Pagan in Exile

  ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he replies, brusquely.

  ‘And please – please – is there any way of stopping what has begun, here?’ She looks up at him, her voice solemn. ‘Garnier is dead. The man who killed him is badly wounded. Aribert is . . . Aribert may be lost to us. I don’t believe that any good will come of pursuing this tragedy. It will simply mean more killing. Can you go away and forget it, my lord? Can you forget that it ever happened?’

  Roland hesitates.

  ‘It concerns a trespass on my father’s lands,’ he says slowly. ‘I don’t believe that my father can ignore it. Besides, I noticed – I couldn’t help noticing that you hardly have any men, here. Just women. Now that Garnier is gone, and Aribert too, how will you manage with only a couple of boys? Surely you must want some compensation?’

  ‘Not at the price of another life!’ Esclaramonde protests, and suddenly bursts into tears.

  Oh Lord. Poor thing. Weeping like a waterfall. No help from Roland, of course: he’s completely paralysed. Looks at me in desperation.

  Kidrouk to the rescue.

  ‘There, there.’ A careful arm around her shoulders. (They feel so small.) ‘It’s hard, I know. It’s very hard.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobs. ‘I can’t – can’t h-help it.’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘Garnier – so good –’

  ‘He’s with Jesus, now.’

  ‘Yes I know, but . . . the suffering . . . his family . . . and I have to tell them about Aribert . . .’

  Garsen. Thank God. She hurries over to us, a basket in one hand and a jug in the other. Food! At last! (Here, I’ll take that.)

  ‘Sister! What’s wrong?’

  ‘He’s dead, Garsen. He’s dead.’

  ‘God have mercy . . .’ The two women embrace, as Roland crosses himself. Mmmm. Almond cakes. Will it 88 look terrible, if I start eating? After all, I didn’t actually know the man.

  ‘Pagan.’ A gesture from Roland. He speaks very quietly.

  ‘We should go now. We can eat on the way. I want to reach Bram before dark.’

  Hear, hear. No night rides, please. This food can go in a saddlebag. ‘Have a drink, my lord.’

  ‘My lord!’ Esclaramonde throws out a hand, and it’s wet with tears. ‘Thank you, my lord. Thank you for your kindness.’ Poor woman. Poor thing. Look at her sad, grubby little face and her poor red nose. It’s enough to break your heart.

  But Roland doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even smile. He turns away, abruptly, and puts his foot in a stirrup.

  Honestly. I ask you. What’s wrong with the man?

  Chapter 10

  Noises from the hall. Frantic, rowdy noises. Yells and thumps and bursts of laughter.

  I don’t know if I can face this.

  ‘Pagan? What’s wrong?’ Roland, up ahead of me. Peering back through the dusk to where the pathetic remnants of his former squire are hauling themselves, bit by bit, up the outer staircase.

  ‘Oh, my lord . . . I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed.’

  ‘You should eat something, first.’

  ‘No, I can’t. Not unless it picks itself up and marches down my gullet.’ I’m practically asleep now. Going to sleep with my eyes open, like a lion. And Roland doesn’t look too fresh, himself. Sweaty. Sunburned. Covered in dust. His white tunic all stained and faded and darned where the saddle’s rubbed holes in the linen.

  That’s what I hate about white. No matter how hard you scrub, you can’t get the blood out.

  ‘Well, it’s been a long day. And a hard ride.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘You can go straight through to bed. I’ll just have a word with Lord Galhard about the Abbot.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  And in we go.

  Wham! What a din! Like being hit over the head with a percussion instrument. The whole place is full. Fire blazing. Candles everywhere. Tables pushed back against the walls. Pons kneeling on the dank rushes, blindfolded, his arms outstretched.

  Oh, I see. They’re playing Hot Cockles.

  Ademar darts forward, tapping Pons lightly on the cheek. He jumps back as Pons lunges. ‘Germain!’ says Pons. Everyone roars with laughter. Hoots and comments from every side.

  ‘Guess again!’

  ‘Close!’

  ‘It was Ademar!’

  Now it’s Berengar’s turn. Walks over and whoomp! God preserve us. A blow to the neck that sends Pons sprawling. I haven’t seen the game played like this, before.

  ‘L-lord Galhard,’ Pons gasps, dazed and winded.

  ‘Wrong!’

  ‘Next!’

  ‘Can’t you recognise Berengar’s right fist? You’ve had it in your eye often enough!’

  Well, I’m not about to hang around here and watch them beat poor Pons to a bloody pulp. Call this Hot Cockles? It looks more like the Battle of Hattin.

  I’m going to bed.

  Glance at Roland, who nods. Off you go, Pagan. Pushing through the crowds on the perimeter (Aimery, Foucaud, Germain), kicking a path through the dogs, grabbing one of the candles. It’s dark, on the stairs. Taking things slowly, like a cripple. One step. Two steps. Three steps. At this rate it’ll be morning before I reach the top . . .

  Wait. What’s that noise? Someone coming up the stairs behind me. God, I hope it’s not Isarn. Taking the rest of them two at a time. Hurrying through Berengar’s room (which looks like the inside of a goat’s stomach – doesn’t Isarn ever scrape the spit off the walls?) and into ours. Dropping the saddlebags with a careless clunk.

  I hate this room. It looks so desolate, especially in candlelight.

  ‘Welcome home, Pagan.’

  Whirl around, heart thumping.

  It’s Jordan.

  ‘Oh, hello, my lord.’ He’s leaning against the door-jamb, and he doesn’t have his falcon with him. Hair in a tangle. Soiled tunic. Ever so slightly unbalanced around the knees.

  Drunk, of course. Absolutely marinated.

  ‘How was your trip?’ he murmurs. His drawl is more pronounced. ‘Was it successful?’

  ‘Lord Roland would be the one to ask about that, my lord.’

  ‘I don’t want to ask Roland. He’s a couple of psalms short of a psalter. I’m asking you.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Take it gently, Pagan. Don’t excite anyone. ‘It wasn’t very successful, as a matter of fact. Mostly because 92 the Abbot of Saint Jerome seems to be suffering from a chronic absence of brain.’

  Jordan grins fiendishly. He has tiny, pointed teeth like a kitten’s.

  ‘How perceptive you are,’ he drawls. ‘It’s quite true. The Abbot has no brain to speak of. What is it about the clergy, I wonder, that makes them so deficient in this respect? Does the church remove their wits when it gives them a tonsure? Or are brainless people naturally attracted to the church? Witness Roland, for example. Roland enjoys the company of priests, and you wouldn’t say that he was exactly over-endowed in the upper storey, would you?’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me. Don’t misunderstand me, Pagan.’ He lurches forward, and stands there swaying slightly from foot to foot. ‘He’s a good fighter, good Christian, chivalrous opponent, even a fair-to-middling singer, did you know? But I’d hardly call him a Great Mind.’

  ‘My lord.’ (I know you’re soaked, but that’s no excuse.) ‘My lord, if you think you’re amusing me with talk like this, then you’re mistaken.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Softly.

  ‘Lord Roland is my lord. I serve him. I honour him. And I obey him. I also happen to think that he’s the noblest man I’ve ever met. So if you continue to talk this way, I’ll –I’ll –’

  ‘Yes?’ Thrusting his face close to mine. Whoof! Wine on the breath. ‘Please tell me, Pagan. What will you do?’

  Good question. ‘I don’t know.’

  He laughs.

  ‘There’s not much I can do, my lord. Except remove myself from your company.’

  ‘No, no,’ he protests. ‘No, don’t
do that. You’re the only vaguely interesting person who’s turned up here in years. Years and years and years. Do you see what I have to put up with, every night?’ He waves his hand in the general direction of nowhere in particular. ‘Hot Cockles. Earwig races. Cock fights. They occasionally entertain themselves by chopping the heads off chickens and watching the headless corpses run around our hall.’

  Well it doesn’t surprise me. ‘Sounds like fun. When do they do that, on the Feast of John the Baptist?’

  ‘Sometimes I think I’m going to die of boredom.’ He staggers over to Roland’s palliasse, and nudges it with the toe of his boot. ‘Is this where he’s sleeping? Not very luxurious, it it? But I suppose Roland’s a good campaigner. A good Templar knight. No wine, women or comfortable beds.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘You know, Pagan, I think you deserve better than this. So do I, in fact. Comes of being a second son.’ He mumbles something into his beard. ‘Stuck in this Godforsaken hole . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you get out, then?’

  He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. ‘Get out?’

  ‘Like Lord Roland.’ I wonder if I should have started this. He’s peering at me in a rather disturbing way. ‘Why don’t you join the Crusade, my lord? I can guarantee it won’t be boring.’

  ‘Join the Crusade?’ He begins to laugh. ‘Join the Crusade?’

  I don’t see what’s so funny. Other men have. ‘Of course, if you don’t even want to see the world – if you want to moulder away in Languedoc –’

  ‘Pagan, Pagan, Pagan.’ He comes up and puts his hands on my shoulders. (I wish he wouldn’t breathe in my face like that!) ‘How could I possibly let these lands out of my sight? Even for a moment? You never know what may occur.’

  Hmmm. That’s interesting.

  ‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘look at Roland. He went away, and now he’s back. With what? What has he gained from all those years out there? I’ll tell you. He’s gained nothing.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Trying to disengage myself from his slightly painful grip. ‘You just don’t understand what he’s been looking for. If you want my opinion, he’s got a lot more than you have.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. Because he’s got you.’

  All of a sudden, Roland’s voice. ‘What’s going on here?’ He’s standing on the threshold, a lamp in his hand. ‘Pagan? What are you doing? I thought you were going to bed?’

  ‘Ah! Roland. Speak of the Devil. Or should I say ‘angel’?’ Jordan pushes himself upright, and almost throws me on my back. Obviously doesn’t know his own strength, when he’s been drinking. ‘We were just talking about you, baby brother. Talking about your vices and virtues. I think we decided that you were a man of great courage, and honour, and nobility, but perhaps not all that bright.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘Quiet, Pagan. I’m talking to your master. You see, Roland, this little gem of a squire – this priceless jewel of gold in a swine’s snout – has offered to read me a book. He’s going to read me one of Eleanor’s books. The one I managed to save during that particularly bad winter when we were 95 burning everything that didn’t kick and scream when we picked it up –’

  ‘You have her books?’

  ‘Her book. A single book. Oh yes, and I’m keeping it. You may have been her favourite, but I’ve kept her book.’ Jordan throws one long arm around Roland’s shoulders. ‘So you see, I was just asking this delightful squire of yours if he would deliver me from the tedium of Hot Cockles with a few words of comfort from Eleanor’s library –’

  Roland suddenly pushes Jordan away, his face tight with suppressed emotion. Anger? Disgust? Shame?

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he says. And Jordan laughs.

  ‘Brilliant! Well spotted! Perhaps you’re not so stupid after all.’

  ‘Pagan is tired. He’s had a long day. He can’t read to you now.’

  ‘Oh. Well.’ (Jordan sways alarmingly.) ‘Perhaps some other time.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Roland, ‘perhaps not. We may be leaving, soon.’

  ‘Oh no, what a pity. And we were enjoying your company so much.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed, Jordan? Your wife must be wondering where you are.’

  ‘My wife?’ Jordan spits. ‘My wife would be quite happy to see me at the bottom of the Garonne, as you well know.’ He pokes Roland in the chest with one finger. ‘That’s something else you’ve managed to avoid, isn’t it? Among other things. Connubial bliss.’

  ‘Good night, Jordan.’

  ‘My dear little brother. Always so courteous. And a very good night to you, Piglet.’ Glancing at me. ‘We always called him Piglet when he was small. I don’t know why. Perhaps because he was so fat –’

  ‘Good night, Jordan.’

  ‘Good night, Roland. Good night, Pagan. Pleasant dreams.’

  And off he lurches. Disappearing into his room. Roland lets out a small sigh, and drops his saddlebag. Clunk!

  ‘My lord, I swear to you, I didn’t say any of those things. Truly . . .’

  ‘I know you didn’t. Because I know my brother. My brother is a liar.’ He collapses onto his palliasse, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘That’s why I want you to stay away from him. He is not fit company for you.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ (I wouldn’t go that far.) ‘He’s all right. He was just a bit drunk –’

  ‘Pagan, did you hear what I said? I said he’s a liar. He can’t be trusted. He’s dangerous.’ Thrusting his foot at me. (Boots, Pagan.) ‘I don’t want you talking to any of my family, unless it’s unavoidable. They are all better left alone, especially Jordan. He is the worst.’

  ‘My lord, he can’t be as bad as Lord Berengar.’ Yanking at the supple, calfskin boots. ‘I mean – I don’t mean to be rude, my lord, but Lord Jordan seems pretty intelligent –’

  ‘That’s why he’s more dangerous. I can’t –’ A pause. ‘Please, Pagan. Do you think I don’t know my own brother? When he was a child, he had a falcon. A little hawk, smaller than the one he has now. My father gave it to him. It was headstrong, and sometimes it wouldn’t return when it was 97 called. So Jordan put its eyes out with a burning stick. He said that it would never stray again.’ Another pause. ‘It didn’t, either. It died. Well, what would you expect? My father was very angry. He set the dogs on Jordan.’

  ‘The dogs?’

  ‘You can’t see Jordan’s scars, because he keeps them well covered. He’s always been very patient with his hawks, since then.’

  Jesus. I’ll bet he has.

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Pagan, is that Jordan has always had the heart of a wolf. Always. He hasn’t changed, and he never will. Underneath all this fine talk, he’s just a wild beast.’

  And he’s not the only one. What a family! Roland must be some kind of miracle. Either that or a changeling.

  He begins to struggle out of his surcoat, dragging it over his head.

  ‘My lord? What did Lord Galhard say about the Abbot?’

  ‘Oh. The Abbot. Yes.’ His voice is muffled by the folds of white linen. ‘I offered to take the matter to the Bishop, or to the lords of Montferrand. They have traditional rights of jurisdiction over Saint Jerome, because it was built on their lands. I believe the Abbey was founded by one of their ancestors. Unfortunately . . .’ (His tousled head emerges.) ‘Unfortunately, the Montferrands are not on good terms with my father. And they are vassals of Toulouse, which means that they’re in Quercy at the moment, defending the Count’s lands against Richard of England.’

  ‘So what did Lord Galhard say?’

  ‘That he’d take care of it himself.’

  Hmmm. Sounds a bit ominous. Glance at Roland, who’s frowning down at the crumpled surcoat in his lap. (Needs a good wash, that surcoat.)

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘He invited us on a hunt, tomorrow. Apparently Isarn’s found a ten-tine hart. They’ve been tracking it all day.’

  A hunt! I’ve never been on
a hunt. But I don’t suppose I’ll get the chance now.

  ‘Are we going, my lord?’

  ‘Well, normally I wouldn’t, because the Rule of the Order discourages it.’ (Hah! There, what did I tell you?) ‘But I’m beginning to think we should.’ He looks up at me with tired, bloodshot eyes. ‘Just to make sure that it is a hunt. We don’t want it turning into some kind of raid.’

  Good point. I’m sure that when Galhard says he’ll ‘take care’ of things, it’s worth keeping an eye on his movements.

  ‘But you mustn’t worry, Pagan, please. Just go to bed, and I’ll undress myself.’ He manages to produce a rather battered smile. ‘We’ll have to rise early, in the morning. Hunts always start before dawn, around here.’

  Before dawn! God preserve us.

  Maybe I’m not so keen to go hunting after all.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Roland! Oh Ro-o-oland! Wake up, Roland!’

  Wha –? Who –? What’s happening? What’s that? God! Smoke! I can hardly –

  ‘It’s time to get u-u-up.’

  Somebody’s voice . . . Berengar’s . . . with a torch . . . and Roland’s bed! It’s burning!

  ‘My lord! Get up!’

  Is that him? Hard to see . . .

  ‘My lord!’ (Grabbing a blanket.) ‘My lord!’

  Yes, that’s him. Through the smoke – on his feet – staggering about. Flames licking the edge of his palliasse.

  Berengar, coughing and laughing in one corner.

  ‘Pagan –’ Roland can hardly breathe to speak. ‘Pagan, are you all right?’

  ‘My bed! Get my bed!’ Throwing my blanket onto the fire. Stamping on it. (Ouch!) ‘Drag it over! Hurry!’

  Clouds of smoke. Stinging eyes. Flecks of smouldering straw, whirling about. Watch it, Pagan. Watch your hair . . .

  Turn around. Where’s Roland? He’s got my palliasse. Rush to help him. One – two – three – heave!

  Casting it onto the embers. Whump. Smothering them. If that doesn’t put it out, nothing will.

  ‘Water,’ Roland gasps, ‘we need water.’

  ‘Oh, leave it,’ says Berengar. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘That floor’s made of wood!’