Pagan in Exile (10 page)

‘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.

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he replies, brusquely.

‘And please – please – is there any way of stopping what has begun, here?’ She looks up at him, her voice solemn. ‘Garnier is dead. The man who killed him is badly wounded. Aribert is . . . Aribert may be lost to us. I don’t believe that any good will come of pursuing this tragedy. It will simply mean more killing. Can you go away and forget it, my lord? Can you forget that it ever happened?’

Roland hesitates.

‘It concerns a trespass on my father’s lands,’ he says slowly. ‘I don’t believe that my father can ignore it. Besides, I noticed – I couldn’t help noticing that you hardly have any men, here. Just women. Now that Garnier is gone, and Aribert too, how will you manage with only a couple of boys? Surely you must want some compensation?’

‘Not at the price of another life!’ Esclaramonde protests, and suddenly bursts into tears.

Oh Lord. Poor thing. Weeping like a waterfall. No help from Roland, of course: he’s completely paralysed. Looks at me in desperation.

Kidrouk to the rescue.

‘There, there.’ A careful arm around her shoulders. (They feel so small.) ‘It’s hard, I know. It’s very hard.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she sobs. ‘I can’t – can’t h-help it.’

‘Shhh.’

‘Garnier – so good –’

‘He’s with Jesus, now.’

‘Yes I know, but . . . the suffering . . . his family . . . and I have to tell them about Aribert . . .’

Garsen. Thank God. She hurries over to us, a basket in one hand and a jug in the other. Food! At last! (Here, I’ll take that.)

‘Sister! What’s wrong?’

‘He’s dead, Garsen. He’s dead.’

‘God have mercy . . .’ The two women embrace, as Roland crosses himself. Mmmm. Almond cakes. Will it 88 look terrible, if I start eating? After all, I didn’t actually know the man.

‘Pagan.’ A gesture from Roland. He speaks very quietly.

‘We should go now. We can eat on the way. I want to reach Bram before dark.’

Hear, hear. No night rides, please. This food can go in a saddlebag. ‘Have a drink, my lord.’

‘My lord!’ Esclaramonde throws out a hand, and it’s wet with tears. ‘Thank you, my lord. Thank you for your kindness.’ Poor woman. Poor thing. Look at her sad, grubby little face and her poor red nose. It’s enough to break your heart.

But Roland doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even smile. He turns away, abruptly, and puts his foot in a stirrup.

Honestly. I ask you. What’s wrong with the man?

Chapter 10

N
oises from the hall. Frantic, rowdy noises. Yells and thumps and bursts of laughter.

I don’t know if I can face this.

‘Pagan? What’s wrong?’ Roland, up ahead of me. Peering back through the dusk to where the pathetic remnants of his former squire are hauling themselves, bit by bit, up the outer staircase.

‘Oh, my lord . . . I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed.’

‘You should eat something, first.’

‘No, I can’t. Not unless it picks itself up and marches down my gullet.’ I’m practically asleep now. Going to sleep with my eyes open, like a lion. And Roland doesn’t look too fresh, himself. Sweaty. Sunburned. Covered in dust. His white tunic all stained and faded and darned where the saddle’s rubbed holes in the linen.