Pagan in Exile

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Stay there,’ says Roland. ‘Keep a lookout.’ He slides from his saddle. and moves towards the long, motionless shape lying on its stomach in a sticky pool of blood. It’s 152 wearing a black habit. Roland puts out a hand, grabs a handful of wet robe, and turns the body over.

  ‘Guibert,’ he says.

  So that’s Guibert. He’s been chopped across the neck: his wound gapes like a second mouth. His head lolls. Blood everywhere. Blood and dirt.

  Jesus.

  ‘Pagan!’ Roland’s grim face, turned in my direction. ‘I told you to keep a lookout!’

  Sorry. I’m sorry. Scanning the bushes, through a mist of rain. Glancing down the road. Leaves tremble. Lightning flashes. Coppertail snorts nervously.

  ‘He’s dead,’ says Roland. ‘Dead but still warm. May God have mercy on his soul.’ And he crosses himself.

  ‘I can’t believe they managed to catch up so fast.’ Raising my voice over the rumble of thunder. ‘How did they do it?’

  ‘Cross country. It’s not difficult, there’s a lot of grazing land between here and the castle. No water or ploughed fields.’

  ‘Then they must have taken the same route back, or we would have met up with them.’

  Roland nods, and straightens, and peers into the distance. His hair is wringing wet. ‘Can you see anything else?’ he asks. ‘On the road?’

  ‘No, my lord, nothing.’

  ‘The others must have got away. Unless they’re lying dead in a bush, somewhere.’ He begins to examine the scarred ground, walking, stopping, crouching, fingering, moving up the road step by careful step. Suddenly the steps grow faster: he seems to be following tracks. ‘Here,’ he calls. ‘Here they are. All galloping. One, two, and here’s three. Three horses, holding steady . . .’

  ‘With riders?’

  ‘Perhaps. They kept to the road, anyway. That’s a good sign.’

  ‘What about the fourth?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bolted? Stolen?’

  ‘Surely even Joris wouldn’t be stupid enough to take Guibert’s horse?’ Looking back over my shoulder: my voice sounds unnaturally loud. ‘It’s too incriminating. Where would you hide it?’

  Roland doesn’t respond. He’s retracing his steps, frowning, because rain has begun to smudge and blur the prints. Soon they’ll have disappeared completely.

  ‘I think the other three escaped,’ he says at last. ‘I don’t believe they were followed. I think the engagement took place here, one man was killed, three escaped, and the attackers retired in the opposite direction. Perhaps Guibert was the only one they really wanted.’ He comes to where Guibert is lying, and stops. Bends over. Slides his hands under the limp body.

  ‘My lord? What are you doing?’

  He looks up, puzzled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says.

  ‘My lord, you’re not going to take him with us?’

  ‘I can’t just leave him where he is.’

  ‘But you have to.’ (Think, Roland, you’re not thinking.) ‘We can’t touch this, my lord. Any of it. If we do, we’ll be implicated.’

  ‘What are talking about? Don’t be foolish.’

  ‘My lord, you’re a member of the family. What will people think, if you ride past with a dead monk dangling 154 across your crupper?’ Pause for a moment, to let the image sink in. He stares at me with blank, blue eyes. ‘They’ll think you did it, my lord. They’ll think you were involved.’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘There were witnesses. I’m sure at least one is alive. People would know that I wasn’t responsible.’

  ‘But they would also know who you are.’ Poor Roland. Standing there in the rain, spattered with mud, wearing gaudy, unsuitable clothes that don’t fit him. He looks so lost and out of place. ‘My lord, consider what your father has done here. He’s tried very hard to avoid linking your family with this murder. He’s staged it outside his territory. He’s used people unknown to the victims. He’s obviously tried to make it look like the work of brigands. If you suddenly appear out of nowhere with Brother Guibert, people are going to start making connections.’

  ‘They’ll do that anyway.’

  ‘Yes, but wouldn’t it be better for everyone if brigands were held responsible? Otherwise this whole thing is going to escalate even more.’

  That’s done it. I’ve hit the bull’s-eye, there. He blinks, and looks down at the body. Thinks for a moment before looking up at me again.

  ‘So for the sake of keeping the peace,’ he murmurs, ‘this poor soul must be left here in the mud? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘My lord, the Abbot isn’t going to let him lie here and rot. I’m sure that someone from the Abbey will be sent to collect him.’ Glancing down the road, which is slowly disappearing under a network of puddles. ‘And we don’t want to be here when they arrive.’

  Roland runs his hand through his dripping hair. ‘Then you think we should return to Bram?’ he says.

  ‘Well of course.’ (What do you mean?) ‘Unless there’s somewhere else we can go.’

  ‘I was thinking that we should report to the Temple at Carcassone,’ Roland says, squelching towards his horse. ‘My father said that the Templars have a peace-keeping role in this country. If it is indeed an office of our Holy Rule then perhaps we can seek help from the Preceptor, Commander Folcrand.’

  ‘Not today, though, it’s too far.’

  ‘No, not today.’ He throws himself into the saddle, with less than his normal vigour. Perhaps the water is dragging him down. Or perhaps it’s something else that weighs so heavily. ‘In any event, this is bad weather for riding,’ he continues. ‘I think I shall wait and see what happens. If my father is blamed – if the dispute gets any worse – I will go to Carcassone. The Preceptor may have a solution.’

  He may, but I doubt it. As far as I can see, the best solution would be to lock all these murderers up in a box and let them fight it out between themselves. At least that way no one else would get hurt.

  Roland brings Jennet’s head around and circles Guibert’s remains, just once, before drawing abreast of Coppertail. What a good rider he is. Every movement as smooth as silk.

  ‘Pagan?’ He turns to look at me. Hesitates. Proceeds. ‘I know only one prayer, ‘Our Father’. It is the duty of all Templars to recite it every day, if they can.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I know.’ (What’s all this about?)

  ‘But I’m not educated, and I don’t think –’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think it’s really appropriate. Not like . . . Do you 156 remember the prayer that Esclaramonde recited? When her friend died? You said you knew it.’

  ‘It wasn’t a prayer, my lord, it was a gospel.’

  ‘Do you remember the words?’ His gaze shifts once more to Guibert’s broken body. ‘I think we should say something.’

  Yowch! That’s a tough one. Straining back to monastery mealtimes, with Brother Guige at the lectern. His creaky, rough voice, his hairy warts. Let’s see. Let’s see, now . . . ah yes, I remember.

  ‘In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’

  Roland bows his head and closes his eyes. Wet fustian clinging to my legs and arms, as the rain trickles into my collar.

  ‘The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made.’

  Smell of wet earth, smell of wet horse. The rain gently washes Guibert’s upturned face, cleaning the blood and dirt from his nose and mouth and eyelids.

  ‘In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.’

  That’s all I can remember. Silence descends, broken only by the patter of raindrops. Even the horses are still. Finally Roland opens his eyes, and crosses himself.

  ‘Amen,’ he murmurs.

  It’s time to go.

  Chapter 17

  Thunk!

  Roland’s sword comes down hard on my shield.

&nbs
p; Whew! Just in time. Go for the gap. His blade parries, steel on steel, scraping. Shield up. Jump back. Move sideways.

  ‘Good!’ he pants. ‘Excellent!’

  There! A breach! But he dodges away. Watch him. Watch him. Watch his foot.

  ‘Watch that foot, Pagan. The feet are your guides. Where’s your shield, boy? Up! Up! Do you think I’m aiming for your kneecaps?’

  Thunk! Damn. He’s always too quick. He surges forward, and it’s time to retreat. In a shield-to-shield push, there won’t be any contest.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Wait, what are you doing? The right flank, Pagan, look at it. No, sorry. Too late now.’

  Edging around the combat circle, looking for a hole in his defence. Feint to the right. He swings. There!

  Clang!

  My sword goes flying.

  Laughter from Isoard, who’s leaning against the stable wall. (Go boil your bowels, pus-bag.) But Roland seems quite pleased.

  ‘Well done,’ he exclaims. ‘You had me working hard, with that last attack.’ And he throws a forbidding glance at Isoard, who immediately falls silent.

  Is that the sound of wheels, I can hear?

  ‘Just remember to keep your shield high,’ Roland continues, turning back to me. ‘It’s unlikely that I’ll ever try to break your guard below the waist, from this height. I’d have to go grovelling around on my knees, to do that.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘What you really need is someone with a similar build. A shorter reach would give you a tighter match, I think.’

  ‘Look my lord.’ Pointing across the bailey, to where a familiar wagon is creaking through the gates. Even from this distance you can see that Esclaramonde has come alone. Roland squints, frowning.

  ‘Is that –?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, it’s Esclaramonde. I hope she’s all right.’

  He drops his shield, which hits the cobbles with a hollow, wooden thud. Sheathes his sword. Wipes his sweaty palms on the skirts of his tunic.

  Moves across to welcome her, his faithful squire at his heels.

  Other people are emerging from various doorways, roused by the rattle of the cart. Segura. Germain. The stable-boy. A spicy smell of cooking mingles with the scent of a brand new dung-heap which someone’s dropped near the barracks. Don’t ask me what it’s doing there. Perhaps Isarn has cleaned out Berengar’s room, at long last. Or perhaps Lord Galhard has decided to redecorate the hall.

  The stable-boy scampers over to take Esclaramonde’s horses, grabbing the reins from her hands. She’s looking rather wan, and even more delicate than usual: her enormous eyes are heavy and red-rimmed, with bluish smudges underneath. But she smiles a feeble smile as she looks up and sees Roland.

  ‘My lord,’ she mutters, ‘I hope you’re well.’

  ‘What is it?’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’ And he puts out a hand to help her climb down. But she doesn’t need any help, slipping to the ground unaided.

  ‘Bad news,’ she replies. ‘Good day, Master Pagan.’

  ‘Good day, Mistress Maury.’

  ‘Why did you come alone?’ Roland asks. ‘Where are the others? What happened?’

  ‘They’re not well. We had – we had a shock, this morning.’ She looks around the bailey with haunted eyes, her fingers locked together so tightly that white patches form on her knuckles. ‘It’s Aribert. He – he –’

  Suddenly she puts her clasped hands over her mouth. This is no good. We can’t do this here.

  ‘Perhaps we’d better take her inside, my lord.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roland agrees. ‘Yes, come inside, Mistress. Refresh yourself, and then we can talk.’

  ‘He was in a tree.’ The words burst out of her like spray through a blow-hole. ‘Estolt found him. Hanging there near the farm, with his – with his stomach . . . all cut . . .’

  God preserve us. Glance at Roland who’s frozen in mid-step.

  ‘There were crows, my lord, they were – they –’

  ‘I understand,’ he says quietly. ‘You don’t have to explain. Come inside, now.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I must speak to Lord Galhard.’ Her voice steadies: she straightens her shoulders. ‘I must tell him that it’s finished. It’s all got to finish. Aribert is dead. Garnier is dead. We must stop it now, before it goes any further.’ She looks up at Roland. ‘We must stop it.’

  A long pause. Finally he touches her arm. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Come, we’ll talk to Lord Galhard.’

  Galhard. Where’s Galhard? I haven’t seen him since yesterday’s unpleasant little episode, when we arrived back at the castle. Cornered in bed, under a monstrous, snoring lymer hound, he was complaining of toothache. Rampant black hair all over his chest (in fact you couldn’t see where the beard ended and the chest began). Irritable. Dangerous. A poultice jammed in one cheek, muffling his formidable voice. ‘Dead, eh? Well I can’t say I’m sorry. Must have been brigands. They’re always bad in the spring.’

  ‘It was you!’ Roland cried. ‘You sent a squad after them!’ Whereupon Galhard glared at us with one bloodshot eye over a tangle of furs and blankets and reeking dog.

  ‘Prove it,’ he snarled.

  Could he still be in bed?

  The rushes in the hall feel squishy underfoot, like little dead animals, or the kind of thing that comes out of a horse’s rear end. (If someone doesn’t get rid of these rushes very soon, they’ll be getting up and walking out the door by themselves.) Berengar’s throwing dice with Aimery and 161 Isarn, whose face still looks like the ruins of Baalbek. They raise their eyes as we enter.

  ‘What’s up?’ says Berengar, catching sight of Esclara-monde. ‘More trouble?’ He sounds as if he’s been praying for it.

  ‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Roland demands. His gaze freezes on Aimery, who begins to shift about on his bench. (That look is one of Roland’s most deadly weapons.) ‘We must speak to him immediately.’

  Berengar jerks a thumb at the door behind the dais. ‘He’s still in bed. His tooth’s worse. I told him he’s going to have to get it pulled.’

  Roland turns to Esclaramonde. ‘Sit down,’ he says, ‘I’ll go and speak to him.’

  ‘Can’t I speak to him myself?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ll ask. Wait here. You too, Pagan.’

  He disappears into Galhard’s sleeping chamber, and silence descends. Berengar’s squinting at Esclaramonde over the rim of his goblet. Aimery’s fiddling with the dice. I don’t know what Isarn’s doing, because I don’t want to look.

  ‘What happened to your face, Master Pagan?’ Esclara-monde inquires. Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Exactly the question I was hoping not to hear.

  ‘Nothing.’ (Don’t look at Isarn, please; just don’t look.) ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Is it painful?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What have you been using on it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘No comfrey? Wormwood? Marjoram?’

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘Basil is good for headaches. And balm, of course. Chervil will ease the swelling. Perhaps I could make you an infusion.’ She looks over to where Isarn is skulking, and offers him her sweet, tentative smile. ‘Both of you.’

  Isarn grunts, as Berengar slams down his goblet and wipes his mouth.

  ‘Are you a herb-woman?’ he leers, displaying the broken remnants of what must have once been a proud wall of teeth. (That mouth’s been under siege too often.)

  ‘I care for the sick,’ Esclaramonde replies coolly. ‘I live with some people who need a good deal of care.’

  ‘Know anything about love-philtres?’

  Groan. But Esclaramonde doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

  ‘No, my lord,’ she rejoins, ‘I’ve never had any need of them.’

  Hooray! Roland’s back. That was fast. He moves towards us, alert behind a stony expression. The tightness in his shoulders gives him away.

  ‘Lord Galhard will be out shortly,’ he declares. ‘Isarn, will you fetch Mistress Maury some food a
nd drink?’

  ‘Isarn’s playing dice,’ Berengar scowls. Whoops! Bad tactics. Roland swallows, and shifts his chilling stare to Aimery. No argument from that quarter. Aimery slouches off without a single protest. (Probably glad to escape.)

  ‘Did you tell him?’ says Esclaramonde, as Roland lowers himself onto a bench. ‘About Aribert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he say, my lord?’

  ‘He said he’d be out shortly.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Who’s Aribert?’ Berengar asks. But no one answers. Roland is watching Esclaramonde, who seems to be lost in thought. Isarn’s studying the impressive collection of smears and splats and smudges on the table-top. As for me, I’m keeping my head down.

  Suddenly Germain appears, panting.

  ‘My lord?’ he says. ‘Oh, Lord Roland –’

  ‘What is it?’ (Berengar.)

  ‘It’s the baker, my lord. He just told me –’

  ‘What? Spit it out!’

  ‘They wouldn’t let him use the mill, my lord. The Abbey mill, at Ronceveaux. He can’t grind his corn, and neither can anyone else from Bram. Which means they can’t bake their bread.’

  God preserve us. So the Abbot’s done it, then. Roland lets out a faint sigh. Berengar’s fist hits the table so hard that the floor shakes. But before he can speak, Galhard’s voice forestalls him.

  ‘Have they closed the mill?’ he mumbles, through a mouthful of poultice. He’s standing at the door to his chamber, all wrapped up in a fur-lined cloak. Germain jumps, and wipes his sweaty forehead.

  ‘Only – only to people from Bram, my lord,’ he quavers.

  ‘My lord.’ Roland rises to his feet. ‘Let me take this to the Templars. It’s gone far enough.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My lord, I know you haven’t paid their peace tax, lately, but I’m sure we can work something out –’

  ‘I’ll take care of it myself, Roland.’

  A ‘hear, hear’ from Berengar. He’s on his feet, too, and clasping his sword-hilt. ‘If we can’t use their damned mill, then we should burn it down!’ he roars.

  ‘No!’ It’s Esclaramonde. She has that look on her face. ‘My lord, this is senseless. Violence will only beget violence, and God commanded us to love our neighbours as we love ourselves. This is the Devil’s work, my lord. God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind!’