Pagan in Exile (6 page)

‘– teats like a breeding sow. What an armful! I almost got smothered –’

Berengar. Telling filthy stories, again. Through the door, and here he is. Lounging at one of the hall tables (which hasn’t been cleared since last night). Here’s Ademar, too, cleaning his fingernails with a sharpened stick. Fancies himself as a bit of a lady’s man, does Ademar.

The air feels thick and heavy.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t the little Turk.’ (Berengar.) ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

No trace of Roland. Maybe he’s upstairs. I can’t imagine he’d stay too long in this den of squalor.

‘I’m – I’m looking for Lord Roland, my lord.’

‘Well he’s not here.’

No, I can see that.

‘I think he’s upstairs,’ Ademar suddenly remarks. ‘I saw him talking to someone. Joris, perhaps, or Pons.’

You mean Joris can actually
talk
? I don’t believe it. Skirting the northern wall, past the entrance to Galhard’s sleeping chamber. A glimpse of the great, wooden bed, hung with grubby curtains and piled high with twitching, snoring dogs. Galhard’s there, but not Roland. Past the locked pantry door, and into the stairwell. Gauzia’s sitting halfway up the circular staircase, dressed in what looks like a nightdress: a loose, yellowish garment laced up the sides. Her eyes are shut. Her hair’s uncombed.

Don’t tell me she’s fallen.

‘Lady Gauzia! What’s wrong?’

She opens her eyes, and scowls. ‘Go away,’ she says.

‘But – do you want some help?’

‘Go away! Get out of here, you filthy Turk!’

All right. If that’s the way you feel. Squeezing past her enormous belly; sticking close to the wall. These stairs are so narrow, there’s barely enough room for two people to pass each other. Whoof! What’s that stink? Don’t tell me someone’s been pissing on the stairwell.

And suddenly here’s Foucaud, carrying a pile of soiled crockery. What a hive this place is. No privacy anywhere. Just one big stack of people, getting on each other’s nerves.

‘Foucaud! Have you seen Lord Roland?’

Sniff, sniff. Why doesn’t that beanstalk learn to blow his nose, like a normal person? ‘Yes, I have,’ he says.

Pause.

May God give me patience.

‘Could you perhaps tell me where you saw him?’

‘In the chapel.’

The chapel? ‘What chapel?’

‘It’s over there.’ He waves a soggy hand. ‘At the far end.’

‘Thank you.’

Leaving the Beanstalk behind. Just a few more steps, and here we are in Berengar’s room. Long, spacious and messy. Full of dogs and bridles and maces and swords and boots and belts and chewed bones and candlewax. An open chest, stuffed with clothes. A narrow bed piled high with furs. A palliasse on the floor . . .

That’s Isarn’s palliasse. And that’s him in it. Moving past quietly, so as not to wake him up.

Must still be suffering from the effects of Jordan’s boot in his groin.

The door on the left leads to Jordan’s chambers. I wonder if he’s in there? (Maybe he and Gauzia had an argument.) The door on the right is the one I want. Takes you straight through to our room – and whatever lies beyond. Still a bit of a mess, this place. Junk piled up in the corners. Broken barrels, bits of glass, worn-out shoes and spare firewood. No one’s found Roland a proper bed yet: it’s terrible to see him sleeping on the floor. Our clothes still rolled up in our saddlebags.

And someone’s been going through them, again. The thieving pus-head didn’t even bother to put everything back properly. Damn these maggots, to hell with their prying fingers! They’ve already taken Roland’s ivory comb, what else do they want? If I catch the person who’s doing this I’ll hang his guts out to dry.

‘My lord?’

No answer. Where’s this chapel? It must be on the other side of the linen closet. That would mean going straight through the far door, and turning left when you can’t go any further. Funny sort of place to put a chapel. But then I’m surprised they’ve got a chapel at all. I bet nobody uses it, except Roland.

Across the next threshold, and through a little room stacked from floor to ceiling with tablecloths: tablecloths and blankets and something that’s either a campaign tent or a very old tapestry wall hanging. Looks like moth heaven, to me. Squeezing past a cedar chest to get to the only other door in the room, which is thick and heavy and encrusted with black iron bolts and rivets. It opens onto a smallish chamber with a single, shuttered window.

Peering around in the dimness, trying to make out where I am. White-washed walls. A carved crucifix. Two rows of squat, stone columns propping up a network of groin vaults. An altar. An altarcloth. Two candles. And right in the centre, somebody’s tomb.

White marble, by the look of it. About as high as my shoulder. With Roland leaning against one stony flank, his head on his folded arms which are pillowed on a marble stomach.

‘My lord?’

He looks up.

‘Are you all right, my lord?’

‘Pagan . . .’

Don’t tell me he’s been crying. No. Of course not. No, his eyes aren’t even red.

‘I’ve finished cleaning the harness, my lord. And someone’s been going through our bags, again. Is there anything we can do about that?’

‘I’ll ask . . .’ He sounds almost groggy. What has he been doing? ‘You’ve finished the horses, I suppose.’

‘And the riding boots. And all the equipment. And I’ve put the blankets out to air. Let’s just hope that no one takes them.’

‘I’m sorry, Pagan.’ Wearily. ‘There’s nothing much I can do. This isn’t a good place.’

You’re telling me. ‘My lord?’

‘What?’

It’s hard to find the right words. How can I possibly explain? I wish he wasn’t wearing that crimson thing. He doesn’t look like Roland any more.

‘My lord –’ (Please help me.) ‘My lord, I – I feel like a freak.’

‘You what?’

‘I feel so out of place, here.’ Swallowing hard. ‘Ever since we left Jerusalem – but here, especially – everyone seems to think I’m an Infidel. They treat me so – the way they talk – everyone is always staring.’

‘They’re worthless, Pagan. Ignore them.’

‘But how can I? They even laugh at the way I speak. Don’t they understand that everyone talks differently? In Jerusalem pilgrims came from all over the world, and nobody laughed at the way
they
talked.’

‘Pagan, listen to me.’ He reaches out, and puts a hand on my shoulder. Bending forward a little, so he’s looking me straight in the eye. ‘Most of the people here are without God. They steal, they lie, they are violent and cruel. Do you think that anyone who serves God would feel comfortable here? I certainly don’t.’

(But that’s not the point.)

‘My lord –’ ‘My mother was never happy here. It was she who had this chapel built.’ His hand leaves my shoulder, coming to rest on the smooth, cold slab of white marble. ‘She wanted me to be a priest, you know.’

No, I didn’t know. How interesting.

‘She tried very hard, but my father – Lord Galhard – he wanted his sons to be fighting men. Tough fighting men. Everything we did . . .’ A pause. His eyes glaze over as his mind wanders back to some half-forgotten memory. ‘There was a game we used to play at the table,’ he murmurs. ‘We’d put our heaviest boots on, and kick each other’s legs until someone gave in. It was called ‘Bone’, that game.’ Another pause. ‘My father usually won.’

God preserve us. Sounds like a load of laughs.

‘When did your mother die, my lord?’

‘Six years ago.’ His hand moves across to a carved ankle, draped in stony fabric. Squeezing it gently. ‘This is her tomb. It was made before she died. A sculptor came all the way from Lyon. My mother was a northerner herself, you see.’

So
this
is his mother! Climbing up on the pediment, to take a better look. Standing on tip-toe: craning my neck. She’s lying with her head on a lion’s back, her hands pressed together in an attitude of prayer. It’s an amazing piece of craftsmanship. You can even see the pattern at the edge of her robe, and the shape of her knees under the folds of fabric. She has a long, serious face and – yes! The nose! The famous de Bram nose!

‘Look, my lord! She’s got your nose!’

‘My nose?’

‘I was wondering where it came from. Your father doesn’t have it.’

He fingers his nose, and smiles, but doesn’t comment. There’s a spray of fresh violets sitting on her chest.

I suppose he picked them himself, this morning.

‘She – she must have been a very noble and beautiful woman, my lord.’ What else can I say? But for some reason it doesn’t seem to go down too well. Instead of smiling, he frowns.

‘Yes, she was,’ he replies. ‘Has someone been talking about her?’

‘No, my lord.’ (Would that be a problem?) ‘I worked it out for myself. Because you certainly don’t take after your father.’

This time he’s speechless. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. His expression shifting from disapproval to amusement to sorrow to embarrassment to frustration. At last he finds his voice.

‘Thank you for the compliment, Pagan, but I must ask you not to make such remarks. They are disrespectful.’

Oh. Right. It’s like that, is it? ‘If you say so, my lord.’

‘I’m sorry that things have been so difficult for you, here. But you mustn’t be discouraged, because I doubt that we’ll be staying for much longer.’

Really? ‘You mean –’

‘I mean that my father will soon be making his decision. And I’ll be very surprised if he takes a crusader’s vow.’

Well I won’t argue with that. If you ask me, Galhard’s more likely to end up in a nun’s habit than on a ship to Jerusalem. What I want to know is why we even came here in the first place.

‘It’s odd how you forget,’ he continues, running a hand along his mother’s chilly, chiselled arm. ‘I thought that – if I came back – I’ve been away so long, you see –’

‘Lord Roland.’

It’s Joris. Old one-eye. Haven’t heard him speak before. His voice is a rusty creak: probably lost half his throat, along with everything else. What a mess that man is.

‘Lord Galhard wants you, my lord,’ he announces. ‘You must come to the hall at once.’

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns to go. But Roland calls him back, using that frosty, Commander-of the-Temple tone that’s always so effective.

‘Wait, Joris.’ (You impudent scum-bucket.) ‘Has something happened?’

‘Visitors, my lord.’

‘What visitors?’

‘Women, my lord.’

Women?
Women?
Well that’s informative. Roland removes his hand from his mother’s impassive likeness.

‘Tell my father we’re on our way,’ he says.

Chapter 6

T
hey’ve lit some rushlights in the hall. If you ask me, it wasn’t a wise thing to do: now you can see that the tables need scrubbing. You can also see how dirty the walls are, all covered in grease and smoke stains. They must have been white, once, with red flowers painted on them. Now they’re a greyish, mottled colour – the colour of Galhard’s feet.

He’s taken his boots and stockings off, and appears to be trimming his toenails with a hunting knife. Berengar’s still lounging near the hearth with Ademar, and a few dozen dogs. There isn’t a single woman to be seen.

‘My lord?’ says Roland.

Galhard grunts. He’s concentrating hard. (Must have toenails like slabs of whalebone.) Berengar speaks for him.

‘It’s this Good Woman, again,’ he remarks. ‘Esclara-monde Maury. We thought you might be useful.’

‘Good Woman?’ Roland’s totally mystified.

‘She’s got a couple of farms up near Saint-Marrin-la-Lande. Right next to our forest there, at Lavalet. Bunch of nuns, or something. Lord Galhard gave her the rights to any wood she could collect, in return for harvest gifts and jurisdiction.’

‘You mean an abbess?’ says Roland. He’s still confused.

Galhard snorts.

‘I told you.’ (Berengar.) ‘It’s just a couple of houses. With a few men working the land. She’s nothing but some merchant’s widow, from Carcassone.’

It still doesn’t make sense to me. But there’s no more time for explanations: someone’s already walking up the outside stairs. You can hear the sound of a woman’s voice, low and urgent.

Galhard drops one foot, and picks up the other. He’s about as welcoming as a fist in the face.

‘Here she is,’ says Berengar. ‘Come in, Mistress! Don’t be shy! We’re not going to eat you.’

The poor woman advances over the threshold, less reluctantly than you would have expected. She’s wearing a long, black robe and a black scarf around her head. Her face is as white as sea salt, but her eyes are very dark. She’s even smaller than I am.

‘My lord Galhard,’ she says, falling to one knee. A chip of Galhard’s toenail flies through the air. ‘May I speak, my lord?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘My lord, it concerns your forest at Lavalet.’ She has quite a deep voice, for such a small person. ‘There’s been an assault, my lord.’

‘Go on.’

‘A man called Garnier has been assaulted. He is a good man who works the land belonging to the house where I live. He lives in the house next to mine, and he was in the forest with his son, collecting wood. But someone else was there, too.’

Galhard looks up. Now he’s interested.