Pagan in Exile (21 page)
Y
ou can’t really blame her, I suppose.
After all, Germain’s an old man. As for most of the other people at Bram, well, you only have to listen to Berengar. He’s so crude and filthy. At least Ademar doesn’t have a foul mouth. At least he talks about love and courtship and nightingales, instead of teats and rumps and wantons. Fancies himself as a bit of a courtly lover, I suspect. Makes him look superior. I’ve even heard him quoting poetry, in his arguments with the other guards. Talking about Twin Souls and the Garden of Happiness and the Triumph of Love over Intellect. I mean, you can’t blame her for being swept off her feet.
And of course, lots of women do that kind of thing, especially in the summer time. Even married ones. Even queens. You only have to listen to the troubadours’ songs. Some women can’t help it: they’re like flowers, giving off a beautiful perfume. They just can’t help attracting bees.
‘
Pagan.
’
(Whoops!) ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Roland, up ahead, craning around to see what I’m doing. ‘Wake up, Pagan, this is no time for daydreaming. Can’t you see we’ve arrived?’
So we have. I didn’t even notice the vineyards. And there are the Abbey walls, with those square church towers rising above them, and a few stray sheep wandering through the ancient, overgrown rubble that lies half-buried not far from the gates. (Ruins of an old guest house? Or barn? Or chapel?) Wisps of smoke dissolve into the air. A perfectly good leather bucket lies on the road in a mess of squashed vegetable peelings.
Ferry frowns when he sees it.
‘That doesn’t look good,’ he says. Beside me, Den loosens his sword in its scabbard.
The gates stand open, unmanned. Not a soul to be seen. Entering cautiously, through a terrible absence of noise: no pots clanging, no people talking, just the mournful sound of crows and the ominous hum of flies. Flies everywhere, buzzing and swarming just inside the gates, where a dead servant is sprawled in the dirt. He’s still clasping a hoe, his dried blood almost black in the sunlight. May God have mercy. (Turning away.) May God have mercy, what a mess. Ferry crosses himself, but Roland doesn’t move a muscle. He seems to have turned to stone.
Pressing on past the trampled gardens, with their broken sticks and flattened shoots, and a scarecrow now wearing rich, embroidered vestments – feast-day clothing – 189 all purple and white and crimson. More flies are feeding on a dead pig, which is also wrapped in the remains of a priest’s garment, a cope perhaps, but so torn and muddy and soaked in blood that it’s impossible to tell. Everywhere the ground is covered in litter: discarded shovels and water-buckets, bits of clothing, a disembowelled feather pillow, a smashed earthenware bowl, a dead chicken, an uprooted sapling, the ripped and scattered pages of an illuminated book. There’s a large barrel standing about fifteen paces from the church’s western door. Beside it, a statue of Saint John the Baptist lies broken on the ground, its wreckage still clad in somebody’s chain mail hauberk.
This is unbelievable. I’ve never seen anything like this. They’ve been tilting at Saint John the Baptist!
‘Den, you stay with the horses,’ Ferry says quietly, as he dismounts. ‘If anyone bothers you, I give you permission to retire.’
Den nods. But what about me? Roland? What should I do? He’s already making for the church, both hands on his sword hilt. Well, I’m not staying here with Den. Anything but that. Wait, Roland! Wait for me! Slipping from the saddle. Chasing him up the shallow flight of stairs, past a puddle of vomit, and beneath the carved stone Judgement over the western door. There’s a strong smell of wine. Wine and incense and something else. Horses? It can’t be.
Advancing into the candle-lit gloom. Whoops! Ferry almost trips over a body which can’t be dead, because it groans and rolls over. Wounded? No, drunk. It’s Pons, and he’s drunk. The light trickles in through broken windows, splashing onto the tiled floor and painted walls and the 190 columns which stand to attention on both sides of the centre aisle, propping up a very lofty, vaulted ceiling. Crunch, crunch. It’s all glass and straw and manure underfoot: horse-manure, to be precise. Fresh and steaming. The horses have been stabled along the southern wall, beneath a mural depicting Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. The altar has been stripped: no plate, no cloth, no crucifix. A smashed cask has flooded the chancel with wine.
And someone has hacked the Holy Virgin’s face off.
‘God forgive this desecration,’ Ferry mutters, with more awe than anger in his voice. Our footsteps echo as we move slowly towards the chancel, between several piles of demolished furniture. There’s even a door, pulled right off its hinges. And here’s the altarcloth, spread across the floor. Covered in chewed bones and bread crumbs and nut shells. There’s also a person, rolled up in a tablecloth, snoring. I can’t tell who it is.
‘Well, stone me. Look who’s here.’
A familiar croak. Turn around, and it’s Berengar. Leaning against one wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. The right leg is tied up in a blood-stained rag, just above the knee. There’s a torn piece of tapestry draped around his shoulders, and his face is the colour of tripe.
‘One of those damned castrates caught me with an axe,’ he says in husky tones. ‘It didn’t do much damage, but it hurt like the devil. Can you find Isarn for me? I need a drink. And a blanket. It’s cold, in here.’
Sounds as if he should be in bed. Ferry glances doubtfully at Roland, who’s staring at Berengar with eyes so blank that they could have been painted on.
‘It doesn’t have to be Isarn,’ Berengar continues. ‘It can 191 be anyone. Kick that lazy beggar awake, why don’t you? He’ll do just as well.’
Roland spins on his heel, abruptly, and heads for the door to the cloisters. Obviously wouldn’t waste spit on Berengar. We pass from shadows into sunshine, from silence into a babble of voices, and here’s the familiar paved courtyard with its little stone seats, every seat fully occupied. There’s Isarn, and Aimery, and Joris, and the rest of Galhard’s troops. They’re lolling about in a rich and dazzling confusion that reminds me of the markets at Acre: a confusion of Damascus rugs, jade inkwells, golden candlesticks, ivory caskets, sandalwood combs, fine linen, amber, alabaster, ebony, amethyst. All mixed up with a less exotic mess consisting mainly of dried fruit, smashed crockery, gardening tools and a burst flour bag.
‘Lord Roland,’ says Aimery, as the laughter leaves his wine-flushed face. They’re all drunk and rowdy. Isarn is wearing a monk’s habit over his hauberk.
‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Ferry demands. ‘Where is the Abbot? What have you done with the monks?’
Aimery begins to giggle. The others just gape. Roland moves towards the chapter house.
‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Ferry repeats, angrily. I suppose I’d better follow Roland. This is like a nightmare.
The chapter house smells. It smells of corruption. There’s someone sitting on the Abbot’s throne, but he’s dead. He’s been dead a long, long time.
Gagging and choking. I feel sick. Stumbling back out into the cloister-garth, into the fresh air, I just can’t believe it. They must have dug up a grave. They must have
dug up a
grave
, and put the corpse on the Abbot’s throne. Oh God, the 192 heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled.
‘Brother!’ Ferry, hailing Roland. ‘Brother, where are you going? These men know where we can look.’
But Roland doesn’t seem to hear. Something’s wrong with him: he moves clumsily, as if he’s been wounded. Knocking against walls and pillars, grazing his knuckles, stubbing his toes. Lurching through the next door, and the next door, and the next. Going so fast that I have to run to catch up.
Suddenly we’re in the refectory. It’s a long, narrow room full of tables and benches, with a pulpit at one end and a table on a dais at the other. There’s a dead monk near the door. He must have dragged himself all the way from the dais, to judge by the trail of smeared blood. And there, beyond the dead monk, two living ones. Two naked monks, on their hands and knees, with raised marks on their backs and necks and haunches, scrambling over the floor towards a wooden spoon. I know those marks. Those marks are lash-marks. They’re the marks of the dog-whip clasped in Jordan’s bloody right hand.
Jordan. He’s sitting on one of the tables, stringy-haired, bleary-eyed, wobbling about like a candle-flame in a gusty breeze. Slurring his words ‘Fetch! Fetch!’ as he cracks the whip against a table-leg. Severely, profoundly intoxicated.
He doesn’t even recognise Roland, at first. Just peers at him with bloodshot eyes, brows puckered in perplexity.
Roland advances.
‘Oh no, it’s Roland.’ The truth dawns at last. Light pierces Jordan’s alcoholic fog. ‘Attack!’ (Get him, boys! Get the nasty Templar! Woof, woof!)
He’s on his feet as Roland reaches him. I can’t see Roland’s face, but I can see the muscles knotting under his surcoat as he clenches his fists.
Whump!
He leaps on Jordan, who falls backwards, caught by surprise. Roland with a handful of Jordan’s collar, slamming him against the tabletop. (
Whomp! Whomp!)
But Jordan’s fighting back, now, grinding his hand into Roland’s face. Bucking against Roland’s grip. They roll off the table and crash to the floor.
The monks are moaning and weeping. They huddle there, flinching at the sound of each blow. You idiots! This is your chance!
‘Get out!’
They stare at me.
‘Get out! Go on! Quick!’
But they’re too scared to move. All right, then, be like that. Turning back to the fight, and I can’t make out what’s going on. It’s just a tangle of thrashing limbs. Cries. Thumps. Benches tipping over. All at once Jordan disengages and lurches to his knees. Roland grabs at him, but gets kicked in the chest. Jordan scrambles upright, staggers over to one of the benches and hurls it at Roland, who’s coming after him. Roland catches the oak on his hunched shoulder. God! What a clout! He falters, and Jordan takes advantage. Throws a punch, hammering down on Roland’s neck. Roland drives his head into Jordan’s midriff. They fall again, locked together.
God, God, God, what am I going to do?
That ghastly shouting. Blood on Roland’s ear. Blood on his face. Dragging Jordan’s arm back, back, back. ‘
Oof!
’ Jordan’s knee in Roland’s groin. Jordan on his feet again, his 194 mouth a mass of blood, tottering, giddy, groping for his sword. Kicks Roland’s ribs. (Groan.) Kicks at his head, but Roland grabs the foot before it makes contact. Dragging his brother down, toppling him, slamming his elbow hard onto Jordan’s spine.
‘My lord – my lord –’
It’s no match, really. Maybe it would be, if Jordan wasn’t so drunk. Roland pulls him up and throws him across one of the benches.
Crack!
He slides off face down, and tries to crawl. Roland pulls him up again, by his belt and collar. Throws him against a table.
Crack!
This time he ends up on his side, shielding his face with one arm, groaning, whimpering. Roland seizes a great iron lampstand (no! no!). Brings it down hard across Jordan’s back.
‘My lord! Stop! No, my lord, no!’
Roland! In God’s name, what are you doing? Grabbing his arm as he raises the lampstand again. But he’s too strong.
Whump!
It slams down on Jordan’s pelvis.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ (The stand! Grab the stand! Hanging on for dear life.) ‘No, my lord! No! You’ll kill him, you’ll kill him!’
Roland strains against my weight. He turns his head, slowly, and looks at me with eyes that are totally blank; glazed; unseeing. This isn’t Roland. Help. Help! No, Roland, no! It’s me!
Breathe again. It’s all right. He knows me, now. For a moment there I thought that I was dead and buried. But he blinks, and his muscles relax, and he lowers the stand until one end of it touches the floor.
That’s it, Roland, take it easy. Calm down. Removing the cold, black shaft from his grip (God, it’s heavy) as he 195 moves away, gasping, the blood trickling down his mottled face. He limps over to an upright bench and collapses onto it, his breathing harsh and raw, his movements stiff.
All right, Pagan, first things first. Number one, restore the lampstand to its original position. (That’s easily done, even though my hands are shaking.) Next, have a look at Jordan. Is he dead? No, he’s alive. But he groans softly with each breath (cracked ribs?) and his eyes are closed. Praise God that he wasn’t struck on the head. That stand would have fractured his skull.
‘Brother Roland?’
It’s Ferry, at the door. Oh go away, please.
‘I found Lord Galhard, Brother,’ Ferry announces. ‘He seems quite ready to leave. Keeps talking about some kind of marriage negotiations. Apparently the bride-to-be’s father is expected at Bram, shortly. Lord Galhard wants to be there to welcome him.’ Ferry crosses the threshold, and pauses. His gaze sweeps the room. ‘What’s going on?’ he demands.
‘Please, my lord –’
‘Brother? What’s all this about?’
But Roland doesn’t reply. He’s sitting at one of the tables, his face hidden in his folded arms.
‘Brother!’ Ferry’s voice is sharp and anxious. ‘You should talk to Lord Galhard, Brother, he seems to be drunk and he won’t tell me where the Abbot is. Most of the monks are locked up in the cellars, but I can’t find the Abbot. We can’t settle anything without the Abbot.’
‘My lord, please, Lord Roland can’t talk, just now’ Go away, I’m begging you. ‘He needs time to recover.’
‘What happened?’
‘There’s been a fight, my lord. Maybe – maybe you could gather everyone together, somewhere? Then we can discuss things properly.’
You can tell that Ferry doesn’t like being told what to do. But he has to admit I’ve made a sensible suggestion.
‘I’ll go and fetch Den,’ he says at last. ‘We’ll tell Lord Galhard’s men to report to the church. But I won’t release the monks until we find the Abbot, or we may not be able to control them. I just hope the Abbot’s not dead.’ He eyes Roland thoughtfully. ‘No doubt you’ll have recovered by the time I return, Brother. I certainly hope so, otherwise this is going to be even more difficult than I anticipated.’
