Pagan in Exile

by Catherine Jinks

  Oh God, it’s so confusing. I don’t understand. What’s happening here? There’s something going on, and I just can’t work it out.

  He sang to me, my gentle lover,

  There where flowers bloomed and where the larks sang sweet

  But now it’s cold and the spring is over

  And I long for summer days when once again we’ll meet.

  ‘By the balls of Baal, but I’ll be glad to get off this horse,’ Berengar adds, as the last, gentle note falls from the air. ‘I feel as if someone’s been using my buttocks for a battering ram.’

  The sweet saints preserve us. If only someone would.

  Chapter 14

  There are people waiting for Galhard in the hall. Three monks, all in Benedictine black, are perched like crows around the high table. The tallest seems to have something wrong with his eye: it’s wet and inflamed, and he keeps dabbing at it with the corner of his sleeve. His neighbour has the face of a lizard, seamed and ancient, with a wide mouth, an almost invisible nose, and small, bright expressionless black eyes. The third monk isn’t much older than I am. He’s the kind of wholly forgettable person you’d always be leaving behind by accident.

  None of them looks like a match for Galhard.

  ‘So,’ he says, erupting into the hall, ‘you’re from the Abbot, are you?’ His tone is grumpy, but not life-threatening. Yet.

  ‘My lord,’ the tall monk replies, ‘we are brethren of Saint Jerome. I am Brother Humbert. This is Brother Norgaud. We have come here to represent our good father Abbot Tosetus, concerning a matter which has distressed him greatly.’

  As Galhard approaches the high table, large and heavy and smelling like a leper’s armpit, Brother Humbert’s voice falters a little. But Galhard’s not after Humbert: he’s after the wine. He swills down what’s left and turns to Germain, who’s been hovering at his elbow ever since we dismounted.

  ‘More wine! he barks. ‘‘Where’s the food? What have you been doing, you lazy clods? I want something to eat and I want it now!’

  Ominous rumbling of agreement from Berengar, as he drops onto a bench by the door. Germain scurries off to the kitchen. Aimery unbuckles his swordbelt, throwing it across one of the tables. Clank! And here’s Jordan, his beautiful surcoat encrusted with dry blood, looking around for a place to collapse. He sees me, and winks.

  I don’t understand Jordan. I don’t understand why he’s being so nice. Why did he offer to let Foucaud rub down Roland’s horse? So that I wouldn’t have to do it myself? Or was it just to annoy Roland? It certainly did annoy him. But he had to accept Jordan’s offer, in the end, because I happen to feel exactly like a pair of old riding breeches that someone’s wrung out and beaten dry on a washboard.

  The dogs creep in and throw themselves onto the rushes, too tired even to sniff around for scraps. Some of them fall asleep; some lick their wounds. Galhard deposits his great bulk on one of the high-backed chairs, and stretches his legs out in front of him.

  ‘Well?’ he growls. ‘Let’s get on with it. I’ve been hunting all day, and I’m tired. What does the Abbot want to tell me?’

  ‘My lord,’ says Humbert, in a high voice, ‘two of our brethren, Brother Raoul and Brother Guibert, were lodging with Father Puy of Bram last night. Brother Raoul arrived back at the Abbey around noon, alone. He told us that Brother Guibert had been abducted. By you, my lord.’

  A pause. Galhard waits. Humbert begins to perspire.

  ‘Father Puy actually identified you, my lord,’ he continues. ‘It seems that you and your sons were responsible.’

  ‘One moment, Brother,’ Roland interrupts. ‘You should tell the Abbot that I was not involved. I am Lord Roland and I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Shut up, Roland.’ (Standard response from Galhard, who doesn’t even turn his head.) ‘If you want to know where your friend is, Brother Humbert, I can tell you right now. He’s under your feet, in one of our cellars. And he’s going to stay there until the Abbot releases my man. So you can relay that message to the Abbot. His man for mine. A fair bargain.’

  Humbert dabs at his eye; at his top lip; at his rosy, balding skull, which glistens in the torchlight. ‘My lord,’ he says carefully, ‘the man in the Abbot’s custody is a criminal and a heretic. Brother Guibert, on the other hand, has committed no offence. His confinement is an injustice which cries out to God.’

  ‘Look, Brother, I don’t care if I’ve got a saint or a demon, down there. That’s irrelevant. All I’m concerned about is my jurisdiction.’ Galhard leans forward and practically drills a hole in the table-top with his index finger. ‘If your Abbot wants his monk back, he knows what to do. An exchange. Understand?’

  Suddenly Norgaud speaks. His voice is the voice of a snake, soft and sibilant. ‘The Abbot regrets that if you don’t surrender Brother Guibert, he will ask the Bishop that you be excommunicated, and your lands be subject to an interdict,’ he declares. ‘As you may know, our Holy Father Pope Lucius, may he rest in peace, announced four years ago that all receivers and defenders of heretics shall be subjected to the same punishment as heretics. The Abbot believes that you have publicly, and without shame, encouraged and favoured certain people of false beliefs who even now enjoy the benefits of your protection. Therefore you should abjure your errors, make satisfaction, and return to the unity of the Catholic faith, or suffer the condemnation of perpetual anathema.’

  Perpetual who? I didn’t quite catch all of that. Galhard bursts out laughing.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,’ Jordan drawls. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you just made some kind of threat, Brother Norgaud?’

  ‘My lord, this is not a laughing matter.’ Roland moves towards the high table, frowning. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but this is serious.’

  ‘Why?’ says Berengar. ‘What’s a perpetual anathema? Some kind of siege machine?’

  Galhard is still shaking his head and wiping his eyes. He moans in appreciation. ‘Oh – oh – what a joke,’ he splutters. ‘What a joke. The Abbot waves his deadly perpetual anathema, and strong men crumble.’

  ‘My lord –’ Roland begins. But he’s cut short by Humbert.

  ‘There’s also the question of our mill, my lord,’ Humbert adds quietly. And Galhard stiffens.

  ‘What about the mill?’

  ‘My lord, if you don’t return Brother Guibert, the Abbey will be forced to prevent your vassals from using our mill. No one from Bram will be admitted.’

  Gulp. That’s done it. The laughter leaves Galhard’s face. The blood gathers in his eyes. He bares his teeth like a leopard.

  ‘My lord –’ says Roland. But he’s too late. Galhard pounces, grabbing Humbert’s collar and jerking him halfway across the table. Shaking him like a dog shaking a rat. ‘You slimy leech!’ he roars. ‘I’ll kick your brains out!’

  ‘My lord!’ Roland seizes his arm. ‘No, my lord, no!’

  ‘You’re dog meat! Do you hear me? You’re dead and digested!’ Galhard drags Humbert right off the table, onto the floor. Begins to pull him towards the stairwell. But Roland’s hanging off one arm, and Norgaud off the other: they’re slowing him down. ‘You’ll be joining Guibert in the grain vat!’ he bellows.

  ‘My lord! Reconsider!’ Roland cries. ‘There’s another solution –’

  ‘Get out of my way!’

  ‘My lord, you can’t do this –’

  ‘Get out of my way or get out of this castle!’

  ‘Wait.’ It’s Jordan, suddenly appearing beside Galhard. ‘We don’t really have the space to hold four monks, my lord,’ he remarks quietly. ‘Perhaps we should consider our alternatives. Perhaps we should listen to what Roland has to say.’

  Perhaps we should what? Pardon me while I pick up 132 my eyeballs. Am I hearing things? Roland looks stunned. Even Galhard looks stunned. ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘If I could just have a quick word, my lord,’ Jordan continues. ‘In private.’

  Galhard stares at Jordan for a moment, and comes t
o a decision. He releases his grip on Humbert, who subsides onto the floor with a groan. He jerks his arm out of Roland’s grasp. He pushes Norgaud away. ‘All right,’ he grunts. ‘Make it fast, though. In here.’ And he leads Jordan into his sleeping chamber.

  The door slams.

  ‘Well,’ says Berengar, as everyone exchanges looks. ‘You were damn lucky. I could have sworn you were heading for the chop there, Brother.’

  ‘Manus Dei,’ Norgaud murmurs, helping Humbert to his feet. ‘Te Deum laudamus.’ Humbert doesn’t reply: he’s speechless with shock, and panting like a hound. Roland looks worried.

  Suddenly the food arrives.

  ‘Ha!’ Berengar spies it first. ‘At last!’ He springs to his feet, pouncing on the bread in Germain’s basket. Segura is carrying a jug of wine and a bowl of olives. There also seems to be a kind of long dumpling, cut into disks, and a round of cheese on a platter.

  Berengar whips out his hunting knife.

  ‘Where’s Lord Galhard?’ Germain asks, anxiously. He sets his burden down carefully on the table. ‘Should I take him some food?’

  ‘He’s in there,’ Berengar mumbles, through a mouthful of bread. He’s pointing at the closed door. But even as he speaks it opens, and Galhard’s head appears.

  ‘Roland!’ The head jerks. ‘I want you.’

  Hello. Now what? This is all very peculiar. Roland touches my arm. ‘Go to bed, Pagan.’ (In low tones.) ‘I’ll be up when I’m ready.’

  Watching him move away. Let’s just hope it’s not an ambush. The monks are whispering together at one end of the table, as Berengar guzzles food at the other end. Well, I’m not hanging around here. Making for the stairwell. Groping up the stairs with my hand on the wall (why don’t they light these damned stairs?), carefully, slowly, because there might be spilt wax. Or oil. Or something even nastier.

  Lady Gauzia’s in her room. You can hear her talking to someone. Tayssiras? The light spills out through her door, warm and welcoming. If only I had a wife. And a nice bed. And a chest to put my clothes in. Jordan doesn’t realise how lucky he is.

  Forgot to bring a candle. Oh well, there’s light enough from Gauzia’s door. Light enough to see Roland’s chain mail, lying where I left it on the floor of our room. And there’s his uniform . . . and his shield . . . and the pile of straw . . .

  The pile of straw?

  God curse it! My bed! My blanket! No one’s brought them in yet! God curse it, they must still be sitting out in the bailey, where we left them to dry. Well I’m damned if I’m going to get them now. Someone else can do it. I’m not moving another step.

  Collapsing onto the pile of straw, my head throbbing like a giant pimple. God, God, God, I feel as if I’m going to faint. Eyes shut. The pain in my head and my cheekbone. Where’s Roland? Doesn’t he care? I’m ill, damn you! Why 134 don’t you come? I need something cold on my face. I need – what was it? Bay oil? I need herb tea.

  Straw is so uncomfortable. I hate it, I hate everything here. Thinking about Jerusalem. Thinking about dates. I love dates. Stuffed dates, in syrup. Loaf sugar. Apples of Paradise, long and yellow. Food stands, in the Street of Flowers. Night watch. Cock fights. Money changers. Bervold, spitting . . . and the alleys, down by Saint Anne . . . fires . . . blue . . . going far . . . planks . . . the ship lurches . . . grab the gold, it’s turning into water . . .

  ‘Pagan!’

  Wha –? Who –? Roland? Was I asleep?

  ‘Pagan.’ He’s crouching beside me, holding a candle. Prodding my arm. ‘Good news, Pagan. It’s good news.’

  That voice. It doesn’t sound like Roland’s voice. It sounds too . . . too . . . rubbing my eyes, just to make sure. Oh yes, it’s Roland. But there’s something strange about his face. A kind of glow. Is it the candle? I’ve never seen – he looks exultant. Exultant. That’s the only way to describe it. So peaceful, so content, so elated.

  ‘My father has agreed to release Brother Guibert,’ he announces. And his voice rings like a bell. ‘He had decided that the cost of detaining the monks would be far too high.’

  ‘Really?’ Propping myself up on one elbow. Trying to sound interested. ‘That’s very odd. I wouldn’t have expected that at all. Are you sure he’s serious?’

  Roland laughs. He actually laughs. I can’t believe it. I’ve never heard him laugh before, not ever. What’s happened? Is he drunk? Am I hallucinating?

  ‘Poor Pagan. Of course he’s serious. I told him that I would take the matter to the Bishop myself. Or to the 135 Templars, if need be. I told him that he was the injured party, and that with my help he would have no trouble convincing anyone that his cause was just.’ Roland’s hand suddenly closes on mine, squeezing hard. ‘He listened to me, Pagan. He agreed with me. He accepted my arguments.’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce. So that’s what this is all about. Looking up into his dazzling face, with its flushed brow and sparkling eyes and flashing teeth. Feeling the radiance of his joy like the warmth of a blazing fire.

  ‘I’m glad, my lord. I’m very glad for you.’

  He squeezes my hand again, so hard that he almost breaks my fingers. (Ow! Ouch!) Releasing them just in time, as he pats my shoulder and rises to his feet. ‘You go to bed, Pagan. I know how tired you are. Don’t worry about waking up early. You can sleep for as long as you like.’

  Well that’s something. He really must be in a good mood. Listening as he potters around, unbuckling his swordbelt, pulling off his boots, washing his face and hands. I’ve never heard him humming before, either. It sounds like another of those troubadour songs. I suppose he must have learned it as a child, along with all the others. Odd that I’ve never heard him sing them until today. But then again, maybe –

  Maybe I’ve never seen him happy until today.

  A sinking feeling. Could that be true? But it’s terrible! Surely he must have been happy before? Thinking back, right back to the first time he ever smiled at me, on pilgrimage escort. To that lovely sunny day when we sailed into Marseille, past Gorgonassa and the Tower of Saint John, and looked out at the walls and the people and the fishing boats (such a busy, peaceful, prosperous scene). To that glorious ride from Maugio to Beziers, when we found that field of golden flowers, and raced our horses all the way across to the stream on the other side. Surely he was happy then? I was happy then.

  But I suppose it’s different, for Roland. He has a family. I’ve never had anyone, except him.

  And I’m beginning to wonder if I even have him, any more.

  Chapter 15

  It’s a big room, with windows, and the sea beyond. I think it must be a dormitory. There’s my bed, and that’s Joscelin’s bed, and someone’s grooming a dog in the sunlight. Can’t see his face, but he’s covered in gold. Golden rings. Golden fingernails. Turn away, and here’s Tayssiras, waiting.

  Her hair is loose, and she’s wearing a long yellow robe, laced up the sides. Her arms are bare. As she lifts them over her head, you can see her nipples through the fabric. Reaching out – she’s smiling – but the dog barks.

  Raft! Raf-raf-raf-raf!

  Open my eyes. I can still hear that dog, far away downstairs. Is it morning? It must be. Yes, I’m awake. I’m awake, and my face hurts, and I must have had another one of those stupid dreams.

  At least I didn’t make a mess, though.

  Sitting up stiffly. Straw in my hair. Where’s Roland? Is it late? How long have I been sleeping? Oh, that’s right. Now I remember. He said he wouldn’t wake me. And he must have pulled my boots off, too, because I certainly didn’t. Dragging them over. Shoving my feet in. I really need new boots. These ones look as if they’ve been lying dead in a swamp for the last three hundred years.

  Now, what am I supposed to do today? Horses, naturally. Boots. I have to drag the beds back in. Clean Roland’s sword: I bet he only gave it a wipe, after that stag business. Probably needs a good polish. And what about the clothes he was wearing? Surely he didn’t put them on again? No, there they are. I’ll clean them,
too.

  ‘Good morning, Pagan.’

  Look up. It’s Jordan. What’s he doing here?

  ‘Sleep well?’ he inquires. ‘I hope so.’ He looks very sleek and fresh, and he’s carrying Acantha on his wrist. ‘I was beginning to think that you’d never wake up.’

  ‘Is it late, my lord?’

  ‘Well, it’s not actually afternoon yet, but it’s a bit late for breakfast. How is your head?’

  ‘My head?’ Touching it, gingerly.

  Ouch.

  ‘Come here,’ he says. ‘Into the light. Come.’ He catches my chin. Turns my face. Studies it. ‘Hmm. How unfortunate. I’ve had a little word with Isarn. He really should learn to take my warnings seriously. I think he will, from now on.’

  God preserve us. What’s that supposed to mean?

  ‘But I don’t think you’ve suffered any permanent damage,’ Jordan continues. His hand feels smooth and cold, 139 like marble. Moving away from it, carefully, so as not to cause offence.

  ‘Have you seen Lord Roland, my lord?’

  ‘Ah yes, Lord Roland.’ He smiles, in a rather unpleasant fashion. ‘Lord Roland is a busy man. He’s been busy all morning. First he had to farewell our monastic visitors. Then he had to discuss certain issues with Lord Galhard and Lord Berengar. And with me, of course. In fact I believe he’s still with the others.’ (Jordan’s so big, he seems to fill the doorway. Isn’t he going to let me through? What’s he trying to accomplish?) ‘I must confess that I’m not really interested in the Crusade. But my father always likes to thrash everything out –’

  ‘You mean they’re discussing the Crusade?’

  ‘Naturally. Isn’t that why you’re here?’

  Well stuff me with chestnuts. So they’ve finally got down to business! Roland must have seen it coming last night: no wonder he was so happy. Especially if he thought that his father might take up the cross after all. But if Galhard does take up the cross, that means we’ll have to stay here. Unless –