Pagan in Exile

  ‘Then I’ll piss on it for you.’

  Wait. Wait a moment. What’s Berengar doing with –? That pus-head!

  ‘You tried to kill Roland!’ (You wolf! You devil!) ‘You tried to kill him!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ Berengar sounds drunk. ‘I tried to wake him up, that’s all.’

  ‘You set fire to his bed!’

  ‘Lord Galhard told me to wake him up. So I woke him up.’

  ‘Pagan.’ Roland puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Be still.’

  ‘If I’d wanted to kill him, boy, he wouldn’t be standing there now,’ Berengar continues, in slurred tones. ‘When I kill someone, I do it properly. And you’d better remember that.’

  Maggot-bag. Crater-face. You’re going to pay for this, you unspeakable lump of undigested offal.

  ‘Pagan, please, we have to get out of here.’ (Roland, tugging at my arm.) ‘There’s too much smoke . . . we need water . . .’

  ‘No, no, the water can wait,’ Berengar interrupts. ‘The old man wants you down in the cellars. It’s urgent. Come on.’ Wheezing and choking, he stumbles back into his room. Foucaud’s there. He looks dazed and dishevelled and sleepy, forced out of bed by the commotion. Blinking in the torchlight.

  ‘Foucaud,’ says Roland, coughing fiercely. ‘There’s been – there’s been an accident. A fire. Lord Galhard wants me, so I can’t finish putting it out. Will you fetch water, and douse the embers in my room? Make sure the floor is soaked. Take the beds outside.’

  ‘Come on, Roland!’ Berengar clamours. He’s already on the stairs.

  ‘Take care of it, Foucaud.’ Roland moves towards Berengar’s bed, with its mantle of furs and dogs and old horse-blankets. He pulls a dirty riding cloak out of the mess, and tosses it at me. ‘Wrap yourself in this, Pagan.’

  Of course. that’s right. I’ve got nothing on my top half. Or on my feet.

  Neither has Roland.

  ‘Come on!’ Berengar’s voice, echoing up the stairwell. Roland digs around a little more, ignoring the whimpering dogs, and produces a tunic so old and frayed and disgusting that it looks as if some bitch has given birth to a litter of puppies on it. Pulling it over his head.

  Oh no, he can’t wear that. ‘My lord, you can’t wear that –’ ‘Come on, Pagan, don’t dawdle.’

  And down the stairs we go. Down, down, down. Treading carefully (it’s so dark, and this cloak is so long), past the first floor landing, way down to the cellars. Damper and damper. Colder and colder. What time is it? No light from the windows. A film of water on the stone walls, glistening in the light from Berengar’s torch. Slimy puddles on the flagstones. (I wish I was wearing my boots.) Roland ahead of me, nursing his arm. Why’s he –? ‘My lord! Are you burned?’

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘Where? Let me see!’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s a scorch. Don’t concern yourself.’

  Don’t concern myself! I swear, I’m going to kill that Berengar. I’m going to stick a lance in his ear and skewer his brains.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Roland stops in his tracks, listening. What noise? Oh. That noise.

  A faint, muffled cry. And a thump, like somebody pounding on wood.

  ‘Here, I’ll show you. This way,’ Berengar responds. ‘They’re in the granary.’

  Pushing on, through puddles and cobwebs, through cavernous, half-glimpsed rooms full of sacks and barrels. The squeak and scamper of rats. The sudden, overpowering smell of wine, as rich as plum syrup. The hollow sound of voices, growing louder and louder. And there’s another light, praise God. Through the far door, into a long room lined from floor to ceiling with giant wooden vats.

  Grain vats? Probably. The floor’s gritty with corn and chaff and mouse droppings.

  ‘Roland.’ It’s Galhard. Fully dressed and armed, his face the colour of raw beef. Isarn beside him. Joris. Pons. Jordan, looking even more slovenly than he did this evening. ‘Roland, come and listen to this rat in the grain bin.’

  What’s that funny scratching? Scrapes and thumps and whimpers – there’s something inside that vat.

  No, not something. Somebody.

  ‘What – what have you done?’ Roland exclaims. And everyone else bursts out laughing.

  ‘Big bastard, isn’t he?’ Berengar crows. ‘Must have eaten the whole binful.’

  Roland turns to Galhard. ‘What have you done, my lord?’

  ‘I told you I’d take care of that Abbot,’ his father replies smugly. ‘In my own way.’

  ‘This is the Abbot?!’

  ‘Hell, no. I wish it was.’ Galhard thumps the vat with a clenched fist. ‘This is one of the Abbot’s men. What’s his name?’

  ‘Guibert,’ says Jordan.

  ‘Brother Guibert. That’s it. Germain informed me that Brother Guibert was staying in the village with our beloved Father Puy, on his way back from Carcassone. Just passing through. Lucky, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You should have seen his face when we burst in!’ Berengar adds. ‘Must have thought the Devil was coming to get him!’

  Another moan from inside the vat. Roland appears to be speechless. Shock, I suppose.

  ‘We didn’t know where to put him, because the guardroom’s full and we’ve been storing sides of pork in the lockup,’ Galhard continues. ‘Then Jordan suggested this brilliant idea. Plenty of room, and no way out. Unless we knock that bolt out of the supply door.’

  ‘My lord, please, you can’t do this.’ Roland’s trying to stay calm, but you can tell he’s having trouble. ‘This won’t solve anything.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Galhard barks. ‘The Abbot’s got one of my men. Now I’ve got one of his. If he releases mine, I’ll return the favour.’

  ‘My lord, this man is an innocent monk –’ ‘Oh, grow up, Roland.’ (Berengar.) ‘You’re not in Jerusalem. There are no innocent monks, around here.’

  ‘My lord –’ ‘I’ve made up my mind, Roland.’ Galhard’s voice is more threatening than a drawn sword: it’s enough to freeze the hair on your neck. But all at once the captive starts shouting. He pleads for help. He calls to God. His finger-nails scrape on wood like a dog’s claws.

  I’ve never heard anything so frightful.

  ‘At least let him out of there!’ Roland’s turned quite pale. ‘You can’t keep him in a grain vat. He’s not a fieldmouse.’

  ‘I’ll do what I damn well like.’

  ‘But he can’t even see! And it must be so cold and airless –’ ‘You’re breaking my heart, Roland.’

  ‘If it’s the cold that worries you, then I suggest you do something about your squire,’ Jordan remarks. ‘He’s shaking like a leaf, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  Who, me? Suddenly realising how cold I am. Feet frozen. Teeth chattering. Roland looks around.

  ‘I’ll just take him upstairs, shall I?’ Jordan offers. But Roland turns on him. ‘You leave Pagan alone!’ Sharply. ‘He can find his own way.’

  Of course I can. What am I, a moron? Silently, Jordan 105 passes me his lamp. His hands feel sticky. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ (The sooner I get out of here, the better.)

  ‘My lord, there must be some other option.’ Stubbornly Roland resumes his attack. ‘I’m sure that a single guard would be just as secure as this arrangement . . .’ His voice fades as I move out of earshot, into the darkness. Splashing through puddles, looking for the stairs. I remember those barrels – and that milk churn – and the thing that looks like a coffin. It’s a sharp left here, isn’t it? Left and then right. Under this archway. Along this corridor . . . and at last they appear. The stairs. Hallelujah!

  Praise the Lord, who brought me out of a horrible pit. There’s no way I’m going down there again.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! A funny sound above my head, like someone dragging a body down a flight of steps. Getting closer as I clear the first landing. Thump! Thump! Thump! Oh no. It’s not a body. It’s Foucaud, dragging Roland’s wet palliasse. The smell of scorched hemp is enough to make your eyes water.

&nb
sp; ‘Where are you taking that, Foucaud?’

  ‘Lord Roland told me to take it outside.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ (I remember now.) ‘But where are we going to sleep?’

  He just goggles at me like a dead fish. What a bonehead. ‘Never mind.’ Stumbling past him, up the stairs to Berengar’s room. More smoke, more smells. Pushing past a couple of dogs, and through the door to our luxurious chamber. The floor is soaking wet. Oh for God’s sake! That stupid, snot-faced, oyster-eyed idiot! He’s damn well soaked our saddlebags, as well!

  ‘Foucaud, you fool! Oh, you festering fool!’

  Pulling out my clothes – they’re all sodden. My palliasse dripping. My blanket a pool of mush. ‘God damn it! God damn you!’ Kicking at the wet firewood. ‘God damn all of you! I hate this place!’

  ‘Pagan?’ Roland’s voice, from Berengar’s room. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, my lord . . .’

  ‘What?’ He appears in the doorway, his face smeared with soot and ash. He looks as if he’s been dragged through a field of nettles.

  ‘My lord, look what they’ve done! Everything’s wet through!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll borrow something.’

  ‘They must have boiled tripe for brains!’

  ‘Please, Pagan, please.’ He puts his hand to his head. I’ve never seen him make a gesture like that, before. ‘Don’t shout.’

  Don’t shout? I wasn’t shouting. What’s the matter with him?

  ‘Are you all right, my lord?’

  ‘No. Yes. Of course.’ Standing there, with his eyes closed, and his hand on his forehead. ‘Just be quiet for a moment, please.’

  Fine. Sure. I’ll be quiet. Not another word will pass my lips. Wringing out my tunic – and my cloak. My stockings look like dead eels. Even my boots are full of water.

  Suppose we’ll have to sleep in the chapel until this floor’s dry. Not that we’ll be getting any more sleep tonight, I’ll bet. The instant we lie down we’ll probably have to get up again, if hunting starts as early as he said it would.

  ‘Pagan.’

  Who, me? Surely not. You don’t want to talk to me. I’m the quiet one, remember?

  ‘Pagan, I know this is hard. But I just can’t leave. Not yet.’

  Looking up at him. Leave? Who said anything about leaving?

  ‘Something bad is going to happen. I know the signs. It’s always like this, every spring.’ He smooths back his hair. ‘A kind of madness. I can’t go away and let it escalate. How can I? I’m a Templar. I have a duty to keep the peace.’

  Keep the peace! Hah! You’ll be lucky to keep your sanity, in this dump.

  ‘Do you understand, Pagan?’

  ‘Of course I understand. I’m not stupid.’ That’s why I can see that you’re ramming your head against a stone wall. These people don’t even want your help, Roland. You should go away and let them hack each other to pieces.

  Otherwise, they’re going to drag you down with them.

  Chapter 12

  How terrible to think that for all these years, I’ve missed out on the joys of hunting. The thrill of standing behind a bush for half a day. The breathless excitement of gnat bites. The gut-wrenching sound of dogs sniffing each other’s genitals. Now I can see what all the fuss is about.

  ‘Raven! Sit!’ You stupid hound. Trying to untangle leashes as the three of them weave in and out, panting and sniffing, occasionally growling, occasionally lifting their legs. By God they’re strong, though. My hands are getting tired. I’m just not cut out to be a dog varlet.

  This hunting horn, for instance. I’ve never even blown one before. What happens if I can’t manage it? What if I can’t make any noise? Will it matter, if I just release the dogs without a signal? Surely not. Maybe I can shout, or something. That would warn the hunting party that my reinforcements have been unleashed.

  ‘Yours will be three of the slower, steadier hounds.’ Isarn’s voice suddenly fills my head. ‘They’ll add speed when the main pack is flagging, and they’re not as hard to control as the younger dogs. Just wait until the others have passed before releasing them. That’s all you have to do.’

  Yes, but how am I going to know when the others have passed? You didn’t even tell me how many dogs there would be in the main pack. Ten? Twelve? Supposing they come in small groups? Supposing they don’t come at all?

  If they don’t come soon, I’m going to die of boredom. Either that, or these dogs will eat me. They seem to be getting pretty desperate. Haven’t eaten anything but bread and dripping since their last hunt, according to Berengar. ‘Never feed meat to your hunting dogs,’ is his motto. ‘Meat is only for the kill.’

  Yes, but what kill? I don’t like the way Beelzebub is eyeing my ankle.

  Suddenly Raven lifts his head. The other dogs stiffen. They bare their teeth, and a growl ripples Samson’s throat.

  Is it them? Is it the pack?

  Peering through the undergrowth, through the light and shade. Can’t see anything. Can’t hear anything, either. Oh wait. Yes I can. Was that the sound of barking?

  ‘Woof!’

  ‘Shut up, Samson!’ How can I hear with all that noise going on? Waiting and waiting. The smell of hot dog. The smell of crushed leaves. Flapping away at a cloud of gnats, my heart pounding in my ears. There! No. Yes! A rustle – 110 sticks breaking – something heavy crashes through the brush nearby.

  ‘Woof! Woof-woof-woof!’ The dogs give tongue. They strain at their leashes and gnash their fangs. ‘Raven! Samson! Sit!’ Another dog answers, from somewhere to the south. God! It’s them. And that noise – it must have been the stag. It must have passed us!

  Fumbling for my horn with one hand, trying to hold those damned dogs with the other. They’re going to choke themselves, if they carry on like that. ‘Samson! Sit!’ My mouth is so dry. Can you blow a horn, with a dry mouth?

  Suddenly a dog leaps into sight. Heavily jowled, large ears: a typical lymer hound. And another. Their tongues flapping like pink flags. And there’s a man, too, but I can’t make out who it is. He’s moving too fast. Someone in blue? He disappears again, as more dogs shuffle through the grass, panting and sniffing.

  ‘Samson!’ Too late. He’s jerked out of my grip, and plunged after the others. Oh well, I suppose he knows the game better than I do. Just hope he doesn’t catch that leash on something and strangle himself.

  Time to release the other two.

  Bending down to let them loose. They disappear before I have time to draw breath. Quick! The horn! Lips on the thin end. Fill your lungs and:

  Paaarp!

  I did it! I did it! Praise ye the Lord, praise him with the sound of trumpets! Suddenly, from far away, a chorus of other horns. What –? Who –? Wait a moment . . .

  They can’t have got that far.

  Shouts from someone close by. Can’t make out what 111 he’s saying. Perhaps I should join him? Moving forward, dodging a low branch, stumbling on a tangle of roots. I’m not used to forest like this. It’s so thick and misleading.

  ‘You!’ Isoard bursts out of a thicket. ‘Did you blow that horn?’

  ‘Which horn?’

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Damn your eyes!’ His hair is plastered with sweat. His clothes are torn, and his chest is heaving. ‘You butter-brain! You fool! Can’t you tell the difference between an alaunt and a lymer-hound?’

  ‘Of course I can –’ ‘Then why did you unleash? We’re with Isarn and the lymers! We’re driving the damn thing! The hunting party’s down there, waiting!’

  Uh-oh. He grabs my sleeve, and we push our way through a clump of hawthorn. The ground’s very rough underfoot. Ouch! That hurt.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ (Muttering to himself.) ‘There were only five hounds. No horses. I can’t believe it.’

  Dogs, frantically barking. Voices raised. Staggering into a cleared patch, carpeted with thyme. Isarn’s there, waving his arms at somebody dressed in red, who shoots up the nearest slope, whistling. The dogs mill around in w
idening circles.

  ‘Isarn!’ Isoard cries, and Isarn turns.

  Gulp.

  ‘So it was you! You stupid little tick!’

  Oh God. ‘I’m sorry, Isarn –’ Oof! A blow across the ear.

  ‘Are you blind, you castrate? Didn’t you see me? I’m the huntsman, God curse you!’

  Crack! Stars. Lurching. My knees give way.

  ‘Do you see what you’ve done, you miserable Turk?! Your alaunts have outrun my lymers and chased the hart off to the east! To the east! The cover’s as thick as a ram’s fleece, over there!’ (Grabbing my hair. Ow! Ouch!) ‘Alaunts aren’t trackers! They’ll have lost it for sure!’

  ‘Let go –’ ‘Let go! If we’ve lost that hart, you dung-worm, I’ll send those dogs after you!’

  ‘Isarn.’ It’s Isoard’s voice. And what’s that? Something else. A horn. More dogs. More voices.

  Suddenly the clearing’s filled with people on horseback. Lots of stamping and snorting and tossing heads. Berengar wants to know what’s going on. One of the dogs comes up and sniffs at the blood on my hand.

  Where’s that from? My nose? No, my lip.

  ‘. . . it wasn’t my horn. It was his horn. We weren’t ready . . .’ (Isarn, explaining that it was all my fault.) ‘. . . we were driving it south, towards you, but the alaunts pushed it east. I sent someone after them . . . should be able to catch up . . .’

  ‘You mean we’ll have to start again?’ Berengar’s booming protest.

  ‘Oh no, the hart can’t have gone too far. It’s nervous, but it’s not running hard, yet. The slots on the tracks are too close together.’

  ‘Get going then,’ Galhard exclaims. ‘Hurry.’

  Better stand up, I suppose. (If I can.) Scratched knees. Throbbing ear. Four dusty black legs appear in front of me. Raise my eyes, and it’s Roland. Mounted on Galhard’s spare hunting hack.

  ‘It this true, Pagan?’ He doesn’t look very happy. ‘Did you let those hounds off the leash?’

  ‘My lord –’ (Don’t you start! It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know!) ‘I thought – I thought –’ ‘Weren’t you listening? I explained it to you at least three times.’

  ‘That Turk’s not handling any more dogs,’ Galhard declares. ‘He’s out of the hunt. Get rid of him.’