Pagan's Crusade (10 page)

Amen. Across the table, Odo pounces on his lentils like a leopard on a lamb. As long as it’s dead, the Dungheap will eat it. I’m surprised he hasn’t polished off his cutlery before now. Next to him, Arnulf. It’s enough to put you off your food.

‘Our reading today is from the First Book of Samuel, chapter seventeen,’ Amiel announces. ‘Now the Philistines gathered their armies to battle, and were gathered together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched between Shochoh and Azekah, in Ephesdammim . . .’

Enter Fulk with the cheese – not a moment too soon. These lentils aren’t seasoned. Not even a pinch of salt or sage. I suppose the cook knew that Lord Roland wouldn’t be present, and decided not to waste his energy.

But it’s an ill wind, despite everything, because Rockhead isn’t too thrilled. He hasn’t spoken a word (he’s not allowed to) but the look on his face says it all. What,
cheese
again? And goat’s cheese, at that. Scowling as he pokes at the lentil mush with his spoon. Think yourself lucky, bone-brain. There are people who’d be grateful to eat that quivering dollop. In fact there are people right here in this room who’d go down on their hands and knees just to lick it off the floor. There they are, the five of them, sitting at Lord Roland’s table. Already finished. Hoping there’s something more to come. The five lucky paupers who make it to every Templar meal, because charity is a Christian duty, even when supplies are running low.

You can see them lined up outside headquarters every morning, dozens of them, fighting like dogs for a spot up the front and dressed in their filthiest tatters. Desperate for a free meal. Never the same face twice, I’ve noticed – at least not since I’ve been here. Which just goes to show what poverty there is in this city.

‘. . . Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose name was Jesse, and he had eight sons: and the man went among men for an old man in the days of Saul . . .’

Odo eats like a hog. He
wallows
in his food, making the kind of noises you hear in swamps and laundries and bovine digestive systems. After eating with Odo, you spend half the day picking bits of his dinner out of your hair. Arnulf belches, loudly and richly, as Odo licks his bowl clean. It’s a wonder I have any appetite at all.

And – yes! Here it comes. A pleading look from the Dungheap (otherwise known as the bottomless pit). Anything left for Odo? Not on your life, garbage guts. Time to bolt the last spoonfuls down, in case he decides to exert some force. When it’s a matter of food, you can’t trust Odo. Turn your back on him when he’s hungry and he’s likely to chew your leg off.

‘. . . Here endeth our reading.’ Amiel shuts his book with a bang: the signal for everyone to rise. You can feel the tension. One word, and the rush for the latrines will be on. Pons gives the order in Lord Roland’s absence. ‘Dismissed!’ he says – and away they go. (Some people have no bladder control.)

The paupers file past more slowly, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Gaspard. It’s his job to make sure they don’t steal the cutlery. They’re all grey and seedy and listless, like a mild hangover. Crawling with vermin too, by the look of it. Limping. Coughing. Leaning heavily on sticks and crutches. But you never can tell: it might all be fakery. I’ve seen too many beggars who make their ulcerous sores out of oatmeal and pig’s blood. Every evening Jerusalem is the scene of a thousand miracles, as blind men recover their sight, cripples recover their legs, mutes recover their voices and lepers recover their health. It’s a thriving little industry, moving the hearts and milking the pockets of gullible visitors . . .

‘Pagan.’

Lord Roland on the doorstep. Damn, damn, damn. Where on earth did he spring from? I thought he was discussing strategy with the Patriarch.

‘Time for a sparring session before nones, I think.’ He’s still wearing his ceremonials: cloak, robe and ancestral sword. There’s something unsettled about his forehead. ‘It will only take me a moment to change.’

The shackles of duty. Trailing after him with dragging feet, my peaceful afternoon demolished. Hoping that someone will grab his attention. But they all bustle past, intent on their business. Buzz, buzz, buzz – like bees in a hive.

‘Are you sure you’re not too busy, my lord?’ (Please, please say you are.) ‘Don’t feel you have to neglect others because of me. It really doesn’t matter . . .’

‘Of course it matters. You’re going to need all the combat training I can give you before long.
Despite
what the Patriarch might think.’

Do I detect a certain crispness in his voice? It’s hard to tell: someone’s sharpening a blade in the armoury, and the noise is enough to make your hair stand on end. Besides which, I can’t see his face.

‘You mean the Patriarch actually
thinks
, my lord?’ (Hurrying to catch up.) ‘I couldn’t be more surprised.’

‘No, you’re right. The Patriarch doesn’t think. He prefers to dream. He doesn’t want to believe that the Infidels will come. Someone else will deal with them before they reach Jerusalem. Maybe the refugees in Tyre. Or the garrison at Ascalon. Maybe the King of France will send a great army.’

‘Maybe a plague of giant locusts will descend, and eat all the Saracens.’

‘I’m sure he is praying for it. Meanwhile he refuses to take emergency measures. Doubtless he thinks his prayers will save us.’

Interesting. Very interesting. Lord Roland is actually
annoyed.
He’s out of his cloak before he enters our room. Tossing it at me over his shoulder. Flinging open the lid of his chest. Unwrapping his swordbelt in one fluid motion.

‘What emergency measures are you talking about, my lord? What won’t the Patriarch do?’

‘Raid the treasury. What do you think? Raid the treasury to buy food. We need food and clothes for the pilgrims trapped here. We need to open up space for refugees in the Tower of David. We need to distribute arms. That is the Master-Sergeant’s decision. He
refuses
to distribute arms.’

Which doesn’t surprise me. Distribute arms to the populace and our beloved Master-Sergeant’s a dead man. There can’t be many people in Jerusalem who wouldn’t gladly fry up his liver in olive oil and mushrooms.

Lord Roland pulls his campaign tunic over his shirt. With his hair all ruffled he looks almost peevish.

‘If I had the power, I’d deprive them both of their military authority,’ he says. ‘They are jeopardising lives with their foolishness. But what can I do? It’s not my place to concern myself with these things. I am here to advise. So if they want my advice, then they should take it. Instead of wasting my time in useless chatter.’ He smooths his hair, looks up, and sees my expression. The astonishment must show. It makes him twist his mouth and straighten his shoulders.

‘I find them offensive,’ he explains. It almost sounds like an apology. ‘They are the sort of people I would like to avoid. People like that make you forget God.’

And suddenly, from the threshold, a hesitant summons. ‘Lord Roland? My lord?’ Rockhead peers around the door, suitably deferential. He’s sweating like a piece of cheese.

‘What is it, Brother?’ (Frowning.) ‘I’m very busy.’

‘My lord, we have an absent without leave. Since first light. We ought to notify Ascalon. I believe he has family there.’

‘Who? A mercenary?’

‘No, my lord. He’s taken his vows. Sergeant Bruno.’

A quiet hiss, like steam from a kettle. Lord Roland has never uttered a curse in his life, and apparently doesn’t intend to start now. But you can tell it’s an effort.

‘Sergeant
Bruno
?’ he says. ‘The spice merchant’s son? But he is such a good Templar.’

‘My lord, he’s taken all his equipment. And the cook reports some missing food.’

A pause. This looks promising. Lord Roland fingers the hilt of his sword.

‘I have a training session now,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll attend to it after nones.’

‘But my lord, we have the strategy chapter after nones. About the city defences.’ Good old Rockhead. The inflexible man. Every appointment engraved in stone. ‘And then you’re inspecting the storerooms to see if they’re fit for housing refugees. Remember? The Abbot of Josophat is sending a representative to advise us.’

Deliverance. Lord Roland throws a troubled glance in my direction. Time to help him out.

‘It’s all right, my lord. I have a lot of cleaning and polishing to do.’

Cleaning my fingernails. Polishing up my collection of dirty jokes. I mean, why kill yourself working? We’ll all be dead soon enough.

‘My lord?’ Sergeant Pons arrives on the doorstep. ‘My lord, we have to organise the next watch bill –’

‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’ It’s practically a snarl. Practically, but not quite.

One of these days, before we all lay down our arms and face the judgement seat, I’m going to see Lord Roland lose his temper.

Chapter 5

T
he Palace of the Patriarchs. Not much to look at, from the street. A towering block of dung-brown stone, heavily fortified, no flags or banners, just two or three arched windows high up on the second storey. And a cavernous entrance punched through the eastern wall, opposite the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Solid workmanship is the best you can say for it.

Never set foot inside, myself, though I’ve passed it often enough. Don’t much care for the neighbourhood, personally. Wedged between the grain market and the Postern of Saint Lazarus: between a floating mist of chaff and the stink of decaying lepers (huddled around the postern like flies around an open wound). Either way, you can hardly breathe. And the smell hasn’t improved since I was last in the area. In fact there seems to be more dung on the street – unless I’m imagining things.

You forget what it’s like out here, when you’re living in Templar headquarters. You forget that people out here aren’t forced to scrub the pavement with lime when they piss on it.

‘Make way! Make way! Out of the way, woman!’ A palace guard, beating through the doleful crowds on the doorstep.
They’re
new, as well. Never seen
them
before. Not beggars, either: most of them are quite well dressed, in rain capes and lamb’s wool and embroidered money pouches. Hugging their bags and bundles, nursing listless children on their knees. At a guess, I’d say they were stranded pilgrims. Stranded pilgrims waiting for help.

Lord Roland catches my eye as they shuffle apart to let us through. He obviously doesn’t like it.

‘Pagan.’ (Softly.) ‘Does that child look ill to you?’

‘I don’t know, my lord.’ Who do you think I am – Brother Gavin? Doesn’t look too bad. Doesn’t look too good, either. ‘Do you want me to ask anyone?’

‘No, no. I’ll take it up with the Patriarch.’

On through the gate and into the courtyard, which is paved with stone and deep as a well. Shadowy doorways lead off in all directions. Bales of straw. A broken cartwheel. And stretched out on an empty barrel to dry, somebody’s quilted corselet. Most of the guards are wearing them. Used to wear one myself, on night patrol. The poor man’s armour: two flimsy layers of linen stuffed with flax. A single downpour and you spend the rest of your life trying to dry it out.

‘You there!’ Lord Roland’s ‘patrician’ voice. Crisp, confident, imperious. Used only on special occasions. ‘We have a meeting with the Patriarch. We are expected.’ The usual rapid response, as the guard ushers us both through one of the doorways. Beyond it, a stairwell drenched in urine. Delightful. A stink so bad it practically dissolves your teeth at fifty paces. Haven’t smelt anything this ferocious since Odo last took off his boots.

Lord Roland, of course, doesn’t twitch a nostril. Pursues the guard at a leisurely pace, like someone who wouldn’t know an urgent summons if he was married to it. Just passing through, you know. Thought I’d drop in – catch up on the gossip . . . And suddenly there’s carpet underfoot. Rich woollen carpet, straight from Damascus. Tapestries on the walls. Flickering silken scenes, weaving and swaying as stray draughts punch at their backs.

We turn left . . . left again . . . through a big carved door . . . and stop.

Behold the Patriarch.

‘Lord Roland! Praise God. We’ve been waiting this last hour. Welcome, my lord, you must hear this, come in. Who’s that? Your squire? Come in . . .’

When did I last see him? Easter before last, I think, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He looks about the same. Not your typical career cleric. Most of
them
are running to fat, but this one’s kept his figure. Tall, slim and supple; narrow shoulders; long neck; face that launched a thousand fantasies. The Lily of the Auvergne, they call him. Frankish, of course. Eyes like sapphires and lashes as long as your arm. No brain to speak of, but who needs a brain when you’ve got the kind of brawn that appeals to women of influence? Everyone knows that he wooed his way to the top.

Beside him, the Master-Sergeant. God preserve us. One glance, and he looks away.

I don’t recognise the other man.

‘You know the Master-Sergeant, of course. And this is Ernio of the Mallone. A merchant from Acre.’ The Lily waves a graceful hand, studded with badly chewed fingernails. ‘He’s brought us news from the north. Tell Lord Roland what you just told me, Master Mallon.’