Pagan in Exile (12 page)

Is that him? Hard to see . . .

‘My lord!’ (Grabbing a blanket.) ‘My lord!’

Yes, that’s him. Through the smoke – on his feet – staggering about. Flames licking the edge of his palliasse.

Berengar, coughing and laughing in one corner.

‘Pagan –’ Roland can hardly breathe to speak. ‘Pagan, are you all right?’

‘My bed! Get my bed!’ Throwing my blanket onto the fire. Stamping on it. (Ouch!) ‘Drag it over! Hurry!’

Clouds of smoke. Stinging eyes. Flecks of smouldering straw, whirling about. Watch it, Pagan. Watch your hair . . .

Turn around. Where’s Roland? He’s got my palliasse. Rush to help him. One – two – three –
heave!

Casting it onto the embers.
Whump.
Smothering them. If that doesn’t put it out, nothing will.

‘Water,’ Roland gasps, ‘we need water.’

‘Oh, leave it,’ says Berengar. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘That floor’s made of wood!’

‘Then I’ll piss on it for you.’

Wait. Wait a moment. What’s Berengar doing with –? That pus-head!

‘You tried to kill Roland!’ (You wolf! You devil!) ‘You tried to kill him!’

‘Don’t be a fool.’ Berengar sounds drunk. ‘I tried to wake him up, that’s all.’

‘You set fire to his bed!’

‘Lord Galhard told me to wake him up. So I woke him up.’

‘Pagan.’ Roland puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Be still.’

‘If I’d wanted to kill him, boy, he wouldn’t be standing there now,’ Berengar continues, in slurred tones. ‘When I kill someone, I do it properly. And you’d better remember that.’

Maggot-bag. Crater-face. You’re going to pay for this, you unspeakable lump of undigested offal.

‘Pagan, please, we have to get out of here.’ (Roland, tugging at my arm.) ‘There’s too much smoke . . . we need water . . .’

‘No, no, the water can wait,’ Berengar interrupts. ‘The old man wants you down in the cellars. It’s urgent. Come on.’ Wheezing and choking, he stumbles back into his room. Foucaud’s there. He looks dazed and dishevelled and sleepy, forced out of bed by the commotion. Blinking in the torchlight.

‘Foucaud,’ says Roland, coughing fiercely. ‘There’s been – there’s been an accident. A fire. Lord Galhard wants me, so I can’t finish putting it out. Will you fetch water, and douse the embers in my room? Make sure the floor is soaked. Take the beds outside.’

‘Come on, Roland!’ Berengar clamours. He’s already on the stairs.

‘Take care of it, Foucaud.’ Roland moves towards Berengar’s bed, with its mantle of furs and dogs and old horse-blankets. He pulls a dirty riding cloak out of the mess, and tosses it at me. ‘Wrap yourself in this, Pagan.’

Of course. that’s right. I’ve got nothing on my top half. Or on my feet.

Neither has Roland.

‘Come on!’ Berengar’s voice, echoing up the stairwell. Roland digs around a little more, ignoring the whimpering dogs, and produces a tunic so old and frayed and disgusting that it looks as if some bitch has given birth to a litter of puppies on it. Pulling it over his head.

Oh no, he can’t wear that. ‘My lord, you can’t wear that –’
‘Come on, Pagan, don’t dawdle.’

And down the stairs we go. Down, down, down. Treading carefully (it’s so dark, and this cloak is so long), past the first floor landing, way down to the cellars. Damper and damper. Colder and colder. What time is it? No light from the windows. A film of water on the stone walls, glistening in the light from Berengar’s torch. Slimy puddles on the flagstones. (I wish I was wearing my boots.) Roland ahead of me, nursing his arm. Why’s he –? ‘My lord! Are you burned?’

‘Just a little.’

‘Where? Let me see!’

‘It’s nothing. It’s a scorch. Don’t concern yourself.’

Don’t concern myself! I swear, I’m going to kill that Berengar. I’m going to stick a lance in his ear and skewer his brains.

‘What’s that noise?’ Roland stops in his tracks, listening. What noise? Oh. That noise.

A faint, muffled cry. And a thump, like somebody pounding on wood.

‘Here, I’ll show you. This way,’ Berengar responds. ‘They’re in the granary.’

Pushing on, through puddles and cobwebs, through cavernous, half-glimpsed rooms full of sacks and barrels. The squeak and scamper of rats. The sudden, overpowering smell of wine, as rich as plum syrup. The hollow sound of voices, growing louder and louder. And there’s another light, praise God. Through the far door, into a long room lined from floor to ceiling with giant wooden vats.

Grain vats? Probably. The floor’s gritty with corn and chaff and mouse droppings.

‘Roland.’ It’s Galhard. Fully dressed and armed, his face the colour of raw beef. Isarn beside him. Joris. Pons. Jordan, looking even more slovenly than he did this evening. ‘Roland, come and listen to this rat in the grain bin.’

What’s that funny scratching? Scrapes and thumps and whimpers – there’s something inside that vat.

No, not something. Somebody.

‘What – what have you done?’ Roland exclaims. And everyone else bursts out laughing.

‘Big bastard, isn’t he?’ Berengar crows. ‘Must have eaten the whole binful.’

Roland turns to Galhard. ‘What have you done, my lord?’

‘I told you I’d take care of that Abbot,’ his father replies smugly. ‘In my own way.’

‘This is the
Abbot
?!’

‘Hell, no. I wish it was.’ Galhard thumps the vat with a clenched fist. ‘This is one of the Abbot’s men. What’s his name?’

‘Guibert,’ says Jordan.

‘Brother Guibert. That’s it. Germain informed me that Brother Guibert was staying in the village with our beloved Father Puy, on his way back from Carcassone. Just passing through. Lucky, wasn’t it?’

‘You should have seen his face when we burst in!’ Berengar adds. ‘Must have thought the Devil was coming to get him!’

Another moan from inside the vat. Roland appears to be speechless. Shock, I suppose.

‘We didn’t know where to put him, because the guardroom’s full and we’ve been storing sides of pork in the lockup,’ Galhard continues. ‘Then Jordan suggested this brilliant idea. Plenty of room, and no way out. Unless we knock that bolt out of the supply door.’

‘My lord, please, you can’t do this.’ Roland’s trying to stay calm, but you can tell he’s having trouble. ‘This won’t solve anything.’

‘Rubbish!’ Galhard barks. ‘The Abbot’s got one of my men. Now I’ve got one of his. If he releases mine, I’ll return the favour.’

‘My lord, this man is an innocent monk –’
‘Oh, grow up, Roland.’ (Berengar.) ‘You’re not in Jerusalem. There
are
no innocent monks, around here.’

‘My lord –’
‘I’ve made up my mind, Roland.’ Galhard’s voice is more threatening than a drawn sword: it’s enough to freeze the hair on your neck. But all at once the captive starts shouting. He pleads for help. He calls to God. His finger-nails scrape on wood like a dog’s claws.

I’ve never heard anything so frightful.

‘At least let him out of there!’ Roland’s turned quite pale. ‘You can’t keep him in a grain vat. He’s not a fieldmouse.’

‘I’ll do what I damn well like.’

‘But he can’t even see! And it must be so cold and airless –’
‘You’re breaking my heart, Roland.’

‘If it’s the cold that worries you, then I suggest you do something about your squire,’ Jordan remarks. ‘He’s shaking like a leaf, in case you haven’t noticed.’

Who, me? Suddenly realising how cold I am. Feet frozen. Teeth chattering. Roland looks around.

‘I’ll just take him upstairs, shall I?’ Jordan offers. But Roland turns on him. ‘You leave Pagan alone!’ Sharply. ‘He can find his own way.’

Of course I can. What am I, a moron? Silently, Jordan 105 passes me his lamp. His hands feel sticky. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ (The sooner I get out of here, the better.)

‘My lord, there must be some other option.’ Stubbornly Roland resumes his attack. ‘I’m sure that a single guard would be just as secure as this arrangement . . .’ His voice fades as I move out of earshot, into the darkness. Splashing through puddles, looking for the stairs. I remember those barrels – and that milk churn – and the thing that looks like a coffin. It’s a sharp left here, isn’t it? Left and then right. Under this archway. Along this corridor . . . and at last they appear. The stairs. Hallelujah!

Praise the Lord, who brought me out of a horrible pit. There’s no way I’m going down there again.

Thump! Thump! Thump!
A funny sound above my head, like someone dragging a body down a flight of steps. Getting closer as I clear the first landing.
Thump! Thump!
Thump!
Oh no. It’s not a body. It’s Foucaud, dragging Roland’s wet palliasse. The smell of scorched hemp is enough to make your eyes water.

‘Where are you taking that, Foucaud?’

‘Lord Roland told me to take it outside.’

‘Oh yes.’ (I remember now.) ‘But where are we going to sleep?’

He just goggles at me like a dead fish. What a bonehead. ‘Never mind.’ Stumbling past him, up the stairs to Berengar’s room. More smoke, more smells. Pushing past a couple of dogs, and through the door to our luxurious chamber. The floor is soaking wet. Oh for God’s sake! That stupid, snot-faced, oyster-eyed idiot! He’s damn well soaked our saddlebags, as well!

‘Foucaud, you fool! Oh, you festering fool!’

Pulling out my clothes – they’re all sodden. My palliasse dripping. My blanket a pool of mush. ‘God damn it! God damn you!’ Kicking at the wet firewood. ‘God damn all of you! I hate this place!’

‘Pagan?’ Roland’s voice, from Berengar’s room. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, my lord . . .’

‘What?’ He appears in the doorway, his face smeared with soot and ash. He looks as if he’s been dragged through a field of nettles.

‘My lord, look what they’ve done! Everything’s wet through!’

‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll borrow something.’

‘They must have boiled tripe for brains!’

‘Please, Pagan, please.’ He puts his hand to his head. I’ve never seen him make a gesture like that, before. ‘Don’t shout.’

Don’t shout? I wasn’t shouting. What’s the matter with him?

‘Are you all right, my lord?’

‘No. Yes. Of course.’ Standing there, with his eyes closed, and his hand on his forehead. ‘Just be quiet for a moment, please.’

Fine. Sure. I’ll be quiet. Not another word will pass my lips. Wringing out my tunic – and my cloak. My stockings look like dead eels. Even my boots are full of water.

Suppose we’ll have to sleep in the chapel until this floor’s dry. Not that we’ll be getting any more sleep tonight, I’ll bet. The instant we lie down we’ll probably have to get up again, if hunting starts as early as he said it would.

‘Pagan.’

Who, me? Surely not. You don’t want to talk to me. I’m the quiet one, remember?

‘Pagan, I know this is hard. But I just can’t leave. Not yet.’

Looking up at him. Leave? Who said anything about leaving?

‘Something bad is going to happen. I know the signs. It’s always like this, every spring.’ He smooths back his hair. ‘A kind of madness. I can’t go away and let it escalate. How can I? I’m a Templar. I have a duty to keep the peace.’

Keep the peace! Hah! You’ll be lucky to keep your sanity, in this dump.

‘Do you understand, Pagan?’

‘Of course I understand. I’m not stupid.’ That’s why I can see that you’re ramming your head against a stone wall. These people don’t even want your help, Roland. You should go away and let them hack each other to pieces.

Otherwise, they’re going to drag you down with them.

Chapter 12

H
ow terrible to think that for all these years, I’ve missed out on the joys of hunting. The thrill of standing behind a bush for half a day. The breathless excitement of gnat bites. The gut-wrenching sound of dogs sniffing each other’s genitals. Now I can see what all the fuss is about.

‘Raven! Sit!’ You stupid hound. Trying to untangle leashes as the three of them weave in and out, panting and sniffing, occasionally growling, occasionally lifting their legs. By God they’re strong, though. My hands are getting tired. I’m just not cut out to be a dog varlet.

This hunting horn, for instance. I’ve never even blown one before. What happens if I can’t manage it? What if I can’t make any noise? Will it matter, if I just release the dogs without a signal? Surely not. Maybe I can shout, or something. That would warn the hunting party that my reinforcements have been unleashed.

‘
Yours will be three of the slower, steadier hounds.
’ Isarn’s voice suddenly fills my head. ‘
They’ll add speed when the main
pack is flagging, and they’re not as hard to control as the younger
dogs. Just wait until the others have passed before releasing them.
That’s all you have to do.
’

Yes, but how am I going to
know
when the others have passed? You didn’t even tell me how many dogs there would be in the main pack. Ten? Twelve? Supposing they come in small groups? Supposing they don’t come at all?

If they don’t come soon, I’m going to die of boredom. Either that, or these dogs will eat me. They seem to be getting pretty desperate. Haven’t eaten anything but bread and dripping since their last hunt, according to Berengar. ‘Never feed meat to your hunting dogs,’ is his motto. ‘Meat is only for the kill.’