Pagan in Exile (25 page)

I must be getting old. It all strikes me as so hollow and pointless and miserable.

Chapter 24

‘P
agan!’

‘Hmm . . .?’

‘Pagan!’

What? What is it? What’s that noise? It sounds like – yes. It is. It’s screaming.

Sit up. What’s the time? There’s just the faintest, palest light creeping through the shutters. Roland’s barely visible: his white tunic shimmers in the gloom.

A crash from outside.

‘Wake up! Get up! Hurry!’

God preserve us. What’s happening? Scramble for my sword. My boots, My shield. Hurry! The sound of hoofbeats thudding past our wall. One – two – five – six horses.

Aurencha bursts into the room.

‘My lord!’ she wails. ‘My lord! My lord!’

Roland pushes past her. Through the curtain, towards the front door. Ermengaud’s carrying his little daughter: her sister is crying, and clutching his leg. Tears glisten in the light of a single candle.

‘My lord! Wait! My lord!’ Their voices follow us out, pleading, frightened.
Crash!
What was that? Crisp air; the smell of smoke; the first, faint flush of dawn. People scurrying past, half-dressed, dragging children, swinging axes, shouting, fleeing, pounding on doors. ‘Brigands! Brigands! Run for your lives!’

Brigands?! I don’t believe it.

‘The stables!’ Roland gasps. ‘Quickly!’

The stables. The horses. Where are they? I’m lost. But Roland knows the way. Pounding along ahead of me, his sword in one hand, his shield in the other. Houses, houses, and hoofbeats behind us. Someone screaming. Turn around, and there they are. Three of them, mounted, each bearing a flaming torch. Shields. Swords. Chain mail. And a white trefoil on the red field of Languedoc.

Those men aren’t brigands.

They gallop past; swerve; disappear. What the hell are they doing? Oh, I know. The torches. The smoke. They’re looking for something flammable.

Round a corner into a narrow street. Muddy and dark, and the smoke is getting thicker. Roland! Wait! I can’t keep up!
Oof!
Get out of the way, you moron!

Stumbling over someone’s smashed skull. Oh God. Up ahead, people fighting. Screams. Thuds. A seething knot of bodies near a doorway, and there it is, that white trefoil, pouncing on a family as each member stumbles out – choking and weeping – to escape the chaos inside. A 228 grey-haired man falls, and is dragged off his own front step. He’s dumped. Kicked. Stabbed once. Twice. Three times.

The blade flashes red in the light of the leaping flames.

Thunk!
Roland attacks, so fast that you can barely see him move. Leaps forward. One blow, hard across the neck. Blood sprays out, and a Trefoil collapses. But there’s another – whoops! Roland! Watch out!

Oh no you don’t.

‘Hoi!’

Look! Here I am! Come and get me, crater-face! He swings wide. (Yah-hah, missed me.) And swings again. Hits my shield. Back you get – back – back – go on –
yes!
His heel hits the stair, and he falls backwards. Now! Now!

But he rolls, too quickly.

‘Pagan!’

Turn! Strike! Help! A man . . . his red chest . . . thrust in. Hard. The shudder. Pulling out. Stepping back . . .

Blood on my hand. On my sword. The body, squirming at my feet. Cries of pain. Jesus, oh Jesus.

It was me. I did it. He’s there, and I did it.

‘Pagan!’

Roland, grabbing my arm. Pulling. Hauling. Wait! Slow down! I can’t run this fast. Fall to one knee; dragged up again. This smoke is terrible. My eyes are so sore. And that squealing, that’s not human. That’s horses. Are we near the stables, then?

‘Here! Pagan! In here!’

I recognise this. This is the smith’s barn. They obviously haven’t found it yet. It’s very dim, inside, but there’s no mistaking the clatter and thump of frightened horses. ‘Curse it!’ Roland pants. ‘I can’t see a thing.’ He pushes the door wide open, and it screeches across the cobbles. ‘Hurry, Pagan! Saddle up! I’ll guard the entrance.’

Right. Where’s Jennet? There she is, and there’s her bridle, and who’s this? A stunted gnome, shivering behind a feed bin. Must be the stable-boy.

‘You! Yes, you! See that chestnut? I want to ride it. The harness is over there.’ (Come on, you fool!) ‘Move! Hurry!’

Calm down, Jennet. Calm down, girl. She tosses her head as I wipe my sword on my tunic. Shhh, take it easy. Sheathe my sword. Grab her saddle. Throw it across her back, and grope for the girth. My hands are shaking so much that it’s hard to join the straps.

‘Hurry, Pagan!’

‘Yes, my lord, yes.’

Damn it! How can I get a grip on this buckle with my fingers all slippery . . . covered in blood . . . warm and wet.

Did I kill him? I must have. I felt – no. Stop. Don’t think about it. Just don’t think at all. This is no time for thinking.

Wait a moment. That shout. Was that Galhard? Suddenly Roland’s beside me, dragging the bridle over Jennet’s twitching ears.

‘My lord, wait, who are they? Are they –?’

‘The Montferrands. Who else?’ he replies, and leaps into his saddle. Jennet lurches forward as he drums at her flanks with his heels. Heading for the barn door.

What the hell does that stable-boy think he’s doing? Seems to be putting my saddle on backwards.

‘Move, you bog-brain! Get out of the way! I’ll do it myself.’

‘Hurry, Pagan!’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

But Coppertail’s frightened. He won’t stand still. ‘Please, please, calm down, will you?’ Now Roland’s disappeared. Thanks very much, Roland. Just go off and leave me: I don’t care. Where’s the bridle? Where’s that boy? ‘Oi! Wait! Where are you going?’ (What’s his problem?)

Turn around, and there’s a Trefoil, storming through the barn’s back entrance.

Sweet saints preserve us.

Run. Run! Out the front. Into the street. Roland! Where’s Roland? Is that him? It certainly looks like Jennet’s backside, retreating down the road. But who’s that with him? Berengar? ‘My lord!’ Running hard. ‘My lord! Wait!’

Other people, running. A house, burning. But there’s someone on horseback, pursuing a Trefoil. Pons! It’s Pons! And there’s Ademar! Praise the Lord, we’re on the offensive. ‘Pons!’ (Cough, cough.) ‘Pons! Pons!’ He doesn’t hear. Charges off down an alley with his lance tucked under his armpit. This is chaos. Chaos. What am I going to do?

Stop. Think. A smoky haze hangs low over the peaked roofs. Stone walls everywhere all looking the same. A dry water trough and a stack of firewood, just waiting to be lit. Roland. I’ve got to find Roland. I’m a moving target, if I don’t. Or perhaps I should make my way back to the castle? That’s if I can actually find the castle. I’ve completely lost my bearings, here. All these smelly little streets look alike. And the crowds don’t seem to be heading in one direction, either.

A woman staggers into view, dripping blood. Dazed. Weeping. God, this is iniquitous. How could they do that? How can I help? Perhaps if I take her to the church, or the castle.

Suddenly, the sound of hoofs and raised voices.

‘Look out! Mistress! Over here, quickly!’

But she keeps plodding along, like a sleepwalker. Get out of the way, you fool! Can’t you hear they’re coming? Darting out to drag her back. Quick! Quick! Against the wall! A skidding horse, rounding the corner, stumbling, recovering, galloping past with blood on its flanks and a Trefoil in the saddle. His open mouth; staring eyes; blood-soaked tunic. That man’s in retreat.

There’s another, and another. Flashing by like birds, kicking up the mud, and there’s Jordan! It’s Jordan! And Galhard! And –

‘My lord!’

Running after Roland. Left turn. Right turn. Left turn. The sound of a battle-horn. Erupting into the village square, under showers of ash, and it’s hard to see what’s going on in this poor light, through the veils of smoke, but it’s a skirmish. Definitely a skirmish. The whirlwind of plunging horses moves this way, that way, and somebody falls – a Trefoil – knocked off his saddle by Jordan’s lance. He rolls between the lashing hoofs. A sword-blade rings as it hits the grounds. But where’s Roland? Ah, there he is. Ploughing into his opponent like a headwind, like somebody chopping wood, pushing him towards the others – oh! I see, now. I see what’s happening. The Trefoils form a tight little knot, as Jordan and Galhard and Roland circle them, prodding and pounding, with Joris and Aimery in support, exactly like a team of hunters with a stag at bay.

Suddenly the Trefoils surge in a single direction, trying 232 to break through. Galhard is knocked sideways, but manages to retain his seat. A cry of pain from one of the Trefoils: he sags against his horse’s neck, wounded somehow, letting his lance drop from nerveless fingers. Nevertheless, he keeps going. They all do. Pounding along, straight across the square, straight towards me, with Jordan and Galhard and Roland in pursuit.

Move, Pagan! Out of the way!

‘My lord! Wait! My lord!’

This time he hears. This time he sees. Reining poor Jennet in so sharply that she rears like an unbroken colt.

‘I can’t stop!’ he pants. ‘Find – Esclaramonde –’

‘My lord –’

‘Look after her!’

And off he shoots. So now I have to find Esclaramonde! Easier said than done, Roland. And what am I supposed to do when I find her, overwhelm a savage mob of Montferrand supporters with my fingernails? Don’t you care what happens to me? I can’t believe that you’ve just left me alone in the middle of this bloodbath!

Wandering westwards, towards the baker’s house. It’s very quiet, all of a sudden. The streets seem to be deserted. No marauding Trefoils, no fleeing villagers. Occasionally, the sound of someone moaning behind a barred door. Where is everybody? Have the Trefoils retreated? Perhaps they have. Perhaps it was a flying raid: in and out fast, before Galhard could collect his wits. A dead goose, smeared all over the ground. Smashed furniture. Doors hanging ajar, vomiting trails of trampled clothes and squashed food and bed-linen. The heat growing more intense, as a burning roof appears around a corner, crackling and spitting. The clouds 233 of black smoke, rolling up into a pall that blocks out the sky.

No, not that way. There must be another approach. Turn left, and right. A body, blocking my path. Dead? Stopping, unsteadily, to feel for a pulse. The hand is very dry. Yes, he’s dead. Can’t do much about that. Can’t do much about anything. Stumbling forward – so tired – coughing and coughing, my eyes wet and raw. I feel like a ghost. A ghost in an empty village. Where are they all? Have they run off to the castle, do you think? But someone must be here, because that’s the sound of grieving. A wail which grows louder, and softer, and louder again. ‘No, no . . . no no
no . . .
’ It’s quite close, too. But where? I can’t see. Peering through the haze, my footsteps slapping against dead earth.

A dark figure, crouched just ahead. No, not one figure. Two. And another, curled up on the ground. The terrible keening rises above them, boring into my skull, and I feel as if I’m going to faint, I feel sick, no, it can’t be, but it is – Garsen’s face, turned towards me, contorted with rage and despair: ‘Look what you did!’ she screams. ‘You! It was you! All of you!’

No. Oh no. Not Esclaramonde. Please God, no. Just a glimpse – her white face – her bloody lips – half-closed eyes –

‘She tried to stop them,’ Helis sobs. ‘She ran out . . . she grabbed the reins . . .’

‘Sister. Oh Sister, Sister . . .’

‘. . . they went right over her. The men with the torches. Every one of them . . .’

Her long hair, splashed across the dirt, sticky with blood.

Oh God, oh God. It can’t be true. Not this. Not her. I can’t look, I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it!

‘Sister. Oh Sister . . .’

Get me out of here. I can’t stand this any more. This is it. No more. I’ve had enough. Just get away, away from that moaning. Run down the street. Run away from the corpse: her corpse, his corpse, the man I killed. You killed a man, Pagan. At last you’ve killed a man. You stuck a sword in his guts, and you pulled it out again. You wiped off his guts on your tunic. His guts are still there, on your hands and your legs. He’s dead, now, like her – like Esclaramonde – oh Roland. Help me. Help me, help me, what am I going to do?

‘Pagan!’

Turn, and there he is. Galloping up a side-street. Where did he come from? Why is he here? If I tell him, he’ll kill me. He’ll die. No, I can’t do it.

‘Pagan! Stop! Where are you –?’

Run. Run! Hoofbeats, gaining. Suddenly he’s in front of me. Leaps down, grabs my arm, both arms, panting. ‘Pagan! It’s me!’ (A shake.) ‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Why are you crying?’

Oh Roland. Oh Roland.

‘They’ve gone, Pagan, there’s nothing to fear. We chased them out.’

No, no, you don’t understand. Pointing up the street, but I can’t talk – the tears – I can’t – His hands tighten on my arms.

‘Esclaramonde,’ he says. Suddenly he’s taken off, he’s running, back up the street, straight to where I pointed, towards Garsen, towards Esclaramonde. No, Roland, no! It 235 will kill you! ‘Roland! Don’t look!’ But he’s almost there, he’s slowing, he’s seen – he must have seen – and he swerves, blindly. He turns away. He staggers in helpless circles. He presses his hands to his mouth and he sways and shuts his eyes and falls to his knees. Gasping behind his hands. Choking behind his hands. Folded up, now, with his forehead almost striking the earth in front of him.