Pagan in Exile

  ‘Here.’ (Joris.) ‘Let me.’

  ‘No, let me.’ It’s Berengar. ‘I’ll tie him by the ankle and drag him the rest of the way!’

  ‘That’s far too good for him. I vote we let the dogs loose.’

  God preserve us. I’m dead. They’ll kill me, and I’ve ruined everything. Trying to stand still. Trying to blink the tears away. Blood all over my hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  Someone spits, and it’s deadly accurate. Lands on my forehead.

  ‘Dirty Turk.’

  ‘Infidel.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Roland, crisply. ‘Leave him alone.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Aimery says. ‘Let’s leave him alone. He can find his own way back to the castle.’

  ‘No he can’t. Come here, Pagan.’ Roland reaches down and extends a hand. ‘You can sit up behind me, out of harm’s way.’

  ‘You’re not bringing him along?!’ Berengar cries.

  ‘I’m not sending him back on foot.’

  ‘But you’ll never keep up!’

  ‘I will if the hart’s running tired. He won’t be any 114 trouble: I’ll make sure he’s well out of the way. Come on, Pagan, hurry.’

  How can you talk like that? How can you sit there and look so – so – can’t you see what I’m feeling?

  ‘Come on, Pagan.’ He puts a hand under my elbow. My foot on his stirrup. Hups-a-daisy! Squeezing into the saddle. The poor mare staggers slightly under our weight.

  But she’s a tough old girl, and meets the challenge heroically.

  ‘Who struck you?’ Roland inquires. He speaks in a low voice, so as not to be heard. ‘Was it Isarn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll have a talk with him this evening.’

  (Don’t bother. What’s the point?) ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Pagan –’ ‘Can’t you see it’ll just make things worse? Leave it alone, will you?’

  He twists his head, trying to look at me. You can feel all the muscles bunching and sliding in his back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m a stupid, dirty, Godless, cowardly Turk, that’s what’s the matter. You must have realised. Everyone else has.’

  ‘Pagan –’ Suddenly the sound of a horn echoes across the clearing. Roland stiffens. A murmur runs through the hunting party. ‘That’s it!’ Galhard exclaims. He puts his own horn to his lips and trumpets a reply. Jordan and Berengar and Joris follow suit. The dogs begin to howl.

  Putting my hands to my ears.

  ‘Hold on to me, Pagan!’ (Roland’s practically shouting.) ‘Don’t let go, or you’ll fall!’

  Grabbing him round the waist as we lurch forward, Galhard in the lead, baying dogs running like a river around stamping hocks. Across the clearing and into the trees. Branches scraping and slapping. Horses stumbling.

  God preserve us. This is going to be rough.

  Put my head down and hold on tight. There’s nothing else I can do, except keep my balance. Roland’s not forcing the pace, because his mount’s overloaded. Trailing behind the others. Struggling through to a second clearing which is bigger than the first (mauve flowers glowing on yellowish grass), and swerving off westwards. Following the dogs. Following the hunt. Trying to keep my balance.

  This is all so confusing.

  Jolt, jolt, jolt. The thud of hooves. Horns blaring. Roland’s muscles tight and controlled: he’s such a good rider. There’s Jordan’s back, up ahead. He’s a good rider, too. Everyone is, except me. Jordan looks around and yells something, but it’s impossible to hear.

  Swerving, again.

  More trees, but thinner this time. That would make sense. I remember someone said that the object of the hunt is to force the stag out of its forest haunts and into open county. Jolt, jolt, jolt. I wonder how long this is going to last?

  Slowing, suddenly. The dogs have stopped barking. Raise my head from Roland’s back, and there’s Isarn, waving his hands around. Where did he come from? What’s happened?

  ‘What happened, my lord?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Roland’s panting slightly. ‘It’s a hart’s ruse. We’ll pick up the scent again in a moment.’

  ‘What ruse?’

  ‘It retraces its steps and then leaps to one side, trying to break the scent.’

  Poor thing. How clever. But not clever enough. Isarn’s leading the lymers around in ever-widening circles, urging them on with clucks and wordless shouts. Look across and see Berengar, drinking from a wineskin. God, but I could do with a drink. This sun is hot.

  ‘How much longer, my lord?’

  ‘What?’ His mind is far away.

  ‘How much longer will this take, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. That depends on the stag.’

  A dog’s sharp, excited yap pierces the air. More dogs join in. Isarn shouts something at Galhard, who wheels his horse around, kicking it forward.

  And the hunt continues.

  Riding, riding, riding. On and on. Across a track. Through a stream. Up the slippery bank on the other side. Roland’s voice: ‘Come on, girl! Come on!’ Aimery tries to jump it, and ends up in the water. (I hope he drowns.) More scrub and slapping branches. Sweat stinging my eyes.

  There’s nothing fun about this. This is terrible. I feel as if my head’s going to come off.

  ‘There! There!’ Someone screaming. Joris? Surely not. Look up, and get a stick in the eye.

  ‘Ah! Ah!’ Let go of Roland, and nearly fall off. Grab him again. He clutches my wrist.

  ‘What?’ he exclaims.

  ‘It’s my eye –’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  All at once, the most hideous noise. Like the fall of Jericho. Dogs howling. Horns trumpeting. People shouting.

  The sound of a stag at bay.

  Chapter 13

  What a mess. What confusion. Baying dogs and bleating horns and a knot of milling horses, all sweating, all wild-eyed, all trying to jostle each other out of the way. Roland bringing up the rear, circling the crowd, dodging trees and clumps of bush.

  And suddenly, there it is. The stag.

  By God, but it’s big. Look at its antlers! Bucking and diving. Charging and retreating. Its neck streaked with foam and blood, its flanks shiny with sweat. The dogs are all around it, teeth bared, hackles raised, yellow-eyed. When it lowers its head they back-off, yipping. One of them darts forward, snapping at its haunch. Crack! A leg shoots out and the dog catches a terrific blow on its skull.

  ‘Roland! Roland!’ Berengar makes some sort of signal. Why’s he dismounting? Roland shifts in front of me.

  ‘Take the reins,’ he gasps. ‘I’m getting down.’

  ‘But –’

  Whoops! There he goes. Throwing me the reins as our mare shies and whinnies. Nervous, poor thing: it’s the noise and the smell of blood. Shouts of encouragement as Roland draws his sword. Berengar draws his own almost simultaneously. And there’s Jordan, in his brilliant Italian brocade (so impractical, yet somehow so appropriate), a long and beautiful blade in his hand, following Roland around the snapping circle of dogs.

  Berengar moves in the opposite direction.

  What are they doing? I don’t understand. All three of them so intent, so absorbed, as smooth as ducks on the wing, each one’s actions either linked to or mirrored in the actions of the others. It’s like watching a single person split in three as they station themselves around the frantic stag: Berengar in front, Roland and Jordan behind. The tension’s so bad, I feel as if I’m going to be sick.

  Berengar. He lunges. The stag ducks and whirls, charging at him, tossing its head. He leaps back, moves sideways. The stag follows, jabbing, retreating, jabbing again. It doesn’t see Jordan. It’s too busy with Berengar. Jordan edges up behind, carefully, carefully, the dogs scattering, the stag grunting, and Jordan, so close, his face as cool as dew, his sword catching the sunlight . . .

  There! It’s so quick! What did he do? He
cut something in the hart’s hind leg. It screams and lurches (oh God, poor thing), swings around, staggers, crippled in one leg, blood on its rump, throwing itself at Jordan who jumps back and catches his heel. Falls. Rolls. One arm shielding his face from the thrashing antlers.

  But Roland’s there. Raising his sword over his head, both hands on the hilt, and –

  WHUMP!

  Brings it down like an axe between the horns and the neck. Cutting the spine. Through the marrow.

  Ending the agony.

  Everything dissolves in a wash of tears. I don’t know why – this is crazy – it’s just an animal. It’s dead. That’s nothing to cry about. But I’m so confused . . . maybe it’s not the stag. Maybe it’s the way they actually did it. All together like that, so perfect and assured.

  Scrubbing the tears away, to look at the blood-soaked earth under the yawning wound. It’s dead, all right. And there’s Berengar, whooping, his arms around Roland. Galhard, slapping Jordan on the back. Jordan, his neck scratched and bloody, ruffling Roland’s hair. Everyone grinning. Everyone excited. A confused babble of voices, as everyone tries to make himself heard.

  Except me. I’ve got nothing to say. I don’t belong here. Gazing up at the sky, which is high and bleached and silent, with faint streaks of distant cloud and a lazy bird, hovering, drifting like a tuft of down in the breeze.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  It’s Foucaud. Still in the saddle, leading Jordan’s palfrey. Mind your own business, Beanstalk.

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘I’m not!’ Dismounting, to avoid his bug-eyed stare. So dizzy! God! And the side of my face hurts. Resting my forehead on the mare’s sticky flank. If only I could lie down somewhere.

  ‘Look, Pagan!’ This time it’s Roland, striding towards me. His face is as bright as silver: below it, his crimson tunic is heavy, almost black, with blood. ‘Look, Pagan. Lord Galhard gave me the hart’s right foot.’

  Well stuff me with saffron. Isn’t that exciting.

  ‘Because it’s been six whole years since last time, and I acquitted myself with honour,’ he continues. Is this really Roland? It doesn’t even sound like him. ‘Look Pagan, look at the size of it.’

  Looking obediently. One sawed-off cloven hoof. Sinews trailing.

  ‘Very nice.’

  He frowns, a shadow creeping across his radiant features. ‘What’s wrong?’ he says.

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘Where?’ And he reaches for the throbbing, stiffening side of my face. But his hand is thick with gore. Caked with it. I can’t help flinching.

  ‘What did I do?’ he says. ‘I didn’t touch it.’

  ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’

  ‘There’s a bruise coming up. It’s only a bruise. We’ll rinse it in bay oil when we return.’

  ‘Roland!’ (He staggers as Berengar jumps on his back.) ‘Roly-poly! That’s my boy, eh? Eh?’ Berengar grappling him around the neck. Rumpling his hair with blood-tacky fingers. ‘Still haven’t lost the old touch, have you Roly? One blow and it’s done. Been practising on the Turks?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘This boy’s no eunuch! This boy’s got balls to spare!’ Berengar punches Roland playfully in the ribs. ‘What do 122 you say we get you a woman? Hmmm? Just to round off the day. Lots of nice girls, if you know where to look.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think not.’

  ‘Come on, Rolls! You’re a man now!’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Forget the Templars! Enjoy yourself! This isn’t Jerusalem!’

  Roland grins sheepishly. Jordan appears beside him, something dangling from his long, fastidious fingers. ‘Anyone for a scrotum?’ he inquires. ‘Or should we send it to the Abbot?’ Berengar bursts out laughing.

  Look at them. The three of them. Towering above the rest of us, with their clear blue eyes and their identical noses, and the same folds in their cheeks when they smile. Blood-spattered. Sweat-soaked.

  Why can’t I bear to look at them?

  ‘Oi, Pagan.’ Isoard appears. Standing there with his teeth bared, his hands behind his back. ‘Isarn thought you’d better take this.’

  What? What are you talking about?

  ‘Hold out your hand,’ he says.

  And let you chop it off? No thanks.

  ‘Hold out your hand, Pagan, or you’ll get my surprise in the face!’

  Holding out my hand, reluctantly. He produces his own hand, piled high with something greyish and bloody and formless. Splat! Into my palm.

  ‘Isarn said you’d probably need these brains. Since you don’t have any of your own.’

  Looking down at the warm, quivering mass. Berengar’s laughter booming in my ears.

  Suddenly losing control of my stomach.

  ‘Uh-oh! Stand clear, everyone!’ (Berengar.) ‘Upwind, please!’

  Oh God. Oh God. Retching and heaving. Groaning. Gasping. I’m going to die. I’m just going to die. Mess all over the ground. All over my boots. Don’t know where the vomit ends and the brains begin.

  ‘Well, Isoard.’ Jordan’s unmistakable drawl. ‘That’ll teach you to throw meat at people, won’t it?’

  Oh good. Did I hit Isoard? Well aimed, Pagan. On my knees now, exhausted, with Roland’s hand on my head. Everyone else has moved away (even the poor old horse). Looking up, and there’s the carcass. On its back, half-flayed, its hide propped up at the corners with little sticks so that the blood won’t run off. Isarn working away at the belly, hauling out reams and reams of intestines. Other people hacking off limbs.

  Jesus. I feel so sick.

  ‘It must be the sun.’ Roland’s voice seems to come from a long way off. ‘Or the blow to your head. Just lie down in the shade for a while. We should be leaving soon.’

  ‘I’m so thirsty.’

  ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  He wanders away, tossing the severed foot from hand to hand. What’s he going to do with that, I wonder? Eat it? The dogs are gathered around what’s left of their kill, whining, pleading, as Isarn and Joris and Isoard pull it to pieces exactly like ants. The guts in one sack. The head in another. Limbs wrapped up like babies’ corpses. Blood drained off into leather bottles.

  They really know what they’re doing.

  ‘Here.’ A leather bottle, thrust in my face. Roland’s returned. ‘Drink this.’

  ‘It’s not – it’s not blood, is it?’

  ‘Blood? Of course not. It’s wine.’

  Very warm wine. Clawing at my throat like a Turkish mace as it goes down. Not the smoothest drop I’ve ever sampled.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better not.’

  ‘Too rich?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find some water.’

  He disappears again, his step buoyant, his hair gleaming like gold in the sunlight. Some of the dogs are fighting over scraps of meat, but everywhere else it’s happy faces and cheerful voices. Berengar, swigging wine. Jordan waving his stag’s scrotum. Galhard laughing with Aimery. Isarn beaming as he wallows around in the stag’s ribcage. Everyone is talking as loudly as possible.

  ‘Thought we’d lost it after the soiling.’

  ‘That Lionhead is worth his weight in gold!’

  ‘Keep the bladder, boy. You can’t beat stag’s urine for poultices.’

  ‘Did you see the way Lord Jordan jumped that last gully? Like a bird. He could ride his way to heaven.’

  All the merry babble. And here am I, dirty, stinking, ill, ignorant, with a sore head and a split lip, sitting in a pool of my own vomit.

  I’ve never felt so alone in all my life.

  ‘Cheer up, Pagan.’ Roland again, this time with a wineskin full of water. ‘Foucaud says you can keep this until we get back. Wash your face. You’ll feel better if you do.’

  That sounds unlikely. It’ll take more than a clean face to lift my spirits. But what’s the good of arguing?

  The wa
ter tastes faintly of wine and sweat.

  ‘Can you stand? Yes? Lord Galhard wants to leave, now. He wants to get back before dark. You’ll be able to make it, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Taking his hand, as he hauls me upright. All around, people are springing into saddles – some more lightly than others. Aimery seems to be limping. Joris grunts and groans. But Roland leaps onto his horse’s back without effort, as fresh as a spring dawn, strong and serene. He pulls me up behind him as if I were made of feathers.

  ‘What you really need is a good, long rest,’ he says. ‘You just didn’t get enough sleep, last night. You’ll be all right tomorrow.’

  ‘If you say so, my lord.’

  Galhard’s already mounted, and moving off into the sun. He keeps the pace slow because the horses are all tired out. Blood drips from the warm, heavy bags tied to their saddles, and the dogs scuffle and snap as they fight over each drop. Suddenly, from the end of the straggling column, someone begins to sing:

  He sang to me and bade me follow

  Down the meadow path to where the roses fade

  And laid me down in a grassy hollow

  On a flow’ry bed of woven lilies that he’d made.

  Is it Foucaud? Surely not. I didn’t know he could sing so well. Heads turn, and the horses flick their ears as other voices join in: Isarn’s, thin and high; Aimery’s, loud and raw; Berengar’s, like the sound of bagpipes passing through a goat’s stomach:

  He sang to me and bade me kiss him

  Sweet as honeysuckle, his soft lips met mine.

  He asked if I would surely miss him

  And my heart still sings with gladness at our love divine.

  The lazy chorus drifts across the sunny landscape like a wisp of smoke, and the leaves rustle, and the insects buzz, and all at once Roland’s ribcage swells, almost breaking my grip, to accommodate the air that he proceeds to use in a way that I’ve never heard him use it before.

  He begins to sing:

  He sang to me of his desire

  Down there in the hollow where I laid my head

  And spoke to me with words of fire

  As gentle breezes sighed upon our flow’ry bed.

  I don’t believe it. This can’t be true. Roland Roucy de Bram? Singing a dirty troubadour ballad? His voice is softer than I would have expected, but rich and tuneful. Warm. Mellow.