He’s so angry it’s frightening. Any moment now his brain is going to burst out of his ears.
‘But if there were orders – ?’
‘Damn the orders! We’ll fight without orders!’
And off he goes – whoosh! – like a stone from a catapult. Singeing the leather on his boots.
Off to spread the word, probably. Wonder who escaped from Gaza? Wonder if it’s anyone I know? They must have turned up just now . . . gone straight to Lord Roland. Odd that he hasn’t called a chapter to announce the news.
Perhaps I should report for duty. Old Coppertail can miss her rub down, for once.
‘You don’t mind, do you sweetheart?’
A snort from the biting end. This mare doesn’t like me.
‘Pagan?’
Sigebert the Saxon. He must have been down in Walnut’s stall, fanning the flies away. They ought to move his bed in there and have done with it.
‘Oh. Hello, Sig.’
‘Did he say that Ascalon has fallen? Did he?’
‘Ascalon and Gaza.’
‘Oh no!’
He goggles like a stranded fish. Pale, weedy and bloodless; red-rimmed eyes, soapy skin, scabs all over his face and body. One of those people you avoid like the plague.
‘What are we going to do?’ he says.
‘We’re going to do what we’re told.’ (Gathering up my combs and brushes.) ‘The way we always do.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m off to find Lord Roland. I think he’s upstairs somewhere.’
‘Can I come too?’
God preserve us. No thanks.
‘You’d better stay here, Sig, you’ve got a sick horse to look after. Sergeant Tibald will fry your guts if she dies when you’re not around.’
Poor old Sigebert. What a hopeless case. One of those people who make hardened warriors shudder: who can empty a room as fast as a bad smell. When Saladin arrives we should send Sigebert out to meet him. One hour of Sigebert and he’ll be heading back to Damascus as fast as his legs can carry him.
The stairs are empty: Bonetus must have been and gone. First stop, the chapter hall. No one inside. Maynard is sitting near the refectory, staring at the ground. Keep clear of him. He’s been in an odd mood, lately. Around the corner, turn left, and here are the kitchens. Out of bounds. Still no one in sight. Perhaps the latrines . . .? It can be nice and cool in there, on a hot day.
Gildoin is sitting over the sluice drain, lost in thought.
‘Excuse me, sergeant.’
He looks up.
‘Would you know where I can find Lord Roland?’
It takes a while for the question to sink in.
‘Lord Roland?’ Vaguely. ‘No, I don’t. Maybe the Undermarshal . . .’
Maybe the Undermarshal’s office. Stop at the armoury, just in case. There’s a cluster of brown tunics near the door: Welf, Gaspard, Gavin. They look anxious and confused.
‘. . . I never trusted him. I always said so, didn’t I? I always said he had the heart of a mercenary.’ (Gaspard.) ‘Flemings are all the same.’
‘He’s a politician, pure and simple.’ Gavin’s twitching like a fly on a fish-hook. I’ve never seen him so fired up. The sparks are practically shooting from his beard. ‘He came to the Holy Land to seek his fortune, not to fight for God.’
‘Wasn’t he in Raymond of Tripoli’s service?’
‘That’s right. And do you know why he left? Because Raymond promised him an heiress – the first available – and then broke his promise. That’s why Gerard joined the Order. Because he missed out on marrying an heiress. He was never a true Templar.’
‘May God strike him down for his sinfulness.’
Obviously discussing our beloved Grand Master’s treachery. (I didn’t know about the heiress.)
‘What is it, Kidrouk?’
‘Please, sir, I’m looking for Lord Roland.’
‘Well he’s not here. I think he’s with Sergeant Tibald. In the Draper’s office.’
Gavin protests.
‘But I thought they were in the council room?’
‘No, he’s with Sergeant Pons.’ (Gaspard.) ‘I’m sure he is . . .’
No help there. Thanks for nothing. On past Rockhead’s locked door. This is all very strange – very disorganised. Turn left to reach the Undermarshal’s office. There are voices coming from inside.
Knock, knock.
‘Who is it?’
Rockhead’s familiar bark. He jerks the door open. There’s a strange knight standing behind him: very young, very dirty, with big brown eyes and no beard.
Must be one of the escapees from Gaza.
‘Well?’
‘I’m – I’m looking for Lord Roland –’
‘Ask Sergeant Pons.’
Bang! The door slams shut in my face. Such courtesy. And where now, I wonder? The council room? The Draper’s office? The chapel, maybe? That’s an idea. Perhaps Lord Roland’s praying for guidance. It’s the sort of thing he would do.
Back across the courtyard. That knight looked interesting. No beard . . . must be new to the Order. Probably an idealist. Wonder if he brought anyone else along? Certainly hope so. We need all the help we can get.
Turn a corner, and wham! Sergeant Pons.
‘Kidrouk! Have you seen Lord Roland? No? Damn it!’
And away he goes.
What is happening here? I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.
Might as well check the chapel. The door’s open, anyway. Candles burning on the altar. Cool, dim, quiet. A long, high room with an arched ceiling, very simple, no dark little side chapels or clusters of columns or big marble tombs to hide behind.
Nobody here.
Well that’s it, then. It’s a mystery to me. Unless he’s gone back to our room? Oh no – Pons would have looked there, surely.
Still. It’s worth a try.
Passing Bonetus on the way back to the western wing. He’s busy breaking the news to Father Amiel – probably scaring him half to death. Odd that he’s roaming around like this. Why hasn’t Lord Roland called a special chapter? That’s what I want to know.
The door to our room: shut, as usual. Better knock. Just to be on the safe side.
No response.
Give it a push – peer in – look around.
Lord Roland is slumped on the floor in one corner.
‘My lord!
’ Oh God. He’s dead. No – he’s sick. His wound! His scar’s burst.
‘My lord! What’s wrong?! Are you ill? Is it your wound? What is it?’
I’ve never seen him so pale. His eyes open . . . close . . . his skin feels clammy. Oh God, this is awful.
‘I’ll fetch Brother Gavin –’
‘No.’
His voice sounds weak. Breathless. It doesn’t sound like him at all.
‘My lord, you’re sick –’
‘No.’ He opens his eyes again. ‘No. Don’t . . .’
‘But what’s the matter?!’
His head falls forward. He covers his face with his hands. It’s appalling: like watching a mountain crumble before your very eyes.
‘Oh Pagan . . .’ Huskily. ‘Pagan . . .’
‘What is it?!’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
His hands. They’re quite badly scarred. I’ve never noticed it before. Lots of little scars – white – like strands of silk. So many scars, for such a young man.
It’s funny. He can’t be more than – what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?
Oh hell. What’s happening here?
‘But – what do you mean, my lord?’
No reply. This is hopeless. This can’t go on. He has to pull himself together.
‘My lord, what’s wrong? I don’t understand. Is it the Grand Master? Has the Grand Master told you to lay down your arms?’
He looks up.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Is it true? Is that what’s happened?’
‘No .
. .’ He shakes his head. ‘No, but it will. It will. Brother Felix heard him say . . .’
Whoa. Wait a moment.
‘Who’s Brother Felix? Is he the knight with Sergeant Tibald?’
‘Yes, of course. I can’t – you don’t – he – I can’t –’
‘Calm down, my lord.’ Seizing his hands, trying to hold them still. ‘You don’t have to worry. No one in these headquarters is going to take any notice of what Gerard de Ridfort says. You ought to hear them talking about him! They won’t obey his orders.’
‘No. No, no, that’s not – you don’t understand. No.’
‘Well what, then?’
I can’t believe this is happening. He’s got to pull himself together. He’s got to.
‘It’s finished.’ Staring at me. Dazed. ‘There’s nothing left.’
‘What do you mean, there’s nothing left?’ Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Wake up, my lord, wake up. There’s still Jerusalem.’
‘No. You don’t understand. There’s nothing left for me.’
Gazing at each other, across a vast gulf of misunderstanding. Well I don’t know. I mean I really don’t know. It’s all too deep for yours truly.
Suddenly he sighs, and draws his hands away. They’re not shaking any more.
‘How can you understand?’ he says. ‘How many men have you killed? I have killed so many . . . I don’t even know how many. I have been killing men since I was twelve years old. Twelve years old!’
(So?)
‘But you’re a knight, my lord. I mean, that’s what you’re here to do. Isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ He goes grey – quite grey – as if he’s about to throw up. ‘Then I was born for damnation. For eternal hellfire.’
Oh God. This is insane. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘My lord – you’re not serious.’
‘Serious?’ Stiffly. ‘Of course I’m serious. Jesus said, “Put up thy sword into the sheath”. He said, “Turn the other cheek”.’
‘But that’s got nothing to do with you.
’ ‘Why not?’
Why not? Why not? Because you’re perfect. Look at you. Just look at you. If anyone was ever made in God’s image it’s you, Roland.
‘My lord, you must see the difference. You’re not an ordinary person. God made you like this. You were made to fight for God.’
‘How?’
‘Well – um –’ (Well I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the expert.)
‘I was born in a land of slaughter, Pagan. I was born on a battlefield. My father is the biggest butcher in Christendom. He took me from the cradle and welded my sword to my hand. And when I was gorged with blood – when my dreams were so full of ghosts that there was no more room for sleep – I went to the monastery of Saint Jerome, and I begged for a place behind its walls. I begged. On my knees. But the Abbot wouldn’t let me in. He said I was born to fight, and I should fight for God, and he sent me to fight for the city of God.’
‘Jerusalem.’
‘Yes, Jerusalem. I came here to serve the King of Jerusalem. The last king. And I found that the King was a leper. I found that I couldn’t even kiss his hand, he smelt so rotten. And I thought: why would God curse the Holy City with a leper king?’
‘He wasn’t a curse.’ Poor old Baldwin. Poor old King Baldwin. ‘He was a brave king.’
‘But he was a leper, Pagan. A leper. It was surely a sign from God. And when I looked around, I saw that his kingdom was as rotten as its king. I saw thieves at every door, monks consorting with women, Christians cheating pilgrims and trading with the Infidel –’ ‘Well it’s no worse than anywhere else!’
‘But it ought to be better, don’t you see? Or what is there here that’s worth fighting for?’
It’s always the same. The eternal lament of the foreigner. Call this a Holy City? The streets aren’t even clean!
‘So I appealed to the Church once more, and once more the priests bade me fight. The kingdom couldn’t spare me, they said. They told me to join the Templars. To become a Monk of War. They said the Rule of the Order was perfect in its obedience to the divine will, and that by following the Rule I would become one of God’s own liege men.’
‘And that’s exactly what you are!’
He looks up. That look –! Like an enormous weight, settling onto your shoulders.
‘The Rule is broken,’ he says. ‘The Rule is broken by its own guardian. We cannot follow it any more: how can we? It tells us to obey our Grand Master. It tells us to fight to the death. We must break one rule or break another. How can it be our path to salvation now? The path is gone. The truth is gone. There are no rules. There’s nothing.’
And he sits there, staring at the floor, with his hands lying open on his knees, the very picture of despair. While I can’t even begin to understand what he’s saying. It doesn’t make sense. So what if the Rule is broken? We’ll just make a new Rule. It’s not the end of the world.
‘My lord, the Rule doesn’t matter. What matters is the fight. We still have to fight.’
‘For what?’
‘For what? For our lives, that’s what!’
‘But my life is worthless. It has no meaning in the eyes of God. I have spent it killing and killing . . . for no good cause. The Rule is broken. I have no path. How can I reach salvation if I can’t find a path?’
Salvation, salvation. Most of us just take our chances. I don’t know, Roland, somehow I can’t picture you in hell.
‘My lord, I’m not a priest. I have no understanding of these things. If you ask me, I should say that of all the people in the world you’re the most likely to go to heaven – but then I’m no expert. All I know . . .’ (God, all I know is that we need you. We need you.) ‘My lord, without you we’re lost. We’re all lost, here. Please, my lord, this is my country. You can go home, but where can I go? I have nothing but this. Nothing. And – and you’re the only one. There’s no one else. If you give up, what will I do? Please, my lord. You’re a good man. You can’t leave us here. If you leave us, we’re finished. Please . . .’
God. Did I say that? He’s staring – staring – and the blood feels hot in my cheeks. Let go of his arm, Pagan. He looks down as my hand moves: a sleepy, stunned sort of look. Like someone who’s just woken up.
Suddenly the door creaks on its hinges. Sergeant Pons peers in.
He sees Roland, and gapes.
‘My lord! Are you all right?’
‘What?’ Blinking. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right.’
‘But what are you doing down there?’
‘Nothing.’ Roland heaves himself upright. Climbs to his feet. ‘Nothing. What is it?’
‘My lord, I’ve been looking all over. We need to call a council. We need to make decisions –’
‘Yes, of course.’ Glancing at me. He looks pale, still, but collected. Amazing how fast he can recover when he wants to. ‘We’ll call a general chapter, to break the news. Then I want to discuss our strategy with you and Brother Felix, sergeant. Brother Felix will be very useful with his first-hand knowledge. It will help us to know what we’re up against. Pagan?’
‘My lord?’
He seems about to speak, but acts instead. Laying a hand on my shoulder. His grip is as firm as a rock: not heavy, just strong. He stands there, looking down at me, with the colour coming back to his face.
‘Thank you,’ he says at last. ‘Thank you, Pagan. You are right, of course.’
And he smiles before leaving the room.
Part Three
September, 1187
The city of Jerusalem stands alone against Saladin’s army of Infidels.
Chapter 7
From Tancred’s Tower, you can see their flags quite clearly – flashes of colour in the fitful gusts of wind. A hot, dry wind. Kicking up dust in their faces. Carrying snatches of sound across the city walls: the babble of voices, the clash of iron, the whinnying of horses and mules.
Very quiet, on this side. Everyone’s watchin
g. Like birds in a nest, watching a cat at the base of the tree.
Except that there are hundreds of cats . . . maybe thousands. All properly trained and able-bodied. While on this side, at least fifty women and children for every man.
‘There.’ Roland points. ‘Look there.’ A tent rises, billowing, over the busy, steel-capped heads. White and blue and silver. A real home from home.
Must be Saladin’s.
‘What is it?’ Balian, squinting. Who would have thought that the great Lord Balian – Balian ‘just call me Chivalry’ of Ibelin – would turn out to be short-sighted? Quite small, too. And getting on in years. A solid, serious man, balding on top, with a little mouth and a big neck. Quite a shock, after all those stories.
Not the kind of looks to inspire confidence. Not like Roland’s. Still – give Balian his due. He did repel Saladin’s attack on Tyre. And he didn’t do that by posing heroically against a majestic mountainous backdrop.
‘It’s a tent, my lord.’ (Roland.) ‘Very fine. Would it be the Sultan’s?’
‘Without a doubt.’
And what are those things, over there? Like cages on wheels. Cages or scaffolding. Don’t like the look of them at all.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Pagan.’
‘Those strange wooden structures . . .’
‘They are mangonels.’
Mangonels! I’ve heard about mangonels. A mangonel can throw a rock as big as a donkey. And Saladin’s got three of them!
Balian is frowning. ‘We must strengthen this tower with sacks full of cotton and hay. This tower and the citadel.’
‘I’ve already given the order, my lord.’ Roland’s motto: be prepared. He’s not stupid. He’s got every woman, child and greybeard in Jerusalem sewing ox and camel hides into covers for the city’s exposed woodwork, so that it’s protected against the terrible Greek fire. He’s put buckets of sand all along the top of the city walls. He’s removed the awnings from across the streets because they’re a fire hazard, and posted watches and rationed water and built up great piles of wood and dung, so that fires can be lit and lead melted at short notice.
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