Pagan in Exile (7 page)

‘Who?’ he says.

‘I believe it was a man called Clairin. He is a servant at the Abbey of Saint Jerome. I believe he’s been cutting wood in your forest.’

‘I knew it!’ Berengar exclaims. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We ought to go down there and –’

‘Shut up, Berengar. Continue, Mistress.’

She doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable. In fact she’s very self-possessed. Surprising, when you consider how young she must be. Twenty? Twenty-two?

Awful to think what she might be kneeling on.

‘My lord,’ she says, speaking clearly and firmly, ‘Garnier’s son Estolt was working by himself when he heard shouting. He returned to his father and found Garnier with the man Clairin. Clairin had struck Garnier on the head with an axe.’ Her voice trembles slightly. ‘It was a terrible wound, my lord. He has not yet revived, as far as I know. Estolt seized the axe, but Clairin fled. So Estolt carried his father home on our cart.’ She waves a hand in the direction of the stables. ‘We have brought the axe with us, my lord.’

Galhard nods. He seems to be thinking. The woman waits patiently as Berengar shifts about on his bench.

‘Why did you come here?’ Galhard says at last. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘My lord, the forest is your forest. What happens there is your concern.’

‘Damn right it is.’ (Berengar, airing his opinions again.)

‘I believe that this man from the Abbey has been plundering wood,’ she continues. ‘Garnier has seen him there before, but not with an axe. Perhaps you want to take this matter up with the Abbot.’ She hesitates. ‘I think that justice should be sought for Garnier’s assault. He may not live, my lord. If he doesn’t, his family deserves some kind of recompense.’

‘Recompense! I’ll go down to the Abbey and find this Clairin and pull his guts out through his nose!’ Berengar roars. He slams his fist down on the table. ‘I’ll tear him up and feed him to the dogs!’

‘No. Please, no violence.’ The woman lifts her head. ‘I don’t want any violence.’

‘What you want, Mistress, doesn’t interest us at all,’ Galhard snaps, in a voice that would flay a dead camel. He looks at Roland, and jerks his head. ‘Come here.’

Roland moves forward. A quick glance at me, over his shoulder. (Stay where you are, Pagan.)

‘This is my youngest son Roland. He’s just come back from the Holy Land. He used to spend a lot or time at the Abbey, so he knows his way around, there.’ Galhard sneers, displaying a collection of fangs that would put any of his lymer hounds to shame. ‘I haven’t set foot in that God-box for fifteen years, and I’m not about to start now. I know I wouldn’t be able to control my temper. That’s why I’m going to send Roland to speak with Abbot Tosetus.’

Can’t see Roland’s face, so I don’t know how he’s reacting to this announcement. Probably hasn’t even raised an eyebrow. He rarely lets anything show, especially in public.

‘The Templars are always on at me about peace levies and the Peace of Toulouse and the Peace of Beziers and peace this and peace that,’ Galhard continues, in a threatening way. ‘Interfering with my private business. Trespassing on my land. Fancy themselves as peace-makers, for the right price. So I’m leaving this little matter to you, Roland. As a knight of the Temple, it should be the kind of thing you’re trained to deal with.’

Roland bows. Can’t really do anything else, I suppose.

‘Take this woman with you,’ Galhard tells him. ‘Wear your fancy outfit. Make that bastard sweat. I want to know how much wood he’s taken, and I want compensation down to the very last twig.’

‘My lord –’ The woman dares to interrupt.

Galhard swings his head around, and glowers at her. ‘What?’ he barks.

‘My lord, the Abbot will not talk to me. I doubt if he’ll even let me through the gates of the Abbey. He has very strong feelings about my . . . my establishment.’

‘I don’t care if he spits blood and dies at the sight of you! You’ll be there under Roland’s protection, and Roland is my son. If he can’t get a hearing then the Abbot will be hearing from
me.
’ He waves his knife, almost cutting her nose off. ‘If you go now, you should be there before sunset.’

And that’s a dismissal. But Roland hesitates: there’s something on his mind.

‘My lord –’

‘What?’

‘My lord, our visitor has already travelled a long distance, today. Perhaps we should let her rest, and begin in the morning.’

‘Roland,’ (sarcastically) ‘our visitor is probably a lot tougher than you are. Now get going, before I put you on a mangonel and send you by air, with a large rock tied to your ankle.’

Impossible to argue. Roland throws another look at me (this time it’s a summons), and we head for the door. Berengar yells a few words of encouragement after us. ‘Tell the Abbot that we found his balls when we were out hunting truffles! Tell him we’ll trade them for Saint Agatha’s dugs, if he’s got them!’ A burst of laughter follows us out.

How embarrassing.

‘You’re very kind my lord,’ Esclaramonde remarks, as we march down the stairs, ‘but I’m not tired. I came on a cart, not a horse. And I wasn’t driving.’

Roland stops. His voice is cold and hard.

‘Who came with you?’ he queries.

‘Estolt came with me.’ She points across the bailey, to where a solid wooden farming wagon is already attracting the attention of our resident dogs. One of them appears to be pissing on a front wheel. ‘I think he went to the kitchen, because he was so thirsty.’

She’s not at all intimidated by Roland’s Man of Marble expression. In fact she looks him straight in the eye as she speaks. Somehow, although he towers above her, he doesn’t make her look small.

‘I will send your friend home on the cart,’ he announces. ‘And I will borrow one of my father’s horses for you to ride. Or would you prefer a mule?’

‘I can ride a horse.’

‘Good.’ You could break rocks on every word he’s uttered. What’s the matter with him? There’s something going on here. I can smell it. ‘Go and collect your belongings. Tell your friend that he must return without you. We will meet you at the stables as soon as we’re ready.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Try to be quick. We have a long way to go.’

She nods, and hurries off towards the kitchen. Roland turns on his heel. Retraces his steps. Something’s really bothering him.

‘My lord –’

‘Hush. Later. Tell me later.’

Back into the hall. They’re still laughing: Galhard and Berengar and Ademar. But Galhard stops laughing when he sees Roland.

‘I thought I told you to get out,’ he snarls.

‘My lord, this woman –’

‘You’re trying my patience, Roland.’

‘My lord, it seems to me that this woman is a Cathar.’ (A what?) ‘Is that true, my lord?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘But if she’s a Cathar, then she is a heretic. And if she’s a heretic, then there are many things that you should consider. My lord, the Viscount of Carcassone was excommunicated ten years ago, because he was a heretic. If you allow free entry of heretics into Bram, then you may be accused of the same crime –’

‘Roland.’ A breathy hiss, like the voice of a serpent. ‘Let me make one thing clear. I’m not interested in what you think. What happens in Bram is my business. Now get out of here before I lose my temper.’

Come on, Roland. (Tugging his sleeve.) You don’t want to kill yourself. Can’t you see that there’s no point in arguing? It’ll just lead to confusion and not to mention dismembered body parts. Let’s go and pack – you said we had to hurry.

I almost have to drag him upstairs to our room.

‘My lord?
My lord?
’ (Wake up, Roland.) ‘Are you going to change? Lord Galhard said he wanted you in uniform.’

‘Yes – yes, I’ll do that.’

‘And your hauberk, my lord? Will you wear that too? It’ll look more impressive.’

Doesn’t even hear me. Staring into space.

‘My
lord.
Shall I pack your hauberk, or will you put it on?’ He blinks, and seems to shake off his trance. Looks around at the piles of rubbish.

‘I’ll wear the hauberk, but you can pack the rest of the chain mail,’ he says. Right. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Perhaps if I start with the shoulder pieces.

‘Pagan.’ His hand on my arm. ‘Listen to me, for a moment.’

Looking up. What’s wrong? Have I done something?

‘Pagan, I don’t want you talking to that woman.’

‘You mean Esclaramonde?’

‘She’s a heretic. A Cathar. She’s dangerous.’

‘But she’s the size of a thimble!’

‘Her ideas are dangerous. She could do you a great deal of harm. Please, Pagan.’ He really seems worried. Almost scared. ‘I don’t want to leave you here, but I will if there’s any risk that you’ll talk to this woman.’

‘Well then, I won’t talk to her.’ (If it will make you happy.) ‘I still don’t understand, though. What’s a heretic? Some kind of murderer?’

‘A heretic . . . a heretic is like a wolf.’

‘A wolf?’

‘I mean – no – a heretic is outside the church.’

‘Like an Infidel?’

‘No, not quite.’ Poor Roland. He doesn’t seem to know exactly
what
a heretic is. ‘Heretics follow the Devil. They say they are Christians, when they’re not. They are outside the church.’

‘Like the Byzantines?’

‘No, not exactly –’

‘Like the Jacobites?’

‘No, I – no – at least – ‘ A pause. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘How do you know she’s a heretic? She didn’t say anything.’

‘I – it’s hard to explain.’ (That’s pretty obvious.) ‘There have been heretics in Languedoc for years and years. You see them everywhere – thousands of them. They have set up their own church, with their own bishops and priests, because they say that the true church is the whore of Babylon. Their priests wear black robes. Black robes and sandals. Did you see that woman’s sandals? Imagine a church that allows a woman to be a priest!’ He runs his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know much about heretics, Pagan. All I know is that they are wicked and wrong. Abbot Cyprien told me so, many times. He was the Abbot of Saint Jerome. He told me that the Cathars’ heresy is a very ancient one, which came from the East, and that it has spread among the lords of this land because they don’t have to pay any money to the Cathar bishops. He’s dead, now.’ Roland shakes his head, slowly ‘I wish he were alive. It would make things much easier. I don’t know what the new Abbot will think, if I arrive on his doorstep with a heretic.’

Well I can. I can tell you exactly what he’ll think. He’ll think that you’ve converted her back to the true faith. ‘My lord, no one’s ever going to believe you’re a heretic. If that’s what’s worrying you.’

I mean to say, what a joke. Even someone with half a brain would see at a glance that Roland couldn’t possibly be a heretic.

Whatever a heretic might actually be. I’m not sure I’m clear on that one, yet.

Chapter 7

G
od, how I hate monasteries.

It’s the smell that really gets to me. That awful smell of old books and incense. And the silence, like being shut up in a tomb. And the echo of shuffling feet down long, long corridors. I hate the way no one ever runs, in monasteries. I hate the way no one ever shouts. It’s all whisper, whisper, whisper, like a bunch of dead leaves in a cross-draught.

Speaking of cross-draughts, it’s damned cold in here. That’s another thing I hate about monasteries: they’re always as cold as a crypt. Cold and miserable. I remember what it used to be like at the Nocturnes service, before sunrise, when your knees used to freeze to the floor and your breath came out in great, white clouds when you sang.

A bell rings nearby. That sounds like the end of Vespers.

‘Maybe he’s had an attack of dysentery’

‘Pagan –’

‘Well why is he taking so long, then?’

‘Be quiet, Pagan, please.’ Roland lowers his voice. ‘Someone might hear you.’

‘Really? I hope so. Because I’m beginning to think that they must have forgotten us.’

No comment from Esclaramonde. She’s been very quiet. In fact she’s hardly said a word during the entire trip. Not that she’s had very much in the way of encouragement: Roland can’t have addressed six words to her since we left Bram. I daresay he wouldn’t have talked to her at all, if I’d been allowed to speak to her myself.

This is so stupid. I mean she’s obviously about as dangerous as a dead duckling.

‘It’ll be time for supper, soon. Do you think they’ll bother feeding us? Or will they just let us sit here and starve?’

‘Pagan.’

All right, all right, I get the message. Sudden snort from Esclaramonde. Look around, and she’s vigorously rubbing her nose with her cuff.

Was it a sneeze or a laugh, I wonder?

‘Lord Roland.
Deo gratias.
’ Hooray! It’s the rescue party. And that must be the Abbot. An old, old man, leaning on a stick. Totally bald. Skin like the membrane beneath the shell of a hard-boiled egg.

Behind him, a handful of monks in black robes. You can hardly tell one from the other. (All monks look the same, to me.) One of them carrying a towel and a basin.

‘My lord Abbot.’ Roland rises. ‘May God bless you for your gracious hospitality.’

‘God’s blessings on you, my son,’ the Abbot gurgles; he’s got some kind of nasty chest complaint. Roland stoops, and they exchange the kiss of peace. Up comes the basin; a splash of water; the Abbot wipes Roland’s hands with his towel. ‘
Suscepimus Deus misericordiam tuam in medio templi
tui
,’ he mutters, without much enthusiasm. Cough, cough, cough. That old man should be in bed.