Pagan in Exile

by Catherine Jinks

  And someone has hacked the Holy Virgin’s face off.

  ‘God forgive this desecration,’ Ferry mutters, with more awe than anger in his voice. Our footsteps echo as we move slowly towards the chancel, between several piles of demolished furniture. There’s even a door, pulled right off its hinges. And here’s the altarcloth, spread across the floor. Covered in chewed bones and bread crumbs and nut shells. There’s also a person, rolled up in a tablecloth, snoring. I can’t tell who it is.

  ‘Well, stone me. Look who’s here.’

  A familiar croak. Turn around, and it’s Berengar. Leaning against one wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. The right leg is tied up in a blood-stained rag, just above the knee. There’s a torn piece of tapestry draped around his shoulders, and his face is the colour of tripe.

  ‘One of those damned castrates caught me with an axe,’ he says in husky tones. ‘It didn’t do much damage, but it hurt like the devil. Can you find Isarn for me? I need a drink. And a blanket. It’s cold, in here.’

  Sounds as if he should be in bed. Ferry glances doubtfully at Roland, who’s staring at Berengar with eyes so blank that they could have been painted on.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be Isarn,’ Berengar continues. ‘It can 191 be anyone. Kick that lazy beggar awake, why don’t you? He’ll do just as well.’

  Roland spins on his heel, abruptly, and heads for the door to the cloisters. Obviously wouldn’t waste spit on Berengar. We pass from shadows into sunshine, from silence into a babble of voices, and here’s the familiar paved courtyard with its little stone seats, every seat fully occupied. There’s Isarn, and Aimery, and Joris, and the rest of Galhard’s troops. They’re lolling about in a rich and dazzling confusion that reminds me of the markets at Acre: a confusion of Damascus rugs, jade inkwells, golden candlesticks, ivory caskets, sandalwood combs, fine linen, amber, alabaster, ebony, amethyst. All mixed up with a less exotic mess consisting mainly of dried fruit, smashed crockery, gardening tools and a burst flour bag.

  ‘Lord Roland,’ says Aimery, as the laughter leaves his wine-flushed face. They’re all drunk and rowdy. Isarn is wearing a monk’s habit over his hauberk.

  ‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Ferry demands. ‘Where is the Abbot? What have you done with the monks?’

  Aimery begins to giggle. The others just gape. Roland moves towards the chapter house.

  ‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Ferry repeats, angrily. I suppose I’d better follow Roland. This is like a nightmare.

  The chapter house smells. It smells of corruption. There’s someone sitting on the Abbot’s throne, but he’s dead. He’s been dead a long, long time.

  Gagging and choking. I feel sick. Stumbling back out into the cloister-garth, into the fresh air, I just can’t believe it. They must have dug up a grave. They must have dug up a grave, and put the corpse on the Abbot’s throne. Oh God, the 192 heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled.

  ‘Brother!’ Ferry, hailing Roland. ‘Brother, where are you going? These men know where we can look.’

  But Roland doesn’t seem to hear. Something’s wrong with him: he moves clumsily, as if he’s been wounded. Knocking against walls and pillars, grazing his knuckles, stubbing his toes. Lurching through the next door, and the next door, and the next. Going so fast that I have to run to catch up.

  Suddenly we’re in the refectory. It’s a long, narrow room full of tables and benches, with a pulpit at one end and a table on a dais at the other. There’s a dead monk near the door. He must have dragged himself all the way from the dais, to judge by the trail of smeared blood. And there, beyond the dead monk, two living ones. Two naked monks, on their hands and knees, with raised marks on their backs and necks and haunches, scrambling over the floor towards a wooden spoon. I know those marks. Those marks are lash-marks. They’re the marks of the dog-whip clasped in Jordan’s bloody right hand.

  Jordan. He’s sitting on one of the tables, stringy-haired, bleary-eyed, wobbling about like a candle-flame in a gusty breeze. Slurring his words ‘Fetch! Fetch!’ as he cracks the whip against a table-leg. Severely, profoundly intoxicated.

  He doesn’t even recognise Roland, at first. Just peers at him with bloodshot eyes, brows puckered in perplexity.

  Roland advances.

  ‘Oh no, it’s Roland.’ The truth dawns at last. Light pierces Jordan’s alcoholic fog. ‘Attack!’ (Get him, boys! Get the nasty Templar! Woof, woof!)

  He’s on his feet as Roland reaches him. I can’t see Roland’s face, but I can see the muscles knotting under his surcoat as he clenches his fists. Whump! He leaps on Jordan, who falls backwards, caught by surprise. Roland with a handful of Jordan’s collar, slamming him against the tabletop. (Whomp! Whomp!) But Jordan’s fighting back, now, grinding his hand into Roland’s face. Bucking against Roland’s grip. They roll off the table and crash to the floor.

  The monks are moaning and weeping. They huddle there, flinching at the sound of each blow. You idiots! This is your chance!

  ‘Get out!’

  They stare at me.

  ‘Get out! Go on! Quick!’

  But they’re too scared to move. All right, then, be like that. Turning back to the fight, and I can’t make out what’s going on. It’s just a tangle of thrashing limbs. Cries. Thumps. Benches tipping over. All at once Jordan disengages and lurches to his knees. Roland grabs at him, but gets kicked in the chest. Jordan scrambles upright, staggers over to one of the benches and hurls it at Roland, who’s coming after him. Roland catches the oak on his hunched shoulder. God! What a clout! He falters, and Jordan takes advantage. Throws a punch, hammering down on Roland’s neck. Roland drives his head into Jordan’s midriff. They fall again, locked together.

  God, God, God, what am I going to do?

  That ghastly shouting. Blood on Roland’s ear. Blood on his face. Dragging Jordan’s arm back, back, back. ‘Oof! ’ Jordan’s knee in Roland’s groin. Jordan on his feet again, his 194 mouth a mass of blood, tottering, giddy, groping for his sword. Kicks Roland’s ribs. (Groan.) Kicks at his head, but Roland grabs the foot before it makes contact. Dragging his brother down, toppling him, slamming his elbow hard onto Jordan’s spine.

  ‘My lord – my lord –’

  It’s no match, really. Maybe it would be, if Jordan wasn’t so drunk. Roland pulls him up and throws him across one of the benches. Crack! He slides off face down, and tries to crawl. Roland pulls him up again, by his belt and collar. Throws him against a table. Crack! This time he ends up on his side, shielding his face with one arm, groaning, whimpering. Roland seizes a great iron lampstand (no! no!). Brings it down hard across Jordan’s back.

  ‘My lord! Stop! No, my lord, no!’

  Roland! In God’s name, what are you doing? Grabbing his arm as he raises the lampstand again. But he’s too strong. Whump! It slams down on Jordan’s pelvis.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ (The stand! Grab the stand! Hanging on for dear life.) ‘No, my lord! No! You’ll kill him, you’ll kill him!’

  Roland strains against my weight. He turns his head, slowly, and looks at me with eyes that are totally blank; glazed; unseeing. This isn’t Roland. Help. Help! No, Roland, no! It’s me!

  Breathe again. It’s all right. He knows me, now. For a moment there I thought that I was dead and buried. But he blinks, and his muscles relax, and he lowers the stand until one end of it touches the floor.

  That’s it, Roland, take it easy. Calm down. Removing the cold, black shaft from his grip (God, it’s heavy) as he 195 moves away, gasping, the blood trickling down his mottled face. He limps over to an upright bench and collapses onto it, his breathing harsh and raw, his movements stiff.

  All right, Pagan, first things first. Number one, restore the lampstand to its original position. (That’s easily done, even though my hands are shaking.) Next, have a look at Jordan. Is he dead? No, he’s alive. But he groans softly with each breath (cracked ribs?) and his eyes are closed. Praise God that he wasn’t struck on the head. That
stand would have fractured his skull.

  ‘Brother Roland?’

  It’s Ferry, at the door. Oh go away, please.

  ‘I found Lord Galhard, Brother,’ Ferry announces. ‘He seems quite ready to leave. Keeps talking about some kind of marriage negotiations. Apparently the bride-to-be’s father is expected at Bram, shortly. Lord Galhard wants to be there to welcome him.’ Ferry crosses the threshold, and pauses. His gaze sweeps the room. ‘What’s going on?’ he demands.

  ‘Please, my lord –’

  ‘Brother? What’s all this about?’

  But Roland doesn’t reply. He’s sitting at one of the tables, his face hidden in his folded arms.

  ‘Brother!’ Ferry’s voice is sharp and anxious. ‘You should talk to Lord Galhard, Brother, he seems to be drunk and he won’t tell me where the Abbot is. Most of the monks are locked up in the cellars, but I can’t find the Abbot. We can’t settle anything without the Abbot.’

  ‘My lord, please, Lord Roland can’t talk, just now’ Go away, I’m begging you. ‘He needs time to recover.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There’s been a fight, my lord. Maybe – maybe you could gather everyone together, somewhere? Then we can discuss things properly.’

  You can tell that Ferry doesn’t like being told what to do. But he has to admit I’ve made a sensible suggestion.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch Den,’ he says at last. ‘We’ll tell Lord Galhard’s men to report to the church. But I won’t release the monks until we find the Abbot, or we may not be able to control them. I just hope the Abbot’s not dead.’ He eyes Roland thoughtfully. ‘No doubt you’ll have recovered by the time I return, Brother. I certainly hope so, otherwise this is going to be even more difficult than I anticipated.’

  Yes, that’s right, go away. Get lost. Waiting until he’s disappeared from sight: turning to Roland – he still hasn’t moved – but at least he’s breathing. ‘My lord! My lord, are you hurt? Are you all right? Answer me!’

  He raises his head a little. His beard is soaked in blood and sweat. There’s a ragged cut extending from the bridge of his nose all the way down to the left side of his jaw. I don’t think it’s very bad, but I don’t like the way he winces when he tries to look round.

  ‘Where does it hurt, my lord? Is anything broken? You should let me check –’

  ‘No,’ he gasps, ‘I’m all right. It’s nothing.’

  Nothing? Is that what you call it? Look at you, Roland. Look at what you’ve done.

  ‘Listen, my lord.’ Pressing his arm. ‘You’ve got to get out of here. You can’t stay here.’ I can feel him trembling: he looks at me sideways. ‘Please, my lord. Let’s leave Languedoc. Let’s go now.’

  Slowly, painfully, he shakes his head.

  ‘My lord, this place is poison! It’s poisoning you! You’ve got to get away, before you lose everything!’ (Before I lose you, Roland.) ‘Please, my lord. I don’t understand families, I’ve never had one. But there’s something wrong, here. They’re like parasites, they’re sucking you dry. They’re pulling you apart. They’re dragging you down, my lord.’ What is it? What are you shaking your head for? Look around, Roland! Is this the work of a Templar knight? Is this a Holy War? ‘In God’s name, don’t shake your head at me! Look at what you’ve done! You almost killed your own brother! I can’t stand it, I just can’t. This isn’t you. This is them. Please, my lord, please, I won’t stand by and let this happen.’

  ‘I can’t go,’ he says hoarsely, ‘not yet.’

  ‘Why? You can’t stop this! No one can! Give me one good reason why we should stay!’

  ‘Because there may be more killing.’ Every word is forced out. ‘And the innocent must be protected.’

  ‘The innocent?’ Sweet saints preserve us! ‘What innocent? Who is innocent, in all of this? Who?’

  His eyes are no longer blank and dazed. They’re full of feeling. Full of anguish.

  ‘Esclaramonde,’ he murmurs. ‘Esclaramonde is innocent.’

  Chapter 21

  There’s something about a warm, well-watered, flourishing kitchen garden. It makes you think about God. The swelling cucumbers, snuggled in their soft beds of loam; the neat rows of strawberry plants; the almond blossom; the apple trees; the sweet-smelling, flowery borders; the happy hum of bees in the sunlight. It’s so peaceful, so healing. And such a beautiful day, despite this morning’s horror. Not too hot, not too harsh, with a gentle breeze and a soaring, cloudless sky.

  No wonder they’re thanking God for it, these women. No wonder they’re singing songs of praise. The words of a psalm drift over the seedbeds, high and thin: ‘ . . . Praise ye him, all his angels: praise ye him, all his hosts. Praise ye him, sun and moon: praise ye him, stars of light . . .’ And there they are, picking beans. Tall Garsen; fragile Helis; Garnier’s daughter 199 Braida, with her disfiguring birthmark and her old green gown. Garnier’s widow, sharing a basket with her mother. And Esclaramonde. That must be Esclaramonde in the wide straw hat, with the basket on her arm. She straightens, and turns, and –

  Yes, that’s Esclaramonde. You can see her smile gleaming in the shadow of her hat-brim, as she jokes with Braida.

  Beside me, Roland stops. Is he going to faint? No, he doesn’t look too bad. I’m so afraid that he’ll just keel over, suddenly, without warning. He still limps, and the bruises are beginning to show all over his face and neck and knuckles. Those knuckles! What a mess. So swollen that he could hardly hold the reins in one hand. And I can tell that his guts hurt, too, from the way he breathes. But of course he won’t let me help him with anything. He won’t even complain. Not a single grunt of protest has passed his lips since we left the Abbey.

  ‘My lord? Perhaps you ought to lie down for a while. Perhaps you should rest.’

  No answer. He seems to be lost in a dream, gazing at the women as they pick and sing and occasionally slap at an insect, serene, industrious, intent, like a group of monks at prayer. All at once Esclaramonde looks up, and sees us. She stiffens. Gradually the singing falters; the hands freeze; the heads turn.

  They’re like a herd of grazing animals, sensing the presence of wolves.

  Esclaramonde puts her basket down. She moves towards us, a little figure in a big hat, like a mushroom. (How pretty she looks in that ridiculous hat.) As she 200 draws closer, her eyes fall on Roland’s wounds, and they widen.

  ‘Lord Roland!’ she exclaims. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s not important.’

  ‘But your face! And your fingers –’

  ‘There’s been trouble. More trouble.’ He steps backwards, as Esclaramonde reaches for his right hand. ‘I must talk to you about your safety.’

  ‘First let me dress these wounds. They haven’t even been cleaned –’

  ‘No, there isn’t time.’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t be foolish.’ She sounds almost angry as she grabs his wrist. But her hands are very gentle, feather-light and cautious, examining his swollen fist as if it’s an injured duckling. ‘You need care. You’re in pain. You’re not breathing properly. You should rest.’

  ‘That’s what I told him. But he won’t listen.’ (You might as well ask a pig to shell peas.) ‘Please, my lord, Mistress Maury knows all about herbs and healing. Why don’t you let her help you?’

  He struggles for an answer, flushed and tense, the veins standing out on his forehead. Esclaramonde waves at her companions. It’s a wave that means ‘keep working’.

  ‘I’ll be back soon!’ she calls, adding quietly, ‘Somehow I knew that this was too good to last.’ But the words are barely out of her mouth before she regrets them. She smiles a flustered smile as she turns back to Roland. ‘I’m sorry, that was discourteous. I don’t mean that you’re unwelcome. Not at all. It’s just that – more bad tidings, on such a beautiful day – but I mustn’t keep you standing in this heat. Come, we’ll go to the kitchen –’

  ‘Wait.’ Roland suddenly finds his tongue. His voice is
jerky and abrupt. His expression is strained. ‘There’s something I must ask you.’

  She stares at him in surprise. ‘Of course,’ she says.

  ‘It puzzles me – I don’t understand – how can you say that this world is the work of the Devil?’ Suddenly Roland seems very young. Younger than Esclaramonde. Younger even than me. ‘In a garden like this, on a day like this, with all your loving friends and in the midst of such bounty.’ He gestures at the budding fruit, the blazing flowers. ‘How can you say that this is the kingdom of darkness? Surely this is a gift from God?’

  Hear, hear, that’s just what I was thinking. If it’s such a beautiful day, how could it possibly be evil? Esclaramonde lowers her gaze, and the brightness, the energy, seems to drain from her face.

  ‘It may be lovely, but it is still the Devil’s realm,’ she murmurs. ‘It must be so.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand why you believe this. Why do you follow such a morbid faith?’ Roland’s almost pleading, now. ‘There are bad things, I know. There is blood and pain and suffering, but there are good things too. God’s love is all around us.’

  ‘No.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘God has no power, in this world.’

  ‘But how can you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true! It must be!’ She looks up at last, and her eyes are moist and fierce. ‘I once had a husband,’ she chokes. ‘I also had a baby son. A tiny baby, nine weeks old, who died. He died in great pain, great suffering –’ She stops for a moment. Swallows. Proceeds. ‘If God is good, if God is 202 loving, how could he have allowed that to happen? Death comes to us all, but not that kind of suffering. That was the Devil’s work. The priest said my baby must have suffered for my sins, but I don’t believe it. A loving God wouldn’t punish an innocent child for the sins of his mother. Only a monster would do such a thing.’

  God preserve us. More misery. It’s all too much. I’m so sick of the endless sorrow and anger and betrayal. Wnen will it end? When are we going to get a bit of peace and quiet?