Oh, right. And my Auntie Eleanor was the Queen of Persia. What a dunghead.
‘Lord Abbot.’ Roland’s beginning to get annoyed. He actually clears his throat. ‘Lord Abbot, if it hadn’t been for Clairin’s own actions –’
‘There is no proof that Clairin did anything to deserve such an assault!’
‘My lord, this was clearly an act of revenge –’
‘Nonsense!’
God preserve us. The expression in Roland’s eyes! Suddenly he looks just a little bit like Galhard.
‘Abbot Tosetus,’ he says stiffly, ‘I would appreciate it if you would adopt a respectful tone when you speak to me.’ (Every word chipped from a block of granite with a blade of Damascus steel.) ‘There is no need for discourteous behaviour.’
Gulp. Heads down, everyone. The Abbot mumbles 75 something, and coughs. Esclaramonde stares. A handful of monks actually cross themselves.
‘My apologies,’ the Abbot finally remarks, wheezing and gurgling like a water mill. ‘I am not well, as you can see. You may tell your father, Lord Roland, that I will examine this matter regarding Clairin’s alleged trespass. And if any wood was taken, then Lord Galhard will receive it back in full measure.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Providing that Lord Galhard also returns the two dozen sheep which his men have stolen from me.’
‘But –’
‘Perhaps, when the sheep have been returned, I will consider restoring this criminal to your father’s jurisdiction.’
Oh God. Worse and worse. Glancing at Roland. What’s he going to do? Grab the old bog-brain and shake some sense into him?
But no, of course not. If there’s one thing that doesn’t rule Roland, it’s his temper. He simply clenches his teeth, folds his arms, and thinks for a moment. At last he finds his voice again.
‘You are an old man and a sick man, and for this reason I can find the heart to forgive your gross ill-breeding and unreasonable prejudice,’ he announces. ‘I cannot, however, allow this matter to rest. If the Bishop will not bring his authority to bear, I will go to the lords of Montferrand. I believe they have rights of jurisdiction over this Abbey. I also believe that they have a proper understanding of the responsibilities attached to such rights. You, it seems, have forgotten all the understanding you ever possessed.’
(That’s telling him.)
‘Many years ago, I regarded this Abbey as a place of truth, and virtue, and piety,’ Roland continues. ‘Now I see that it has been cast down from heaven unto earth, like the daughter of Zion. And I grieve for its desolation.’
He straightens his back; turns on his heel; heads for the door. Looks as though we’re leaving.
Esclaramonde hesitates.
‘Let’s go.’ Touching her arm. Come on, Mistress, before they decide to keep us here after all.
‘Yes! Go! Get out!’ The Abbot waves his walking stick. It’s a pretty feeble gesture. He can hardly lift it off the ground. ‘Follow that path you have chosen! You are following a writhing serpent down a sink and abyss of errors! The assembly of the wicked have enclosed you, my lord! Beware, for the wicked watcheth the righteous, and seeketh to slay him! The words of her mouth are smoother than butter, but war is in her heart!’
‘How can you say that?’ Esclaramonde cries. ‘I do not want bloodshed! It’s you who are violent! You are the one with war in your heart!’
Oh hell. ‘Mistress Maury –’
‘Please, Lord Abbot, I beg you.’ She falls to her knees. Hands outstretched. ‘Be merciful. Don’t shed any more of this man’s blood. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful –’
Roland! Help! What shall I do? Turning to see where he is – and he’s already retracing his steps. ‘Come,’ he murmurs. (Dragging her upright.) ‘Come, there is nothing more we can do, here.’
‘Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned!’ she pleads. ‘Are we greater than God, we sinners, to pass judgement on other sinners? He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone!’
What a terrific preacher she’d make. And she’s strong, too. It’s quite a task, pulling her towards the doorway.
‘Aribert!’ she shouts, twisting her head to catch one last glimpse. ‘Aribert! My prayers are with you! God loves you, Aribert!’
Stumbling into the cloister-garth.
‘I’ll take her to the stables and saddle the horses,’ Roland says quietly, putting his mouth to my ear. ‘You get our things. Can you find the stables, by yourself?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘My lord.’ Esclaramonde grips his arm with both hands. ‘My lord, must we leave him? Is there nothing you can do?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘He’ll be all right, Mistress.’ (She’s really taking this hard, isn’t she?) ‘I’ve seen worse, truly. And they were always up and walking within a couple of weeks.’
‘So much violence,’ she whispers. ‘So much blood.’ Her face is as white as chalk. You’d think she was actually ill, just to look at her.
It’s almost frightening.
‘If only there was something I could do!’ she cries.
‘You can pray,’ says Roland. ‘There is always prayer. Pagan, if you need help, you should call a monk. And don’t dawdle.’
No chance of that. Just watch me. I’ll stir up such a wind, it’ll bring the roof down.
Chapter 9
Yawn, yawn. What a bore. Nothing to look at. Nothing to eat. Not much of a road, this one. A real goat track, hemmed in by scrubby forest: the occasional oak, lots of sweet chestnuts, wild thyme, campions, and other things I don’t recognise. Little brown birds. Twit, twit, twit. Enough to drive you crazy.
No wonder Roland’s on edge. He doesn’t like riding through forests. Personally, I think he’s overreacting a little, because any snot-nosed peasant who attacked Roland would have to have his brain in a splint. He wouldn’t last as long as a fish in the Dead Sea.
‘There.’ Esclaramonde points. At last! A break in the trees. More sunlight, and the cleared land unfolds as we draw closer. Trees thin out. The wind picks up. A field of ripe barley. A stone fence. A sickly olive grove. And skulking behind it, a huddle of houses.
Two small dwellings; stables; a winter store-house. Another building, large and sturdy, which I can’t identify. Smoke drifting from a hole in one of the thatched roofs.
‘Is this where you live?’ Roland asks. He doesn’t sound surprised, but I know he is. It’s the way his mouth moves. Must have expected something more lavish.
‘Yes,’ Esclaramonde replies. ‘This is the hospice.’
So it’s a hospice, is it? I hope it’s not for lepers. Moving slowly past the olive trees, towards the muddy ruts of the farmyard. Doesn’t seem to be anyone about. Not many animals, either. No chickens. No sheep. No ducks or pigs or dogs. Just the two workhorses, grazing in a paddock by the stables.
‘What happened to your livestock?’ (I can’t help asking.) ‘Were they stolen?’
‘No.’ She seems distracted. Scans her surroundings for a friendly face. ‘We don’t eat meat. Or eggs.’
‘But why?’ That’s crazy. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Meat and eggs are born of the flesh by generation or fornication, which is the greatest sin because it condemns another soul to imprisonment on earth,’ she rejoins. ‘And besides, it’s a sin to kill animals or birds. They too have their holy spirits, which pass from one body to another.’
Weird. Glance at Roland, who frowns back ferociously. No religious dialogues, Pagan.
Esclaramonde prepares to dismount.
‘Wait.’ Roland’s tone stops her. ‘Where are your friends?’
‘I don’t know. Inside, I assume.’
‘How many live here?’
She thinks for a moment. ‘Twelve, including me. And Aribert, of course.’
‘Are they usually inside, at this time of day?’
‘Well, no. But –’
‘Stay there.’ Roland swings his
leg over Jennet’s back, and slips gracefully to the ground. ‘Pagan, you’ll have to hold the horses. Don’t leave this spot unless I summon you.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Wait.’ This time it’s Esclaramonde who speaks. ‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’
‘This place is small and unprotected,’ Roland responds. ‘It’s vulnerable to attack. I want to check inside. Make sure that everything’s safe.’
‘Of course it’s safe. We’ve never been attacked, here. Who would attack us?’
Who would attack you? Stupid woman. Anyone with long fingernails and half a dozen pointed sticks would make a slaughterhouse of this place. Just look at it! You couldn’t be more tempting if you had a roast pork supper laid out for visiting brigands.
Roland decides not to argue. He draws his sword as he turns to face the nearest building: a long, low farmhouse with shuttered windows. His blade flashes like silver in the sunlight.
‘Stop!’ Esclaramonde slides to earth, clumsily, making her horse shy. ‘You can’t do that! Put that away! Please! Put that away right now!’
I don’t believe it. Put that away? Who does she think she’s talking to? Roland stares in astonishment.
‘No swords, not here,’ she gasps, seizing Roland’s arm. ‘You mustn’t. It’s wrong. You’ll frighten them –’
Roland tries to shake her off, but she clings like a limpet.
‘Get back,’ he orders. ‘Get back! Now!’
‘Put your sword away!’
‘Let go!’
‘Put your sword away!’
‘Are you mad?’ he exclaims, more surprised than angry. ‘Where is your reason? I am here to protect you.’
‘I won’t let you go in there with a drawn sword!’
‘It’s for your own safety, woman!’
‘Put up thy sword into his place!’
‘Get back on that horse!’
Suddenly someone emerges from the farthest dwelling. A tall, middle-aged woman in a blue robe. She heads straight for Esclaramonde, who drops Roland’s arm.
‘Garsen!’
‘Esclaramonde –’
‘What’s happened? Where is everyone?’
‘Praise God that you’re here.’ Garsen has a face like a watchtower wall, but her voice is surprisingly gentle. ‘Garnier is dying. His soul must be freed from his body. He needs the blessing of the consolamentum, and you’re the only one here who can pass on the holy spirit.’
‘But didn’t you –?’
‘This morning we sent Aribert to Saint-Martin-la-Lande, to bring back a Good Man. But he hasn’t returned.’
And he won’t, either. Esclaramonde glances up at Roland, who says nothing. So she turns back to her friend.
‘Garsen, this is – this is Lord Galhard’s son, Lord Roland Roucy de Bram. And his squire Pagan.’
Garsen drops to one knee. As she rises again, Esclaramonde continues.
‘They haven’t eaten since last night, and they still have a long way to go. Can you fetch them some food, Sister? Maybe some bread and herbs – there should be almond cakes, too –’
‘First I will see Garnier,’ Roland interrupts. ‘Did you say he was dying?’
‘Soon he will surrender his soul,’ Garsen intones. ‘May God have mercy.’
‘Then I will see him. Where is he? Show me the way.’
Seems to have forgotten my existence. Wouldn’t be the first time, either. ‘My lord? My lord! What about me? Am I supposed to watch the horses?’
‘Yes,’ he says. But changes his mind. ‘No, wait. On second thoughts, I don’t want – Mistress, I’d be obliged if you could watch these horses.’
‘Yes, you stay, Garsen.’ (Esclaramonde.) ‘I’ll send Othon out, and then you can get the food.’
Dismounting, slowly. God preserve us! The soles of my feet are numb. Bones cracking like wood in a fire. Stomach making animal noises.
‘Come, Pagan, we haven’t got all day.’
Oh, go and eat yourself with braised onions. I’m doing the best I can. Crippling my way across the choppy sea of dried mud, with Roland and Esclaramonde walking side by side ahead of me. He’s all right, but she’s having problems. Sore back, by the look of it. That mount was much too big for her – all the horses in Galhard’s stables are built like the Palace of the Patriarchs. She must be exhausted.
Passing over a threshold into unrelieved dimness.
‘Esclaramonde!’ A voice. A room. A cluster of people. Lots of them, all gathered around two feeble, flickering lamps. And a man on a bed . . .
That’s got to be Garnier. His head is swathed in greyish bandages. Can’t see his eyes. Dried blood in his nostrils and his swollen, purple mouth.
The rattle of his breathing.
Faces turn towards us. Tears glisten in the lamplight, which throws great, looming shadows up the unplastered surface of the walls. Beaten earth underfoot. A smell of dampness. Someone’s sobbing loudly (Garnier’s wife?) and clutching his hand in both of hers.
This is awful. Just awful. I wish I’d stayed with the horses, now.
‘Oh, Sister. At last.’ Another woman dressed in blue: young, thin, pale, and about as sturdy as a flake of chaff. ‘The consolamentum, quickly. You must lay your hands on him, before it’s too late.’
Whispers around the room, but Esclaramonde seems reluctant. She hesitates, biting the end of her thumb. Roland steps forward.
‘Is this Garnier?’
A moan from the sobbing woman. She casts herself across the dying man’s chest, calling out his name.
‘Garnier! Garnier!’ Someone rubs her back, helplessly.
‘This is Garnier,’ Esclaramonde confirms, in a low voice.
‘And where is the witness?’ Roland demands. ‘Is he present? Where is Estolt?’
The crowd stirs. All eyes focus on a slight, grubby fellow about my age, standing near the head of the bed. He has a runny nose and a fairly successful crop of vegetation on his chin.
‘Are you Estolt?’ Roland asks. He receives a nod in reply. ‘Did you see the man who struck your father?’
Another nod.
‘Who was it?’
Estolt looks at Esclaramonde, who says: ‘This is Lord Roland of Bram. He’s here to help us.’ (Why do they all seem so frightened?) Estolt wriggles, uncomfortably.
‘It was Clairin of Saint Jerome,’ he finally reveals. You can hardly understand what he’s saying, his accent’s so thick. ‘Clairin hit my father.’
‘Do you swear to that? On the blood of Christ?’
‘We believe that Christ shed no blood,’ Esclaramonde breaks in, ‘because he did not have true human flesh. Also, we do not believe in oaths. Christ said: “Swear not at all –’’ ’
Suddenly, Garnier’s harsh breathing stops. Someone screams. ‘Father! Father!’ Bodies press forward.
Esclaramonde is shoved towards the bed.
‘Hurry, Sister, hurry! Give him the holy spirit!’
Ouch! Get off my foot! It’s hard to see, but there’s Garnier’s nose. And there’s Esclaramonde’s hand, two hands, hovering just above the dying man’s forehead. Her voice is shaky, but firms up as she gets into her stride.
‘. . . and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not . . .’
‘Pagan.’ A hand on my elbow. What? What’s up? ‘Come here, quickly.’ Roland fishes me out of the throng the way 85 you’d fish a bit of garlic sausage out of a cassoulet. Dragging me out the door and into the sunshine. Clean, sweet air.
‘What is it, my lord?’ He looks sick. Was it the stuffy atmosphere? ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes. But I should have stopped it.’
‘Stopped what?’
‘In there – that – that blasphemy –’
‘What blasphemy?’
‘What they were
doing. I don’t know what it was. But there was no priest – no holy water –’
‘My lord, that was the Gospel of Saint John. I sweat. They used to read it out all the time, at Saint Joseph’s.’
He blinks. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. You know me. Memory like the Book of Life.’
He looks back, undecided. A wary, watchful expression on his face. Scratching his left shoulder with his right hand.
Garsen’s still waiting with the horses.
‘My lord.’ (Come on, Roland. Get a grip on yourself.) ‘They have no priest or holy water, here. They’re doing the best they can. Can’t we just let them be, and eat something? We’ll have to be going soon, remember.’
There. That’s done it. He nods his head, and walks across to where Garsen is standing. Takes the reins from her hand. ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘who is Esclaramonde? Where does she come from?’
‘Esclaramonde is a Good Woman,’ Garsen replies softly. ‘Her husband was a citizen of Carcassone. He was killed by brigands, and her baby son died soon after, from a terrible illness. In her grief, she turned away from the false church 86 of Rome, and became a member of the church of Good Men. She came here to live in peace. To pray. To live a holy life, close to God.’
‘And you? And the others? Why are you here?’
‘My lord, we too wish to lead holy lives. Also, we had nowhere else to go.’
She trots off to fetch us some edibles, leaving Roland lost in thought. He always takes everything so seriously. Why bother yourself about a bunch of heretics? They’re no threat. They don’t even like fighting. It’s the Infidels we have to worry about.
Anyway, it seems to me that Esclaramonde is a very pious woman. More pious than most of the other people I’ve met. It’s just that she’s got some peculiar ideas.
‘Lord Roland?’ Speak of the Devil. There she is, Esclara-monde, emerging from the shadowy doorway. Seems quite calm, although she moves as if her joints are stiff. Face white and grim above her black robe.
Roland steps forward to meet her.
‘My lord, I want to apologise for raising my voice,’ she says. ‘ ‘‘He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty”. I ask your forgiveness.’
It’s like talking to a slab of granite. Roland’s frozen up, again.
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