Pagan's Crusade

by Catherine Jinks

  A muffled noise behind me. Sound of Roland’s teeth splintering? Hurry, hurry, or he’s going to explode.

  ‘Your master’s?’ The Great Man blinks. Glancing at Roland, at me, at Roland. ‘Are you saying –’

  ‘Lord Roland is my master, and he won’t let the Order pay his ransom. He says fifty dinars is too much. He says he won’t take so big a sum from the Temple treasury when there are women and children still to be saved. He says he can’t live with the souls of fifty children on his conscience, my lord, and he won’t lift a finger to save himself! Please, my lord, I know he’s a knight of the Temple but he’s so good, my lord, he’s a man of honour and mercy just like you, and he’s never done a cruel or ungenerous thing in his life but he still thinks he has to atone or something –’

  ‘Pagan!

  ’ ‘– I don’t know why, it’s crazy, he’s spent his whole life trying to do the right thing and I’d pay the money myself if I had it, but I’ve got nothing, nothing, not even my own clothes –’ (Oh please, please, how can I explain? You’ve got to. I can’t bear it. If he dies . . . I can’t bear it . . . what shall I do?)

  ‘Hush. Quiet, now. Enough. I understand what it is you are asking.’

  A long, long pause – and everything around me dissolves in a wash of tears. Wiping them away (just pull yourself together, will you?) for a close look at Saladin. Brown face. Hollow cheeks. Cloudy eyes, fixed on Roland. Hard to tell what he’s thinking. Please. Please, God, make him say yes and I’ll never drink or steal or lie or swear or gamble ever again.

  ‘Have you anything to add, Lord Roland?’

  Help. Don’t turn around. You might see his face.

  ‘My lord Sultan . . .’ A voice so harsh it sounds as if he’s grinding gravel between his teeth. ‘I’m sorry for this imposition on your time and patience. It was not my doing.’

  ‘I see.’

  The whole room, wrapped in silence. Everyone waiting . . . waiting . . . please, God. Please. Holding my breath as the Great Man ponders.

  At last he bends his eyes to my face once more.

  ‘Your master is an enemy of the faith,’ he declares, ‘but Allah honours those who honour widows and orphans. Very well. I will grant you this request.’

  He seems a long way off. Buzzing in my ears . . . What did he say? Did he say – he said yes? I couldn’t . . . yes. He said yes. He said yes! Oh God. Thank you. Thank you, God.

  ‘Thank you, Lord Saladin.’ Roland. Somewhere above my head. ‘May peace be upon you for your mercy and kindness.’

  Saladin nods. Roland bows. May peace be upon you . . . praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord and all His angels! Praise Him with the sound of trumpets! Praise ye – whoops!

  And hauled to my feet.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you, my lord Sultan!’ Shouting back over the heads of the audience. (Where are we going? Roland? Let go. You’re hurting my arm.) ‘May peace be upon you, my lord! May peace be upon you!’

  Last glimpse of the Great Man. May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be upon our noble enemy. I don’t care what he’s done. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the lost sheep in the wilderness.

  The crowds part at the door to let us through. Roland still clutching my elbow.

  ‘My lord? Don’t be angry – please – my lord?’

  No reply. God, he’s going to kill me. But I don’t care. I don’t care. As long as he doesn’t kill himself.

  Through another door, and into another room. A small room. A library? The walls are lined with scrolls and books. He’s trying to control his breathing. Drops my arm the way you’d drop a live ember.

  Stands there with his hands on his hips. Chest heaving.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘How dare you disobey me!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I had to.’

  ‘The insult!

  ’ ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You deserve to be flogged for such insolence!’

  ‘Oh don’t say that. It was only fair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well how many times have you saved my life?’

  Pause. He’s speechless. Throws up his hands, turns on his heel, paces to the window and back again. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. Seems to be calming down a bit.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Pagan. I know you meant well, but you shouldn’t have done that. It was a great shame to me. You must promise never to do anything like it ever again.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘My lord, how can I?’ Look at me, Roland. Look at me. I might be your squire, but I’m also your friend. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what I’m feeling? ‘My lord, have some mercy. For God’s sake, think of me. Don’t you understand? You’re all I have left.’

  Outside, the babble of a foreign tongue, as foreign soldiers make themselves at home.

  Chapter 10

  Praise God for a full moon, so bright you could almost read by it. A full moon makes things so much safer. You don’t get lions or wolves or brigands sneaking into the camp unnoticed, under a full moon.

  And here comes Roland, back from the burial. At this rate there won’t be any convoy left, by the time we find a haven. If only they’d given us a bit of extra food at Tyre . . .

  ‘Fig, my lord? They’re not very good.’

  ‘Where did these come from?’

  ‘That hairy soapmaker found a grove just over the hill.’

  Somewhere down the line a baby begins to scream. (Amazing it still has the energy.) Not much of a mouthful, these figs. Dry, stringy, tasteless.

  Spitting the stalks into the fire.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Even if we reach Tripoli tomorrow . . .’

  ‘We seem to be quite close, Pagan.’

  ‘Yes, but will they take us in? They must be overcrowded in Tripoli, as well.’

  A sigh. Poor Roland. He’s so weary.

  ‘We can only hope. And pray.’

  ‘If we don’t find somewhere soon, we might have to spend the whole winter here. There aren’t many ships on the sea routes, in winter.’

  ‘God’s will be done. Our first duty is to the refugees.’

  Duty, duty, duty. If it wasn’t for this feeble mob we’d be on our way to France by now. Tyre would have welcomed us with open arms – two healthy fighting men – and we could have sailed to Sicily with the Archbishop. Gone to seek help from the courts of Europe. Gone to rally the Order’s western branches. Gone to see the Pope, perhaps!

  Instead of which we sit here in the dust eating dross for our dinner, with half the population of Jerusalem starving to death around us.

  Ah, well. Could be worse, I suppose.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is it cold in your country?’

  ‘Not too much colder than here. My father’s lands are quite far south.’

  ‘And still you don’t have baths?’

  ‘It’s not the custom.’

  There are countries in the north where the ice only melts for three days of the year. I’ve heard of them. But I wouldn’t want to visit.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do they speak the same language in your country?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘What about the food? Do they eat the same food?’

  ‘I suppose so. Basically the same. They just put it together differently.’

  ‘And – the people?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do they look the same as you?’

  A puzzled stare across the flames.

  ‘Of course not. How could they? Half of them are women.’

  ‘Yes, but – well – do they look anything like me?’

  Pause. He’s smiling. You can see the glint of teeth through his beard.

  ‘How could they, Pagan? There’s no one like you.’

  ‘No, but
I mean – are any of them as dark as me? As dark as a Turk? I was just thinking . . . you know . . .’

  ‘No I don’t know. Are you afraid they will stare? Then you should conduct yourself with more decorum.’ He shakes his head, still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Pagan. Whatever happens, you’ll be all right. I promise.’

  And the sparks fly up as the embers release them, fading into the shadows of dusk.