of a few scare stories you’ve heard.’
Sénher Marti dropped his voice. ‘I’m just saying we should be careful. You know what people are saying. That an army is coming to drive the heretics out.’
‘They’ve been saying that for years. You are making too much of it. As for the legates, these “men of God” have been strolling around the countryside for years now, drinking themselves into the grave and nothing’s ever come of it. Let the bishops argue it out amongst themselves and leave the rest of us to get on with our lives.’
She turned away from her husband. ‘Take no notice,’ she said, putting her hand on Sajhë’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’
Sajhë looked at his feet, not wanting her to see him cry.
Na Marti continued in an unnaturally bright voice. ‘Now then, weren’t you saying the other day that you wanted to buy a present for Alaïs? Why don’t we see what we can find?’
Sajhë nodded. He knew she was trying to reassure him, but he felt muddled and embarrassed.
‘I don’t have any means to pay,’ he said.
Well, don’t you worry about that. I’m sure we can overlook that just this once. Now, why don’t you take a look.’ Na Marti ran her fingers over the colourful rows of thread. ‘What about this? Do you think she’d like it? It’s a perfect match for her eyes.’
Sajhë fingered the delicate copper-brown thread.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, I think she will. Shall I wrap it for you?’
She turned away to look for a square of cloth to protect the thread. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Sajhë tried to think of something safe to say.
‘I saw her earlier.’
‘Alaïs, yes? How was she? With that sister of hers?’
He pulled a face. ‘No. But she didn’t look very happy all the same.’
‘Well,’ said Na Marti, ‘if she was upset before, then this is just the right time to give her a present. It will cheer her up. Alaïs usually comes to market in the morning, doesn’t she? If you keep your eyes open and your wits about you, I’m sure you’ll find her.’
Glad to be excused from the strained company, Sajhë tucked the package under his tunic and said his goodbyes. After a couple of steps, he turned to wave. The Martis were standing side by side, looking after him, but saying nothing.
The sun was now high in the sky. Sajhë wandered around, asking after Alaïs. No one had seen her.
He was hungry now and had decided he might as well go home, when he suddenly caught sight of Alaïs standing at a stall offering goat’s cheese for sale. He broke into a run and crept up on her, throwing his arms around her waist.
‘Bonjorn.’
Alaïs spun round, rewarding him with a wide smile when she saw who it was.
‘Sajhë,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘You gave me a surprise!’
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ he grinned. ‘Are you all right? I saw you earlier. You looked upset.’
‘Earlier?’
‘You were riding into the Château with your father. Just after the messenger.’
‘Ah, oc,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’d just had a tiring morning. How lovely to see your lively face, though.’ She gave him a kiss on the top of his head, making Sajhë scarlet. He stared furiously at his feet, not wanting her to see. ‘Anyway, since you’re here, help me choose a good cheese.’
The smooth round tablets of fresh goat’s cheese were laid out in a perfect pattern on a bed of straw pressed tight inside wooden trays. Some looked dry with a yellowish skin. These were stronger flavoured and might be a fortnight old. Others, made more recently, glistened wet and soft. Alaïs asked the prices, pointing at this portion and that, asking Sajhë’s advice, until at last they had chosen the piece she wanted. She gave him a coin from her purse to hand to the seller, while she pulled out a small polished wooden board on which to carry the cheese.
Sajhë’s eyes flared wide with surprise when he glimpsed the pattern on the reverse. Why did Alaïs have it? How? In his confusion, he dropped the coins on the ground. Embarrassed, he dived under the table, playing for time. When he stood up again, to his relief Alaïs appeared not to have noticed anything amiss, so Sajhë put the matter out of his mind. Instead, once the transaction was complete, he plucked up the courage to give Alaïs her present.
‘I have something for you,’ he said shyly, thrusting the package abruptly into her hands.
‘How kind,’ she said. ‘Is it from Esclarmonde?’
‘No, from me.’
‘What a lovely surprise. May I open it now?’
He nodded, face serious, but eyes sparkling with anticipation as Alaïs carefully unwrapped the parcel.
‘Oh, Sajhë, it’s beautiful,’ she said, holding up the shiny, brown thread. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’
‘I didn’t steal it,’ he said quickly. ‘Na Marti gave it to me. I think she was trying to make it up to me.’
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Sajhë regretted them.
‘Make up to you for what?’ said Alaïs quickly.
Just then, a shout went up. A man close by was pointing up at the sky. A flock of large, black birds was flying low across the Cite, from west to east, in the shape of an arrow. The sun seemed to glance off their sleek, dark feathers, like sparks from an anvil. Somebody close by said it was an omen, although nobody could agree if it was a good one or a bad one.
Sajhë did not believe in such superstitions, but today it made him shiver. Alaïs seemed to feel something too, because she put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Res,’ she said, too quickly. Nothing.
High above them, unconcerned with the human world, the birds continued on their way, until they were no more than a smudge in the sky.