Pagan's Crusade

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘No, no. It’s all right.’

  ‘You mustn’t be disturbed by the noise these brigands make. It may sound like souls in torment, but it’s only hot air. It means nothing.’

  ‘My lord, I’ve heard Patriarch Heraclius singing hymns. Hell itself can’t hold anything as horrible as the sound of his high notes.’

  Brief pause. Then – could it be? Yes. No. Yes. I’m seeing things. A miracle.

  Saint George is actually smiling.

  O clap your hands all ye people and shout unto God with the voice of triumph. A proud moment in history, my friends. Lord Roland Roucy de Bram has delivered a small but healthy smile. No signs of stress or cracking in the facial area. Teeth remain in place. No nasty surprises. A brave and entertaining effort.

  Gone now, but not forgotten.

  ‘You are quite shameless, Pagan.’ Seriously, with his mouth under control. Can’t fool me, though. Now I know there’s someone hiding inside that statue. Someone who’s heard Heraclius sing. ‘You should have more respect. Now go and take up your position, please. And keep your eyes open.’

  You mean I can’t keep them shut? But how else am I going to get through this business? Welf and Bonetus are up front, side by side, big and square but not big enough to hide behind. Welf in particular: built like a road fort, wrists as thick as your average pilgrim, skin the colour of a smoked eel. Practically bald under his helmet and missing two fingers and half an ear. Rather slow on the uptake, but a man to inspire confidence.

  And Bonetus. Smaller, slimmer, quicker, fiercer. A temperament hotter than most Templar sergeants – or so they tell me. Nicknamed ‘the Mace’ because of the mace hanging from his saddle: vicious but lightweight, with a well-worn leather grip. Swinging back and forth, back and forth. Scrubbed clean of blood, hair, flesh, clothing.

  Behind him, Sergeant Maynard. A living, walking apocalypse. Teeth like tombstones under his bloodshot glare. A ravaged crater of a face, dark, frozen, twisted. Extremely tall. Hardly human. They talk about Maynard in quiet corners, because his wife and two children were struck down with leprosy. He has fits himself, sometimes, but not violent ones. Only Saint George can look him in the eye for long.

  They say he fights like a panther in a sheep-pen.

  Welf, Bonetus, Maynard. With a line-up like this, what do they need me for? I’m only going to get in the way. I’m only going to damage their invincible image, like a lame puppy trailing after a victory procession. You can see Bonetus is thinking the same thing. You can tell by the way he orders me to fall in behind him.

  Saint George gives the signal, and we raise our shields.

  The Valley, deep in shadow. An afternoon chill falls onto the pilgrims, subduing them, shutting their mouths at long last. The echo of horseshoes clinking on loose rocks. The whimper of a weary child, way back in the column. Someone sneezes. A glance at Saint George: he’s guarding the left flank, stone-faced. Doesn’t look too worried. (But then he never does.) Hand on his sword hilt. Eyes on the move. Sees me looking and jerks his head. Turn around, Pagan. You’re supposed to be watching the road.

  But there’s nothing to report – nothing of interest. If they’re going to attack, why not get it over with? Nothing stirs behind the brush and boulders. A pilgrim starts praying. ‘God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear . . .’ Speak for yourself, stupid.

  A bend in the road. A blind corner. Could this be it? There’s a shifting of postures, a rustle of fabric, as muscles tighten all over the escort.

  Still nothing.

  If I were a brigand, I wouldn’t take on a party like this. I’d rather raid villages. No Templars in villages. Hardly any men either, nowadays. You can do what you like in a place like that. Burn, rape, pillage. God knows it’s been done before. I suppose I wouldn’t be here, if it hadn’t.

  Sudden thought. What if I were attacked, here and now, by my very own father? What if dear old Dad came screaming down that dusty slope, swinging an axe-head? What a laugh that would be. Not that I’ve ever laid eyes on the pus-bag. But maybe I’d know all the same. Maybe you can tell, somehow. Blood will out. Blood to blood. Maybe I’d recognise myself in his cheekbones.

  Childhood dream: to grow up, get strong, and hang my father’s guts out to dry. Who knows? Perhaps that dream is about to come true. Perhaps he’s just around the corner, slavering into his bloodstained beard. Not quite as strong as he used to be . . .

  ‘Look there!’

  Action stations!

  No. False alarm. One of the pilgrims has spotted a scattering of bones by the roadside. Could be human, could be animal. No rags or horns to give you any clue. Welf and Bonetus exchange glances.

  ‘Keep moving.’ Saint George raises his voice as the procession slows. ‘Move along, please.

  ’ ‘Should we not collect them? Just in case?’ Father Raimbaut addresses Saint George, who shakes his head silently. The bones are grey and splintered, very old. Dust to dust. Leaving them behind, rounding the last corner. The road widens. Ahead – the gateway. Dramatic pillars of rock, crowned with sunlight. Beyond them, an easy, gradual, spreading, rolling fall to level ground.

  Somebody wants to empty his bladder. Permission withheld. No stopping until we’ve cleared the Valley. Not long now, though. Nearly there. The pace quickens . . .

  O Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight; my goodness and my fortress, my high tower and my deliverer, my shield and he in whom I trust.

  It looks like we’ve made it.

  ‘So what do you have left? Or are you finished?’

  ‘No, we’re not finished. We’ve still got Mount Sion, and Our Lady of Josophat, and the Pool of Bethesda. And the shrine of the Ascension.’

  ‘Oh, haven’t you seen the shrine yet? Oh, you must. They’ve got the autograph text of the Lord’s prayer.’

  ‘And what about the Abbey of Latina? Are you seeing that too?’

  ‘Well . . . we don’t really know if we’re going to have the time . . .’

  ‘Anyway, there’s not much to see inside, is there?’

  ‘There certainly is! When the Blessed Virgin fainted at the crucifixion she was carried to a cave under the abbey, and when she woke up she tore out a handful of hair, and they’ve got it there in a golden casket.’

  ‘Really? You think it’s worth seeing?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’

  ‘Well maybe we’ll skip the Church of Saint Peter’s Chains, and do the Abbey of Latina instead.’

  ‘Saint Peter’s Chains! Don’t bother with Saint Peter’s Chains, it’s in a shocking condition. A real dump. You can’t even see the relics, it’s so dark.’

  Et cetera, et cetera. Pilgrim talk. Most of them are on a pretty tight schedule, with lots to do in just a couple of days. The Jordan trip has left them with very little time to kiss the Holy Sepulchre, or cast their wooden crosses onto Calvary, or pile up rocks in the Valley of Hinnom (where they hope to sit enthroned on the Day of Judgement). Some have overspent on relics and souvenirs, and are down to their last dinars. For them, Gaspard has a list of certified charities like Saint John’s Hospital, or the Hospice of the Agony in the Garden.

  Only for genuine cases, though. Woe betide anyone who’s hiding money in their shoes or hats or underwear.

  ‘Thank you, Brother. Thank you kindly.’

  ‘And the Hospital’s just down there, you say?’

  ‘Down there, first left, second right, then take the first stairs.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  Back inside the walls again. Back to the Cattle Market, knee-deep in dung. Most of the pens are empty once more, but the sheep have left some strong-smelling traces behind them. It’s been a busy day at the sale yards. You can tell by the piles of gnawed fruit stones and sugar cane; the choppy mess of footprints in the mud around the water troughs; the cluster of shepherds drinking away their profits under an awning. T
here’s an argument going on between the Collector of Tolls and someone who doesn’t want to pay his trading taxes. Someone in a silk burnous. Sackcloth is better if you want to win an argument like that, my friend. Sackcloth, sores and tearstains.

  ‘Goodbye, Master Templar.’

  Trapped! A round red face, a man-eating smile, a slobbering infant. Agnes the Dreaded. Bearing Gerald the Unclean like some kind of gift in her arms.

  No, dear, I’m not kissing anything covered with strands of goo. I joined the Templars to fight Infidels, not to face the ultimate horror.

  ‘Goodbye, Mistress Agnes.’ (Shouldn’t have dismounted. Should have stayed on my horse, beyond the reach of sticky children.) ‘I hope your trip was beneficial.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. I think it was.’ She doesn’t sound too sure. ‘Of course Radulf’s backache hasn’t cleared up yet, but we didn’t really pray for that. Perhaps we should have. But we haven’t seen all the sacred sites, so there’s still time, I suppose. Before we leave . . .’

  ‘That’s good.’ God preserve us. Is she going to drivel on all day? Quick glance around. Saint George is out of earshot, wrestling with a minor crisis. Pilgrims baying for blood, by the look of it. Could someone be missing? Or has the Jordan failed to deliver enough in the way of miracles?

  Keep clear of that little dust-up.

  ‘. . . it was like dysentery, only not so watery – more mushy, I suppose. Poor Gerald. So I gave him some holy water mixed with gruel . . .’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce!

  ‘Excuse me, Mistress Agnes, but I have to – urn – to –’ To what? To get the hell out of here, that’s what. Sudden glimpse of a hand, beckoning. Joscelin’s hand. What’s he doing, still hanging round the markets? I thought he’d scuttled back to his dunghill long ago. ‘I have to talk to someone. It’s very important. I’m sorry. Goodbye and good luck.’

  Anything to escape. At least Joscelin doesn’t talk about his bowel movements. He’s lurking at the mouth of that dank, unwholesome alley which leads to St Mary of the Germans: the alley which smells of camels and latrines. Propping up somebody’s warehouse wall. Lazily flapping the flies away with a whisk made of horsehair and sandalwood. Flick, flick, flick.

  ‘Well? What is it?’

  ‘Lower your voice, Pagan.’

  ‘I’ll count to five. One – two –’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Softly. Grabbing my arm, falling back into the shadows. ‘I have some information . . .’

  ‘Get off.’

  ‘It’s confidential. People would pay big money for this. People like the Templars. We could split the reward.’

  ‘What do you mean? What reward?’

  He looks uneasy. His eyes jump like fleas from body to body as he scans the marketplace.

  ‘Just come back here, will you? I don’t want anyone to see us together.’

  (You and me both, bog-brain.)

  ‘All right. But this had better be good . . .’

  It’s like entering someone’s intestines. Narrow, slimy, smelling of dung. A cloud of flies settling like a cloak over your head and shoulders. Bones. Rats. Sludge from the nearby tannery. A glorified gutter, as black as the Queen of Sheba’s armpit.

  A murderer’s alley.

  Stop. Wait. Think. Up ahead, Joscelin disappears around a corner.

  I don’t like the look of this.

  To hell with it. Turn around. Jerked back. Grip on the collar: slip in the scum. Knees hit the paving. Sword! Sword!

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’

  Crack. Down. Can’t breathe. Weight on the head. Choking . . . ‘Oof!’ Jesus! Oh Jesus. They’ve broken my ribs.

  ‘Lost something, Kidrouk?’

  Voice of the monster. God preserve us.

  ‘I’m talking to you.’

  Weight’s lifted. Turn my head . . . Bervold. And Hamo, who’s swinging my sword. Bervold’s got a plank of wood – with nails in it. God preserve us. Hamo half drunk, red-eyed, grinning.

  ‘Maybe we can trade.’ (Bervold.) ‘Your weapon for my money. Now.

  ’ Trying to think.

  ‘Now, you scum-bucket!’

  Wood. Duck. Slam! Elbow. Agony. Groaning. Writhing.

  Taste of rot on my teeth. Rot from the pavement.

  ‘The money.’ Bervold leans over, grabs a handful of hair. ‘Where’s the money?

  ’ ‘I’ll get it . . . I’ll get it . . .’

  ‘No – I’ll get it. Just tell me where it is.’

  ‘I mean – I mean – when I get paid . . .’

  Pause.

  ‘When you get paid?’ Slowly. ‘When you get paid? Hear that, Hamo? When he gets paid.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Kidrouk. I’m afraid we can’t wait that long.’

  Up – up – dragged by the hair. Jerking. Pulling. Like red-hot pins in your scalp.

  Kick out. No contact. Hamo laughs.

  ‘You want a fight, butterfly?’

  God. They’re going to kill me. Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man. Preserve me from the violent – ‘Oow!’

  Hit the wall. Slide down . . . Where? In the belly. Boot in the belly. Coughing. Wood again. Crack! Stars. Paralysed. Hauled up. Fist. Grin.

  ‘Say your prayers, pig-swill.’

  Shut my eyes and wait. And wait. Nothing. Still nothing. Sneak a look through my lashes.

  Bervold’s face, frozen. Blank. A shiny blade just grazing his left cheekbone.

  I know that blade. I’d know it anywhere. I’ve cleaned it myself with rags and lard and bunches of chain.

  ‘All right.’ A soft, familiar voice. ‘Let him go. Gently.

  ’ Saint George saves the day. Gleaming white, rock-faced, hard as a diamond. Calm. Steady. The avenging angel.

  Eat dirt, Bervold.

  ‘Let him go, or lose an ear.’

  ‘Look out!

  ’ Flash of steel – Roland whirls – Hamo lunges – Roland parries. Clang. The force of the Templar blade sends my sword spinning from Hamo’s clumsy grip. Now Bervold moves. Launches himself at Roland’s back and thud! Connects with an elbow.

  Reels away, gasping. Bent like a cripple. Roland turns, so fast – can’t see – one knee jerks up and straight to the jaw. Crunch. Bone on bone. Bervold drops as Hamo charges, waving his wood. But Roland’s swung round to meet him. Sword up. Aimed at the belly.

  Hamo stops.

  ‘Well?’ says Roland.

  Behind him Bervold is crawling away, struggling to his feet, escaping like a wounded animal. Hamo roars. He hurls his wood and runs for his life, grabbing Bervold, dragging him, roaring, spitting, frenzied with fear.

  Roland’s dodged the flying wood. He doesn’t give chase. He takes a few steps, slows, stops. Breathing heavily, but with his mouth shut. Watching the two men retreat.

  You could lay a bet on what he’s thinking. (No point wasting energy on that scum.) His eyes drop to his sword: he examines it, quickly but carefully. Wipes the blade on the skirts of his tunic. Restores the weapon to its sheath.

  And swings round, stony-faced. Like God at the Last Judgement.

  Now it’s my turn.

  ‘Does it hurt there?’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘What about here?’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘And if I move this? Does that hurt?’

  ‘Yeow!

  ’ God preserve us! It’s like being punched up all over again. I thought infirmaries were supposed to make people better, not torture them to death.

  ‘All right.’ A greasy ear on my ribs. ‘Breathe in. Deeper. Now breathe out. And in. Keep breathing. Keep breathing . . .’

  Keep breathing. As if I was going to stop breathing! I’d be in trouble if I did, Brother Gavin, let me tell you. Or haven’t you worked that out yet?

  ‘Hmmm.’ He straightens, frowning. ‘And does it hurt when you breathe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In or out?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Ther
e could be a cracked rib. It’s hard to tell. But there’s nothing broken. Nothing ruptured either, or you’d be dead by now.’

  Terrific.

  ‘Just a few bruises. Not severe. If they swell at all I can apply a few leeches, but at the moment I’d recommend a poultice. Just the usual. Hyssop and wormwood, wax and vinegar, a little comfrey – maybe a touch of marjoram.’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce.

  ‘To drink?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, boy. It’s a fomentation. A dressing.’ (To Roland.) ‘I’ll strap a couple on now, and change them tomorrow morning. If you can send him along then, my lord?’

  He doesn’t wait for a reply, moving to the shelves in the corner. They’re loaded with pottery jars, all labelled: lovage, elder, iris, anise, dittany, hellebore, fennel, rue, dill, hemlock, belladonna, rosemary . . . no wonder the whole room stinks like a dog’s breath. And the floor’s covered in strewing herbs, scattered among the rushes. Steam and smoke, mortars and pestles, wet rags and goose grease. Hot as hell because the fire’s always burning.

  Brother Gavin’s domain.

  He looks like something God put together at the end of the Seventh Day, with leftover scrapings. Shorter than I am. Arms of a giant, legs of a dwarf, huge, hairy ears and a dainty maiden’s nose. The eyebrows and neck seem to be missing. He’s quick on his feet, though. From shelf to table, table to fireplace. Whizz, whizz, whizz. A sprig of hyssop, a half-cup of vinegar, crushed wormwood, a block of wax, mash together over a slow heat. Chattering cheerfully.

  ‘Was there trouble today on the escort, my lord?’

  ‘Trouble? No.’

  ‘Really? Training then, I suppose.’

  Lord Roland frowns, puzzled.

  ‘Training?’

  ‘The bruises . . .’

  ‘Oh.’

  Will he or won’t he? A blank, blue stare. So far he’s said nothing. No questions, no lectures, no nothing. But if he’s going to throw me out, why bandage me up first? He must know I’m a dead man the moment I set foot outside these headquarters.

  ‘Yes,’ he says at last. ‘Yes, it was a training exercise. Defensive manoeuvres. He’s not very good at them.’

  ‘That’s easy enough to see, my lord. I hope it’s taught him a lesson . . .’

  Chatter, chatter. Empty words. Gavin dips bandages into his ointment. Folds them over my belly and shoulder. Straps them on using more torn linen.