Pagan in Exile

  ‘Here! Pagan! In here!’

  I recognise this. This is the smith’s barn. They obviously haven’t found it yet. It’s very dim, inside, but there’s no mistaking the clatter and thump of frightened horses. ‘Curse it!’ Roland pants. ‘I can’t see a thing.’ He pushes the door wide open, and it screeches across the cobbles. ‘Hurry, Pagan! Saddle up! I’ll guard the entrance.’

  Right. Where’s Jennet? There she is, and there’s her bridle, and who’s this? A stunted gnome, shivering behind a feed bin. Must be the stable-boy.

  ‘You! Yes, you! See that chestnut? I want to ride it. The harness is over there.’ (Come on, you fool!) ‘Move! Hurry!’

  Calm down, Jennet. Calm down, girl. She tosses her head as I wipe my sword on my tunic. Shhh, take it easy. Sheathe my sword. Grab her saddle. Throw it across her back, and grope for the girth. My hands are shaking so much that it’s hard to join the straps.

  ‘Hurry, Pagan!’

  ‘Yes, my lord, yes.’

  Damn it! How can I get a grip on this buckle with my fingers all slippery . . . covered in blood . . . warm and wet.

  Did I kill him? I must have. I felt – no. Stop. Don’t think about it. Just don’t think at all. This is no time for thinking.

  Wait a moment. That shout. Was that Galhard? Suddenly Roland’s beside me, dragging the bridle over Jennet’s twitching ears.

  ‘My lord, wait, who are they? Are they –?’

  ‘The Montferrands. Who else?’ he replies, and leaps into his saddle. Jennet lurches forward as he drums at her flanks with his heels. Heading for the barn door.

  What the hell does that stable-boy think he’s doing? Seems to be putting my saddle on backwards.

  ‘Move, you bog-brain! Get out of the way! I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘Hurry, Pagan!’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  But Coppertail’s frightened. He won’t stand still. ‘Please, please, calm down, will you?’ Now Roland’s disappeared. Thanks very much, Roland. Just go off and leave me: I don’t care. Where’s the bridle? Where’s that boy? ‘Oi! Wait! Where are you going?’ (What’s his problem?)

  Turn around, and there’s a Trefoil, storming through the barn’s back entrance.

  Sweet saints preserve us.

  Run. Run! Out the front. Into the street. Roland! Where’s Roland? Is that him? It certainly looks like Jennet’s backside, retreating down the road. But who’s that with him? Berengar? ‘My lord!’ Running hard. ‘My lord! Wait!’

  Other people, running. A house, burning. But there’s someone on horseback, pursuing a Trefoil. Pons! It’s Pons! And there’s Ademar! Praise the Lord, we’re on the offensive. ‘Pons!’ (Cough, cough.) ‘Pons! Pons!’ He doesn’t hear. Charges off down an alley with his lance tucked under his armpit. This is chaos. Chaos. What am I going to do?

  Stop. Think. A smoky haze hangs low over the peaked roofs. Stone walls everywhere all looking the same. A dry water trough and a stack of firewood, just waiting to be lit. Roland. I’ve got to find Roland. I’m a moving target, if I don’t. Or perhaps I should make my way back to the castle? That’s if I can actually find the castle. I’ve completely lost my bearings, here. All these smelly little streets look alike. And the crowds don’t seem to be heading in one direction, either.

  A woman staggers into view, dripping blood. Dazed. Weeping. God, this is iniquitous. How could they do that? How can I help? Perhaps if I take her to the church, or the castle.

  Suddenly, the sound of hoofs and raised voices.

  ‘Look out! Mistress! Over here, quickly!’

  But she keeps plodding along, like a sleepwalker. Get out of the way, you fool! Can’t you hear they’re coming? Darting out to drag her back. Quick! Quick! Against the wall! A skidding horse, rounding the corner, stumbling, recovering, galloping past with blood on its flanks and a Trefoil in the saddle. His open mouth; staring eyes; blood-soaked tunic. That man’s in retreat.

  There’s another, and another. Flashing by like birds, kicking up the mud, and there’s Jordan! It’s Jordan! And Galhard! And –

  ‘My lord!’

  Running after Roland. Left turn. Right turn. Left turn. The sound of a battle-horn. Erupting into the village square, under showers of ash, and it’s hard to see what’s going on in this poor light, through the veils of smoke, but it’s a skirmish. Definitely a skirmish. The whirlwind of plunging horses moves this way, that way, and somebody falls – a Trefoil – knocked off his saddle by Jordan’s lance. He rolls between the lashing hoofs. A sword-blade rings as it hits the grounds. But where’s Roland? Ah, there he is. Ploughing into his opponent like a headwind, like somebody chopping wood, pushing him towards the others – oh! I see, now. I see what’s happening. The Trefoils form a tight little knot, as Jordan and Galhard and Roland circle them, prodding and pounding, with Joris and Aimery in support, exactly like a team of hunters with a stag at bay.

  Suddenly the Trefoils surge in a single direction, trying 232 to break through. Galhard is knocked sideways, but manages to retain his seat. A cry of pain from one of the Trefoils: he sags against his horse’s neck, wounded somehow, letting his lance drop from nerveless fingers. Nevertheless, he keeps going. They all do. Pounding along, straight across the square, straight towards me, with Jordan and Galhard and Roland in pursuit.

  Move, Pagan! Out of the way!

  ‘My lord! Wait! My lord!’

  This time he hears. This time he sees. Reining poor Jennet in so sharply that she rears like an unbroken colt.

  ‘I can’t stop!’ he pants. ‘Find – Esclaramonde –’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘Look after her!’

  And off he shoots. So now I have to find Esclaramonde! Easier said than done, Roland. And what am I supposed to do when I find her, overwhelm a savage mob of Montferrand supporters with my fingernails? Don’t you care what happens to me? I can’t believe that you’ve just left me alone in the middle of this bloodbath!

  Wandering westwards, towards the baker’s house. It’s very quiet, all of a sudden. The streets seem to be deserted. No marauding Trefoils, no fleeing villagers. Occasionally, the sound of someone moaning behind a barred door. Where is everybody? Have the Trefoils retreated? Perhaps they have. Perhaps it was a flying raid: in and out fast, before Galhard could collect his wits. A dead goose, smeared all over the ground. Smashed furniture. Doors hanging ajar, vomiting trails of trampled clothes and squashed food and bed-linen. The heat growing more intense, as a burning roof appears around a corner, crackling and spitting. The clouds 233 of black smoke, rolling up into a pall that blocks out the sky.

  No, not that way. There must be another approach. Turn left, and right. A body, blocking my path. Dead? Stopping, unsteadily, to feel for a pulse. The hand is very dry. Yes, he’s dead. Can’t do much about that. Can’t do much about anything. Stumbling forward – so tired – coughing and coughing, my eyes wet and raw. I feel like a ghost. A ghost in an empty village. Where are they all? Have they run off to the castle, do you think? But someone must be here, because that’s the sound of grieving. A wail which grows louder, and softer, and louder again. ‘No, no . . . no no no . . .’ It’s quite close, too. But where? I can’t see. Peering through the haze, my footsteps slapping against dead earth.

  A dark figure, crouched just ahead. No, not one figure. Two. And another, curled up on the ground. The terrible keening rises above them, boring into my skull, and I feel as if I’m going to faint, I feel sick, no, it can’t be, but it is – Garsen’s face, turned towards me, contorted with rage and despair: ‘Look what you did!’ she screams. ‘You! It was you! All of you!’

  No. Oh no. Not Esclaramonde. Please God, no. Just a glimpse – her white face – her bloody lips – half-closed eyes –

  ‘She tried to stop them,’ Helis sobs. ‘She ran out . . . she grabbed the reins . . .’

  ‘Sister. Oh Sister, Sister . . .’

  ‘. . . they went right over her. The men with the torches. Every one of them . . .’
>
  Her long hair, splashed across the dirt, sticky with blood.

  Oh God, oh God. It can’t be true. Not this. Not her. I can’t look, I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it!

  ‘Sister. Oh Sister . . .’

  Get me out of here. I can’t stand this any more. This is it. No more. I’ve had enough. Just get away, away from that moaning. Run down the street. Run away from the corpse: her corpse, his corpse, the man I killed. You killed a man, Pagan. At last you’ve killed a man. You stuck a sword in his guts, and you pulled it out again. You wiped off his guts on your tunic. His guts are still there, on your hands and your legs. He’s dead, now, like her – like Esclaramonde – oh Roland. Help me. Help me, help me, what am I going to do?

  ‘Pagan!’

  Turn, and there he is. Galloping up a side-street. Where did he come from? Why is he here? If I tell him, he’ll kill me. He’ll die. No, I can’t do it.

  ‘Pagan! Stop! Where are you –?’

  Run. Run! Hoofbeats, gaining. Suddenly he’s in front of me. Leaps down, grabs my arm, both arms, panting. ‘Pagan! It’s me!’ (A shake.) ‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Why are you crying?’

  Oh Roland. Oh Roland.

  ‘They’ve gone, Pagan, there’s nothing to fear. We chased them out.’

  No, no, you don’t understand. Pointing up the street, but I can’t talk – the tears – I can’t – His hands tighten on my arms.

  ‘Esclaramonde,’ he says. Suddenly he’s taken off, he’s running, back up the street, straight to where I pointed, towards Garsen, towards Esclaramonde. No, Roland, no! It 235 will kill you! ‘Roland! Don’t look!’ But he’s almost there, he’s slowing, he’s seen – he must have seen – and he swerves, blindly. He turns away. He staggers in helpless circles. He presses his hands to his mouth and he sways and shuts his eyes and falls to his knees. Gasping behind his hands. Choking behind his hands. Folded up, now, with his forehead almost striking the earth in front of him.

  ‘Roland – Roland –’

  But he straightens and his lungs fill and he screams behind his hands, screams in agony – I can’t bear it – don’t, Roland, don’t, you’re going to kill me, and he’s groaning, now, groaning as if he’s being stabbed, and the tears spill down his bruised cheeks.

  Roland, oh Roland. Feeling him shudder like a great tree under the blow of an axe as I hug him, try to comfort him, but I can’t, it’s impossible, it’s so bad that Helis has to put her hands to her ears, that Garsen’s stopped moaning and started praying. ‘Roland, don’t – Roland don’t, don’t, please . . .’ All I can do is hold him, my poor Roland, pierced to the bone by every one of his muffled cries because his face is buried in my chest, and he’s howling straight through my ribcage, clinging so hard that I can barely breathe. Slowly the howls become words; the words become intelligible.

  ‘Pagan, Pagan . . .’

  I’m here, Roland. I’m here. I always will be.

  Chapter 25

  It’s not a bad place to be buried, if you have to be buried in unconsecrated ground. At least half a mile from the nearest church, of course, but that wouldn’t matter to Esclaramonde. Why should it? She’d like the flowers, too. Golden buds everywhere, with a spray of purple iris near her feet. An oak tree shielding her from the northern winds. And Garsen’s clump of rosemary, planted in the freshly turned soil.

  A dead leaf flutters down. That’s three dead leaves already. Soon her whole grave will be covered. The earth will dry out, the grass will come, and only the neat pile of rocks will remain. But they won’t be disturbed because it’s very peaceful, out here. Very lonely. In fact it’s a little too lonely. Oh Lord, please don’t let her be lonely. Please don’t make her suffer. Even if she was wrong, she had a good 237 heart. Think of the Magdelene: the Magdelene’s sins were many, and they were forgiven because she loved much. Surely it would be the same with Esclaramonde?

  Garsen, kneeling, with her head covered. Garsen won’t speak to us now. Helis will, but she didn’t last long. Had to be taken back to the village by Estolt after she collapsed at the graveside. Grazide, sniffing. Braida, holding Othon’s hand. All completely silent, as a gentle breeze tugs at their shawls and hems and loose wisps of hair, and the oak dips above us, and the speckles of shadow rearrange themselves on Esclaramonde’s grave.

  As for Roland, I can hardly bear to look at him. Such a difference, in just one day: it’s as if he’s being eaten away from the inside. Looking ten years older. And moving so slowly, so clumsily, like an invalid. Burrowing into himself behind a wall of glazed eyes and silence. Starting to do something, then losing the will. Trailing off into a motionless trance, until somebody jogs his elbow. Lying curled up in bed, with his arms folded across his ribs to stop his heart from breaking:

  Kneeling there now, lost and speechless. What am I going to do? Everything’s in chaos, and my clothes still smell of smoke and blood. (Blood. Don’t think about it.) Coppertail’s been killed. Our saddlebags were looted. And then there’s Roland. How can he travel when he’s in such a state? I still have to steer him through every door.

  Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me; for my soul trusteth in thee, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.

  Suddenly, the sound of footsteps. Crackle, crackle. Crunch, crunch. Seems to be coming from the other side of the copse. Will anyone notice? Yes. Othon’s heard; he looks around. Braida gives a little squeak and stands up, trembling. Garsen’s gone pale, but doesn’t move.

  Should I draw my sword, or would that be disrespectful? Esclaramonde would never have allowed it, I know.

  ‘Someone’s coming, my lord.’ Touching Roland’s shoulder. ‘My lord? Someone’s coming.’

  He looks up, dreamily, his thoughts far away. Gradually his eyes begin to focus. There’s a rustle of leaves, and the sharp crack of a stick breaking.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Garsen demands. Roland rises to his feet. Grazide stops sniffing.

  But it’s only Jordan.

  ‘Ah, Roland.’ He emerges from a tangle of undergrowth, the hem of his tunic catching on burrs and thorns and clawing branches. He looks immensely tired. ‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Roland says hoarsely. (He hasn’t spoken in hours.)

  ‘Just a quick word. It won’t take long.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Lord Galhard sent me. This wasn’t my own idea.’

  Roland hesitates. He’s still in a fog, though it seems to be clearing. His brother sounds bored and irritable.

  ‘Lord Galhard wants to know if you would consider joining our planned attack on Montferrand,’ Jordan continues, and all at once Garsen loses her temper. Her angry tones cut across the conversation. ‘Go away! Both of you!’ she cries. ‘You desecrate this peace! You defile this mourning! How dare you come here with your bloody swords and your corrupt hearts? Go away!’

  Jordan smiles, but he doesn’t even look at her. His eyes are fixed on Roland.

  ‘Lord Galhard,’ he finishes, ‘seems to think that you might have some personal motive for wanting revenge.’

  God preserve us. How did they –? Quick glance at Roland, who catches his breath.

  ‘Revenge?’ he mutters, and somehow he’s come alive again. Somehow he’s inhabiting his face again. ‘Is that what you think I want? Revenge?’

  ‘You’re mistaken. I don’t think anything, myself. I’m merely a messenger.’

  ‘Then take a message back to Lord Galhard. Tell him I’m leaving. Tell him I’m finished with all this.’ A pause, as Roland swallows some emotion. ‘Tell him to forget that I ever existed.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he will.’

  ‘And tell him – tell him that he who does violence to his brother, does violence to himself. Tell him that.’

  The brothers lock eyes across Esclaramonde’s grave. Jordan isn’t smiling anymore. His expression is guarded and sombre.

  ‘Very well,’ he says a
t last. ‘I’ll pass on that message.’ His gaze shifts to the blood-spattered squire who’s trying to make himself as small as possible in Roland’s shadow (without much success). ‘What about you, Pagan? Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘Uh, no. No, my lord. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. I only hope you’ll live to regret it.’ He turns back to Roland. ‘In God’s name,’ he says quietly, ‘look after him. Just look after him, will you?’

  And off he goes. Head bowed, watching his feet, still a bit stiff around the middle.

  I wish I knew how to feel about him.

  ‘My lord!’

  He stops. Waits. But doesn’t swing around.

  ‘Don’t worry, my lord, I can look after myself.’

  No reply. Suddenly Roland tugs at my arm. What? What is it? You want to go? Jordan’s moving again, disappearing into the bushes. Roland strikes out in the opposite direction. Praise God, he seems to be functioning at last. Making decisions and carrying them through.

  I can feel Garsen’s glare sizzle on our backs.

  ‘My lord.’ (Where are you going?) ‘This isn’t the way to the village.’

  ‘I know. I want to talk to you.’

  Talk to me? What does that mean? Grasshoppers springing away as we crush the turf underfoot. Low branches tweaking my hair. Does he want to talk about Esclaramonde? About our plans? I hope it’s not Jordan. I don’t want to talk about Jordan.

  Right through a thicket, with Roland ahead of me. Shielding my face from the slapping bushes. Ouch! Thorns. Prickles. The whirr of tiny wings as we flush a bird from its hiding place. Roland’s footsteps: crunch, crunch, crunch. Uneven ground, full of rocks and disguised holes. Skirting a tree trunk.

  ‘My lord? Where are we going?’

  ‘Somewhere private.’

  Whoops! Watch that log! Clambering over it: slipping on a fan of yellow fungus. What about here? We could stop here. But he ploughs on, straight into the wall of leaves up 241 ahead. This is ruining my stockings, Roland, they’re beginning to look like a goat’s fleece.