Pagan's Crusade

by Catherine Jinks

  Lord Roland watches with folded arms. Not a flicker of feeling. Talk, you louse. Why don’t you talk? Wouldn’t let me talk. Are we going to forget this ever happened? Save it, you said. Save it for when?

  I can’t think of a good lie to tell him. Passing thieves? He won’t believe that. Jealous husband? That’s even worse. I’m so tired, I just can’t think.

  ‘Right.’ Gavin steps back, wiping his hands on his tunic. ‘That about does it. I’ll give you a draught to help you sleep, and you should take an extra blanket to bed with you. I have one here, if you like . . .’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Lord Roland wakens from his trance. ‘Thank you, Brother. Your skill has been invaluable, as always.’

  A compliment for Gavin: a curt nod for me. (Put your clothes on, scum-bucket.) Hobbling after him like a drunken leper, through the door, past the kitchens, across the courtyard. Golden lights in the dusk. A gentle murmur from the Draper’s office. Quiet. Cosy.

  Safe.

  Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God; defend me from them that rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from bloody men. For lo, they lie in wait for my soul; the mighty are gathered against me.

  The door to his chamber – his and mine. My palliasse near the tiny window. My blanket, my cup, my spoon. Mine but not mine. I suppose they’ll go to someone else when I leave.

  ‘Sit down, Pagan.’

  Easier said than done, of course. He lights an oil lamp as I lower my throbbing collection of bruises onto the bed (delicately, like a mother delousing her only child). And turns to face me.

  ‘All right.’ Folding his arms. ‘I want the truth, Pagan. The whole story. From the beginning.’

  The whole story, from the beginning. In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word was God. Once upon a time there was a boy called Pagan . . . How can I tell you the whole story, my lord? You wouldn’t understand it. You’re such a good man, you don’t know what it’s like to be bad.

  ‘My lord, I owe some money.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘Well – originally it was a gambling debt. But I paid that off with protection money. It’s a bit hard to explain . . . Have you ever heard of the Silver Ring?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know much about them myself, but basically they’re a bunch of villains who manage the trade in stolen goods on the fringes of the Latin Exchange. A lot of the pawnbrokers are involved. It’s all very shady, as you can imagine.’ (Or maybe you can’t.) ‘Anyway, they’ve always got people hanging around the cock fights and dice games, offering loans to the desperate. Like me. That’s where I got involved with them. Thought I was on a winner. But I wasn’t, of course, and I had to cough up the money or lose a couple of limbs. They’re very dangerous people – if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, at that stage I was with the garrison. The city garrison. I used to patrol the Jewry quarter. Do you know the Street of the Flowers? You might think you do, but you don’t really. It’s the filthiest place – you wouldn’t believe what goes on there. And it’s allowed to go on because the Viscount of Jerusalem gets his cut of the profits. The Viscount and the Master-Sergeant. As long as they get paid, the filthier businesses can go about their . . . well, their business.’

  Spare him the sordid details. It’s a bit much already, by the look of things. Stunned gaze, knitted brows. Lord Roland is having trouble trying to grasp these unfamiliar concepts.

  ‘Are you – have you proof of this?’

  ‘My lord, we used to collect the Viscount’s money ourselves. When we were on night patrol. That’s how I paid off the Silver Ring. I took the money I’d collected from one of these businesses, and then I pretended it hadn’t paid up. They found out in the end, of course, but I managed to escape just in time. To these headquarters. They’re the only safe place in the city, for me. Because no outsider can get in, and I never go out alone.’

  So there it is. The unvarnished truth. You wanted it, you’ve got it – for all the good it does. Now what are you going to do with it, my lord? That’s the big question.

  ‘The men who attacked you . . . they were the Viscount’s men?’

  ‘My lord, they’re from the garrison night watch. Just like me. They must have had their orders.’

  ‘And what about that guide? The one who lured you into the ambush.’

  So you were watching all the time, then? I’d never have known it.

  ‘You mean Joscelin?’ Good question. ‘Joscelin’s not on the night watch, my lord. I don’t know how he got involved. Must have struck a deal with the Master-Sergeant, just in case I was on the Jordan escort. He might be paying protection money himself. I know he’s in business somewhere around the Latin quarter.’

  Roland shakes his head, walks to the window. Standing there with his hands on his hips. Straight. Solemn. Still in full armour. Oh well. At least if he does throw me out, I’ll never have to clean that thrice-damned chain mail ever again.

  He turns.

  ‘Do you know, Pagan, that I can neither read nor write?’

  (Beg your pardon?)

  ‘My father cannot read, either. Nor my brothers. We were trained to fight, you see. And our priest was old and simple. He had forgotten most of his learning. We used to go to Abbot Cyprien when we needed help. A very wise, very learned man. A man most worthy of respect.’

  He throws me one of those long, blue looks. One of those serious looks aimed straight at the heart.

  ‘Do you understand what a wonderful gift you have been granted, Pagan? Do you understand how God has blessed you, with this gift of learning?’

  Who, me? The butt of the backstreets? You’re thinking of someone else, surely.

  ‘My lord, I’d rather have been blessed with a strong right arm. Or fists like lead melons. Or even sharp fingernails would do. Something a bit useful.

  ’ A reasonable request, I would have thought. Especially for someone in my condition. But he sighs, slowly, as if I’d just told him that tapeworms are human too.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Pagan.’ (Sounds familiar.) ‘You’re clumsy, you’re untrained, you have no – no calling, no discipline, no discretion and no sense of responsibility. You have fallen among wicked men, and delighted in wicked deeds. I know you’re young, but – Pagan, surely with your gift of learning, and your quickness of mind – you must have seen what you were doing. You must have chosen your own path. Only fools lose their way among sinners, Pagan, and you’re no fool.’

  God preserve us. This is worse than the beating. Why not give me the boot and have done with it? I can’t stand this kind of thing.

  He plants himself right in front of my nose, forcing my chin up.

  ‘Look at me, Pagan.’ (As if I had a choice!) ‘God gave you learning for a reason. And He brought you to me for a reason. And I know He didn’t turn you from the path to hell just so that I could throw you back into the maw of the Seven-Headed Beast. Do you understand what I’m saying? Pagan? Do you understand?’

  ‘You’re – you’re going to let me stay? In the Order?’

  ‘Yes. Because I am His servant in all things. And buzz, buzz, buzz, zzzz . . .’

  Can’t hear what he’s saying. Head feels funny – like an inflated wineskin. Ears hum. Eyes swim. Sick with relief.

  Literally.

  ‘Excuse me, my lord.’ Gasping. ‘I think – I think I’m going to throw up . . .’

  Nice move, Pagan. Show your undying gratitude by vomiting all over the poor man’s bed-chamber floor.

  Oh well – never mind. We all know who’ll be cleaning it up afterwards. And it won’t be Lord Roland Roucy de Bram.

  Part Two

  July, 1187

  The kingdom of Jerusalem waits for news, as its King leads a great army into Galilee to fight the invader Saladin.

  Chapter 4

  And on the eighth day the Lord God formed a man from a dungheap, and breathed
into his nostrils the breath of life, and the dungheap became a living soul called Odo – who to this day retains all the nobility, wisdom and grace of the dungheap which fathered him.

  Here he comes now: the walking dungheap. Exuding a smell of rotten vegetables. The charm of a dead cow, the wit of a swamp. Beside him, Arnulf. Arnulf the parsnip. Long, pale and stringy, with slimy black eyes like over-ripe olives dipped in oil. Slouching along in an outsize tunic, the skirts flapping limply around his calves. Kicking up the dust with his sandals.

  What a splendid pair. What an inspiration. With these men on our side, who needs God?

  ‘Hey!’ The thick, clotted voice of the Dungheap. (He’s seen me at last.) ‘We’ve been looking for you! We’ve been looking all over! Where the hell have you been?’

  It’s no use replying. He probably wouldn’t understand if I did. Arnulf’s the one with the bigger brain, even though his head’s a lot smaller. The Dungheap has a head like a side of beef with ears.

  ‘What’s up, Arnulf? Odo? Have you lost something? Your wits, maybe?’

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny.’ Arnulf shuffles over and sits down beside me on the bench. It’s a small bench, stone, made for three normal people. But there’s not enough room for the Dungheap’s vast backside. He stands there, blocking the view.

  ‘So what are you doing, pretty maid?’ (Arnulf airs his stunted sense of humour.) ‘Sewing your trousseau? Eh? Sewing your bridal gown?’

  ‘That’s right, Arn. I’m getting married tomorrow. Sergeant Tibald has asked me to be his wife.’

  A soggy explosion of sniggers from Arnulf. The Dungheap just gawks. Wouldn’t know a joke if it crawled up his nose and died there. Arnulf drags the robe from my lap. It’s Lord Roland’s indoor winter robe, long and plain, white wool with sleeves to the wrist. Pulled it out of the linen chest, this morning; checked it for moth holes; discovered that the hem had come down. So now I have to sew it up again.

  Took me practically half a day just to thread the needle.

  ‘Well now, isn’t this a vision of loveliness?’ Arnulf croons. ‘Won’t you look a picture in this?’

  ‘Give it here, Arn.’

  ‘Won’t he look a picture, Odo?’

  ‘Arn, that’s Lord Roland’s. Give it here.’

  Someone emerges from the latrines. Sergeant Welf. He peers across the courtyard, sizing us up. Will he or won’t he? Rockhead would. If it was Rockhead, we’d be licking the gutters clean by now. (The hand of the diligent shall bear rule, but the slothful shall be under tribute: Proverbs chapter twelve.) Welf, however, isn’t one of nature’s tyrants – though as a volunteer Templar he ranks above us all. He sniffs, in a neutral sort of way, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Then he moves off towards the stables.

  All clear.

  ‘Listen, you two. Don’t you have something to keep yourselves occupied? Something dirty, perhaps? Or dangerous?’ Even as I speak Arnulf spits, athletically. (You’ve got to admire the distance he covers.) ‘Why don’t you go and challenge the cook to a spit-off, Arn? First to hit the soup from twenty paces.’

  Arnulf snorts.

  ‘We have got something to do,’ he says. ‘But we need your help. We need three people.’

  ‘If it’s another roach race, you can count me out. They’re not worth the effort.’

  ‘Nah.’ He lowers his voice, leaning closer. The pores on his face are cavernous. ‘It’s not a roach race. It’s not rats, either. We just want to piss in Sergeant Tibald’s helmet.’

  Odo erupts. Giggling into his beard with a noise like sewage running down a drain. Best to pretend he’s not there.

  ‘The helmet’s in his office, I suppose?’ (Stalling.)

  ‘The helmet’s in his office, and he’s in a chapter with the Under-marshal. We’ve checked.’

  ‘All right. But what do you need three people for? His head isn’t that big, is it? You wouldn’t need three bladders full.’

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny.’

  ‘We’ve got to guard the approaches.’ A kind word of explanation from the Dungheap. (Really, you know, he’s as thick as sour milk.) ‘There are two ways of reaching his room.’

  ‘Oh, are there? Well thanks, Odo. Thanks for telling me.’

  Arnulf rises.

  ‘You coming, or not?’ he says. ‘We have to move fast.’

  It’s tempting. Very tempting. In fact you could almost say it was divine retribution.

  ‘All right, I’ll come. And I’ll stand guard. But I’m not doing the business.’

  Arnulf sneers – one of the ugliest sights in Christendom. His teeth look exactly like dead flies.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he says. ‘You scared?’

  ‘No, I’m not scared.’ (You pin-headed louse.) ‘But I can’t piss while other people are listening, all right? Now let’s go.’

  Rockhead’s office isn’t far from Lord Roland’s room. You cross the old cloister heading west, and it’s in the new wing with the peaked roof, just next to the armoury. No one about, of course. Garrison numbers are depleted in any case, and at this time of the afternoon nearly everyone’s down in the stables, worshipping their horses. Arnulf volunteers to guard the eastern approach.

  ‘Pagan can watch the stairs,’ he hisses, ‘and Odo can do the job. If someone comes, just whistle. And when you’re finished, Odo, you must collect me, and then we’ll backtrack past Pagan and leave by the stairs. Got that?’

  ‘Ummm . . . no.’

  Once more for the Dungheap. No use hanging about. It’s twenty-five paces to the top of the stairs. Past Rockhead’s closed door, past the entrance to the armoury. All clear at this end. Someone’s spilled lamp oil on the second step down – just where you’re certain to slip on it. Strange that someone hasn’t slipped already.

  Perhaps I ought to clean it up . . .

  ‘Hey! Hey Arnulf!’

  The Dungheap. (Stupid fool. What’s he shouting for?)

  ‘Hey Arnulf, I can’t get in!’

  Well that’s it, then. Pity. Wouldn’t have expected a lock on the door. I mean, what’s in there to guard? Except account books.

  ‘Don’t force it!’ Arnulf’s voice, echoing down the passage. Better see what’s going on. Past the armoury (again), round the corner (again) . . . and there he is. Trying to stop Odo from breaking the door down. ‘You can’t open it, Odo, it’s locked,’ he says. ‘There’s a lock on it.’

  ‘Then how do we get in?’

  Good question. First good question the Dungheap’s ever asked, I suspect. Time to make tracks.

  ‘Come on, you two. Let’s go.’

  ‘Wait.’ Arnulf’s thinking. You can tell by the way his veins throb. ‘What about the window?’

  ‘The window?’ (That arrow-slit?) ‘Arnulf, it’s about two fingers wide. You can’t expect anyone to crawl through that.’

  ‘No, but – well, if you could just aim properly . . .’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce.

  ‘You must be joking.

  ’ ‘Pagan?’

  Dead shock.

  It’s Lord Roland.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Standing there in his long white robe. What am I doing? Glance at Arnulf. No help there. All the blood’s drained from his head to his ankles.

  Come on, Pagan, think.

  ‘We – we were looking for Sergeant Tibald, my lord.’

  ‘Well he’s not here. He’s with Sergeant Pons. What did you want him for?’

  ‘Oh – it was just a question. About our pay.’

  ‘I see.’ His blue eyes drop to the bundle in my arms. ‘Have you finished with that tunic?’

  ‘Uh – no, my lord.’

  ‘Then I suggest you keep your question for later. When you’ve completed your task.’ A long, hard stare for the Dungheap, who goggles back like a sun-struck mule. Arnulf examines his toenails. ‘I’m sure these men have their own jobs to do. Is that not so, sergeant?’

  It’s a tough one. Will the Dungheap’s brain coll
apse under the pressure? But Arnulf takes his arm to lead him away, and Lord Roland waits in silence until they’re out of sight.

  He looks a little pinched around the nostrils – as if he’s just smelt something unpleasant.

  ‘I hope you’re not spending too much time with those men,’ he murmurs. ‘I doubt you’ll benefit from their acquaintance.’

  ‘Oh really? Do you know them, my lord?’

  ‘Of course not.’ (Perish the thought.) ‘But I’m familiar with their . . . they have a reputation. A bad one. They are of dubious character, and are therefore unsuitable companions.’

  Are they indeed?

  ‘If they’re dubious characters, my lord, what are they doing in the Order?’

  Whoops! Just a little too artless. He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I hope you’re not questioning our judgement, Pagan?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Take my advice. Do not associate with such people. They have nothing to offer a person of your intelligence.’

  Well I’m glad you think so. Trailing after him as he moves down the corridor. Fighting the urge to pull a face at his back.

  ‘I know I haven’t given enough time to you since Brother Amalric left for the coast, Pagan. There’s so much to do, as Commander of this house. I’ve commanded many forts, and Safed wasn’t small, but these headquarters are quite different.’ Nevertheless, he hopes I’ll have the good sense and discipline to keep myself usefully employed even without his constant guidance and attention etc. etc. etc. (Pardon me while I catch up on my sleep.) Down four steps, turn right through the archway, and here’s our room – with two people outside it.

  One of them is Sergeant Pons, looking worried. The other is an unknown cleric – a priest, perhaps? – with a round, sweaty face.

  ‘My lord!’ Pons leaps forward. (He’s a nervy type, always jumping about like a grasshopper.) ‘A message, my lord! From the Patriarch!’

  ‘It’s urgent, my lord.’ The cleric chimes in. ‘Your presence is urgently required, by your leave. It’s very important. Very important.’