Pagan's Crusade (8 page)
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Lord Roland wakens from his trance. ‘Thank you, Brother. Your skill has been invaluable, as always.’
A compliment for Gavin: a curt nod for me. (Put your clothes on, scum-bucket.) Hobbling after him like a drunken leper, through the door, past the kitchens, across the courtyard. Golden lights in the dusk. A gentle murmur from the Draper’s office. Quiet. Cosy.
Safe.
Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God; defend me from them that rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from bloody men. For lo, they lie in wait for my soul; the mighty are gathered against me.
The door to his chamber – his and mine. My palliasse near the tiny window. My blanket, my cup, my spoon. Mine but not mine. I suppose they’ll go to someone else when I leave.
‘Sit down, Pagan.’
Easier said than done, of course. He lights an oil lamp as I lower my throbbing collection of bruises onto the bed (delicately, like a mother delousing her only child). And turns to face me.
‘All right.’ Folding his arms. ‘I want the truth, Pagan. The whole story. From the beginning.’
The whole story, from the beginning. In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word was God. Once upon a time there was a boy called Pagan . . . How can I tell you the whole story, my lord? You wouldn’t understand it. You’re such a good man, you don’t know what it’s like to be bad.
‘My lord, I owe some money.’
‘What money?’
‘Well – originally it was a gambling debt. But I paid
that
off with protection money. It’s a bit hard to explain . . . Have you ever heard of the Silver Ring?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t know much about them myself, but basically they’re a bunch of villains who manage the trade in stolen goods on the fringes of the Latin Exchange. A lot of the pawnbrokers are involved. It’s all very shady, as you can imagine.’ (Or maybe you can’t.) ‘Anyway, they’ve always got people hanging around the cock fights and dice games, offering loans to the desperate. Like me. That’s where
I
got involved with them. Thought I was on a winner. But I wasn’t, of course, and I had to cough up the money or lose a couple of limbs. They’re very dangerous people – if you know what I mean.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, at that stage I was with the garrison. The city garrison. I used to patrol the Jewry quarter. Do you know the Street of the Flowers? You might think you do, but you don’t really. It’s the filthiest place – you wouldn’t believe what goes on there. And it’s allowed to go on because the Viscount of Jerusalem gets his cut of the profits. The Viscount and the Master-Sergeant. As long as
they
get paid, the filthier businesses can go about their . . . well, their business.’
Spare him the sordid details. It’s a bit much already, by the look of things. Stunned gaze, knitted brows. Lord Roland is having trouble trying to grasp these unfamiliar concepts.
‘Are you – have you proof of this?’
‘My lord, we used to collect the Viscount’s money ourselves. When we were on night patrol. That’s how I paid off the Silver Ring. I took the money I’d collected from one of these businesses, and then I pretended it hadn’t paid up. They found out in the end, of course, but I managed to escape just in time. To these headquarters. They’re the only safe place in the city, for me. Because no outsider can get in, and I never go out alone.’
So there it is. The unvarnished truth. You wanted it, you’ve got it – for all the good it does. Now what are you going to
do
with it, my lord? That’s the big question.
‘The men who attacked you . . . they were the
Viscount’s
men?’
‘My lord, they’re from the garrison night watch. Just like me. They must have had their orders.’
‘And what about that guide? The one who lured you into the ambush.’
So you were watching all the time, then? I’d never have known it.
‘You mean Joscelin?’ Good question. ‘Joscelin’s not on the night watch, my lord. I don’t know
how
he got involved. Must have struck a deal with the Master-Sergeant, just in case I was on the Jordan escort. He might be paying protection money himself. I know he’s in business somewhere around the Latin quarter.’
Roland shakes his head, walks to the window. Standing there with his hands on his hips. Straight. Solemn. Still in full armour. Oh well. At least if he
does
throw me out, I’ll never have to clean that thrice-damned chain mail ever again.
He turns.
‘Do you know, Pagan, that I can neither read nor write?’
(Beg your pardon?)
‘My father cannot read, either. Nor my brothers. We were trained to fight, you see. And our priest was old and simple. He had forgotten most of his learning. We used to go to Abbot Cyprien when we needed help. A very wise, very learned man. A man most worthy of respect.’
He throws me one of those long, blue looks. One of those serious looks aimed straight at the heart.
‘Do you understand what a wonderful gift you have been granted, Pagan? Do you understand how God has
blessed
you, with this gift of learning?’
Who, me? The butt of the backstreets? You’re thinking of someone else, surely.
‘My lord, I’d rather have been blessed with a strong right arm. Or fists like lead melons. Or even sharp fingernails would do. Something a bit
useful.
’ A reasonable request, I would have thought. Especially for someone in
my
condition. But he sighs, slowly, as if I’d just told him that tapeworms are human too.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Pagan.’ (Sounds familiar.) ‘You’re clumsy, you’re untrained, you have no – no calling, no discipline, no discretion and no sense of responsibility. You have fallen among wicked men, and delighted in wicked deeds. I know you’re young, but – Pagan, surely with your gift of learning, and your quickness of mind – you must have
seen
what you were doing. You must have chosen your own path. Only fools lose their way among sinners, Pagan, and you’re no fool.’
God preserve us. This is worse than the beating. Why not give me the boot and have done with it? I can’t stand this kind of thing.
He plants himself right in front of my nose, forcing my chin up.
‘Look at me, Pagan.’ (As if I had a choice!) ‘God gave you learning for a reason. And He brought you to
me
for a reason. And I know He didn’t turn you from the path to hell just so that I could throw you back into the maw of the Seven-Headed Beast. Do you understand what I’m saying? Pagan? Do you understand?’
‘You’re – you’re going to let me stay? In the Order?’
‘Yes. Because I am His servant in all things. And buzz, buzz, buzz, zzzz . . .’
Can’t hear what he’s saying. Head feels funny – like an inflated wineskin. Ears hum. Eyes swim. Sick with relief.
Literally.
‘Excuse me, my lord.’ Gasping. ‘I think – I think I’m going to throw up . . .’
Nice move, Pagan. Show your undying gratitude by vomiting all over the poor man’s bed-chamber floor.
Oh well – never mind. We all know who’ll be cleaning it up afterwards. And it won’t be Lord Roland Roucy de Bram.
The kingdom of Jerusalem waits for news, as its King leads a great army into Galilee to fight the invader Saladin.
A
nd on the eighth day the Lord God formed a man from a dungheap, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the dungheap became a living soul called Odo – who to this day retains all the nobility, wisdom and grace of the dungheap which fathered him.
Here he comes now: the walking dungheap. Exuding a smell of rotten vegetables. The charm of a dead cow, the wit of a swamp. Beside him, Arnulf. Arnulf the parsnip. Long, pale and stringy, with slimy black eyes like over-ripe olives dipped in oil. Slouching along in an outsize tunic, the skirts flapping limply around his calves. Kicking up the dust with his sandals.
What a splendid pair. What an inspiration. With these men on our side, who needs God?
‘Hey!’ The thick, clotted voice of the Dungheap. (He’s seen me at last.) ‘We’ve been looking for you! We’ve been looking all over! Where the hell have you been?’
It’s no use replying. He probably wouldn’t understand if I did. Arnulf’s the one with the bigger brain, even though his head’s a lot smaller. The Dungheap has a head like a side of beef with ears.
‘What’s up, Arnulf? Odo? Have you lost something? Your wits, maybe?’
‘Ha ha. Very funny.’ Arnulf shuffles over and sits down beside me on the bench. It’s a small bench, stone, made for three normal people. But there’s not enough room for the Dungheap’s vast backside. He stands there, blocking the view.
‘So what are
you
doing, pretty maid?’ (Arnulf airs his stunted sense of humour.) ‘Sewing your trousseau? Eh? Sewing your bridal gown?’
‘That’s right, Arn. I’m getting married tomorrow. Sergeant Tibald has asked me to be his wife.’
A soggy explosion of sniggers from Arnulf. The Dungheap just gawks. Wouldn’t know a joke if it crawled up his nose and died there. Arnulf drags the robe from my lap. It’s Lord Roland’s indoor winter robe, long and plain, white wool with sleeves to the wrist. Pulled it out of the linen chest, this morning; checked it for moth holes; discovered that the hem had come down. So now I have to sew it up again.
Took me practically half a day just to thread the needle.
‘Well now, isn’t this a vision of loveliness?’ Arnulf croons. ‘Won’t you look a picture in this?’
‘Give it here, Arn.’
‘Won’t he look a picture, Odo?’
‘Arn, that’s Lord Roland’s. Give it here.’
Someone emerges from the latrines. Sergeant Welf. He peers across the courtyard, sizing us up. Will he or won’t he? Rockhead would. If it was Rockhead, we’d be licking the gutters clean by now. (The hand of the diligent shall bear rule, but the slothful shall be under tribute: Proverbs chapter twelve.) Welf, however, isn’t one of nature’s tyrants – though as a volunteer Templar he ranks above us all. He sniffs, in a neutral sort of way, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Then he moves off towards the stables.
All clear.
‘Listen, you two. Don’t you have something to keep yourselves occupied? Something dirty, perhaps? Or dangerous?’ Even as I speak Arnulf spits, athletically. (You’ve got to admire the distance he covers.) ‘Why don’t you go and challenge the cook to a spit-off, Arn? First to hit the soup from twenty paces.’
Arnulf snorts.
‘We
have
got something to do,’ he says. ‘But we need your help. We need three people.’
‘If it’s another roach race, you can count me out. They’re not worth the effort.’
‘Nah.’ He lowers his voice, leaning closer. The pores on his face are cavernous. ‘It’s not a roach race. It’s not rats, either. We just want to piss in Sergeant Tibald’s helmet.’
Odo erupts. Giggling into his beard with a noise like sewage running down a drain. Best to pretend he’s not there.
‘The helmet’s in his office, I suppose?’ (Stalling.)
‘The helmet’s in his office, and
he’s
in a chapter with the Under-marshal. We’ve checked.’
‘All right. But what do you need three people for? His head isn’t that big, is it? You wouldn’t need three bladders full.’
‘Ha ha. Very funny.’
‘We’ve got to guard the approaches.’ A kind word of explanation from the Dungheap. (Really, you know, he’s as thick as sour milk.) ‘There are two ways of reaching his room.’
‘Oh, are there? Well thanks, Odo. Thanks for telling me.’
Arnulf rises.
‘You coming, or not?’ he says. ‘We have to move fast.’
It’s tempting. Very tempting. In fact you could almost say it was divine retribution.
‘All right, I’ll come. And I’ll stand guard. But I’m not doing the business.’
Arnulf sneers – one of the ugliest sights in Christendom. His teeth look exactly like dead flies.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says. ‘You scared?’
‘No, I’m not scared.’ (You pin-headed louse.) ‘But I can’t piss while other people are listening, all right? Now let’s go.’
Rockhead’s office isn’t far from Lord Roland’s room. You cross the old cloister heading west, and it’s in the new wing with the peaked roof, just next to the armoury. No one about, of course. Garrison numbers are depleted in any case, and at this time of the afternoon nearly everyone’s down in the stables, worshipping their horses. Arnulf volunteers to guard the eastern approach.
