Pagan in Exile

  Have to stop shivering.

  ‘You’ll be all right.’ Jordan’s hand, cool and dry on the back of my neck. ‘But you’d better go before my father returns. Take yourself off somewhere, and keep your head down for a few days.’ Squeezing gently. ‘He’s always like this when he’s got a hangover, not to mention a toothache.’

  Roland. Poor Roland. Creeping across the floor, one hand jammed under his bloody nose, breathing through his mouth in sharp little gasps.

  ‘Oh my lord. My lord, is it serious?’ Please, please don’t let him be hurt. Don’t let him die. Oh, of course he won’t die. Of course he won’t. Don’t be stupid, Pagan. Suddenly Jordan releases my neck.

  ‘Get out,’ he says. ‘Just get out, fast.’ And he leaves the room slowly, using the wall for support, stiff and pale and 216 rather tense around the middle. Of course! He’s been injured, too.

  No wonder he hasn’t even looked at Roland.

  ‘Pagan.’ Roland’s voice, weak and breathless. His fingers, closing around mine. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Pagan.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought you. I shouldn’t have said those things. I don’t know what happened . . .’ Closing his eyes, tightly.

  ‘My lord, are you hurt? Is it bad? You should lie down.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, we can’t stay here. Can you stand? Can you help me up?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Then we must warn Esclaramonde. We must get them out of this place.’ Clutching my hand the way a drowning man would clutch at a spar. ‘We must take them to the village. Before my father – before he – before –’

  Yes, yes, I understand. You don’t have to explain. I know exactly what you’re talking about.

  After all, I’ve still got the taste of Galhard on my tongue.

  Chapter 23

  Clack, clack. Clack, clack. Clack, clack. The sound of weavers in the next room.

  Curse them. What time is it? Open one eye to squint at the cracks in the shutters, and find myself looking at Roland, instead. He’s sitting up, fully dressed, with a boot in one hand.

  What’s he doing? Is is time for breakfast?

  ‘M-my lord.’

  He winces as he bends down. His face looks like a cockpit, all dried blood and feathers. What did he do to his pillow, last night? Chew a hole in it?

  ‘Good morning, Pagan. I hope you slept well.’

  ‘You’re up.’

  ‘Yes, but you can stay in bed if you want to.’ He tries, unsuccessfully, to smile: his cracked lip prevents him from 218 managing anything more than a grimace. ‘You deserve a day in bed.’

  ‘You’re the one who should be in bed, my lord. You’re not well.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, Pagan, I won’t be going far.’

  Well that’s good, because you certainly won’t be getting very far, in your condition. Look at your poor nose, smeared all over your face. Blazing like a sunset. And those stiff, fumbling fingers. ‘Here, my lord, let me do that.’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘My lord, you look terrible. You look as if you’ve been dragged all the way from Jerusalem.’ (Throwing off my blanket. Reaching for my clothes. Ouch! My head!) ‘Please lie down. What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I want to make sure they’re all right,’ he rejoins.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Esclaramonde and her friends.’

  Ah, of course. Esclaramonde. Who else? Watching him bite his lip as he tugs at his other boot. Every movement seems to cause him pain. ‘My lord, they’ll be perfectly all right. Why shouldn’t they be? It’s a big house. That baker is a decent man. If he didn’t want them there, he would have said so.’ Looking around at our tiny room, with its damp, whitewashed walls. ‘They’ve probably done better than we have.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I want to make certain.’ And he stands up slowly, as if he’s afraid that one of his legs is going to fall off.

  ‘Please, my lord, let me go.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m getting dressed now! I’ll be ready in an instant!’

  ‘You can follow me when you’ve done your chores.’

  ‘My lord, wait.’ He pauses on the threshold, a fold of butter-coloured curtain in his hand. You can hear the clacking of the looms: it’s enough to drive you crazy.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘My lord, you ought to know – I mean – it’s about Esclara monde –’

  ‘What?’ He’s frowning, now.

  ‘My lord, I – I don’t think you heard Garsen, yesterday.’ (Come on, Pagan, spit it out.) ‘She was telling me what the heretics think about marriage. They don’t like it, my lord. They say it’s a sin, because it leads to children. And a child is just another soul condemned to the sorrows of this world.’ God preserve us, but this is difficult. My ears are burning up. ‘I just thought you ought to know, my lord. Before anything . . . well . . . happens.’

  Waiting. And waiting. A long, long silence. Roland’s eyes freeze over. Every vestige of expression leaves his battered face.

  ‘What makes you think I have the slightest interest in such heretical falsehoods?’ he says at last. He’s convincing, but not convincing enough. Come on, Roland, you can’t fool me.

  ‘My lord, I’m not blind, you know.’

  Another long pause. I can tell he’s struggling. Somewhere deep inside, he’s struggling. Please, Roland. Why don’t you talk to me? You never talk to me. Well, hardly ever. Once or twice, perhaps. And even then it’s like pulling teeth.

  ‘I’m going to wash,’ he declares. ‘Then I’ll be visiting the baker’s house. You may follow if you so choose.’

  Very well, then, don’t talk. Keep it all bottled up inside, and see what good it does you. No wonder you’re always so miserable. How can I help if you won’t let me?

  Watching as he slips through the curtain, still limping (though not as badly as before). There’s a lull in the noise from the next room: must be getting him breakfast, I suppose. Mmmm, breakfast. I could do with a bite of breakfast myself, after I’ve combed my hair. Providing, of course, that I can actually persuade old Ermengoaud to give me some. Ermengoaud the Amiable. Service with a scowl. Not that you can really blame him, I suppose. After all, we have thrown his brother out of this room. It’s not much of a room, of course, but it’s better than sleeping on a pile of wool bales in the shed outside. And it’s not as if Ermengoaud’s letting us stay here out of the kindness of his heart. If Roland’s family didn’t have procuration rights over half the village – if people like Ermengoaud weren’t forced to provide free bed and board for the family’s guests at least three times a year – then I daresay Ermengoaud and his wife wouldn’t waste spit on us.

  Well, maybe that’s not quite true. They’d probably give Roland a place to sleep. But they wouldn’t let someone like me lick the wool-grease off their shuttles. Oh yes, it’s the same old story. They won’t even risk handing me anything: they always put it down first, and wait for me to pick it up. They won’t look at me. They won’t talk to me. They won’t let their little girls stay in the same room.

  Well damn them, anyway. Why should I care what they think? They’re just a bunch of stodgy, bog-faced weavers with a ten-word vocabulary. They wouldn’t know a joke if it walked through the door and introduced itself. God knows what they do when they’re not weaving. Sit around watching their fingernails grow, I daresay.

  ‘Master.’

  Whoops! And that’s one of them, speaking through the curtain.

  ‘Uh – yes?’

  Aurencha pushes the curtain aside. She has hands like bunches of carrots, and the mournful, drooping features of a lymer-hound, so heavy and despondent and pendulous that they look as if they’re going to slide off her face onto the floor at any moment.

  ‘Lord Jordan is here,’ she announces, and disappears again. What –? Who –?

  Suddenly he’s on the threshold. Tall. Bruised. Smelling of grass and dogs and damp earth.
br />   ‘Hello, Pagan.’ He looks uncharacteristically serious. ‘May I sit down?’

  There’s hardly room to move, in here. He squeezes past and drops onto Roland’s bed. Looks as if he’s been overdoing things. His forehead is damp, his colour unhealthy. The black eye has faded, a little.

  ‘I thought I’d catch you on your way to the horses,’ he says. ‘It’s the first thing you do every morning, isn’t it? But when I saw Roland leaving the house by himself, it occurred to me that I might just be able to talk to you here.’

  Talk to me? About what? Oh, I know.

  ‘My lord, I want to thank you for what you did yesterday’ (Of course, how could I forget? You maggot-bag, Pagan.) ‘If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t be able to talk. I owe you a great debt of gratitude. Please tell me if there’s anything I can do in return.’

  But he shakes his head, smiling.

  ‘What I did for you, Pagan, is no more than what you did for me.’ A long, blue stare. What’s he talking about? I wish he wouldn’t smile like that, it makes me nervous. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he says. ‘I do. It was in a certain room, in the Abbey –’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Sudden vision of Jordan, cringing on the floor, with an iron lampstand crashing down.

  ‘Yes, that,’ he murmurs. ‘You owe me nothing, Pagan. Nevertheless, I must admit that I’ve come here this morning to make a request.’

  ‘Oh.’ (What’s he after? Nothing tricky, I hope. It’s going to be damned awkward, if he wants something from Roland.)

  ‘You may not know this, but I hold my own lands,’ he continues. ‘A fort and a hamlet, north of here, in the foothills of the Black Mountains. Berengar will have Bram, so I was given Suriac.’

  Well congratulations, but what’s that got to do with me?

  ‘I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I don’t have to stay in Bram.’ His wide, unblinking stare, glued to my face like dough. ‘I spend a good deal of time in the mountains, and in Carcassone. My family has interests in Carcassone.’

  Uh-oh. Don’t tell me this is what I think it is. Please, God, don’t let him say it.

  ‘So if you decide to enter my service,’ he concludes softly, ‘you wouldn’t be stuck here in Bram. I’d make sure of that.’

  Damn me, he said it. What am I going to do? I can’t just – he’ll be furious – this is so difficult!

  ‘I’m asking you to enter my service, Pagan.’

  ‘My lord, I – my lord, it’s a great honour. Truly. But I can’t, I just can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My lord, Foucaud is far more efficient than I am. I’ve seen the way he looks after your clothes –’

  ‘Damn my clothes.’ Intensely. ‘I don’t want you to look after my clothes.’

  ‘Then why do you want me?’

  He leans forward, his skin pale against his charcoal-grey tunic.

  ‘I want you because you’re smart,’ he replies. ‘I want you because you’re funny. I want you because you’ve seen the world and you’ve laughed at it. Oh yes, I know the way you laugh, Pagan. I know exactly what’s going on inside your head. Why? Because I know you. I know you so well, we’re like two halves of the same person. I can read you better than you can read any book.’ Almost whispering, now. ‘Roland doesn’t understand you. He can’t protect you. He doesn’t even appreciate you. You’re an ornament, a treasure. You’re educated, you’re astute, and you’re a delight to the eye. Stay with me, Pagan. You won’t regret it, I swear.’

  God.

  He’s a Ganymede.

  Yes. No. Yes. Oh yes. He’s a Ganymede, all right. A hare. A mule. A boy-chaser. There’s no mistaking . . . I’ve seen that look before, in the Mount Sion bath-house. It all makes sense. His attention, his help, his kindness, everything.

  But no, it can’t be. He’s married! Except, well, that doesn’t mean a lot, does it? What about the shop-keeper who 224 approached me that time on the Street of Flowers? I know for a fact that he was married. And he was still dragging men into bed with him.

  ‘Please, Pagan, just think about it. Think about your future.’

  Oh hell, this is awful. But how could I have guessed? He certainly hasn’t made a point of it, has he? I bet no one else has realised – except his wife, perhaps.

  What the hell am I going to say?

  ‘My lord, you do me too much honour.’ (Careful, Pagan, be very, very careful.) ‘If I was still in a city garrison, it would be different. But Lord Roland is my lord, now. I couldn’t leave him, not unless he told me to. Surely you must see that? It would be wrong.’

  At last he lowers his gaze. Looks down at his hands, which lie open in his charcoal-grey lap. Studies his bruised knuckles.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I’m really very sorry’ I am, too. I’m sorry he’s so lonely that he’s come to this. Who knows what kind of a life he’s led? People like him don’t have it easy. I’ve known a few of them in Jerusalem, and all I can say is: O give thanks unto the Lord, for his mercies to me endureth forever. Their road is a hard and dangerous one.

  Jordan rises, abruptly.

  ‘Well,’ he snaps, ‘a fool hath no delight in understanding, I suppose.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘You’re ten kinds of fool, Pagan. I never realised it, until now.’ He turns on his heel; pauses; turns back. ‘And I don’t know what Roland thinks he’s doing, but if he continues to court destruction as he has been, you may not be in his ervice for much longer. Just be aware that if he does manage to commit suicide, my offer still stands.’ His expression is chilly, disdainful, but his voice softens as he finishes. ‘If you need me, you know where I’ll be.’

  He has to stoop, to pass through the door, and the curtain swings shut behind him. God preserve us. I hope he doesn’t lose his temper, over this. I hope he doesn’t get marinated and nail Father Puy’s head to a cross-beam, or try to poke my eyes out with a burning stick. It’s awful to think what might happen, if he decides that he doesn’t like me any more. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so – well, so definite.

  Collapsing onto Roland’s bed, which sways and creaks as if it’s about to fall over. What am I going to do now? What are we going to do now? The Crusade’s been postponed indefinitely; Roland’s become infatuated with a heretical nun; and we seem to be sinking into a slough of petty quarrels and vicious little homicidal expeditions. What a mess. What a complete shambles. Surely there must be more to life? Surely we didn’t come all this way just to lose our path in one of the meanest corners of God’s creation?

  I must be getting old. It all strikes me as so hollow and pointless and miserable.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Pagan!’

  ‘Hmm . . .?’

  ‘Pagan!’

  What? What is it? What’s that noise? It sounds like – yes. It is. It’s screaming.

  Sit up. What’s the time? There’s just the faintest, palest light creeping through the shutters. Roland’s barely visible: his white tunic shimmers in the gloom.

  A crash from outside.

  ‘Wake up! Get up! Hurry!’

  God preserve us. What’s happening? Scramble for my sword. My boots, My shield. Hurry! The sound of hoofbeats thudding past our wall. One – two – five – six horses.

  Aurencha bursts into the room.

  ‘My lord!’ she wails. ‘My lord! My lord!’

  Roland pushes past her. Through the curtain, towards the front door. Ermengaud’s carrying his little daughter: her sister is crying, and clutching his leg. Tears glisten in the light of a single candle.

  ‘My lord! Wait! My lord!’ Their voices follow us out, pleading, frightened. Crash! What was that? Crisp air; the smell of smoke; the first, faint flush of dawn. People scurrying past, half-dressed, dragging children, swinging axes, shouting, fleeing, pounding on doors. ‘Brigands! Brigands! Run for your lives!’

  Brigands?! I don’t believe it.

  ‘The stables!’ Roland gasps. ‘Quickly!’

  The stables. The ho
rses. Where are they? I’m lost. But Roland knows the way. Pounding along ahead of me, his sword in one hand, his shield in the other. Houses, houses, and hoofbeats behind us. Someone screaming. Turn around, and there they are. Three of them, mounted, each bearing a flaming torch. Shields. Swords. Chain mail. And a white trefoil on the red field of Languedoc.

  Those men aren’t brigands.

  They gallop past; swerve; disappear. What the hell are they doing? Oh, I know. The torches. The smoke. They’re looking for something flammable.

  Round a corner into a narrow street. Muddy and dark, and the smoke is getting thicker. Roland! Wait! I can’t keep up! Oof! Get out of the way, you moron!

  Stumbling over someone’s smashed skull. Oh God. Up ahead, people fighting. Screams. Thuds. A seething knot of bodies near a doorway, and there it is, that white trefoil, pouncing on a family as each member stumbles out – choking and weeping – to escape the chaos inside. A 228 grey-haired man falls, and is dragged off his own front step. He’s dumped. Kicked. Stabbed once. Twice. Three times.

  The blade flashes red in the light of the leaping flames.

  Thunk! Roland attacks, so fast that you can barely see him move. Leaps forward. One blow, hard across the neck. Blood sprays out, and a Trefoil collapses. But there’s another – whoops! Roland! Watch out!

  Oh no you don’t.

  ‘Hoi!’

  Look! Here I am! Come and get me, crater-face! He swings wide. (Yah-hah, missed me.) And swings again. Hits my shield. Back you get – back – back – go on – yes! His heel hits the stair, and he falls backwards. Now! Now!

  But he rolls, too quickly.

  ‘Pagan!’

  Turn! Strike! Help! A man . . . his red chest . . . thrust in. Hard. The shudder. Pulling out. Stepping back . . .

  Blood on my hand. On my sword. The body, squirming at my feet. Cries of pain. Jesus, oh Jesus.

  It was me. I did it. He’s there, and I did it.

  ‘Pagan!’

  Roland, grabbing my arm. Pulling. Hauling. Wait! Slow down! I can’t run this fast. Fall to one knee; dragged up again. This smoke is terrible. My eyes are so sore. And that squealing, that’s not human. That’s horses. Are we near the stables, then?