Pagan in Exile

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘The Abbot is a neighbour I can do without,’ Galhard rejoins, and turns to Roland. ‘Get rid of her,’ he says.

  But Esclaramonde won’t be silenced. She steps forward, her dark eyes blazing.

  ‘Why do you judge your brother?’ she cries. ‘We shall all stand before Christ’s judgement seat, my lord. We should not judge but love one another, because the fruit of the Holy Spirit is love, and joy, and peace, and gentleness. When Christ was reviled, he didn’t revile again. When he suffered, he didn’t threaten, but committed himself to God, who judges with righteousness.’

  ‘Get her out of here!’ Galhard bawls. Roland, however, doesn’t move a muscle.

  ‘What this lady says is the truth, my lord,’ he responds quietly. ‘You should listen to her.’

  ‘Love your enemies!’ (Esclaramonde spreads her hands in a gesture of supplication.) ‘Do good to them that hate you, my lord. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them who spitefully use you. Let the peace of God rule in your heart, and you will walk as a child of light. For the man who says he is in the light, and hates his brother, is in the most profound darkness. He walks in darkness and 165 knows not where he goes, because the darkness has blinded his eyes. Do not blind yourself, my lord. Lift your eyes to the light.’

  God, she’s magnificent. I’ve never heard anyone preach like her. The way she talks is just unbeatable. Galhard obviously thinks so too.

  ‘Shut up!’ he thunders. ‘Get her out of here, or she’ll suffer for it, I promise you!’

  But Roland has already taken up a defensive position beside her. If anyone attacks Esclaramonde, they’ll have Roland to deal with as well. ‘My lord,’ he declares, ‘what you do now may affect hundreds of people for many years to come. Won’t you reconsider?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then I must take this matter to the Templars at Carcassone.’

  ‘Good! Off you go, then! And I hope you stay there!’ Galhard waves a curt dismissal. ‘You can take her with you, while you’re at it. I don’t want to see her here again.’

  ‘You won’t, my lord, but just remember this.’ Esclaramonde’s voice rings out bravely. ‘By doing violence to your brother, you do violence to yourself. If he is wounded, you will bleed. Because he that doesn’t love his brother abides in death, and whoever hates his brother is a murderer, and no murderer shall have eternal life. God is love, and he that dwells in love dwells in God.’

  Amen. Roland places a hand under her elbow, and glances at me. (Out of here, Pagan, before Galhard disembowels someone.) Making a quick but dignified exit.

  ‘Would your community object to providing Pagan and myself with a place to sleep, Mistress Maury?’ Roland suddenly remarks, as we stagger down the stairs. She looks up at him, startled.

  ‘No, of course not. Why?’

  ‘Then we shall escort you home. You should not be travelling by yourself.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘It will only be for one night. Tomorrow we shall start for Carcassone. I intend to speak to the Temple Commander, there.’

  Esclaramonde stops, abruptly, and turns to face him.

  ‘You wish to prevent this,’ she observes. ‘You wish to discuss a peaceful settlement.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I honour you, my lord. You are a man of light.’ And she smiles, almost fiercely. ‘The Holy Spirit abides in you, because you are one of God’s chosen.’

  Hear, hear, I’ll second that. A slow flush creeps across Roland’s face.

  But he doesn’t say a word.

  Chapter 18

  Mmmmm. That wonderful smell of Templars. That smell of lye and soda and strewing herbs and boiled clothes, so fresh and clear and clean. Not a single dog turd anywhere. Not a whiff of urine. I’d almost forgotten what cleanliness looked like. Nothing but scrubbed stone floors and cobweb-free corners as far as the eye can see.

  Of course, the Templars themselves don’t smell quite so attractive. They’re not supposed to. (‘If we were meant to smell like lilies,’ Sergeant Tibald used to say, ‘God would have turned the Saracens into bees.’) Most Templars announce themselves with a blast of virile aromas – horse, sweat, smoke, garlic, leather – depending on what they’ve been doing. Commander Folcrand, however, doesn’t seem to have been doing very much. Not physically, at least. He 168 exudes a smell of vellum and hot wax, like a notary, and his office is piled high with rolls of parchment. As for that chaplain with the bleached face and inky hands, he looks like a permanent fixture.

  ‘Ah, Brother Roland.’ Folcrand’s voice is gruff and weary. ‘Welcome back. You’ve spoken to Lord Galhard?’

  ‘Yes, Commander, but –’

  ‘Sit down, please. And your squire also. Just push those books off that chair; I apologise for the confusion.’ He grasps the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the corners of his closed eyes. You could hide a leg of mutton in the bags underneath them. His thick, wavy grey hair is all rumpled and ink-stained, as if he’s been running frantic hands through it. ‘We’re expecting a visit from the Grand Preceptor, and I’m afraid there seems to be a problem with the accounts. Nothing serious. But it’s not easy untangling all these tithes and taxes.’

  Well, well, will you look at that? Never thought I’d see a nervous Templar. He’s got that withdrawn, worried air of someone trying to add up a set of numbers, over and over again, in his head.

  Roland decides to skip the courtesies, and get down to business.

  ‘Commander Folcrand,’ he says, ‘I fear that my errand was unsuccessful. None of my family responded to the appeal for holy warriors.’

  ‘Oh.’ Folcrand fiddles with a quill on the table in front of him. He’s obviously dying to get back to his account books. It’s strange, he’s got the shoulders of an ox and a face like a quarry, but he’s been completely unmanned by a handful of debts and disbursements. ‘Well,’ he remarks, ‘I can’t say I’m 169 surprised. Most of the families in this part of the world won’t risk leaving their lands. Things are too unstable.’

  ‘Yes.’ Roland leans forward. ‘And that’s what I wanted to talk about. You see, my father . . . there’s trouble brewing between my father and the Abbey of Saint Jerome.’

  Folcrand grunts. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ he says.

  ‘No, of course. But in this case my father was not the original culprit.’ Slowly, solemnly, Roland begins to describe the whole messy business from beginning to end. Garnier. Aribert. Guibert. The ambush on the road. Esclaramonde’s gruesome discovery. Over by the window, the chaplain listens with downcast eyes, picking at his fingernails. Sounds of commerce drift up from the street, pedlars’ cries and the rumble of wheelbarrows mingling with someone’s excruciating rendition of I hope I may lie in a tavern when dying. It’s nice to hear noises like that. Reminds me of Jerusalem. After so long at Bram, Carcassone feels like the centre of the world.

  ‘. . . and now he is threatening to burn down the mill at Ronceveaux,’ Roland continues. ‘I very much fear the consequences of such an action, for Bram isn’t the only village which relies on the Abbey mill. Who will have meal to make bread, in that region, if the mill is destroyed?’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  ‘And as you know, the lords of Montferrand have jurisdiction over Saint Jerome. Destroying the Abbey mill would be a direct insult to them. Fortunately, it appears that they are not residing at home, just now. I believe they’re off defending Toulouse from the Count of Poitou –’

  ‘Oh no they’re not.’ Folcrand looks up from his goose quill. ‘Haven’t you heard? Richard’s withdrawn.’

  Well I’ll be spit-roasted. This is interesting. Roland, caught off guard, simply stares.

  ‘King Philip raised an army and attacked Richard’s lands in Berry,’ Folcrand explains. ‘He captured Chateaureaux at the beginning of last week. That’s meant a change of plans on Richard’s part. He’s pulling out of Quercy as fast as he can. So I doubt that the lords of Montferrand will be in Toulouse for much longer.’r />
  ‘I don’t understand.’ Roland sounds dazed. ‘King Philip –?’

  ‘Raymond of Toulouse is King Philip’s vassal. Philip doesn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged.’ Folcrand permits himself a humourless little smile. ‘Quite apart from the temptation of unprotected territory.’

  ‘But King Philip made a vow to join the Crusade!’ Roland protests. ‘So did Richard. They were going to march together. How can they become involved in a petty dispute like this?’

  ‘I know. It’s a mess.’

  ‘But we were going to march with them!’

  Yes, now that’s the important point. We were going to march with them. With King Philip, to be precise. We came here to persuade Roland’s family that they should join King Philip’s crusading force. So what’s going to happen to us, if that force disappears?

  And what’s going to happen to Jerusalem?

  ‘Well, don’t hold your breath,’ Folcrand sighs. ‘We received word from our sister house in London today. It’s possible that King Henry of England might come to Richard’s rescue, and attack Philip himself. If that happens, I can guarantee we won’t see any Crusade for at least a year. These cross-channel conflicts always drag on and on.’

  God preserve us. A year! It’s already been that long since the Battle of Hattin. What happened to all those promises? I thought we’d be back in Jerusalem by the end of this summer!

  Glancing at Roland, whose face is unreadable.

  ‘In any event,’ Folcrand concludes, ‘the point I’m making is that the lords of Montferrand are probably on their way home as we speak.’

  ‘Then the outlook is even more serious,’ says Roland, earnestly ‘As you know, the Abbey owes Roquefire de Montferrand certain rights of jurisdiction. If something isn’t done, he and my father will be at each other’s throats before the end of the month.’

  Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ Folcrand exclaims. A head like a giant root vegetable makes its appearance.

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’

  ‘Inventory’s finished, my lord.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There seems to be a bit of a mix-up with the bedding –’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The head disappears again. After a brief silence, Folcrand continues.

  ‘As if I didn’t have anything else to do but worry about kitchen supplies and loan guarantees,’ he complains. ‘Now, where were we? Oh yes, your father. I’m sorry, Brother Roland, but I don’t quite understand what you want.’

  ‘Commander, I’ve been told that in this country the Order has a peace-keeping role, guaranteed at the payment of a peace levy.’ Roland speaks slowly and carefully, weighing every word. ‘Your help in this matter may well put a stop to serious conflict. I have come here to ask for that help.’

  Folcrand drags a hand over the loose skin of his face. Briefly, the crags and furrows rearrange themselves. ‘The thing is, Brother, it doesn’t quite work like that,’ he confesses. ‘About forty years ago, the Count of Toulouse, the Viscount of Carcassone and the Archbishop of Narbonne established a peace and truce for all peasants, oxen and other farm animals. The Templars were to receive one setier of grain a year for each plough, in payment, and it was to be collected by the civil authorities. But that wasn’t designed to pay for our services so much as to indemnify people in case of theft or destruction. Naturally, with our financial expertise, we were asked to take charge of the levy’s overall management.’

  Financial expertise? What financial expertise? I thought that your account books were ruining your life?

  ‘Of course, we try to play our part in stamping out brigandage,’ Folcrand continues. ‘And we advise the Viscount of Carcassone on major strategic decisions. But as for private disputes between local lords, well, we hardly have the right (or, I may say, the resources) to interfere where we’re not welcome. It’s not our role to go to war with every minor peer who decides to steal his neighbour’s goats. Not for one setier of grain per plough per year.’

  Well how much do you want, then? A mill? A castle? A right-of-way with toll privileges? What’s happened to this Order? The pilgrims never used to pay us, in Jerusalem.

  Glance at Roland. Still not a trace of expression on his face.

  ‘What do you want me to do, exactly?’ Folcrand finishes. ‘Send a fighting force over to Bram, and threaten your father with a siege if he doesn’t stop bickering? It can’t be done, Brother.’

  But Roland shakes his head.

  ‘There’s no need to use force,’ he replies. ‘That will simply aggravate the problem. Disputes like this should be settled by negotiation.’ He straightens, and places an open hand on his chest. ‘I cannot act as intermediary. Why should Abbot Tosetus trust the son of Lord Galhard? What we need is a neutral party who won’t be affected by the outcome. Someone who would command respect. Someone who is accustomed to dealing with such delicate matters.’

  ‘And you think one of my knights would fill that role?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Folcrand sighs. He frowns down at his hands, which bear the scars of many battles. A bell tolls in the distance. You can hear the brisk sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. ‘I suppose it’s not out of the question,’ he mutters, and thinks hard. ‘Brother Ferry may be the man. Ferry de Lezinnes. He’s just come back from Lombardy. Things are very unsettled, over there.’ (Turning to the chaplain.) ‘Go and tell Brother Ferry that I want to see him, will you, Father? He should be on his way to Vespers.’

  The chaplain bows, and scurries off. There’s a general sense of movement – of footsteps and slamming doors and hushed voices – as the knights of the house are summoned to prayer.

  ‘I daresay you’ll want to attend Vespers yourself, Brother Roland,’ Folcrand remarks, and it’s suddenly quite 174 obvious that he wants to break the news to Lord Ferry himself, in private. Roland instantly shoots to his feet. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘It would be a privilege.’

  ‘Come back after prayers and we’ll discuss this further. I’m sure Brother Ferry will be amenable.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander.’

  ‘No, no, don’t thank me.’

  We’re out the door so fast that there’s hardly time to draw breath. The corridor seems to be full of large, brown sergeants tottering under great loads of gridirons and saddle covers and dusty old corselets made of horn and boiled leather. (Inventory business?) A bald knight strides past, at top speed, without sparing us a glance. Everyone’s busy. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  ‘I must go to the chapel,’ Roland observes. ‘Can you keep yourself occupied until after Vespers?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Meet me back here when the bell rings. You can find your way, can’t you?’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘What?’ Looking down his long nose. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking: he’s wearing that Man of Marble mask, again. Funny how it disappeared for a while, at Bram.

  ‘My lord, what about the Crusade? What are we going to do? If King Philip gets involved in a local fight –’ ‘It may resolve itself quickly.’

  ‘But if it doesn’t?’ (We’re not going to war against England, are we? I don’t fancy that at all. I want to go back to Jerusalem.) ‘Surely there are others we could join, instead? What about Emperor Frederick? He’s taken a vow.’

  ‘Later, Pagan, we’ll discuss it later.’

  ‘But we will return to Jerusalem, won’t we? We’re not going to stay here?’ Catching his arm. Look at me, Roland! This is important! We’ve got to do something, it’s my homeland we’re talking about! ‘What happens if there isn’t a Crusade? Will we go back to help Lord Conrad, in Tyre? He needs us more than King Philip does. We can’t stay here, my lord. We just can’t.’

  ‘Pagan,’ says Roland, and removes my hand from his elbow. ‘I am a knight of the Temple, sworn to fight for Christ. Why should I stay here and become involved in a war th
at isn’t holy? A Templar knight doesn’t draw his sword against Christians. A Templar knight must only shed the blood of Infidels. You know that. So what else could I possibly do?’

  ‘Yes, but things are different now.’ Casting a glance down the corridor, towards the backs of the equipmenttoting sergeants. ‘This Order is changing. Nobody seems to be worrying about Saladin. Everyone’s too busy with Frankish politics.’

  ‘Hush! Quiet. Not so loud.’

  ‘But it’s true!’

  ‘Pagan.’ His voice is stern. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You are clever beyond your years, but you’re not qualified to speak of this Order. The blessed Bernard himself said that the knights of the Temple were chosen specifically to guard the tomb which is the bed of the true Solomon. He told us to go forth and repel the foes of the cross of Christ. That is the foundation of our Rule. Nothing has changed it, and nothing ever will. Now go and help in the stables. I have prayers to attend.’

  Watching his white linen back as he marches towards the sound of the second bell. Oh Roland, you’re so innocent. Don’t you know that everything changes? How can you possibly believe that anything on this earth will always be the same?

  Except, perhaps, for the futile squabbling. It seems to me that the squabbling will never end.

  Chapter 19

  Here we are at last. Never thought I’d be so happy to see Bram. But even Bram looks good after an entire day on horseback, with Ferry de Lezinnes blabbing away on one side, and Den the Wag – Den the Wit – blocking my view on the other. I suppose there’s one thing you can say about Den: at least he makes an effective shield. I mean, what else can you say? He’s big. He’s there. He’s got a lot of hair coming out of both nostrils. That’s about it, really.

  But it may not be his fault. I’d probably lose the power of speech myself, if I were Lord Ferry’s squire. That man just never stops talking. You wonder when he finds the time to breathe, let alone eat or sleep or empty his bladder. It’s been yak, yak, yak, ever since we crawled into our saddles at sunrise. And he still hasn’t stopped!