‘Here,’ he says, and stops (so that I almost run straight into his back). ‘Careful. Watch your feet.’
Look down, and it’s a hole. A gigantic, overgrown hole, with walls of loose rubble and a pool of stagnant water at the bottom.
‘What’s this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it an old quarry?’
‘Perhaps. It’s been here a long time.’ Roland crouches at the edge of the slope. ‘Sit down, Pagan.’
‘How deep is the water?’
‘Deep enough. Please sit down.’
Finding myself a seat on a rock. It’s very warm and quiet. Insects hover above the still, murky pool.
Roland takes a deep breath.
‘I’ve come to a decision, Pagan. About our future.’
Here it comes. I knew it was coming. He’s examining a little tuft of weeds near his right foot. Frowning down at it. Fingering the minute pink blossoms.
‘I doubt if you realise how important you are to me,’ he says at last. ‘I want you to know that. After what happened yesterday – now that it’s finished – there’s no one more important than you. No one. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Pagan.’ He begins to pull at the little flowers, wrenching them from the soil, crushing them in his hands. ‘And that’s what makes it so difficult.’
Why? What do you mean? What’s difficult? What are you talking about?
‘Perhaps you don’t remember, about a year ago, when I 242 mentioned something about the Abbey of Saint Jerome.’ (He still won’t look at me.) ‘I told you that I went to the previous Abbot, when I was sick to the heart, and begged for a place behind the Abbey walls.’
‘Yes, of course I remember.’
‘But he told me that Christendom couldn’t spare a knight like me. He sent me to Jerusalem, to fight the Infidel. He said that it was my duty to God.’
‘Yes, my lord, I remember every word.’
‘Pagan –’ he begins, and pauses. Spit it out, Roland. Tell me. Talk to me. ‘Bloodshed is not the way to God, Pagan. I know that. No murderer shall ever have eternal life.’
‘But you’re not a murderer!’
‘Oh yes I am. And I’ve known it all along . . . it’s been so hard . . .’ He’s gasping a little, as if it’s hurting him to speak. ‘My mother never wanted me to live by the sword. She said that it wouldn’t bring me salvation, and she was right. She was always right, about everything. She wanted me to enter the church. When she – when she died . . .’ A long, long pause. ‘When she died,’ he continues at last, ‘I tried to follow her wishes. I did try. I just didn’t try hard enough. And now I – you see, Pagan, I –’
‘You want to become a monk.’
‘Yes.’
So that’s it. That’s it. I should have known.
‘Not here,’ he continues, in a breathless voice. ‘Not at the Abbey. Somewhere else. A small, humble place. And this time nothing will stop me, nothing and no one. Except you, perhaps.’
Me?
‘I know how you hate monasteries, Pagan. I know how 243 you ran away from your monastery in Bethlehem, and I wouldn’t want that to happen again. You shouldn’t be forced into a life which you don’t want to lead.’ Finally he looks up. Presenting his swollen cheek, his scabs, his bruises. ‘I can’t tell you what to do, because I don’t believe I truly have that right, any more. But I can offer you a choice. You have so many gifts that I’m sure you’d be welcome anywhere.’
Oh Roland.
‘If I took you to Carcassone,’ he adds, ‘and spoke to Commander Folcrand, he would make you a Templar sergeant immediately. My recommendation would be enough.’
‘My lord –’
‘Or you could join the Knights Hospitaller. There’d be no objection to that. I just – I don’t – I realise that Jordan made you an offer, Pagan.’ (Oh hell. I knew it, I knew we’d come to this.) ‘Maybe I haven’t done justice to him, in the past. Maybe I’ve been blind. I know there’s a kind of ancient wound – a poison – that lies between my heart and his, and I know I can’t tell you what to do, but I pray that you won’t decide to stay with him, Pagan. This place is a pit of vipers. I’d be so afraid for you, if you stayed here.’
‘My lord –’
‘I just want you to be happy. Safe and happy.’
‘My lord, I’m safe and happy with you.’ In God’s name, Roland, why do you even ask? ‘Where you go, I’ll go.’
‘But if I become a monk –’
‘If you become a monk, I can become a monk. Or at least a monastery servant.’
He doesn’t look very pleased. Knitting his brows. Biting his lips. Scraping a hole in the dirt with his heel. What’s the matter, Roland? Don’t you want me?
‘I feel as if I’m forcing you into something –’
‘No, my lord, never. Things have changed. I’ve changed. I don’t . . . I . . . you see I’d never killed anyone . . . not before yesterday . . .’ (Oh no. No. Stop. Don’t think.)
‘Pagan? What’s wrong?’
The slimy blood on my hand. The shudder. The jerk. The awful, deathly moans.
‘Pagan. What is it?’
‘I killed a man! I killed him!’ Oh God. God help me. God forgive me, forgive my sin, I can’t bear it, I can’t, I can’t, I’m cursed from the earth which hath opened her mouth to receive my brother’s blood. ‘I’m damned! I’m a murderer!’
‘Pagan –’
‘I can’t – I can’t do it – no. Never. Never again . . .’
‘Shhh. It’s all right. You’ll be all right.’
‘Oh God, oh God.’
Gulping for breath. The salty taste of tears. Roland’s hand on my back, up and down, up and down. ‘God knows your heart, Pagan.’ His gentle voice. ‘God will forgive you.’
But how can He, when I can’t forgive myself? Now I have this stain on my soul forever. The mark of Cain, and I’ll never wash it off.
‘Pagan, please don’t cry. Please. We have a path, now, a true path.’ Scrubbing at my face with the corner of his cloak. ‘Dry your eyes, Pagan, I want you to witness this.’
Witness what? What are you doing? He stands up, slowly, and the little loose pebbles roll out from under his feet. They tumble down into the pit, with a patter like raindrops. The folds of his cloak billow in the breeze.
He draws his sword.
Help! What’s he doing? A blinding flash – a glitter of gold – as he lifts the blade higher and higher, over his head, leaning back with all his weight on his right foot, and his left arm stretched out in front of him.
He throws.
The heavy sword takes flight. Whirling. Sparkling. Up into the air like a silver bird, like an arrow, fiery in the sunshine, and falling, now. Plummeting. Down and down, still catching the light, down past the cascades of gravel and dandelions.
Until it lands, with a plop, in the black water. And slowly disappears from sight.
SHORTLISTED FOR THE CHILDREN’S
BOOK COUNCIL OF AUSTRALIA BOOK OF THE YEAR AWARD (OLDER READERS) AND THE
VICTORIAN PREMIER’S LITERARY AWARDS (CHILDREN’S LITERATURE)
‘Shrewd and scrappy, with an instinct for self-preservation and a strong sense of loyalty, Pagan Kidrouk makes an engaging and spirited narrator. From the beginning of Pagan’s Crusade, I found myself plunged into the thick of medieval Jerusalem, meeting a host of intriguing characters … A grand adventure!’
NANCY BOND, author of A String in the Harp, a Newbery Honor Book
WINNER OF THE CHILDREN’S BOOK COUNCIL OF AUSTRALIA BOOK OF THEYEAR AWARD (OLDER READERS)
‘Jinks succeeds in creating a medieval setting that feels distinctly different from the modern world in spirit as well as in period details. This quirky, witty medieval novel … stands on its own.’
Booklist
WINNER OF THE VICTORIAN PREMIER’S LITERARY AWARDS (CHILDREN’S LITERATURE)
‘No question about it, Catherine Jinks loves both Pagan and Lord Roland Roucy de Bram, the Knight Tem
plar whom Pagan follows through the siege of Jerusalem, back to France and on into the Abbey of Saint Martin. Her delight in Pagan blazes through every sentence of his slangy, racy,
irreverent, witty first person narrative ...’
JENNY PAUSACKER, Viewpoint
A CHILDREN’S BOOK COUNCIL OF AUSTRALIA NOTABLE BOOK
‘Pagan’s Daughter is rich in the historical detail of its setting … Jinks doesn’t sanitise, let alone romanticise, the medieval period she obviously adores recreating … Babylonne is very much her father’s daughter, not just in her resolve, courage and cheeky humour but in the chatty, of-the-moment voice that Jinks has given her. Pagan’s Daughter is alive with narrative energy.’
The Age
Catherine Jinks, Pagan in Exile
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