‘Pagan. Pagan. Did you hear me? I asked you a question.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Would you like to join me in the western paddock? I’m training Acantha. I could do with some help.’
So that’s why he won’t get out of my way. Looking at Acantha, who’s sitting there like a little, gleaming statue, all talons and beak. Looking from her to Jordan. He’s all talons and beak, too.
‘My lord, I have chores to finish –’
‘They can wait.’
‘But Lord Roland.–’
‘Don’t worry about Lord Roland.’
‘But –’
‘What? But what?’ He leans closer. ‘What did he tell you about me? Hmm? What did he tell you, Pagan?’
Gulp.
‘Nothing, my lord.’
‘Now, Pagan, do you think I’m a fool? Do you think I don’t know what’s going on in your head? Of course I do. In fact I know exactly what he told you. He told you to stay away from me, didn’t he?’
Oh hell. I’m sick of this. Why worry about his feelings? He probably doesn’t even have any.
‘Yes, my lord, as a matter of fact he did.’
‘And did he say why?’
‘He told me about a hawk you once killed.’
‘I see.’ And he does, too. His eyes glint as he remembers. ‘So you’d prefer to stay away from me, in case I put out your eyes with a hot stick? Is that it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why, then?’
‘Because I do what I’m told!’
‘Pagan.’ Suddenly he frowns. His tone becomes serious. ‘Has it occurred to you that my problem is with Roland? I’ve nothing against you. I like you. I enjoy your company. And I don’t regard you as another part of Roland, because you’re quite clearly an individual in your own right. So my relations with him don’t have anything to do with what happens between you and me. Do you understand that?’
God preserve us. Gnawing my thumbnail.
‘But of course you understand,’ he says. ‘You understand a lot more than most people realise. That’s why I enjoy your company. It makes a change from the morons I usually have to put up with.’
‘My lord –’
‘Yes?’ I can’t stand the way he stares. Ease off, will you? It’s not my fault. I can’t help it.
‘My lord, I don’t even know how to train a hawk. I’ve never tried.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. There’s nothing to it. All you have to do is learn the call notes.’ He moves away from the door, his eyes still boring a hole through my skull. ‘Coming? Come on, you might enjoy yourself.’
Well I might, mightn’t I? Where’s the harm in it? If I take my sword, I shouldn’t have any problems. Especially since he isn’t wearing his own sword.
‘What are you doing?’ he says, as I buckle myself into my swordbelt. ‘You won’t need that, the meat’s already cut.’
‘I never go anywhere without it, my lord.’
He smiles, and shrugs, and heads for the stairwell. There’s no one in Berengar’s room. The stairs are empty. Lady Gauzia’s sitting with Tayssiras at the high table, crumbling a piece of bread between her fingers. She looks up, and looks away. Jordan walks past as if she isn’t even there.
But Tayssiras dimples at me, and waves her hand. Don’t blush, Pagan. Don’t think about that dream. She looks very bright and healthy next to Gauzia, whose face is all bones and shadows.
I wonder where Roland is? In Galhard’s sleeping chamber? Can’t see him because the door’s shut.
‘You may have heard me whistling the call notes,’ Jordan remarks, as we emerge into the bailey. ‘There are only three of them, so they’re not hard to remember.’ And he whistles a familiar little tune, several times. ‘Can you do that? Let me hear you.’
Well, you certainly don’t have to be King Solomon to master this one. He listens carefully, and seems satisfied with my attempt. ‘That’s the most important thing,’ he points out. ‘All you have to do is remember those notes, and follow my orders.’
Moving towards the gate, past the decrepit old barracks and the kitchen. There’s Bernard, lumbering along with a sack of flour. There’s Ademar, relieving himself against a wall. And who’s this, emerging from the stables? It can’t be Isarn?
God preserve us. What happened to his face?!
He sees Jordan, and stops. There’s a nasty gash across his left eyelid. His eye is swollen shut, and he obviously can’t breathe through his nose. Could it be broken? He retreats into the stables, quickly.
Jordan doesn’t even spare him a glance.
‘My lord –’
‘Yes, Pagan?’
On second thoughts, I don’t want to ask. ‘Nothing.’
It’s a sultry kind of day, with a threat of thunderstorms in the air. Smoke drifts sluggishly from the chimneys of Bram. The sound of a bell in the distance.
Past the sentry, across the bridge and turn right. Hello, fresh hoof-marks. Left by the monks, I suppose.
‘It isn’t far,’ says Jordan. ‘It’s just beyond those trees. We’ll have to make sure that the sheep stay out of our way.’ He begins to make clucking noises as Acantha flaps her wings, restlessly. ‘Hush, beautiful. Hush, my girl. We’re nearly there.’
Birds cheeping, insects buzzing. Dandelions. Horse dung. Butterflies. Stomping through the grass behind Jordan, as the sheep look up to stare at us, dully. A few plaintive bleats from the lambs.
‘This should do,’ Jordan suddenly announces. ‘The grass isn’t too high, here.’ He turns to me, his face intent and serious. ‘Now, Pagan, do you see the little bags on my belt? I want you to take that one, because there’s meat in it. The other one contains the lure. You can take that out too.’
The lure? What’s that? Fishing around obediently, and dragging out a pair of bird’s wings tied to a piece of meat.
‘First of all, I want you to remove her hood,’ Jordan continues. ‘Then I want you to let her taste the meat on that lure. Just give her a taste, don’t let her eat it. Then I want you to move away until I tell you to stop. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘All right. Let’s begin, then.’
The hood’s made of leather, tied under her chin. Jordan whistles the call notes as her huge, startled eyes are uncovered: she flaps her wings, and the bells tinkle on her jesses. Jordan holds onto them, firmly.
Here, Acantha. Look at the nice lure. Mmmm, delicious.
‘That’s enough,’ Jordan says. ‘She’s had enough. Back away now. Keep the lure in her line of vision. That’s it. You’re doing well. Keep going. Stop.’
Stop. The hawk’s eyes are fixed on my lure. What do I do next? Jordan’s standing as motionless as a statue, his free 144 hand clasping a long cord tied to the end of Acantha’s leash.
‘Good. That’s good,’ he says. ‘Now I’m going to ask you to put the lure down, and move away slowly. Don’t distract her. When she pounces on the lure, take a piece of meat from the bag I gave you, and put it down close to her. Make sure you whistle the call notes while you’re doing it, or she’ll get nervous. Then, when she’s moved to the new meat, I want you to pick her up on the line. But let her eat the meat first. Understand?’
Of course I understand. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Do it.’
Putting the lure down, carefully. Moving away, carefully. Two steps. Three steps. Four steps. Five.
‘Stop,’ says Jordan, and lets go of Acantha’s jesses. She springs into the air and glides down to the lure, feet first. Yes! Right on target. ‘Now!’ Jordan cries. ‘Not too fast!’
Not too fast. Take it easy, Pagan. Whistling the call notes. Come on, Acantha. Look at this lovely bit of gristle, all by itself on the ground. Come on, then. Come on, sweetheart. It’s all just for you.
She flaps her wings, clumsily, and moves towards the meat, half walking, half flying. That’s the way. Eat up, Acantha. Her talons close on the bloody scrap as she tears at it with her beak. I wonde
r if it’s a bit of that stag, from yesterday.
‘All right,’ says Jordan. ‘You can pick her up now. Bring her back here, and watch that beak.’
I’m watching, I’m watching. But she’s a good-natured girl, and keeps her beak to herself. What a beautiful creature. Holding her like a chicken, one hand on each wing. Jordan’s waiting with his arm extended.
‘She’s smart, my lord.’
‘Of course she is.’
‘Is it the first time she’s done this?’
‘The very first time.’
‘Aren’t you a clever bird?’ Stroking the silky feathers on her neck. ‘Are we going to try again, my lord?’
‘If you want to.’
‘Yes please!’ Look up, and he’s smiling, but it’s a pleasant smile. ‘Should I move farther away, this time?’
‘By all means.’
‘She’ll probably end up carrying off one of those lambs, if we’re not careful!’
Suddenly, a shout. Distant, but quite clear. It sounds like Roland’s voice.
‘Pagan!’
And there he is, approaching through the trees. Dressed in something blue and gold that I haven’t seen before. (One of Jordan’s tunics?) He stops, and jerks his arm. Come here, Pagan.
‘My lord –’
‘Yes, yes I understand’ Jordan’s smile fades. ‘Off you go, then. Mustn’t keep Roland waiting.’
I can hear his footsteps behind me as I head for the trees, towards Roland. It seems like a very long walk. Roland’s standing with his hands on his hips: there’s something ominous about the set of his shoulders, and his face is lost in shadow. But gradually, as the distance closes, his features emerge, and they’re not a pretty sight. All the radiance has disappeared. His expression is stony, his eyes like glass.
Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord.
‘I’m sorry, my lord, I was helping with the falcon –’
‘Come,’ he snaps, and turns away. Better do as he says. Look back at Jordan, who’s smiling again. ‘You mustn’t blame the boy,’ Jordan declares. ‘He was under orders.’ But Roland doesn’t respond.
He just keeps walking, his strides so long and vigorous I almost have to run to keep up.
‘My lord – wait – I’m sorry, but he asked me. What’s wrong, my lord? Please don’t be angry –’
‘It was a trick,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘It was a trick. All of it.’ His voice is harsh. ‘When I left my father, I went to the stables to look for you. Berengar’s battle mount was gone. So was Jordan’s. And so were Aimery and Joris. They must have taken them.’
‘You mean –’
‘They went after the monks. Aimery and Joris and Pons. While my father talked. While you were asleep. It was all a trick, to prevent us from stopping them.’
Jesus. ‘Do you think –?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’ He’s staring blankly at the ground ahead of him, crushing the flowers under heavy boots as he walks. ‘We’re probably too late, but we must try,’ he says. ‘We must try to catch up. I don’t know what they plan to do, but whatever it is, we have to move fast.
‘We must try to stop this thing before it happens.’
Chapter 16
Lightning flickers against the brooding black clouds to the east. You can feel moisture in the air, but no rain, yet. I just hope it holds off while we’re still on the road. There’s nothing worse than riding through a thunderstorm.
‘My lord?’
Roland grunts. He’s hardly said a thing since we left Bram. Not that it’s easy to exchange words when you’re trying to force the pace, like this. But you can’t keep a palfrey trotting forever, and sometimes you have to slow down just to give the animal a rest.
Then you can manage some kind of conversation, if your companion’s in the mood.
‘Did you say anything to Lord Galhard, my lord? About the missing horses?’
Roland nods, but remains silent.
‘And what did Lord Galhard say?’
‘He denied any knowledge of their whereabouts.’
‘Hmmm.’
Distant thunder echoes across the horizon. My head feels as if it’s under siege: as if someone is sitting just in front of my left ear, hammering at my skull with an iron-plated mallet. It’s a miracle that my brain still works, under these conditions. Anyone else’s brain would have packed up and moved off to a desert hermitage, long ago.
‘Do you know what I think, my lord?’ (Just in case you’re interested.) ‘I think that if something does happen, Lord Galhard will probably deny that he had anything to do with it. He’ll probably say that it was done by brigands. It would explain why he didn’t pursue the monks himself.’ It would also explain why he chose Aimery and Joris for the job. Of course! I understand, now. ‘When you think about it, my lord, those monks never met either Joris or Aimery. Both of them were out hunting when the monks arrived, and both of them kept well out of the way when we all got back. Which means that if any of the monks do survive, they won’t be able to identify their attackers as people who live at Bram. You see? And of course, yes, of course . . .’ (Everything fits together.) ‘It makes sense, my lord, because with your father and brothers busy around the castle, there was nothing to arouse your suspicions, either. If any of them had been missing, you would have wondered where they were –’
‘Instead of which, I had to wait until I entered the stables and noticed the empty stalls,’ Roland interrupts. ‘Something which you should have done already.’
His voice is sharp. Forbidding. Strange.
‘My lord –’
‘If you’d obeyed my instructions, and kept away from Jordan, you would have gone to the stables and seen the missing horses much earlier. We would have had a better chance of stopping this thing. But you played right into his hands, despite the fact that I warned you, specifically, to avoid him.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Could that be true? Could it all have been a trick, just to keep me out of the stables? Possibly. Probably. But somehow . . . I don’t know . . .
‘My lord, I realise that Lord Jordan was part of this plan –’
‘Part of it?!’ Roland exclaims. ‘Jordan was the source of it! This whole business was his doing.’
‘Not entirely, my lord. Be fair. Lord Galhard was the one who kept you distracted, talking about the Crusade –’
‘And Jordan was the one who lured you out of the castle, so that I had to spend even more precious time trying to find you. He was using you, Pagan, the way he uses everybody. Didn’t I tell you not to trust him?’
Oh, right. So I’m just a fool. I’m a complete cesshead who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and who gets pushed around like a wheelbarrow. Well thanks very much, Roland, that’s really encouraging.
‘My lord, I’m not stupid, you know. I do have the ability to judge people.’ He opens his mouth, but I’m too quick for him. ‘Lord Jordan has always been perfectly pleasant to me. He’s even helped me out a few times, and he didn’t gain anything from doing that. Has it occurred to you – I mean, I know it’s probably hard for you to see this – but has it occurred to you that he might actually enjoy my company for its own sake? That we might actually get along? I realise I’m not very important, but am I such a waste of space that any attention I might get has to be the result of some – some vicious, underhanded plot?’
‘In God’s name!’ (An oath! He used an oath! He’s never used an oath!) ‘Open your eyes, Pagan! Can’t you see what he’s doing? Can’t you see?’ Surely this isn’t Roland? Surely this isn’t the Man of Marble? Jennet’s ears flicker uneasily, as Roland clenches his fists. ‘It’s quite obvious what he’s trying to do! He’s trying to take you away from me! Just as he’s tried to take everything else away, ever since we were children.’
Oh, please. This is ridiculous. This is embarrassing.
‘My lord, don’t you think you’re being a little –’
�
��It’s true! It’s true. You just don’t understand. ‘You don’t know him. Everything he does is harmful. Everything he says is a lie.’ I’ve never seen Roland like this. Never. His face has gone to pieces. His voice is all over the place. ‘You might think he likes you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t like anyone – especially me. He hates me. He hates me because my mother loved me the best. That’s why he wants to take you away.’
‘My Lord . . .’ I can’t believe this. Roland, what’s happened to you? You’re acting like a child. ‘My lord, he’s never even asked me to leave your service. And if he did, I wouldn’t go. What are you saying?’
A long pause. Roland stares down at his hands, flushed and speechless. Splat. Splat. Splat-splat. Oh hell. Wouldn’t you know it? The wilderness turneth into standing water, and dry ground into watersprings.
Here comes the rain.
‘My lord, I know you were very happy last night, because you thought that your father had faith in you.’ (Carefully, Pagan, tread carefully.) ‘Now you’re disappointed. But you shouldn’t let them upset you, my lord. They’re not worth it.’ Looking across at his bowed head, as he wipes a drop of moisture from his cheek. Tears? No, rain. ‘You won’t be blamed for their actions. And you shouldn’t blame me, either. I’m very sorry that you’ve been treated so badly. If I can help you, I will. Because I’ll always support you in everything, against everyone. I thought you understood that.’
He raises his eyes. Opens his mouth. But something stops him from speaking: something up ahead. He stiffens, and peers, his profile suddenly sharp and intent.
What? What is it?
Oh, I see. A shape on the road, lying there like a fallen bough. Still too far to see properly, but I don’t like the look of it.
Roland kicks his horse into a canter.
Dense foliage on either side of us. Perfect for an ambush. Wait! My lord! But he’s already slowed, his hand on his sword-hilt, his gaze on the shadowy thickets of chestnut and blackthorn as he guides Jennet through a scattering of twigs and leaves and discarded possessions. A shoe. A buckle. A piece of bread. The raindrops are already turning dust into mud, but you can still see the pattern of attack and defence in the sudden confusion of hoofmarks.
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