God preserve us. I can just hear the remarks. No one else gets served except Jordan’s wife, and she’s pregnant. Glancing over to where she sits, at the very end of the high table. What an unhappy woman. Limp black hair, hollow cheeks, gnawed fingernails. The circles under her eyes are so dark she looks as if she’s been punched. Maybe she has been punched. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me. Jordan behaves as if he can’t stand the sight of her – a feeling which seems to be mutual. He drops every handful of food onto her bread like someone throwing dirt into the grave of a deadly enemy.
And she doesn’t even look at him when he does it.
Galhard belches, loudly, as the spicy smell drifts closer. There it is! An enormous, steaming pot, carried by a man who has to kick his way through a pack of drooling dogs before he can even get to the table. He has big, beefy arms, and a jaw like the head of a battleaxe. As he edges past our seat, the smell of cess-pit mingles with the smell of pork. Whew! Is that him? Catching Roland’s eye.
Somebody ought to throw that man into the nearest running water.
‘At last!’ Berengar exclaims. His gaze is riveted upon the approaching pot. Muscles tense. Stomachs growl. And clunk.
The pot hits the table.
What a mess. What a joke. Everyone diving, lunging, grabbing, pushing. Dogs whining. Food everywhere. The sound of fingernails scraping on iron.
Roland seizing my bread. Forcing his way through the press of bodies. (Go, Roland, go!) Emerging, breathless, with a puddle of green stuff.
‘What’s this?’
‘Seasoned pork.’
‘But it’s green.’
‘It’s dyed with parsley. There’s nothing wrong with it.’
If you say so, my lord. Personally, I think it looks like the kind of thing you’d clean out of a horse-box every morning. But then, when you think about it, so do most of the people around here.
Gauzia rises abruptly, and leaves the table. No one asks her what’s wrong. In fact no one even looks up from the food, except Roland – and he’s got something more important to think about. I can tell by the way he takes several deep breaths before speaking. Obviously he’s decided that it’s time to break the news.
‘My lord,’ he says, turning to Galhard, ‘you may have wondered why I decided to return to Languedoc, after all these years in the East.’
‘No.’ Another spray of greenish pork particles. ‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Well, I have come here on a mission. An important mission. It concerns the fate of the Holy Land.’
A grunt.
‘You must know that the Infidel Saladin has conquered the kingdom of Jerusalem,’ Roland continues, doggedly. ‘He captured the King, and destroyed the King’s forces. Only a few coastal cities remain in Christian hands.’
‘Yes, someone did mention it. Can’t remember who.’
‘For this reason, many people around the world are preparing for battle. They are preparing to arm themselves against the Infidel, and return to the Holy Land to reclaim the kingdom that was lost. Just as they did a hundred years ago, on the First Crusade.’
A sudden surge of noise from the other end of the hall. Some sort of fight going on. Old Greenbeard. What’s his name? Pons? Sprawled across a table top, trying to strangle his neighbour.
‘Oi!’ (Berengar.) ‘Keep it down, over there! We can’t hear ourselves think!’
Think? Think? Is that what you call it? The rest of the garrison closing in, trying to smooth things over. But Pons breaks free. Starts banging his victim’s head against the table.
‘Pons.’ Galhard raises his formidable voice. ‘Siddown.’
‘But –’
‘Sit down!’
Pons sits down. He knows what’s good for him.
‘I don’t hold with fights over food,’ Galhard growls, to no one in particular. ‘It ruins the digestion. Now what were you saying? I lost track.’
‘My lord, I have spent the last six years fighting to defend the kingdom of Jerusalem against the Infidel, according to the will of God.’ Roland is choosing his words with care, laying each one in its proper place like a man laying mud bricks. No mention of the Templars, I notice. ‘My duty now,’ he continues, ‘is to seek support in this quest to reconquer the Holy Land. That is why I have returned to Languedoc.’
‘Surely you’re not looking for support around here?’ Jordan interjects. He sounds amused. But Galhard turns on him.
‘Shut your mouth, Jordan. This isn’t your concern.’
‘My lord, it’s true that I came to ask you if you would consider playing a role in this campaign.’ (Roland adopts a neutral tone.) ‘Many kings and princes will be leading it. The Pope has given his blessing, and has promised absolution and remission of sins for all those who take up the Cross.’
‘The Pope can eat stewed scorpions and die,’ Galhard retorts. ‘Why should I go rushing off to the other side of the world and leave my lands unprotected?’
‘Someone could stay. Jordan, perhaps.’
‘Jordan? I wouldn’t trust Jordan as far as I could spit a pip!’
Loud laughter. Even Jordan smiles. But Roland’s face remains expressionless.
‘There are many good reasons for going,’ he says quietly, ‘just as there are many good reasons for staying. It will be a campaign blessed by God –’
(Galhard snorts.)
‘– and it will also be the greatest adventure of our age.’
‘I’m too old for adventure, son. I just want a quiet life.’
More laughter from around the table. Roland’s studying his hands. I can feel how tense he is, just sitting beside him: every word is being forced out, with the most colossal effort, like a yolk being blown through a pin-hole in an eggshell.
‘Last time . . .’ He stops; hesitates; proceeds. ‘A hundred years ago, when our Christian forces first conquered Jerusalem, many lords of Languedoc won themselves great wealth and honour. They became the rulers of the Holy Land.’
A long pause. Now that’s hit the target. They sit there, eyes glazed, chewing reflectively. Aimery’s carving a picture in the table with his knife.
‘I suppose it could be worth thinking about,’ Galhard finally agrees. ‘But everything depends on the Viscount. If the Viscount goes, and all his vassals go with him –’
‘I tried to speak to the Viscount on our way here,’ Roland interrupts. ‘When we were in Carcassone. But he’d gone to Castres. It’s my intention . . . that is, I had thought to visit the Count of Toulouse, as well.’
A sudden explosion of mirth. Berengar pounds the table. Jordan chokes on a crust. Even Aimery manages a sour kind of grin.
‘Raymond of Toulouse!’ says Galhard, in his gravelly voice. ‘What makes you think Raymond has time for such nonsense? Raymond’s got his hands full, son!’
‘What do you mean?’ Roland sounds puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. Has something happened?’
‘You mean you don’t know? You must be walking around with your ears full of wax!’ (Berengar.) ‘He’s in a head-to-head with Richard Angevin!’
‘Of England?’
‘Of England. And Poitou. And just about everywhere else, the bastard.’ Galhard scowls as he stuffs the last remnant of pork into his mouth with one hand. ‘We heard the news at Castelnaudery.’
Richard. Richard. This would be the eldest son of King Henry, I suppose. The big blond one. The fighter. I’ve heard about him. Isn’t he supposed to be joining the Crusade?
‘It started around the feast of the Holy Cross,’ Berengar breaks in gleefully. ‘They say Raymond carried off three merchants of Richard’s allegiance. Castrated them.’
‘What?’
‘Or blinded them. We don’t know exactly.’ Galhard waves the boring details aside. ‘So Richard raids the Count’s lands, and makes off with Peter Seillan.’
‘Peter Seillan,’ Jordan adds softly, ‘is Raymond’s deputy in Toulouse.’
‘So then Raymond turns around and throws two of Richard’s knights i
n the guardhouse.’ (Berengar takes over the story again.) ‘They were on their way home from a pilgrimage to Compostella.’
‘And now Richard has invaded Raymond’s lands in Quercy,’ Galhard finishes.
Well, what a mess. And I thought Richard was supposed to be such a noble character.
‘This can’t be true.’ Roland seems dazed. ‘Richard is preparing to leave for the Holy Land. With King Philip of France.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘He can’t abandon the Crusade for something so – so petty. So futile. It’s impossible.’
‘What do you mean? There’s nothing petty about it,’ Galhard snarls. ‘If some snot-nosed Count of Toulouse castrated three of my mill-owners, I’d stuff his balls with minced onion and fry them in oil.’
Yes. Well. I don’t suppose there’s any doubt on that point. Roland falls silent, as Galhard shifts restlessly on his seat.
‘Speaking of minced onion . . .’ he adds. ‘Oi! Bernard! Is there any more supper, or am I going to have to stick a spit up your arse and roast you?!’
Poor Roland. Poor thing. It’s hard to believe . . . no. Not hard. It’s impossible to believe that this is Roland’s family. I’d sooner believe that a unicorn would hatch from a serpent’s egg. Look at him, sitting there. Like a swan in a swamp. Cheer up, my lord. You did your best. You asked them to join the Crusade, and now it’s up to them to decide.
Personally, I think we’d all be a lot better off if Galhard Roucy de Bram shut himself up in this castle and never set foot outside it again.
Chapter 4
So this is the kitchen. All smoke and grease. And dogs, of course. I hope none of those dogs is for dinner.
‘Yes? What do you want?’ That must be Bernard. Roland said he was fat. He looks like a great, quivering heap of stomachs with a head perched on top. Even the head seems to be nothing but a collection of sweaty red jowls.
‘Are you Bernard?’
‘Yes. Who are you?’ His voice is a high-pitched, bad-tempered squeak.
‘I’m Lord Roland’s squire. I need tallow and rose oil, to polish some harness.’ Hold up the harness, just to make sure he understands. ‘Do you have any?’
‘Of course I do. Segura! No, don’t sit there, boy, I’m using that.’
Well pardon me for breathing. His flab jiggles as he pounds away at something (hazelnuts?) on a wooden board. The kitchen table is big enough to stage a battle on. Long, dubious, brownish things dangle from strings tied to the rafters. What could they be? Look like petrified dragon turds.
A woman enters through the southern door. Bit of a human wreck, poor thing. Practically hump-backed; grey-haired; chalk-faced. All loose and floppy around the chest.
‘Segura,’ Bernard squeaks, ‘where’s the leather polish? I never know where you put things.’
Without a word she shuffles towards a set of shelves which run across the entire length of the room. They’re piled high with pots, spoons, knives, string, onions, garlic, dried herbs, flour sacks, dish rags – you name it. I suppose she’s his wife. Pulls down a green-glazed bowl, and examines its contents.
Passes it to me.
‘Thank you.’ Just two simple words, but she behaves as if I’d given her the crown of England. Stands there with her mouth open, gawking. ‘Do you think you could give me a rag, as well?’
With an effort she drags her eyes from my face, and starts rooting around in a corner. Pushing the dogs aside as they jostle for position. Bernard throws down his wooden stick.
‘I’m going to have a word with Germain about those eggs,’ he says.
‘It won’t do any good,’ she replies. Crossly.
‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’
Cheery place, Bram. Full of love, life and laughter. Bernard lumbers out the door, puffing and blowing like a bull on a cow’s back. His wife hands me a shred of grey fabric that looks as if it’s passed through somebody’s bowels.
‘Oh. Thank you.’
Better than nothing, I suppose. Now, where shall I sit? Not too near that big vat of frothy grey stuff. It might be quite harmless (whey, perhaps, or dishwater), but then again it might not. The stool near the fireplace looks all right. Nobody seems to be using it. And nothing seems to be on it.
Get out of my way, dog, or you’ll be wearing your teeth out the back of your head.
‘There! There he is! I told you!’
Look up. It’s Isarn. I recognise that lazy eye from supper last night. Belongs to Berengar, doesn’t he? Oily hair and sharp elbows. A sly, unsavoury smile. Always cracking his knuckles.
Beside him, the kitchen hand with the battleaxe chin. The one who smells like very old fish guts. They told me his name, too. Not Isarn. Is – Isold? No. Isoard! That’s it. Isoard. He sneers at me, and folds his arms.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘that’s the one.’
‘No wonder I didn’t notice him last night. He’s a midget.’
‘Not only that, he’s an Infidel.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Not again.
‘If you’re talking about me, I can assure you that I’m not an Infidel. I might have Arab blood, but I’m a baptised Christian. My mother was also a Christian, because she put me in a monastery when I was very small. So don’t call me an Infidel. There are lots of Arabs in Jerusalem who are just as dark as me, and they’re all better Christians than you are.’
Isarn snickers. Obediently, Isoard proceeds to make various farmyard noises that might be mistaken for laughter. But you can see he’s waiting for Isarn to explain the joke. At last Isarn obliges.
‘Listen to the way he talks!’
‘Oh yes, that’s right, he talks funny. Ha ha ha.’
God give me patience. No point wasting breath on those morons. Dip my rag into the bowl. Scoop up some grease . . .
‘His skin’s a funny colour. It’s all muddy. Don’t those Infidels ever wash?’
‘Wash? They wash about five times a day. They’re always taking hot baths. With perfume in them!’
‘They sound like a bunch of eunuchs.’
‘They’re not eunuchs. But you know what they are? They’re circumcised!’
‘Huh?’ Look at that pus-bag Isoard. Doesn’t even know what ‘circumcised’ means. Suddenly someone else comes in. It’s Greenbeard. ‘Ademar wants to see you, Isarn,’ he drones.
‘Ademar? What does he want?’
‘I don’t know, but he says he wants you now.’
Must be the only soul on earth who does. Isarn points at me.
‘Look, Pons. See that Infidel over there? That Infidel doesn’t have a foreskin.’
‘Now listen.’ (That’s just about as much as I’m going to take.) ‘I do have a foreskin, I’m not an Infidel, and would you kindly remove your malodorous great mouths before someone mistakes you for kitchen scraps and throws you to the pigs with the rest of the garbage!’
Takes a while for the insult to really sink in. Isoard goes red. Pons goggles. Isarn bears his teeth.
‘Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?’ he hisses.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m not alone in that opinion.’
‘Well I think you’re lying.’ He takes a step forward. ‘I think you are an Infidel. And I also think you’ve been circumcised. Isoard!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve never seen a circumcised penis before. What do you say we take a little look?’
Isoard grunts, and moves around the end of the table, covering the left flank. Isarn sidles off to the right. Damn, damn, damn. Why is this always happening to me?
‘Back off, bog-brain.’
‘Listen to him whine.’
‘I said back off!’
‘You’re not scared, are you? He’s scared, Isoard.’
Loud laughter. Pons isn’t playing: he’s decided to watch. Segura? She’s retired to a safe distance. No help there.
Get up, Pagan. Slowly, now . . .
Isarn lunges. Smash! Gets a big bowl of tallow, fu
ll in the face. He staggers as Isoard lurches forward. Grab the stool! Throw it – crunch! Off his elbow. Time to go, Pagan. Run straight through the middle and – hup! Onto the table. Pons at the other end. Isarn grabbing from behind. jump to the right, but Pons is surging forward – ouch!
Knees hit the floor.
‘What’s going on here?’
Jordan. Oh no.
Someone releases my collar.
‘Lord Jordan.’ Isarn’s voice? Look up, and it’s Jordan, all right. Wearing a long, blue robe and carrying a hooded falcon on his wrist. Bit puffy around the eyes.
Late night, by the look of it.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Pons?’ he says gently.
‘N-nothing, my lord –’
‘What’s that on your face, Isarn? Dog-spit?’
‘No, my lord, it – he – that boy threw grease at me.’
‘Did he, now? And why was that? Because he didn’t like your far-from-endearing face? Or was there another reason?’
‘No, my lord – I mean – I don’t know –’
‘You don’t know? Somehow I find that hard to believe.’ A prod from Jordan’s leather-clad foot. ‘Get up, boy. What’s your name? Pagan?’
‘Yes, my lord, Pagan.’
‘Is it true? Did you throw grease at my brother’s varlet?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was going to attack me. He wanted to see if I was circumcised.’
‘He’s a liar, my lord.’ Isarn. Whining. ‘That’s a dirty lie.’
Jordan looks around. He spies Segura.
‘Were you here?’ he asks.
She nods.
‘Is this boy telling the truth?’
Another nod. Isarn begins to protest.
‘That stupid old woman – she’s practically blind –’
‘Listen to me, Isarn.’ Jordan places his free hand on Isarn’s shoulder. ‘If you’re so terribly interested in genitals, I suggest you concentrate on your own pathetic set.’
Whomp! A swift kick, straight to the groin. Isarn buckles.
God preserve us.
‘There,’ says Jordan. ‘That’s given you something to think about, hasn’t it?’
No reply from Isarn. Just a terrible groan. Jordan turns to Isoard, who flinches.
Pagan in Exile Page 3
