Pagan in Exile (3 page)

‘I’m not a ghost, Jordan. I have returned from the Holy Land.’

‘So I see.’

‘You’re in good health, I trust?’

No comment. This is strange, really strange. Roland returns after six long years, and his brother can’t even find a few words of welcome.

‘Why are you sitting here in the dark?’ Roland demands. Not that it’s as dark as it first looked. Now that my eyes are adjusting, it’s easy to see quite a few things. The trestle tables. The fireplace. The wine jug. Dingy plastered walls, very high, and black iron candlesticks encrusted with tallow. Roland’s brother is slouched beside one of the tables – the one on the raised dais – wearing something long and dark. There’s a bird or small animal perched on his wrist.

‘I’m unseeling Acantha,’ he says. ‘She hasn’t been trained, and we’ve only just taken the stitches out of her eyelids.’

‘Your hawk?’

‘Well she certainly isn’t my mistress.’

Ha, ha. Pardon me while I sew up my sides. Roland chooses to ignore this feeble attempt at humour.

‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ he asks. Jordan suddenly rises to his feet, and the bird on his wrist flaps its wings in protest.

‘He’s at Castelnaudery,’ comes the reply. ‘Negotiating a marriage.’

‘A marriage?’

‘For Berengar.’ As Jordan moves into the light, you can see the family resemblance. He has Roland’s long nose; Roland’s blank, blue eyes; Roland’s fair skin and high cheekbones. But Jordan’s hair is brown, and long. He’s taller than Roland, with narrower shoulders and lankier limbs. And he moves quite differently. Roland has a firm tread: his actions are always tight and controlled. Jordan slops about as if his ligaments are loose at the joints.

‘I don’t understand.’ Roland seems bewildered. ‘You mean Fabrissa isn’t –?’

‘Fabrissa died long ago. Berengar’s been through two wives since then. Both dead. Airmenssens and Furneria. So now he’s out looking for number four.’ A cynical smile. ‘Personally, I think he’ll be lucky to find another, since he goes through wives like rope horseshoes. But then I never understood why any of them married him in the first place. Unless they actually
liked
the smell of ripe sewage.’

‘What happened? What happened to them?’

‘Well, now. Let me think.’ (On reflection, his voice isn’t identical to Roland’s. It’s slower, quieter. More of a drawl.) ‘Fabrissa miscarried. Furneria died of a wasting disease. Airmenssens poisoned herself.’

Roland traces a cross on his chest.

‘You couldn’t blame her,’ Jordan continues. ‘I’d have done the same. Of course, the old lord was delighted. Three dowries, and a fourth within grasp! He’s very pleased with Berengar.’ A sigh. ‘I’m afraid that
I
haven’t done so well. My wife is still breathing.’

Roland stiffens.

‘
Your
wife?’ he says, sharply.

‘Oh yes. My wife. You haven’t met Gauzia. That pleasure still awaits you.’ Jordan pauses an instant, as if expecting some kind of comment. But Roland remains mute. ‘God knows, I’ve done my best to get rid of her. I can’t help it if I’m lacking in those repulsive qualities which Berengar finds so useful. It’s my belief that his breath is what ultimately killed them.’

‘Has he – has Berengar chosen –?’

‘One of the Morlans. Ada. Apparently she’s about fifteen years old, so he’ll probably make a nice, quick job of her.’ His expressionless blue eyes drift down to where I’m lurking. Spotted, damn it. ‘And who might this be? Your fancy-boy?’

‘This is my squire.’ (Roland, through clenched teeth.) ‘Pagan Kidrouk.’

‘Your squire?’ Jordan sounds startled. ‘How old is he? Twelve?’

‘I’m seventeen years old, my lord.’ No point letting him think he can wipe his boots all over my face. Look him straight in the eye, speak clearly, don’t fidget. Just keep a civil tongue in your head, Lord Jordan.

‘Seventeen?’ he murmurs. ‘Is that so?’

‘Pagan has been with me for a year now. He came with me from Jerusalem. That’s where he was born.’

‘Yes, I’m not surprised. He’s very dark. Turkish blood, I suppose? Funny to see you with a Turkish squire.’

‘Pagan is not a Turk. He is a Christian Arab. He is also a good fighter and a loyal servant.’

‘Mmmm.’ Jordan switches his gaze back to Roland. ‘And you, Roland. May I ask if that extraordinary costume of yours is some kind of joke? Because if it isn’t, I suggest you get rid of it right away.’

Whoops! That’s done it. Roland’s rejoinder sounds like a series of crossbow bolts hitting a stone wall. He really spits out the words.

‘This is a Templar garment,’ he says. ‘And I am a knight of the Temple.’

Jordan makes an odd little sound at the back of his nose. He moves right up to Roland, all loose and lazy, as the falcon flutters on his wrist.

By God he’s tall, though. Really tall.

‘So that’s what you call yourself. A knight of the Temple,’ he croons.

‘That’s what I am.’

‘But what does it mean, exactly? What does it involve?’

‘You’ve heard of the Order. You must have.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. At least, I’ve heard that you’re a bunch of Infidel-loving usurers who’ve all been castrated –’

‘That is not true!’ Roland’s holding himself steady. He squares his shoulders, like someone preparing for battle. ‘The Order of the Temple is a military order dedicated to protecting Christians and fighting unbelievers,’ he declares. ‘We have taken vows of obedience, chastity and humility. It is our duty to fight to the death, in defence of Christendom. In this we are following the Rule of the Order and the will of God. The blessed Bernard of Clairvaux called us the valiant men of Israel. He called us the chosen troops of God. We are not usurers. We are not castrates. We are a band of men doing our duty, according to God’s will.’

He pauses, to catch his breath. Well done, Roland. Nicely put. Jordan’s expression is hard to read.

‘So you took your vows, did you?’ he finally remarks.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And do those vows still apply?’

‘Of course.’

Jordan leans forward, thrusting his face so close to Roland that they’ve practically got their heads up each other’s nostrils.

‘In that case,’ he breathes softly, ‘what in the Devil’s name are you doing here, you unspeakable little by-blow?’

Suddenly someone yells outside. A distant, muffled sound, but it makes Jordan jump. He falls back, glancing towards the door.

‘They’re home,’ he mutters.

More shouting, closer, this time. Jordan turns away, and flings himself down on the nearest bench. He starts stroking Acantha, whistling a little three-note melody. Roland stands like a statue, his face completely blank.

I wish I knew what was going on here. I seem to have lost the thread of this plot. Are we on friendly soil, or in an enemy camp? This isn’t quite what I expected.

Hurried footsteps: someone’s climbing the stairs. And here he is, bursting through the door – big – heavy – shoulders a mile wide. Head like a chewed knuckle of pork, all squashed and battered and misshapen, fringed by a patchy beard that’s having a hard time squeezing its way through all the scar tissue on his chin.

But the nose is there. The de Bram nose, slightly pushed to one side, as if by the force of a flying punch. It looks wrong, on that face – like a steeple on a pig sty.

‘Well stone the saints!’ (A hoarse bellow.) ‘It
is
you! I didn’t believe it, when they told me!’

‘Hello, Berengar,’ says Roland. He doesn’t sound overjoyed.

‘What’s that nun’s outfit you’re wearing, in God’s name? You look like a dead virgin!’

‘It’s his habit,’ Jordan remarks. ‘He’s a Templar, now.’

‘A what?’ (Is Berengar deaf? Or does he shout for plea sure?) ‘You must be out of your mind, you fool! Templars! Bunch of mincing Ganymedes!’

‘That’s not true.’ Roland speaks in level tones. ‘You’re mistaken, Berengar.’

‘Up your arse, Roland! I know what I know.’ Berengar stomps across the floor, smelling of horse-sweat and garlic. Still wearing his cloak and riding boots. Sighing as he lowers himself onto a bench, which creaks under his weight. ‘Whoof! I’m flattened. Where’s the wine? Give me a drink, someone. You. Boy.’ (To me.) ‘Who are you, when you’re breathing?’

‘This is my squire.’ Roland answers before I can open my mouth. ‘His name is Pagan.’

‘Well he can pass me the wine, then. Damn, but those Morlans take it out of you. Do you know they had a notary with them? A notary! I almost told them where they could stuff the bastard!’

Wait a moment. Who’s this? Two more people, appearing at the door. One of them short and wiry, with leathery skin and some very impressive scars. Missing an eye, an ear, two fingers and a big lump of forehead, as well as a large number of teeth. The sword at his waist is almost as big as he is.

The other man is built like Berengar: broad, heavy, powerful, tall, but not as tall as Roland. He has a big black beard and a bald patch. Shaggy eyebrows. Tombstone teeth, slightly brown at the ends. An inflamed complexion. Wearing a lot of leather and fur.

He stands there, dragging his gloves off. Everyone falls silent.

Could this –? This couldn’t –

‘My lord,’ says Roland. And he bends his knee.

Lord Galhard.

Oh yes, that’s him all right. It’s got to be. You can tell by the way he’s suddenly the centre of attention. He clumps across to the high table, picks up Jordan’s cup, and drains it. Pours himself another. Drains that, too. Everyone watches . . . watches and waits.

‘Just passing through?’ he says at last. His voice is like the sound of gravel crunching under the wheel of an overloaded wagon. Like the sound of bones being ground up in stone pestle. Never in my life have I ever heard such a chilling voice.

‘Yes, my lord, in a sense.’ Even Roland seems subdued. ‘I am here to request your hospitality. For myself and my squire. According to your will.’

Galhard grunts. He lowers himself carefully onto a wooden bench (saddle sores?), and sticks out his right leg. ‘Boots, Joris,’ he mutters. The little man with one ear comes scurrying over to haul his boots off.

‘So, you’re here to request my hospitality.’ A pause. ‘Wearing what, may I ask?’

God preserve us. Here it comes. Roland straightens his shoulders and sticks out his chest.

‘My lord, this is the cross of the holy order of the Knights Templar.’ His voice is clear and firm. ‘I am a Templar, now.’

‘Is that so?’ (Ominously.) ‘Then let me tell you that as a Templar, you’re not welcome on these lands.’

‘My lord –’

‘
Don’t interrupt me
!’

(Gulp.)

‘Your friends the Templars seem to think they have some God-given right to poke their collective noses into my affairs,’ Galhard continues. ‘They call it ‘the Peace of God’, or some such rubbish. But I suppose you know all about that.’

‘No, my lord, I –’

‘Then you can ask your friends about it. Meanwhile, if you want my hospitality, you can take that shroud off and keep it off until you leave. As my son, you’re welcome. As a Templar, you’re not. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And if you don’t have anything else to wear, you can ask Jordan. He’s got enough damn clothes to fill a moat.’

No comment from Jordan. No comment from anyone. Roland lowers his gaze, and studies the dust on his riding boots.

I wish we hadn’t come, now. If you ask me, this was a mistake. A big, big mistake.

Chapter 3

‘I
t’s a monster, I tell you. Enormous. Isarn saw the pellets. Long and fat, with rounded ends. You don’t see a juvenile leaving traces like that.’

‘You don’t see any stags leaving traces like that, so early in the year. They must be old.’

‘Up your arse, Jordan! Do you think Isarn doesn’t know a fresh turd when he sees one? There were flies all over it!’

‘Then it must have been left by something else.’

‘Jordan’s right, son. I never saw a stag’s droppings that weren’t as flat as a cow-pat, before Saint John’s Day.’

This is too much. I mean, I’ve digested my dinner in some pretty rough places, but never during a conversation about excrement. Can’t these people talk about anything else?

‘What colour were the pellets?’

‘Brown, my lord, dark brown.’

‘Should be black, by that stage. Jordan’s right. They must have been left by another animal.’

Unless the whole discussion is some sort of trick. Perhaps it’s designed to put other people off their food. Provided, of course, they’ve actually managed to get any food. You’d have to be built like the Temple of Solomon if you wanted your fair share of salted herring at this table. It’s a fight to the death for every last scrap.

‘What’s the matter, Pagan? Why aren’t you eating?’ Roland, beside me. He looks so strange in that outfit. I don’t think I’ve ever . . . no. It’s true. I’ve never seen him in anything but white: either one of the order’s ankle-length winter robes, or his white campaign tunic with the red cross. And now he’s sitting there in a blood-coloured woollen surcoat trimmed with jade green silk, worn over a tunic of embroidered purple linen that’s just a little too long, and a little too tight across the shoulders. It makes him look different, somehow. It makes him look younger. Less responsible.