Pagan's Crusade

by Catherine Jinks

’ ‘Shut up.’ Push his head down, hard, to strike the floor. A nice little clunk of bone on wood. ‘I’m not going to kill you. I wouldn’t risk getting myself that dirty.’

  ‘What – what do you want?’

  ‘Money. I want money.’ The smooth texture of silk on his back: figured silk – damask – in blue, white and gold. Imported. Expensive. ‘Fifty dinars, to be precise.’

  ‘Fifty dinars!’

  ‘Or you won’t get the chance to buy your freedom. It just so happens I’ve met Saladin, and he’s a man of honour. He wouldn’t even think of letting you loose on the world, if he knew what I know –’ Sudden lurch as he bucks. Not a hope, Delilah. Didn’t even lose my balance. All that Templar training is beginning to pay off.

  ‘Don’t make me angry, Joscelin.’

  ‘But I don’t have it! I don’t have fifty dinars!’ Panting like a dog in the heat. ‘I barely have enough to pay my own ransom . . .’

  Look around the room. It’s small, low, crowded. Stacked with firewood and buckets – endless buckets. A tiny brazier. A palliasse under a heap of tangled fabric, fustian and linen and fine wool. A painted chest. A dented cooking pot. A broken sandal.

  Where did all his carpets go?

  ‘They’ve been bleeding me dry,’ he quavers. ‘I’ve had to sell everything . . .’

  ‘Who have?’

  ‘The Silver Ring. They think I can pay my dues when there’s no business. How can I take money from pilgrims when there’s a war on?’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘It’s true! See for yourself ! There’s only the clothes on my back, now.’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Could he be telling the truth? But he never tells the truth. Never.

  ‘What’s in that chest?’

  ‘Nothing. Garbage. Take it, if you want – it isn’t worth a dinar.’

  ‘What about these clothes? They must be worth a bit.’

  ‘You can’t have my clothes!’ (Shrilly.) ‘They’re all I have left! I’m paying my ransom with these clothes!’

  ‘Take them off.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Do you want me to take them off for you?’ Tugging his hair. ‘Because you won’t enjoy it, I promise.’

  ‘Ow! Ow – all right. All right . . .’

  Shifting my weight, slowly. Pulling back behind a cocked fist, ready for anything. He rolls over, sits up, sneezes. No sudden moves.

  ‘Stay there, Joscelin. Just take them off down there.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Do it!’

  He wriggles out of his silken surcote, dragging it over his head, folding it into a bundle, aiming it, throwing it. Whoops! Caught it. Underneath, he’s wearing a blue linen tunic embroidered at the sleeves and hem. Pulling it off and – whump! Damnation! Right in my face –

  Off he goes, across the floor, grabs the knife, spins around, yells, stabs, misses. Hard to his head. Crack! Knuckles hit his cheekbone. Thrown sideways, drops the knife. I’ll take that.

  Using the left hand: my right is killing me.

  ‘You want your knife, Joscelin?’ (Gasping. ) ‘Because I’ll give it to you. I’ll give it to you in the guts.’

  ‘No! Don’t – don’t –’ Tearfully. Cowering there in his breeches, his skin pulled tight over his ribs. As pale as a maggot. Arms like chicken bones. Mottled with the yellowish smears of old bruises – he always bruised easily – at Saint Joseph’s he was a walking bruise . . .

  Oh, hell. What am I doing here? I’m beyond this, now. This is all in the past. It’s mean and low and pathetic and filthy and I don’t want anything more to do with it.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Joscelin. I wouldn’t waste my energy. And I don’t want your clothes – they smell bad.’ (Ouch, my knuckles. Hope nothing’s broken.) ‘But I’ll take this knife, maybe it’s worth a few dinars.

  No reply. He’s wobbling about on all fours like a newborn lamb, dazed, dishevelled. Looking down, you can see the scars on his sticky white back. Scars from Brother Benedict’s wooden cane.

  What a miserable creature.

  ‘Goodbye, Joscelin. May we never meet again, in this world or the next, and may you spend all eternity with Brother Benedict in a pit full of rotten vegetable peelings.’

  One more look at his pale, pointed face, with its long eyes and short nose, disappearing behind the door as it swings shut. Outside, the air seems fresher, sweeter, and the light is dazzling. Praise the Lord, who brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock . . .

  But I still don’t have fifty dinars.

  There’s a whole crowd of people here already – most of them down on their knees. A buzz of whispers, echoing around the cavernous dome, the arches, the chapels. Sobs and moans and the occasional beating of breasts. Mosaics flickering in the light of a thousand votive candles . . . great mountains of wax . . . never seen anything like it.

  All praying for a miracle, I suppose.

  Just think of the number of prayers flying up to heaven, right at this very instant. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Hundreds of thousands from the Holy Sepulchre alone. And most of them for money, of course. It’s enough to make you despair. How am I ever going to make myself heard through this lot?

  First thing to do is get close to the altar. You’re nearer to God, around the altar. If this fishmonger’s wife would just move her fat carcass . . . There. Thank you. Now. What do I want? I want fifty dinars.

  Praise ye the Lord. Bow down thine ear, O Lord, for I am poor and needy. Deal bountifully with me for the sake of my master, O Lord, who is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous, and walketh in the law of the Lord, and I will behave myself wisely in a perfect way, and set no wicked thing before mine eyes –

  ‘Pagan! Pagan Kidrouk!’

  An urgent hiss. Spin around, peer through the gloom; it’s Sigebert the Saxon.

  Terrific.

  ‘Pagan Kidrouk, what are you doing here?’

  Sigh. The Lord give me strength and endurance. I’ll never understand why God took the lives of men like Bonetus and Maynard and Pons, but left Sigebert here to annoy us. Unless He doesn’t particularly want Sigebert up there with Him. That I can understand.

  ‘I’m praying, Sig. What do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Lord Roland has been looking everywhere for you. You have to go to him right away.’

  ‘When I’m finished.’

  ‘No – now. He told me.’ (Fish-eyes popping with distress.) ‘He told me I had to bring you back at once.’

  And I suppose you’ll start bleeding at the pores, if you have to wait. God preserve us. What am I going to do?

  Unless . . .

  ‘Why does he want to see me, Sig? Anything special?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please, Pagan –’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m coming.’ Perhaps Roland has changed his mind. Perhaps the force of reasoned argument . . . well, it’s possible. Following Sigebert back down the nave, picking a path through the huddled worshippers. Which reminds me.

  ‘Sigebert?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I just said. I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?’

  ‘Well why not? Everyone else seems to be here.’

  Out in the sunlight, as harsh as a hairshirt. Sigebert wasn’t made for the sun. He belongs underground, in the dark, like a pale, blind, burrowing creature. His bleached hair, his bloodless face, his oyster eyes screwed up in a squint – he looks like a ghost.

  Quick march through a square full of grieving paupers.

  ‘It’s sad, isn’t it?’ Sigebert unburdens his sensitive soul as he shakes off a clinging beggar, a woman with a child at her breast. ‘If only we had enough money, they could all be saved.’

  Sigebert the Man of Great Wisdom. What would we do without his profound insight?

  ‘Really, Sig? Is that a fact?’

  ‘But they
might be lucky, I suppose.’ Drivelling on, God help us. ‘Perhaps Saladin’s brother will ask for another thousand, do you think? Or somebody else will . . .’

  ‘Sigebert, where are you going?’ (You slug-brained moron.) ‘It’s this way.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Headquarters, stupid!’

  ‘Oh – we’re not going there.’ Scratching his armpit. Chewing his bottom lip. ‘We’re going to the Patriarch’s palace.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where Saladin is. Come on.’

  Wait just a moment. I don’t understand. Whoa, there!

  ‘What’s Saladin got to do with it? Sigebert? I thought you said Lord Roland sent you?’

  ‘Yes, but he was going to meet with Saladin, just like everyone else. Because of Saladin’s brother.’

  ‘Saladin’s brother?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t suppose you’ve heard.’ (The light dawns, at last.) ‘Saladin’s brother asked Saladin for one thousand poor captives as a reward for his services, and then he set them free. Because he was so sorry for them.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, I’m not. So now the Patriarch and Lord Balian have gone to ask Saladin if they can have some captives to set free. Because we can’t afford all the ransoms.’

  Well I’ll be – whoops! And off he goes. Trotting away down Jaffa Street, knock-kneed and slope-shouldered, with everything dangling and bouncing and swinging with each footfall: his arms, hands, head, scabbard, belt-pouch, everything. ‘Come on, Pagan! Hurry!’ Moving west, towards the Patriarch’s palace.

  Yes, yes, I’m coming.

  So, the Great Man does it again. Yet another grand gesture that will go down in history. Like that time years ago, when he was besieging the castle of Kerak de Chevaliers during somebody’s wedding, and he wouldn’t let his engines bombard the bridal suite. Saladin the Noble Infidel. The Flower of Chivalry.

  I wonder if . . .? No. Maybe? It’s certainly worth a try.

  Eight more steps, around the corner and – behold! The Patriarch’s palace. With Infidel sentries guarding the door. Two men in turbans, one of them chewing sunflower seeds. Both staring at Sigebert as if they’ve never seen such a freak before in their lives.

  God knows, I can’t blame them.

  ‘Um . . . Lord Roland?’ he quavers. ‘Lord Roland wants to see us? He’s inside . . .’

  Totally unintelligible. The guard just stands there, chewing. Looks as though he doesn’t speak Frankish.

  ‘Templar? Templar?’

  Well you can hang about here all day chatting, Sig. I have things to do. March straight past the smaller guard, who doesn’t lift so much as an eyebrow. Must be some kind of symbolic sentry – just to show everyone who’s in command. The courtyard’s buzzing: thick with horses, people, supplies. Cages full of chickens. Raised voices near the water trough. A powerful smell of manure. Infidels, Infidels and more Infidels.

  ‘Lord Roland said he’d be in the council room.’ Sigebert, over my shoulder. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Yes I do. It’s this way.’ Through the door, up the stairs, and what a rabble! What a noise! All these dark faces, oiled black hair . . . chatter, chatter . . . the spicy scent of them, jammed cheek to cheek, under a cloud of wine fumes mixed with the old familiar reek of urine.

  ‘Excuse me, can I just –? Thank you . . .’

  Out of my way, dogbreath. Squeezing between the armoured muscles, pushing, pushing, ’scuse me everyone, making it through to the carpet. Crowds changing. Franks, women, a little boy in a bright blue tunic. Turn left. Left again. And here’s the door, smothered in straining bodies. Help! Where’s the guard? This is urgent.

  ‘Pagan Kidrouk!’

  Gaspard. Pouncing like a panther.

  ‘Pagan Kidrouk, Lord Roland –’

  ‘I know, I know. Lord Roland wants to see me.’

  ‘Come on.’

  Who are all these people? That woman, now – what’s she doing here? In her white silk and pearls. She’s a lady. And that poor old remnant – he ought to be in bed.

  ‘What on earth is going on here? Sergeant? Who –?’

  ‘Petitioners.’

  Of course. Petitioners. Packed so tight you have to dig your way through. Inside the room there are fewer people: Saladin, Balian, Balian’s squire, Saladin’s brother, the Patriarch, the Master-Sergeant . . .

  Roland. Looking up. Sidling across the carpet as the Lily declaims. Bending his mouth to my ear.

  ‘Pagan.’ A whisper. ‘Pagan, forgive me. I’m so sorry.’

  You’re what? You’re joking. No – on second thoughts, you’re not joking. The flushed cheeks, the knitted brows, the pleading eyes – you’re not joking at all.

  This is ridiculous.

  ‘It was a barbarous action, I had no right –’

  ‘To hit me? Yes you did. I’m your squire. That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘It was wrong. “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty.” I ask your forgiveness.’

  Forgiveness! Don’t know whether to laugh or cry. As if it matters, for God’s sake!

  ‘Have you changed your mind, my lord? About the ransom?’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘Well have you or haven’t you?’

  He straightens up, but he’s not angry. His face is as soft as duckling’s down.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I haven’t.’

  All of a sudden the Great Man speaks. Sitting there in his modest brown burnous and his no-nonsense slippers, on one of the Patriarch’s decorated thrones, with the Patriarch’s lush carpet under his feet and the Patriarch’s silk cushions hugging his backside and the Patriarch in front of him, pleading like a beggar with pretty, prayerful gestures of his manicured hands.

  ‘Very well, worthy father.’ Saladin bows his celebrated head. (Seems quite taken with the Lily.) ‘I grant you seven hundred captives to free as you desire.’

  Hallelujah! Buzz of excitement around the room. Roland touches my cheekbone.

  ‘Listen, Pagan. I don’t require you to follow me in this. That is the last thing I want.’ Gently. Quietly. ‘You can stay with the Order. I’ll see that you’re promoted. You will make a good sergeant.’

  ‘Oh really?’ (With half an eye on the action.) ‘And why should I want to stay with the Order? I’m certainly not staying if you go.’

  ‘Now, Pagan. Be sensible.’

  ‘Be sensible! That sounds good, coming from you!’

  ‘Shhh.’ Laying his finger across my mouth, as Saladin and the Patriarch exchange elaborate courtesies. ‘Don’t be angry with me, Pagan. Don’t let your temper cripple your intelligence. You know you don’t belong in city garrisons. To squander your gifts in such a way . . . do you think, having found you, I would let you stray down the wrong path again?’

  ‘Well I don’t see how you’re going to stop me. If you’re dead.’

  Hah! That’s wiped the silly, soulful look off his face. Suddenly hit by a vision of his squire running rampant through the lowest dens in Byzantium. Frowning down his nose at me.

  ‘Pagan, for my sake, and for the sake of your own soul –’

  Blah, blah, blah. Now it’s Balian’s turn to present his petition. But he can’t do it as well as the Lily. Balian’s backbone is too stiff. His voice is too harsh. Years of wooing women have left the Patriarch as supple and sweet as a river of honey.

  Saladin doesn’t even wait to hear the end of Balian’s speech.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘Of course, Lord Balian, you are granted this request. Five hundred captives, to free as you wish.’ He raises his voice over the hearty expressions of gratitude. ‘And I hereby declare that I will liberate every aged pauper – man and woman!

  ’ The response is deafening. It runs from the room, out the door, down the hall, from tongue to tongue, as fast as a fire. You can hear the news setting hearts alight beyond these walls.

  Saladin sits there, soaking it up. No smiles or nods, but there
’s something about the way he leans back – like a man who’s just finished an excellent dinner. Suddenly it’s all quite clear. It all makes sense. This is what he wants: this particular feeling. Praise and awe and honour, and the blessing of his religion. A name revered throughout the world.

  Well, if it’s reverence you want, O Worshipful One, you can certainly have mine. You can have the lot. A mention in every prayer, a votive candle at Michaelmas, a space on my tombstone . . . anything. If you’ll just grant me one favour.

  ‘Lord Sultan!’

  Pushing forward to catch his eye. Roland grabs – and misses. (Too slow off the mark.) ‘Pagan! Pagan!’ Snatching at my collar as I hit the floor, just three steps away from the Great Man’s right foot. Grovel, cringe, bow.

  ‘By your mercy, Lord Sultan!’

  Palms sweating; mouth dry; heart pounding like a drum in my ears. Saladin looks down, startled.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  ‘Pagan! Get back here! Pagan –’

  Whoops! Here he comes! If I can just get a grip on the Great Man’s ankle . . . ‘Your mercy, my lord! Your gracious charity! Please, my lord –’

  ‘Wait.’ Saladin’s voice, like a whiplash. ‘One moment, Lord Roland.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘One moment, Lord Roland. I wish to hear what this boy has to say.’

  Roland freezes. He’s going to kill me. His face is as white as new milk.

  Saladin waves a careless hand at his bodyguards. (I didn’t even see them closing in.)

  ‘Well, boy?’ Crisply. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Pagan Kidrouk, my lord Sultan, and I beg –’

  ‘Is that your father’s name?’

  (Is that my what?)

  ‘Uh – no, my lord, it’s – I’m an orphan.’

  ‘Truly? And a Christian?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  What on earth is going on here? He squints at me, frowning, his hand on his chin.

  ‘You remind me of someone . . . no matter. Proceed. You have a request?’

  ‘My lord, you have granted so many destitute captives their freedom –’

  ‘And you want me to grant you your own.’

  ‘Oh no, my lord!’ (Calm down, Pagan. Calm down. Concentrate. Look him right in the eye.) ‘It’s not my freedom I want – it’s my master’s.’