Pagan in Exile (17 page)

‘Instead of which, I had to wait until I entered the stables and noticed the empty stalls,’ Roland interrupts. ‘Something which you should have done already.’

His voice is sharp. Forbidding. Strange.

‘My lord –’

‘If you’d obeyed my instructions, and kept away from Jordan, you would have gone to the stables and seen the missing horses much earlier. We would have had a better chance of stopping this thing. But you played right into his hands, despite the fact that I warned you, specifically, to avoid him.’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Could that be true? Could it all have been a trick, just to keep me out of the stables? Possibly. Probably. But somehow . . . I don’t know . . .

‘My lord, I realise that Lord Jordan was part of this plan –’

‘Part of it?!’ Roland exclaims. ‘Jordan was the source of it! This whole business was his doing.’

‘Not entirely, my lord. Be fair. Lord Galhard was the one who kept you distracted, talking about the Crusade –’

‘And Jordan was the one who lured you out of the castle, so that I had to spend even more precious time trying to find you. He was using you, Pagan, the way he uses everybody. Didn’t I tell you not to trust him?’

Oh, right. So I’m just a fool. I’m a complete cesshead who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and who gets pushed around like a wheelbarrow. Well thanks very much, Roland, that’s really encouraging.

‘My lord, I’m not stupid, you know. I do have the ability to judge people.’ He opens his mouth, but I’m too quick for him. ‘Lord Jordan has always been perfectly pleasant to me. He’s even helped me out a few times, and he didn’t gain anything from doing that. Has it occurred to you – I mean, I know it’s probably hard for you to see this – but has it occurred to you that he might actually enjoy my company for its own sake? That we might actually get along? I realise I’m not very important, but am I such a waste of space that any attention I might get has to be the result of some – some vicious, underhanded plot?’

‘
In God’s name!
’ (An oath! He used an oath! He’s never used an oath!) ‘Open your eyes, Pagan! Can’t you see what he’s doing? Can’t you see?’ Surely this isn’t Roland? Surely this isn’t the Man of Marble? Jennet’s ears flicker uneasily, as Roland clenches his fists. ‘It’s quite obvious what he’s trying to do! He’s trying to take you away from me! Just as he’s tried to take everything else away, ever since we were children.’

Oh, please. This is ridiculous. This is embarrassing.

‘My lord, don’t you think you’re being a little –’

‘It’s true! It’s true. You just don’t understand. ‘You don’t know him. Everything he does is harmful. Everything he says is a lie.’ I’ve never seen Roland like this. Never. His face has gone to pieces. His voice is all over the place. ‘You might think he likes you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t like anyone – especially me. He hates me. He hates me because my mother loved me the best. That’s why he wants to take you away.’

‘My Lord . . .’ I can’t believe this. Roland, what’s happened to you? You’re acting like a child. ‘My lord, he’s never even asked me to leave your service. And if he did, I wouldn’t go. What are you saying?’

A long pause. Roland stares down at his hands, flushed and speechless. Splat. Splat. Splat-splat. Oh hell. Wouldn’t you know it? The wilderness turneth into standing water, and dry ground into watersprings.

Here comes the rain.

‘My lord, I know you were very happy last night, because you thought that your father had faith in you.’ (Carefully, Pagan, tread carefully.) ‘Now you’re disappointed. But you shouldn’t let them upset you, my lord. They’re not worth it.’ Looking across at his bowed head, as he wipes a drop of moisture from his cheek. Tears? No, rain. ‘You won’t be blamed for their actions. And you shouldn’t blame me, either. I’m very sorry that you’ve been treated so badly. If I can help you, I will. Because I’ll always support you in everything, against everyone. I thought you understood that.’

He raises his eyes. Opens his mouth. But something stops him from speaking: something up ahead. He stiffens, and peers, his profile suddenly sharp and intent.

What? What is it?

Oh, I see. A shape on the road, lying there like a fallen bough. Still too far to see properly, but I don’t like the look of it.

Roland kicks his horse into a canter.

Dense foliage on either side of us. Perfect for an ambush. Wait! My lord! But he’s already slowed, his hand on his sword-hilt, his gaze on the shadowy thickets of chestnut and blackthorn as he guides Jennet through a scattering of twigs and leaves and discarded possessions. A shoe. A buckle. A piece of bread. The raindrops are already turning dust into mud, but you can still see the pattern of attack and defence in the sudden confusion of hoofmarks.

‘Stay there,’ says Roland. ‘Keep a lookout.’ He slides from his saddle. and moves towards the long, motionless shape lying on its stomach in a sticky pool of blood. It’s 152 wearing a black habit. Roland puts out a hand, grabs a handful of wet robe, and turns the body over.

‘Guibert,’ he says.

So that’s Guibert. He’s been chopped across the neck: his wound gapes like a second mouth. His head lolls. Blood everywhere. Blood and dirt.

Jesus.

‘Pagan!’ Roland’s grim face, turned in my direction. ‘I told you to keep a lookout!’

Sorry. I’m sorry. Scanning the bushes, through a mist of rain. Glancing down the road. Leaves tremble. Lightning flashes. Coppertail snorts nervously.

‘He’s dead,’ says Roland. ‘Dead but still warm. May God have mercy on his soul.’ And he crosses himself.

‘I can’t believe they managed to catch up so fast.’ Raising my voice over the rumble of thunder. ‘How did they do it?’

‘Cross country. It’s not difficult, there’s a lot of grazing land between here and the castle. No water or ploughed fields.’

‘Then they must have taken the same route back, or we would have met up with them.’

Roland nods, and straightens, and peers into the distance. His hair is wringing wet. ‘Can you see anything else?’ he asks. ‘On the road?’

‘No, my lord, nothing.’

‘The others must have got away. Unless they’re lying dead in a bush, somewhere.’ He begins to examine the scarred ground, walking, stopping, crouching, fingering, moving up the road step by careful step. Suddenly the steps grow faster: he seems to be following tracks. ‘Here,’ he calls. ‘Here they are. All galloping. One, two, and here’s three. Three horses, holding steady . . .’

‘With riders?’

‘Perhaps. They kept to the road, anyway. That’s a good sign.’

‘What about the fourth?’

‘I don’t know. Bolted? Stolen?’

‘Surely even Joris wouldn’t be stupid enough to take Guibert’s horse?’ Looking back over my shoulder: my voice sounds unnaturally loud. ‘It’s too incriminating. Where would you hide it?’

Roland doesn’t respond. He’s retracing his steps, frowning, because rain has begun to smudge and blur the prints. Soon they’ll have disappeared completely.

‘I think the other three escaped,’ he says at last. ‘I don’t believe they were followed. I think the engagement took place here, one man was killed, three escaped, and the attackers retired in the opposite direction. Perhaps Guibert was the only one they really wanted.’ He comes to where Guibert is lying, and stops. Bends over. Slides his hands under the limp body.

‘My lord? What are you doing?’

He looks up, puzzled.

‘What do you mean?’ he says.

‘My lord, you’re not going to take him with us?’

‘I can’t just leave him where he is.’

‘But you have to.’ (Think, Roland, you’re not thinking.) ‘We can’t touch this, my lord. Any of it. If we do, we’ll be implicated.’

‘What are talking about? Don’t be foolish.’

‘My lord, you’re a member of the family. What will people think, if you ride past with a dead monk dangling 154 across your crupper?’ Pause for a moment, to let the image sink in. He stares at me with blank, blue eyes. ‘They’ll think you did it, my lord. They’ll think you were involved.’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘There were witnesses. I’m sure at least one is alive. People would know that I wasn’t responsible.’

‘But they would also know who you are.’ Poor Roland. Standing there in the rain, spattered with mud, wearing gaudy, unsuitable clothes that don’t fit him. He looks so lost and out of place. ‘My lord, consider what your father has done here. He’s tried very hard to avoid linking your family with this murder. He’s staged it outside his territory. He’s used people unknown to the victims. He’s obviously tried to make it look like the work of brigands. If you suddenly appear out of nowhere with Brother Guibert, people are going to start making connections.’

‘They’ll do that anyway.’

‘Yes, but wouldn’t it be better for everyone if brigands
were
held responsible? Otherwise this whole thing is going to escalate even more.’

That’s done it. I’ve hit the bull’s-eye, there. He blinks, and looks down at the body. Thinks for a moment before looking up at me again.

‘So for the sake of keeping the peace,’ he murmurs, ‘this poor soul must be left here in the mud? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘My lord, the Abbot isn’t going to let him lie here and rot. I’m sure that someone from the Abbey will be sent to collect him.’ Glancing down the road, which is slowly disappearing under a network of puddles. ‘And we don’t want to be here when they arrive.’

Roland runs his hand through his dripping hair. ‘Then you think we should return to Bram?’ he says.

‘Well of course.’ (What do you mean?) ‘Unless there’s somewhere else we can go.’

‘I was thinking that we should report to the Temple at Carcassone,’ Roland says, squelching towards his horse. ‘My father said that the Templars have a peace-keeping role in this country. If it is indeed an office of our Holy Rule then perhaps we can seek help from the Preceptor, Commander Folcrand.’

‘Not today, though, it’s too far.’

‘No, not today.’ He throws himself into the saddle, with less than his normal vigour. Perhaps the water is dragging him down. Or perhaps it’s something else that weighs so heavily. ‘In any event, this is bad weather for riding,’ he continues. ‘I think I shall wait and see what happens. If my father is blamed – if the dispute gets any worse – I will go to Carcassone. The Preceptor may have a solution.’

He may, but I doubt it. As far as I can see, the best solution would be to lock all these murderers up in a box and let them fight it out between themselves. At least that way no one else would get hurt.

Roland brings Jennet’s head around and circles Guibert’s remains, just once, before drawing abreast of Coppertail. What a good rider he is. Every movement as smooth as silk.

‘Pagan?’ He turns to look at me. Hesitates. Proceeds. ‘I know only one prayer, ‘Our Father’. It is the duty of all Templars to recite it every day, if they can.’

‘Yes, my lord, I know.’ (What’s all this about?)

‘But I’m not educated, and I don’t think –’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think it’s really appropriate. Not like . . . Do you 156 remember the prayer that Esclaramonde recited? When her friend died? You said you knew it.’

‘It wasn’t a prayer, my lord, it was a gospel.’

‘Do you remember the words?’ His gaze shifts once more to Guibert’s broken body. ‘I think we should say something.’

Yowch! That’s a tough one. Straining back to monastery mealtimes, with Brother Guige at the lectern. His creaky, rough voice, his hairy warts. Let’s see. Let’s see, now . . . ah yes, I remember.

‘In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’

Roland bows his head and closes his eyes. Wet fustian clinging to my legs and arms, as the rain trickles into my collar.

‘The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made.’

Smell of wet earth, smell of wet horse. The rain gently washes Guibert’s upturned face, cleaning the blood and dirt from his nose and mouth and eyelids.

‘In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.’

That’s all I can remember. Silence descends, broken only by the patter of raindrops. Even the horses are still. Finally Roland opens his eyes, and crosses himself.

‘Amen,’ he murmurs.

It’s time to go.

Chapter 17

T
hunk!

Roland’s sword comes down hard on my shield.

Whew! Just in time. Go for the gap. His blade parries, steel on steel, scraping. Shield up. Jump back. Move sideways.

‘Good!’ he pants. ‘Excellent!’

There! A breach! But he dodges away. Watch him. Watch him. Watch his foot.

‘Watch that foot, Pagan. The feet are your guides. Where’s your shield, boy? Up! Up! Do you think I’m aiming for your kneecaps?’

Thunk!
Damn. He’s always too quick. He surges forward, and it’s time to retreat. In a shield-to-shield push, there won’t be any contest.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Wait, what are you doing? The right flank, Pagan, look at it. No, sorry. Too late now.’

Edging around the combat circle, looking for a hole in his defence. Feint to the right. He swings. There!