Pagan's Crusade (13 page)

’ The madman. Clearly visible over the heads of the kneeling multitudes. Lost in his own obsession.

‘That’s him, my lord.’ (Quietly, tugging at the cloak I just washed last week.) ‘That’s where the trouble started.’

A nod.

‘I couldn’t march him out, my lord, because there weren’t enough men for an escort –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ To the madman. ‘You! Old fellow! What is your name?’

A brief silence. The lunatic looks startled – confused. His voice drops to a normal register. ‘I speak the lamentations of Jeremiah the prophet,’ he says.

‘Very well, Jeremiah. It is time to pray. We are praying to the Lord for His forgiveness. Will you kneel and join us, please?’

And damn me – he does it. The madman actually does it. Falling to his knees without a word of protest. Meek as a lamb.

Lord Roland the miracle worker.

‘. . . The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? . . .’ The Patriarch’s voice, audible once more in the stillness. Lord Roland bows his head. Piety reigns. The air’s so thick with it you could practically bottle the stuff and sell it to pilgrims.

But who’s that across the square? A Templar sergeant. Rockhead? No. Gildoin.

‘My lord . . .’

A gentle nudge, and Lord Roland raises his eyes. Sees Gildoin, who makes the sign of the trumpet. Some kind of message. An important message.

Bad news, I’ll bet.

‘. . . Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear. Though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident . . .’

Watching old Gildoin pick his way between the tightly packed bodies. Sliding and squeezing and burrowing. Quite a different approach from Rockhead’s. Less forceful. More flexible. But then he
is
a lot smaller.

The approach of the little, leathery face, as dry and wrinkled as a dusty peach stone. Eyes like chips of jade. Mouth like a panther trap.

No expression whatsoever.

‘Well?’ (Lord Roland.) ‘Quietly, please.’

‘My lord, there’s a messenger from Ascalon . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘My lord . . .’ Gildoin licks his withered lips. ‘My lord, Jaffa has fallen.’

What?

Oh no. You can’t be serious. You can’t be. It’s impossible.

Lord Roland takes a deep breath.

‘Who?’ he says. ‘Not Saladin.’

‘No, my lord, it was Saladin’s brother, al-Adil. He came up from Egypt, past Ascalon. Jaffa –’ ‘Is not so well defended. Of course.’

‘My lord, there were no terms. He stormed the city.’

And we all know what
that
means. Wholesale bloodshed. God preserve us.

Al-Adil, not seventeen parasangs away.

‘. . . Wait on the Lord, be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart.’ The Patriarch’s drone. ‘Wait, I say, on the Lord. Amen.’

‘Amen.’ A gentle echo from the kneeling multitudes. Briefly, expressively, Lord Roland closes his eyes.

God and all the saints preserve us.

‘Ascalon has fallen.’

‘What . . .?’

‘Ascalon has fallen. Ascalon and Gaza.’

Bonetus, flitting past like a puff of wind. Grab him or he’ll disappear.

‘Wait! Stop! Tell me . . .’

He looks strange – fierce – his brown eyes burning in his face. Sweat gleaming on his cheekbones. Blood pulsing under his skin.

Breathless.

‘You want to know what happened?’ he pants. ‘I’ll tell you. Saladin came to the city walls with the King. The King and our Grand Master. Both of them pleaded for Ascalon to submit.’

‘
What?

’ ‘Wait, just wait. It gets better. When the city refused to submit, it was stormed, and our noble Grand Master sent word to Gaza ordering our knights there to lay down their arms. Oh yes. And they did it too. Because these were
orders
, you know. Orders from the Grand Master. It’s against the
Rule
to disobey!’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. This is unbelievable.

‘Who told you?’

‘Who told me? Hah! Who told me? I’ll tell you who told me!’ (Is he going a little mad, I wonder?) ‘There are
some
Templars who don’t take orders from Gerard-de-Craven-Ridfort, Grand Master or not! They shouldered their weapons and escaped from Gaza to fight the Infidels even if it cost them their lives!
They
don’t let the fear of death come between them and their solemn vows!
They
don’t play games of ransom with the Holy Land! They’re going to stand and fight to their
last drop of blood
!’

He’s so angry it’s frightening. Any moment now his brain is going to burst out of his ears.

‘But if there were orders – ?’

‘
Damn
the orders! We’ll fight
without
orders!’

And off he goes – whoosh! – like a stone from a catapult. Singeing the leather on his boots.

Off to spread the word, probably. Wonder who escaped from Gaza? Wonder if it’s anyone I know? They must have turned up just now . . . gone straight to Lord Roland. Odd that he hasn’t called a chapter to announce the news.

Perhaps I should report for duty. Old Coppertail can miss her rub down, for once.

‘You don’t mind, do you sweetheart?’

A snort from the biting end. This mare doesn’t like me.

‘Pagan?’

Sigebert the Saxon. He must have been down in Walnut’s stall, fanning the flies away. They ought to move his bed in there and have done with it.

‘Oh. Hello, Sig.’

‘Did he say that
Ascalon
has fallen? Did he?’

‘Ascalon and Gaza.’

‘Oh
no
!’

He goggles like a stranded fish. Pale, weedy and bloodless; red-rimmed eyes, soapy skin, scabs all over his face and body. One of those people you avoid like the plague.

‘What are we going to do?’ he says.

‘We’re going to do what we’re told.’ (Gathering up my combs and brushes.) ‘The way we always do.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m off to find Lord Roland. I think he’s upstairs somewhere.’

‘Can I come too?’

God preserve us. No thanks.

‘You’d better stay here, Sig, you’ve got a sick horse to look after. Sergeant Tibald will fry your guts if she dies when you’re not around.’

Poor old Sigebert. What a hopeless case. One of those people who make hardened warriors shudder: who can empty a room as fast as a bad smell. When Saladin arrives we should send Sigebert out to meet him. One hour of Sigebert and he’ll be heading back to Damascus as fast as his legs can carry him.

The stairs are empty: Bonetus must have been and gone. First stop, the chapter hall. No one inside. Maynard is sitting near the refectory, staring at the ground. Keep clear of
him.
He’s been in an odd mood, lately. Around the corner, turn left, and here are the kitchens. Out of bounds. Still no one in sight. Perhaps the latrines . . .? It can be nice and cool in there, on a hot day.

Gildoin is sitting over the sluice drain, lost in thought.

‘Excuse me, sergeant.’

He looks up.

‘Would you know where I can find Lord Roland?’

It takes a while for the question to sink in.

‘Lord Roland?’ Vaguely. ‘No, I don’t. Maybe the Undermarshal . . .’

Maybe the Undermarshal’s office. Stop at the armoury, just in case. There’s a cluster of brown tunics near the door: Welf, Gaspard, Gavin. They look anxious and confused.

‘. . . I never trusted him. I always said so, didn’t I? I always said he had the heart of a mercenary.’ (Gaspard.) ‘Flemings are all the same.’

‘He’s a politician, pure and simple.’ Gavin’s twitching like a fly on a fish-hook. I’ve never seen him so fired up. The sparks are practically shooting from his beard. ‘He came to the Holy Land to seek his fortune, not to fight for God.’

‘Wasn’t he in Raymond of Tripoli’s service?’

‘That’s right. And do you know why he left? Because Raymond promised him an heiress – the first available – and then broke his promise. That’s why Gerard joined the Order. Because he missed out on marrying an heiress. He was never a
true
Templar.’

‘May God strike him down for his sinfulness.’

Obviously discussing our beloved Grand Master’s treachery. (I didn’t know about the heiress.)

‘What is it, Kidrouk?’

‘Please, sir, I’m looking for Lord Roland.’

‘Well he’s not here. I think he’s with Sergeant Tibald. In the Draper’s office.’

Gavin protests.

‘But I thought they were in the council room?’

‘No, he’s with Sergeant Pons.’ (Gaspard.) ‘I’m sure he is . . .’

No help
there.
Thanks for nothing. On past Rockhead’s locked door. This is all very strange – very disorganised. Turn left to reach the Undermarshal’s office. There are voices coming from inside.

Knock, knock.

‘Who is it?’

Rockhead’s familiar bark. He jerks the door open. There’s a strange knight standing behind him: very young, very dirty, with big brown eyes and no beard.

Must be one of the escapees from Gaza.

‘Well?’

‘I’m – I’m looking for Lord Roland –’

‘Ask Sergeant Pons.’

Bang! The door slams shut in my face. Such courtesy. And where now, I wonder? The council room? The Draper’s office? The chapel, maybe? That’s an idea. Perhaps Lord Roland’s praying for guidance. It’s the sort of thing he would do.

Back across the courtyard. That knight looked interesting. No beard . . . must be new to the Order. Probably an idealist. Wonder if he brought anyone else along? Certainly hope so. We need all the help we can get.

Turn a corner, and wham! Sergeant Pons.

‘Kidrouk! Have you seen Lord Roland? No? Damn it!’

And away he goes.

What is
happening
here? I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

Might as well check the chapel. The door’s open, anyway. Candles burning on the altar. Cool, dim, quiet. A long, high room with an arched ceiling, very simple, no dark little side chapels or clusters of columns or big marble tombs to hide behind.

Nobody here.

Well that’s it, then. It’s a mystery to me. Unless he’s gone back to our room? Oh no – Pons would have looked
there
, surely.

Still. It’s worth a try.

Passing Bonetus on the way back to the western wing. He’s busy breaking the news to Father Amiel – probably scaring him half to death. Odd that he’s roaming around like this. Why hasn’t Lord Roland called a special chapter? That’s what I want to know.

The door to our room: shut, as usual. Better knock. Just to be on the safe side.

No response.

Give it a push – peer in – look around.

Lord Roland is slumped on the floor in one corner.

‘
My lord!

’ Oh God. He’s dead. No – he’s sick. His wound! His scar’s burst.

‘My lord! What’s wrong?! Are you ill? Is it your wound? What is it?’

I’ve never seen him so pale. His eyes open . . . close . . . his skin feels clammy. Oh God, this is awful.

‘I’ll fetch Brother Gavin –’

‘No.’

His voice sounds weak. Breathless. It doesn’t sound like him at all.

‘My lord, you’re sick –’

‘No.’ He opens his eyes again. ‘No. Don’t . . .’

‘But what’s the
matter
?!’

His head falls forward. He covers his face with his hands. It’s appalling: like watching a mountain crumble before your very eyes.

‘Oh Pagan . . .’ Huskily. ‘Pagan . . .’

‘What
is it
?!’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

His hands. They’re quite badly scarred. I’ve never noticed it before. Lots of little scars – white – like strands of silk. So many scars, for such a young man.

It’s funny. He can’t be more than – what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?

Oh hell. What’s
happening
here?

‘But – what do you mean, my lord?’

No reply. This is hopeless. This can’t go on. He has to pull himself together.

‘My lord, what’s wrong? I don’t understand. Is it the Grand Master? Has the Grand Master told you to lay down your arms?’

He looks up.

‘
Who told you that?
’

‘Is it true? Is that what’s happened?’

‘No . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘No, but it will. It will. Brother Felix heard him say . . .’

Whoa. Wait a moment.

‘Who’s Brother Felix? Is he the knight with Sergeant Tibald?’

‘Yes, of course. I can’t – you don’t – he – I can’t –’

‘Calm down, my lord.’ Seizing his hands, trying to hold them still. ‘You don’t have to worry. No one in these headquarters is going to take any notice of what Gerard de Ridfort says. You ought to hear them talking about him! They won’t obey his orders.’

‘No. No, no, that’s not – you don’t understand. No.’

‘Well what, then?’

I can’t believe this is happening. He’s got to pull himself together. He’s
got
to.

‘It’s finished.’ Staring at me. Dazed. ‘There’s nothing left.’

‘What do you mean, there’s nothing left?’ Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Wake up, my lord, wake up. There’s still Jerusalem.’

‘No. You don’t understand. There’s nothing left for
me.
’

Gazing at each other, across a vast gulf of misunderstanding. Well I don’t know. I mean I really don’t know. It’s all too deep for yours truly.

Suddenly he sighs, and draws his hands away. They’re not shaking any more.

‘How can you understand?’ he says. ‘How many men have you killed? I have killed so many . . . I don’t even
know
how many. I have been killing men since I was twelve years old. Twelve years old!’

(So?)

‘But you’re a knight, my lord. I mean, that’s what you’re here to do. Isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ He goes grey – quite grey – as if he’s about to throw up. ‘Then I was born for damnation. For eternal hellfire.’

Oh God. This is insane. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘My lord – you’re not
serious.
’

‘Serious?’ Stiffly. ‘Of course I’m serious. Jesus said, “Put up thy sword into the sheath”. He said, “Turn the other cheek”.’

‘But that’s got nothing to do with
you.

’ ‘Why not?’

Why not? Why
not
? Because you’re perfect. Look at you. Just look at you. If anyone was ever made in God’s image it’s you, Roland.