Pagan's Crusade

by Catherine Jinks

The pilgrims are staggering along under a load of earthenware bottles. They look up, see us, wave. There are three of them: a man, a woman and a baby.

  One of the sergeants crosses himself.

  ‘Sergeant Bonetus!’ (Saint George, measuring the distance between himself and the dreaded infant with his eyes.) ‘Where is Father Amiel? He should be here by now.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Fetch him quickly. There are women coming.’

  ‘Yes my lord.’

  Bonetus disappears in a cloud of dust. More women are approaching. They wear big, shady hats, and carry bottles and figs and bread and wine, and rags for emergencies. Some ride donkeys, some lead mules. The one with the baby is fat and sunburned, and probably of Saxon stock.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ she cries. ‘Are you going to the Jordan, good gentlemen?’

  No response. The invisible escort, avoiding her eye. Looking around for the priest.

  ‘Excuse me.’ (She’s not about to give up that easily.) ‘We’re going to the Jordan. Are you going to the Jordan?’

  ‘Yes we are.’ Gildoin, gruffly.

  ‘Oh good. Corba! Sweetheart! It’s over here!’ A voice like the squeal of pigs in a slaughterhouse. ‘I wasn’t sure at first,’ she continues, ‘because they said to meet at the Cattle Market, and those look like sheep pens to me.’ Fixing her bright little eyes on Gildoin, who glances in turn at Saint George. No help from that quarter. Templar knights aren’t allowed to speak to the opposite sex.

  But reinforcements are on the way.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’ It’s Father Amiel. ‘Are you part of the Jordan pilgrimage?’

  ‘Yes we are. This is my husband Radulf. Radulf Marti. And I’m Agnes. And this is my baby Gerald. We’re from Piedmont.’

  ‘One moment please.’

  Father Amiel: just a wisp of skin and gristle, held together by clothes. You can practically see right through him. The roll of parchment in his hands looks sturdier than he does.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he quavers. ‘You’re marked down here. From the Venetian group tour?’

  ‘That’s right, Father. The rest are coming. But we’ve lost a few on the way. Poor old Master Cyprien broke his jaw yesterday in the Templar crypt chapel. God’s vengeance, you know.’

  (If they’re not careful, that chaplain’s going to disintegrate under the sheer force of her personality.)

  ‘No.’ A feeble murmur. ‘I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘Haven’t they told you? We were lined up to kiss the cradle of Christ and he tried to bite a bit off it! Can you believe that? For a souvenir! I told him – lovey, I said, there’s no need to steal. You can buy a nice cheap saint’s toenail on every street corner in Jerusalem. It’s the religious relic capital of the world, I said. But he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Yes. I see. Thank you –’

  ‘And then we lost someone on the ship, didn’t we, Radulf? Died of seasickness.’

  Died of seasickness? That I don’t believe. You can’t die of seasickness, sweetheart. No matter how much you might want to, when you have it. ‘But that’s impossible. He couldn’t have died of seasickness. Nobody can.’

  ‘Oh, but he did. He was vomiting over the side and he fell into the sea.’

  ‘Pagan.’ A quiet warning from Saint George. Squires should be seen and not heard, by the look of it. He stares off into space as the pilgrims gather round to check their names off our list. A pretty frightening bunch. Four cripples, nine old men (one obviously senile), four children (three of them blind), a hairy fanatic in rags and bare feet, a sick-looking Cistercian monk, three able-bodied men and eighteen women (four of them nuns). Keeping this lot safe and sound is going to be a real challenge.

  ‘Where are their donkeys, Father?’ Saint George, the Good Shepherd. ‘We seem to be missing at least four.’

  But the chaplain’s ears are otherwise engaged. There’s a noisy foreigner rattling away at his elbow like the Tower of Babel. Don’t recognise the language, myself. Sounds like a drunkard drowning in fish guts.

  ‘Father.’ Saint George raises his voice. ‘Father, we cannot leave until everyone is mounted.’

  ‘Look, my lord.’

  Bonetus points. And there they are! A procession of donkeys moving our way, emerging from behind the awning which usually shelters the Royal Inspector of Weights and Balances. There’s a man leading the procession. Even at this distance, it’s obvious who he is.

  Joscelin.

  ‘That’s our guide,’ Agnes informs the world at large. ‘That’s our guide, and those are our donkeys.’

  (Guide? Guide? If he’s a guide, I’m Saint Lucy of Syracuse.)

  Suddenly the bells start to ring.

  ‘We must get moving.’ Saint George makes his decision. No arguments, no delays. ‘They will open the gates any moment. Father! Is everyone present who should be?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Then I would like to make my announcement. As soon as possible, please.’

  Watch your backs, everyone – Joscelin’s joined the crowd. Dressed in white linen, hair trimmed, no jewellery, sensible walking boots, beasts of burden at his heels. I can’t believe I’m seeing this. Some of the pilgrims surge towards him, eager to grab the best animals. Not that there’s much of a choice, mind you. But as everyone knows, a pilgrim will saddle up anything with more than two legs that’s going in approximately the right direction.

  Joscelin looks up; spots me; stares; blinks; smiles. That’s right, maggot-bag. Smile, why don’t you? Smile while you still have the teeth to smile with.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he chirrups, ‘yes, yes, these are your donkeys. Yes, you can take your choice, Dame Agnes. This one is called Legless, that’s Fang, that’s Manure, that’s Cretin, that’s Corpse, and that’s Apocalypse.’

  Pause. Doubtful glances flash from pilgrim to pilgrim.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Joscelin’s sweetest voice. ‘Corpse isn’t dead. He just stinks, that’s all.’

  A wolf in sheep’s clothing. I can’t believe I’m seeing this. He looks like a choirboy in that outfit. Like the Archangel Gabriel’s maiden aunt. Last time I saw him . . . can’t remember too well. Drunk, of course. In some appalling establishment. Lots of silk pillows, wool carpets, Persian pipes . . . a sick dog, somewhere. And a girl eating plums, spitting the stones at a fat, snoring ship-master who’d just done a deal with Joscelin. A two-year supply of dumb pilgrims – sea-dazzled pilgrims straight off the decks. Shepherded into Joscelin’s arms for a small, regular fee.

  And Joscelin indulging his passion for dates. Licking his sticky fingers with a viper’s tongue. ‘This is my old friend Pagan.’ (Offering me the jug of wine.) ‘We practically grew up together . . .’

  ‘Attention! Attention, please!’ Father Amiel claps his hands. ‘Jordan pilgrims! Quiet for Lord Roland Roucy de Bram! Lord Roland wants to speak to you!’

  Respectful silence. Nobody wants to compete with Saint George. Not even Joscelin, who’s reserved ‘Apocalypse’ for himself. Everyone puts on that pious, sheepish expression – the look you see on people in church when they’ve just spent six months breaking all ten commandments plus a few more they’ve thought up themselves.

  ‘God’s pilgrims,’ Saint George intones, ‘on behalf of the Order of the Temple, I welcome you to Jerusalem. These ten soldiers in Christ – and myself, of course – will be your escort to the holy river of Jordan today. Usually the Order provides one Templar knight for every five pilgrims. Unfortunately, for the safety of this kingdom (which is currently threatened by the armies of that arch-Infidel Saladin) we cannot spare so many knights at this time. But the sergeants you see before you will serve as devoutly and courageously as any knight.’

  Disappointment reigns. What, no aristocrats? (But I promised Auntie Maud . . .)

  ‘There are only three rules governing this journey.’ Saint George, ignoring the general reaction. ‘The first is that we shall stop twice on our way to, and twice on our way from, the holy river. So anyone with dy
sentery or other stomach problems must forgo this trip. We cannot afford to stop too many times if we want to return before sunset.

  ‘Secondly, there is a restriction on the number of holy-water bottles you can fill at the Jordan. From past experience we have found that any more than eight bottles per pilgrim will severely hamper our progress.’

  Groans of dismay.

  ‘I’m sorry if this will inconvenience you, but it’s for your own safety. Now, the third and final rule is that when I tell you to do something, you must do it. If you don’t, it will probably cost you your life.

  ‘That is all I have to say, except that I hope you will all benefit from the holy river’s healing waters and that you will join Father Amiel in a prayer before we leave.’

  A spattering of applause, undercut by discontented murmurs. (Half the bottles will have to go. But what about Grandma? And what about Uncle Edmund? We have to bring some back for him, because of his skin ulcers . . .)

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Now it’s Father Amiel’s turn. ‘I think Psalm Three would be appropriate. “Lord, how art they increased that trouble me! Many are they that rise up against me. But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me: my glory and the lifter up of mine head. I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people that have set themselves against me round about. Arise, O Lord; save me, O my God: for thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheek bone; thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly. Salvation belongeth to the Lord: thy blessing is upon thy people.” ’

  Amen.

  Still very early. Dew in the shadows, chill in the air, shepherds on the road heading for Jerusalem. Their flocks are nervous and obedient. Not like ours. Ours is full of pious pea-heads who want to linger over every sacred sight. First stop: Bethany. Straggling village famous for a particularly nasty murder four years ago, when some miller was hacked to pieces and the limbs thrown around a pigsty. No mention of that, naturally. Joscelin pointing out notable features.

  ‘On your right is the village of Bethany, at the foot of the Mount of Olives, which was the home of Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha. His crypt lies beneath that church, which is the Church of Lazarus. The other church is the Church of Saint Mary Magdalene. Bethany was also the home of Simon the Leper, where our Lord Jesus Christ lodged during Holy Week. If you look in the Church of Lazarus, you will see the broken alabaster box from the Gospel of Matthew. This box is known to have healed palsy and some convulsive ailments. The tower you see belongs to the convent of Queen Melisande, who was our queen here from 1131 until 1161 – a very holy woman who contributed greatly to the beauty of our sacred places.’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce.

  ‘And that rock, Master Joscelin?’ The nun with the frog’s face. ‘Will you tell us about that rock, please?’

  ‘That rock?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Can’t believe his ears. But treads carefully, as usual. ‘You want to know about that rock,’ he repeats.

  ‘Well look how it’s cloven into three parts! One cleft in three, like the Holy Trinity! Surely it must be the scene of some miracle?’

  Poor, stupid Frogface. Her bulging eyes are wet with emotion. People like Frogface think Jerusalem’s streets are paved with the bones of martyrs, and every sunbeam is solid gold. You can’t help feeling sorry for them – especially with leeches like Joscelin around.

  ‘Oh, that rock!’ he says. ‘Of course, Sister. That’s where they buried the man who ate one of the swine that had devils in them, from the Gospel of Matthew chapter eight. He wouldn’t lie down when he was dead, you see, so they had to roll that big rock on top of him. And God smote the rock to kill the devil. And that’s why it’s now in three parts.’

  Gasps of amazement. But all lies, of course. Lies are Joscelin’s stock in trade. The question is, should I tell someone? Should I tell Saint George that we’re presently escorting a thief, blackmailer and notorious corrupter of women? Someone who cheats dumb pilgrims when they want to exchange their foreign money for local dinars? Someone who gets them drunk and pushes them into the arms of other thieves, so that they’re left with nothing except the dirt under their fingernails?

  I should, of course. But it might be awkward. It might cast a murky light on my own history. (Is that so, Pagan? And how do you come to know all this? And where did you meet this man? And how long have you been acquainted with him?)

  They might throw me out of the Order. Which is a risk I can’t take – not just now. Not when things are so difficult.

  ‘Which saint am I?’ Now Frogface has started a game of ‘Saints’. Filling in time until the next sacred monument. ‘My name begins with “A” –’

  ‘Antony.’

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘Agnes,’ says Agnes. (Don’t tell me she can read!)

  Father Raimbaut, the sickly Cistercian, clears his throat beside her. He looks like something that’s been buried for ten years, then dug up and left out in the rain.

  ‘Adalbert of Prague,’ he murmurs.

  ‘No.’ Frogface shakes her head. ‘I was an English archbishop –’

  ‘Augustine!’ Input from Corba, the merchant’s widow. Heavily pious. A bundle of nerves wrapped up in fine wool. ‘Oh, no – Augustine came from Rome . . .’

  ‘Ambrose?’ (Joscelin.)

  ‘No. I was Archbishop of Canterbury –’

  ‘Aelfric! Aelfric!’ (Corba’s getting over-excited.) ‘Is it Aelfric?’

  ‘Aelfric wasn’t a saint. I was Archbishop of Canterbury, and I was stoned to death in Greenwich by the Danes.’

  Long pause. This one’s a real brain-strangler. Raimbaut chews his thumbnail.

  ‘Anselm?’ he suggests. ‘What happened to Saint Anselm?’

  ‘I give up,’ says Agnes.

  ‘So do I.’ (Joscelin.)

  ‘It must be Anselm. He was Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  ‘No. Give up?’

  ‘It’s – um – it’s –’

  ‘Yes, we give up,’ says Agnes. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Saint Alphege!’

  A chorus of groans. Father Raimbaut looks disgusted.

  ‘I knew it,’ he says. ‘It was on the tip of my tongue . . .’

  ‘Your turn, Mistress Agnes.’ Frogface, graciously. ‘If you think you can . . .?’

  ‘Right.’ Agnes is the colour of minced beef, and shiny with sweat, but she looks a lot more cheerful than her donkey – whose knees are beginning to tremble under the combined weight of Agnes, Gerald and a hearty breakfast. ‘This is really difficult. I learned it from a nun and it will destroy you. Which saint am I? My name begins with “U”–’

  ‘Ursula!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Frogface can’t believe her ears. ‘But that’s the only “U” there is!’

  ‘I said it was difficult.’

  ‘Urban?’ (Raimbaut.) ‘One of the popes?’

  ‘No. I was a bishop –’

  ‘Oh!’ Frogface almost falls off her donkey. ‘I know! I know! Ulrich of Augsberg!

  ’ ‘No. I was Bishop of Samosata, and I was killed by a blow on the head from an Aryan heretic in Syria.’

  A long, long silence. Brains are wracked. Faces fall.

  No one has any suggestions.

  ‘We give up,’ says Joscelin.

  ‘Yes, we give up.’

  ‘I knew you would.’ Agnes beams. ‘It’s Saint Eusebius!’

  Saint who? (Didn’t even know there was one.) People glance at each other, embarrassed by their own ignorance. Father Raimbaut frowns.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ He sounds puzzled. ‘Saint Eusebius was a Roman pope. He died in Sicily.’

  ‘Oh no, Father. The nun told me. He died in Syria.’

  ‘Unless there were two of them . . . What’s his feast day?’

  ‘Um – now she told me that, too. Let me think . . .’

  I wonder if anyone’s going to point out the obvious?

  Agnes furrows her brow over the problem, until she works out tha
t the feast day was on June twenty-first. Aha! That explains it. Raimbaut’s saint has his feast day on the seventeenth of August. Clearly they’re two entirely different saints. But it’s no good – I can’t hold back any longer.

  ‘Excuse me. Doesn’t Eusebius begin with an “E”?’

  Father Raimbaut slaps his forehead. Of course! It turns out that Agnes can’t read, though she does know the sound of one or two letters. I didn’t think this game was going to get very far.

  ‘Pagan.’

  Duty calls. He’s a pace or two ahead, trying to maintain a professional silence. You can tell he’s displeased by the way his nostrils twitch.

  Time to kick a little speed into this idle nag.

  ‘I have asked you to stay close to me, Pagan.’ Solemnly. ‘Please keep this in mind.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And I would prefer it if you didn’t talk to the pilgrims. We are not here to entertain them.’

  (Come again?)

  ‘But I didn’t!’

  ‘I heard you. Now I believe Brother Tibald talked about brigands in yesterday’s chapter of squires. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Did he talk about the Valley of Running?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ (At least I don’t think he did.)

  Saint George lifts an eyebrow. Something tells me I must have missed the bit about the Valley of Running.

  ‘The Valley of Running lies between here and the Jordan,’ he explains. ‘It is a narrow and very dangerous gorge which brigands tend to favour when they ambush our escorts.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Good. So can you tell me what is the best method of defence on such a road?’

  Damn, damn, damn. If I’d known we were going to be tested, I’d have paid more attention to Rockhead’s talk. This is like Saint Joseph’s all over again.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, my lord . . . I think the best method of defence would probably be to run like hell.’

  A long, long silence. Saint George seems to be choosing his words with care.

  ‘Speed is essential.’ (Unenthusiastically.) ‘But it’s more than a matter of speed, Pagan. When you’re moving fast, it’s the vanguard which becomes the archers’ target, while those in the centre are exposed to the full force of the running attack. So it’s important to put the shields up front, and the swords behind them. Do you understand?’