Pagan in Exile (18 page)

Clang!

My sword goes flying.

Laughter from Isoard, who’s leaning against the stable wall. (Go boil your bowels, pus-bag.) But Roland seems quite pleased.

‘Well done,’ he exclaims. ‘You had me working hard, with that last attack.’ And he throws a forbidding glance at Isoard, who immediately falls silent.

Is that the sound of wheels, I can hear?

‘Just remember to keep your shield high,’ Roland continues, turning back to me. ‘It’s unlikely that I’ll ever try to break your guard below the waist, from this height. I’d have to go grovelling around on my knees, to do that.’

‘My lord –’

‘What you really need is someone with a similar build. A shorter reach would give you a tighter match, I think.’

‘Look my lord.’ Pointing across the bailey, to where a familiar wagon is creaking through the gates. Even from this distance you can see that Esclaramonde has come alone. Roland squints, frowning.

‘Is that –?’

‘Yes, my lord, it’s Esclaramonde. I hope she’s all right.’

He drops his shield, which hits the cobbles with a hollow, wooden thud. Sheathes his sword. Wipes his sweaty palms on the skirts of his tunic.

Moves across to welcome her, his faithful squire at his heels.

Other people are emerging from various doorways, roused by the rattle of the cart. Segura. Germain. The stable-boy. A spicy smell of cooking mingles with the scent of a brand new dung-heap which someone’s dropped near the barracks. Don’t ask me what it’s doing there. Perhaps Isarn has cleaned out Berengar’s room, at long last. Or perhaps Lord Galhard has decided to redecorate the hall.

The stable-boy scampers over to take Esclaramonde’s horses, grabbing the reins from her hands. She’s looking rather wan, and even more delicate than usual: her enormous eyes are heavy and red-rimmed, with bluish smudges underneath. But she smiles a feeble smile as she looks up and sees Roland.

‘My lord,’ she mutters, ‘I hope you’re well.’

‘What is it?’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’ And he puts out a hand to help her climb down. But she doesn’t need any help, slipping to the ground unaided.

‘Bad news,’ she replies. ‘Good day, Master Pagan.’

‘Good day, Mistress Maury.’

‘Why did you come alone?’ Roland asks. ‘Where are the others? What happened?’

‘They’re not well. We had – we had a shock, this morning.’ She looks around the bailey with haunted eyes, her fingers locked together so tightly that white patches form on her knuckles. ‘It’s Aribert. He – he –’

Suddenly she puts her clasped hands over her mouth. This is no good. We can’t do this here.

‘Perhaps we’d better take her inside, my lord.’

‘Yes,’ Roland agrees. ‘Yes, come inside, Mistress. Refresh yourself, and then we can talk.’

‘He was in a tree.’ The words burst out of her like spray through a blow-hole. ‘Estolt found him. Hanging there near the farm, with his – with his stomach . . . all cut . . .’

God preserve us. Glance at Roland who’s frozen in mid-step.

‘There were crows, my lord, they were – they –’

‘I understand,’ he says quietly. ‘You don’t have to explain. Come inside, now.’

‘Yes. Yes, I must speak to Lord Galhard.’ Her voice steadies: she straightens her shoulders. ‘I must tell him that it’s finished. It’s all got to finish. Aribert is dead. Garnier is dead. We must stop it now, before it goes any further.’ She looks up at Roland. ‘We must stop it.’

A long pause. Finally he touches her arm. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Come, we’ll talk to Lord Galhard.’

Galhard. Where’s Galhard? I haven’t seen him since yesterday’s unpleasant little episode, when we arrived back at the castle. Cornered in bed, under a monstrous, snoring lymer hound, he was complaining of toothache. Rampant black hair all over his chest (in fact you couldn’t see where the beard ended and the chest began). Irritable. Dangerous. A poultice jammed in one cheek, muffling his formidable voice. ‘Dead, eh? Well I can’t say I’m sorry. Must have been brigands. They’re always bad in the spring.’

‘It was you!’ Roland cried. ‘You sent a squad after them!’ Whereupon Galhard glared at us with one bloodshot eye over a tangle of furs and blankets and reeking dog.

‘Prove it,’ he snarled.

Could he still be in bed?

The rushes in the hall feel squishy underfoot, like little dead animals, or the kind of thing that comes out of a horse’s rear end. (If someone doesn’t get rid of these rushes very soon, they’ll be getting up and walking out the door by themselves.) Berengar’s throwing dice with Aimery and 161 Isarn, whose face still looks like the ruins of Baalbek. They raise their eyes as we enter.

‘What’s up?’ says Berengar, catching sight of Esclara-monde. ‘More trouble?’ He sounds as if he’s been praying for it.

‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Roland demands. His gaze freezes on Aimery, who begins to shift about on his bench. (That look is one of Roland’s most deadly weapons.) ‘We must speak to him immediately.’

Berengar jerks a thumb at the door behind the dais. ‘He’s still in bed. His tooth’s worse. I told him he’s going to have to get it pulled.’

Roland turns to Esclaramonde. ‘Sit down,’ he says, ‘I’ll go and speak to him.’

‘Can’t I speak to him myself?’

‘Perhaps. I’ll ask. Wait here. You too, Pagan.’

He disappears into Galhard’s sleeping chamber, and silence descends. Berengar’s squinting at Esclaramonde over the rim of his goblet. Aimery’s fiddling with the dice. I don’t know what Isarn’s doing, because I don’t want to look.

‘What happened to your face, Master Pagan?’ Esclara-monde inquires. Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Exactly the question I was hoping not to hear.

‘Nothing.’ (Don’t look at Isarn, please; just don’t look.) ‘It was an accident.’

‘Is it painful?’

‘A bit.’

‘What have you been using on it?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘No comfrey? Wormwood? Marjoram?’

‘N-no.’

‘Basil is good for headaches. And balm, of course. Chervil will ease the swelling. Perhaps I could make you an infusion.’ She looks over to where Isarn is skulking, and offers him her sweet, tentative smile. ‘Both of you.’

Isarn grunts, as Berengar slams down his goblet and wipes his mouth.

‘Are you a herb-woman?’ he leers, displaying the broken remnants of what must have once been a proud wall of teeth. (That mouth’s been under siege too often.)

‘I care for the sick,’ Esclaramonde replies coolly. ‘I live with some people who need a good deal of care.’

‘Know anything about love-philtres?’

Groan. But Esclaramonde doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

‘No, my lord,’ she rejoins, ‘I’ve never had any need of them.’

Hooray! Roland’s back. That was fast. He moves towards us, alert behind a stony expression. The tightness in his shoulders gives him away.

‘Lord Galhard will be out shortly,’ he declares. ‘Isarn, will you fetch Mistress Maury some food and drink?’

‘Isarn’s playing dice,’ Berengar scowls. Whoops! Bad tactics. Roland swallows, and shifts his chilling stare to Aimery. No argument from that quarter. Aimery slouches off without a single protest. (Probably glad to escape.)

‘Did you tell him?’ says Esclaramonde, as Roland lowers himself onto a bench. ‘About Aribert?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say, my lord?’

‘He said he’d be out shortly.’

‘Oh.’

‘Who’s Aribert?’ Berengar asks. But no one answers. Roland is watching Esclaramonde, who seems to be lost in thought. Isarn’s studying the impressive collection of smears and splats and smudges on the table-top. As for me, I’m keeping my head down.

Suddenly Germain appears, panting.

‘My lord?’ he says. ‘Oh, Lord Roland –’

‘What is it?’ (Berengar.)

‘It’s the baker, my lord. He just told me –’

‘What? Spit it out!’

‘They wouldn’t let him use the mill, my lord. The Abbey mill, at Ronceveaux. He can’t grind his corn, and neither can anyone else from Bram. Which means they can’t bake their bread.’

God preserve us. So the Abbot’s done it, then. Roland lets out a faint sigh. Berengar’s fist hits the table so hard that the floor shakes. But before he can speak, Galhard’s voice forestalls him.

‘Have they closed the mill?’ he mumbles, through a mouthful of poultice. He’s standing at the door to his chamber, all wrapped up in a fur-lined cloak. Germain jumps, and wipes his sweaty forehead.

‘Only – only to people from Bram, my lord,’ he quavers.

‘My lord.’ Roland rises to his feet. ‘Let me take this to the Templars. It’s gone far enough.’

‘No.’

‘My lord, I know you haven’t paid their peace tax, lately, but I’m sure we can work something out –’

‘I’ll take care of it myself, Roland.’

A ‘hear, hear’ from Berengar. He’s on his feet, too, and clasping his sword-hilt. ‘If we can’t use their damned mill, then we should burn it down!’ he roars.

‘No!’ It’s Esclaramonde. She has that look on her face. ‘My lord, this is senseless. Violence will only beget violence, and God commanded us to love our neighbours as we love ourselves. This is the Devil’s work, my lord. God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind!’

‘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

M
mmmm. 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.