Pagan in Exile (5 page)

‘Oh. Thank you.’

Better than nothing, I suppose. Now, where shall I sit? Not too near that big vat of frothy grey stuff. It might be quite harmless (whey, perhaps, or dishwater), but then again it might not. The stool near the fireplace looks all right. Nobody seems to be using it. And nothing seems to be on it.

Get out of my way, dog, or you’ll be wearing your teeth out the back of your head.

‘There! There he is! I told you!’

Look up. It’s Isarn. I recognise that lazy eye from supper last night. Belongs to Berengar, doesn’t he? Oily hair and sharp elbows. A sly, unsavoury smile. Always cracking his knuckles.

Beside him, the kitchen hand with the battleaxe chin. The one who smells like very old fish guts. They told me his name, too. Not Isarn. Is – Isold? No. Isoard! That’s it. Isoard. He sneers at me, and folds his arms.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘that’s the one.’

‘No wonder I didn’t notice him last night. He’s a midget.’

‘Not only that, he’s an Infidel.’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Not again.

‘If you’re talking about me, I can assure you that I’m not an Infidel. I might have Arab blood, but I’m a baptised Christian. My mother was also a Christian, because she put me in a monastery when I was very small. So don’t call me an Infidel. There are lots of Arabs in Jerusalem who are just as dark as me, and they’re all better Christians than you are.’

Isarn snickers. Obediently, Isoard proceeds to make various farmyard noises that might be mistaken for laughter. But you can see he’s waiting for Isarn to explain the joke. At last Isarn obliges.

‘Listen to the way he talks!’

‘Oh yes, that’s right, he talks funny. Ha ha ha.’

God give me patience. No point wasting breath on those morons. Dip my rag into the bowl. Scoop up some grease . . .

‘His skin’s a funny colour. It’s all muddy. Don’t those Infidels ever wash?’

‘Wash? They wash about five times a day. They’re always taking hot baths. With perfume in them!’

‘They sound like a bunch of eunuchs.’

‘They’re not eunuchs. But you know what they are? They’re circumcised!’

‘Huh?’ Look at that pus-bag Isoard. Doesn’t even know what ‘circumcised’ means. Suddenly someone else comes in. It’s Greenbeard. ‘Ademar wants to see you, Isarn,’ he drones.

‘Ademar? What does he want?’

‘I don’t know, but he says he wants you now.’

Must be the only soul on earth who does. Isarn points at me.

‘Look, Pons. See that Infidel over there? That Infidel doesn’t have a foreskin.’

‘Now listen.’ (That’s just about as much as I’m going to take.) ‘I
do
have a foreskin, I’m
not
an Infidel, and would you kindly remove your malodorous great mouths before someone mistakes you for kitchen scraps and throws you to the pigs with the rest of the garbage!’

Takes a while for the insult to really sink in. Isoard goes red. Pons goggles. Isarn bears his teeth.

‘Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?’ he hisses.

‘As a matter of fact, I’m not alone in that opinion.’

‘Well I think you’re lying.’ He takes a step forward. ‘I think you
are
an Infidel. And I also think you’ve been circumcised. Isoard!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never seen a circumcised penis before. What do you say we take a little look?’

Isoard grunts, and moves around the end of the table, covering the left flank. Isarn sidles off to the right. Damn, damn, damn. Why is this always happening to me?

‘Back off, bog-brain.’

‘Listen to him whine.’

‘I said
back off!
’

‘You’re not scared, are you? He’s scared, Isoard.’

Loud laughter. Pons isn’t playing: he’s decided to watch. Segura? She’s retired to a safe distance. No help there.

Get up, Pagan. Slowly, now . . .

Isarn lunges.
Smash!
Gets a big bowl of tallow, full in the face. He staggers as Isoard lurches forward. Grab the stool! Throw it –
crunch!
Off his elbow. Time to go, Pagan. Run straight through the middle and –
hup!
Onto the table. Pons at the other end. Isarn grabbing from behind. jump to the right, but Pons is surging forward –
ouch!

Knees hit the floor.

‘What’s going on here?’

Jordan. Oh no.

Someone releases my collar.

‘Lord Jordan.’ Isarn’s voice? Look up, and it’s Jordan, all right. Wearing a long, blue robe and carrying a hooded falcon on his wrist. Bit puffy around the eyes.

Late night, by the look of it.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Pons?’ he says gently.

‘N-nothing, my lord –’

‘What’s that on your face, Isarn? Dog-spit?’

‘No, my lord, it – he – that boy threw grease at me.’

‘Did he, now? And why was that? Because he didn’t like your far-from-endearing face? Or was there another reason?’

‘No, my lord – I mean – I don’t know –’

‘You don’t know? Somehow I find that hard to believe.’ A prod from Jordan’s leather-clad foot. ‘Get up, boy. What’s your name? Pagan?’

‘Yes, my lord, Pagan.’

‘Is it true? Did you throw grease at my brother’s varlet?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was going to attack me. He wanted to see if I was circumcised.’

‘He’s a liar, my lord.’ Isarn. Whining. ‘That’s a dirty lie.’

Jordan looks around. He spies Segura.

‘Were you here?’ he asks.

She nods.

‘Is this boy telling the truth?’

Another nod. Isarn begins to protest.

‘That stupid old woman – she’s practically blind –’

‘Listen to me, Isarn.’ Jordan places his free hand on Isarn’s shoulder. ‘If you’re so terribly interested in genitals, I suggest you concentrate on your own pathetic set.’

Whomp!
A swift kick, straight to the groin. Isarn buckles.

God preserve us.

‘There,’ says Jordan. ‘That’s given you something to think about, hasn’t it?’

No reply from Isarn. Just a terrible groan. Jordan turns to Isoard, who flinches.

‘Get out. You too, Pons. Out!’ Another kick for Isarn, this time a light one aimed at the ribs. ‘Get out of here, you disgusting creatures. All of you!’

No one waits to be told again. Isarn crawls. Isoard staggers. They’re gone before you can draw breath.

Leaving Jordan to finish his business.

‘I need meat for my bird,’ he announces, without even looking at Segura. He seems more interested in me. She scurries off to serve him while he stands there, gazing down that long, familiar nose.

‘Roland tells me you can read and write,’ he says at last.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘In a monastery, my lord.’

‘A
monastery
?’

‘I was brought up in a monastery. In Bethlehem.’

Pause. He moves over to the table, dusts off some flour, and seats himself.

‘Then why aren’t you a monk?’ he says.

‘Because I ran away.’

‘Ah, of course. You ran away. When did you run away?’

‘When I was ten years old, my lord.’

‘I see. And where did you go then?’

‘To Jerusalem.’

‘To your family?’

‘No, my lord, I don’t have any family. I never knew my father, and my mother didn’t want me.’

What’s all this about? Is it some kind of trick? He sits there, stroking his falcon with one long finger.

‘You can’t have joined the Templars when you were ten years old,’ he murmurs.

‘No, my lord, I did that when I was sixteen.’

‘And before then? What did you do before then?’

‘Nothing, my lord. At least nothing to be proud of. Just garrison work.’ And that’s all I’m going to say, Lord Jordan. Because I don’t trust you. You’re a cut above the other two, and you certainly saved my skin, but you’re dangerous. I can smell it. There’s something hidden underneath.

‘Well, I’m sure that whatever you did, it was interesting.’ A smile creeps across his face. ‘No one else in Bram can read or write, you know Not even the priest. And none of my family ever had an education; we’re all just as illiterate as Roland is. Of course, we used to have a chaplain who could read – he lived here in the castle – but he’s dead now.’

I’m not surprised.

‘He was my mother’s chaplain.’ Turning to look at Segura, who’s sidled up with a long, ragged piece of bluish flesh. ‘What’s that supposed to be?’

‘It – it –’

‘What do you think I’ve got here? A lymer hound? Cut it up, quickly.’

‘Y-yes, my lord.’

‘And I want small pieces. Small. Understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Stupid woman.’ He shifts his gaze back to me. ‘My mother had three books, which were part of her dowry. The chaplain used to read them to her. He had to translate them, of course, because they were all written in Latin. Two of them were gospels, but the other was an historical book. William of Malmesbury’s
Chronicles of the Kings of England.
My father burnt the gospels, but I kept the history. I was never very interested in it when I was young, although I do recall one extract about a witch who was carried off by the Devil when she died. I was read that particular story in the hope that it would encourage me to mend my wicked ways.’ He smiles a little. (Now I know why his stare is so compelling. He hardly ever blinks.) ‘But lately,’ he adds, ‘I’ve been looking at the pictures, and they make me wonder what the words mean. Do you read Latin, by any chance?’

‘Yes, my lord. Latin is what I read best.’

‘Then perhaps you could read me this book, some time?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It would give me something new to think about.’

Segura is still frantically sawing away at the sinewy meat, with a knife as big as a battleaxe. Jordan rises, and the falcon on his wrist flaps her wings a few times before settling. The bells on her legs tinkle as she moves.

‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she? A real diamond.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Exotic, too. She’s not a local.’ He fixes me with that blank, blue look again. ‘A bit like you, in fact. Have those witless animals bothered you before?’

‘No, my lord. This is the first time.’

‘Well if they do it again, don’t hesitate to call me.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ (Are you serious?) ‘But I don’t think they’ll be that stupid.’

‘My dear Pagan, you must never underestimate the stupidity of the people around here. I assure you, it never ceases to surprise. Ah, at last.’ Once more Segura has approached him, this time with the meat neatly sliced, and carefully arranged in an earthenware bowl. He takes it without a word of thanks.

‘I daresay you must feel like a walking spectacle, at the moment, but it won’t last,’ he continues. ‘And even while it does, you mustn’t let such ignorance affect your peace of mind. Remember that no one here has much to do, so they’ll stare at anything out of the ordinary.’ He moves to the door, treading carefully on noiseless feet. The dogs don’t follow him: they keep their distance, their eyes on the bowl he’s carrying.

Suddenly he stops, and turns.

‘Don’t forget about that book,’ he adds. ‘I’m ready whenever you are. Or whenever Roland decides to allow you a few spare moments. He’s obviously much too busy praying to do anything for himself.’

Now what’s that supposed to mean? Watching as he walks away, his falcon lurching and flapping on his wrist.

If you think I’m going to stand and smile while you make remarks like that, my lord, you’re very much mistaken.

Chapter 5

C
asting an eye around the bailey. No sign of Roland here. No sign of anyone, very much. Just a scattering of people watching Aimery tilt at a chain-mail hauberk, which he’s stuck on a pole and stuffed with straw. (I suppose you could call it a quintain.) Riding a rather nice grey gelding that’s much too small for him. Doesn’t old pimple-face ever do anything else? I’m beginning to think he must take his lance to bed every night.

No sign of Isarn, thank God. Or Pons. Or Isoard. Who’s that on the stairs? Germain’s wife? That’s it, Germain’s wife. Tayssiras. I recognise the bosom. Lifting up her skirts to feel for each step with her foot. Tiny feet, she has, for a woman of such ample curves.

‘Hello, Master Pagan!’ Dimpling at me. Nice to see a happy face, around here. ‘I hope you’re well this morning.’

‘Hello, Mistress Tayssiras. You’re looking very pretty.’ She does, too. All dressed up in a rich, red gown over something long and pink, her glossy hair wrapped around her head and pinned into a silk net trimmed with silver.

‘Thank you.’ Dimple, dimple. ‘I’m just off to visit my friend Dulcia, in the village. She has a new baby.’

‘That’s good.’ (Good that it’s over in the village. God preserve me from drooling babies.) ‘Have you seen Lord Roland?’

‘Lord Roland? I think he’s in the hall.’

Aha! Thought so. ‘Thank you, Mistress Tayssiras. I hope you enjoy your visit.’

Waiting politely until she’s cleared the last step. Wonder how Germain ever got himself a wife like that? She must be thirty years younger than he is. Nice-looking, too. She’s left a trail of perfume behind her, strong and flowery. Teasing my nostrils all the way up the stairs.

From inside, the sound of someone’s voice.