Pagan's Crusade (2 page)

‘That’s the one. Sir.’

‘And why did you leave?’

‘Well, sir . . . it was the jokes.’

Pause. Rockhead’s brows roll together like gathering thunderclouds. But the storm doesn’t break.

‘It was the what?’

‘It was the jokes, sir. In the guardroom. Not that I object to jokes
as such.
Some of my best friends are complete jokes. But I don’t like leper jokes. Or dysentery jokes. Especially when I’m eating.’

Rockhead puts his pen down. Game’s over.

‘All right, Kidrouk. Let’s settle this once and for all. You’re rubbish. You wouldn’t have got as far as that door if the Order wasn’t desperate. In April we lost four score knights to a Moslem raiding party sent from Damascus. Then the King called his vassal knights to Acre for the spring campaign, which means half our order is on the coast. Meanwhile the pilgrims are pouring in, and we have to man the road forts. See this? This is a report from Jaffa. Another shipload just arrived from France. Three hundred pilgrims – all heading this way. So don’t fool yourself. Someone of your age, your background . . . You’re a last resort, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I’ll be checking your credentials with the Master-Sergeant of the City Police.’ He takes a deep, slow breath. Now, I’m in charge of all the Templar squires in this kingdom, and you’re on contract as a squire. We’re very short of squires just now, because squires are dispensable. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ (I understand, all right.)

‘Take a good look at me, because I’m the one who’ll pay you at the end of your six months of service – and I’m also the one who’ll take it out of your hide if you break the rules of this most holy Order. The rules are very simple. A Templar doesn’t sit in idleness, wander aimlessly, or indulge in blasphemy or unrestrained amusement. Remember Templars are Monks of War, and should behave like the lion that lay down with the lamb
at all times.
Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As a squire, your first duty is to your knight’s armour. Your knight’s armour is more important than your own life. If you damage or mislay a
single piece
of your knight’s armour, I will personally damage or mislay a piece of you. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.’

Heart? What heart? Rockhead glowers across the table. Face like a fort, eyes like arrowheads. Asking him where the latrines are would be like scaling a watchtower wall.

He pulls a sheet of parchment from the pile in front of him.

‘Your equipment will consist of the following,’ he says, and begins to read aloud. ‘One quilted linen shirt stuffed with flax. One coat of chain mail. One iron hat. One standard issue sword. One standard issue shield. One tunic. One pair breeches. One pair boots. One cup. One spoon. One bowl. One dagger. One blanket. One palliasse. One horse. One set of harness. One saddle. And one knight.’ He looks up. ‘This equipment is
not yours.
It belongs to the Order. There is no excuse for losing any of this equipment either on or off the battlefield. It is your duty, as a squire, to keep your own and your knight’s equipment spotless. Weapons will be inspected every day before the noon meal while you remain here at headquarters. You will attend all daily prayers as well as your own chapter of squires every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Meals are served twice a day, and meat three times a week. Any questions?’

(Please, sir, when am I scheduled to pick my nose?)

‘Visitors aren’t allowed in these headquarters, are they? Sir.’

‘No.

‘So if I want to see someone, I have to do it in my time off?’

Rockhead snorts. A sneer cracks his left cheek open, displaying the jagged black fangs underneath. Fangs like the ruins of burnt-out sentinel boxes.

‘You don’t get time off, boy.’ Gruffly. ‘You get seven hours of sleep every night. That’s all the time off you need. Now. I’ve assigned you to Lord Roland Roucy de Bram. Lord Roland comes from France, and he’s been with us for five years. The only reason he’s here at headquarters is because he’s recovering from a wound he got last Christmas. That was at Safed, where the last squire died.’ He flashes his fangs again. ‘Lord Roland’s last squire was disembowelled by the Infidel, and his guts were tied across the road to the fortress.’

Hip hip hooray.

‘Sounds exciting.’

‘Lord Roland,’ Rockhead growls, ‘is the noblest of souls and a godly man and a great fighter. He is a gift from our Lord, and his guidance is a blessing. I’m embarrassed to give you to him, but I don’t have any choice. Obey him, cherish him, and follow his example in all things. Because if you don’t . . .’ (Dramatic pause.) ‘. . . you’re going to wish the Infidel had disembowelled
you.
’

I’m beginning to wish that already. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

‘Please, sir, is it possible – would you be able to pay me half my hire money in advance? Or even a quarter, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘But after I’ve been here for six weeks, say, could you not –?’

‘No.’

Son of a Saracen. Damn, damn, damn.

‘Go out that door and turn left, and you’ll find the Marshal’s office. The Undermarshal’s in there, and he’ll fit you up with your equipment. Then come back here and I’ll take you to meet Lord Roland. If he’s available.’

(Maybe this knight, this Lord Roland, could push it through for me, somehow. Or maybe if I take a pledge to pay the Viscount back in six months time. When I get out of this place.)

‘Well? Get
going!
’ Voice like a whipcrack.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘And be quick about it!’

The room isn’t big, so it doesn’t take long to reach the door. But Rockhead waits until the last possible moment.

‘Oh – and Kidrouk!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Templars wear beards. So grow one.’

Grow a
beard
? (Standing on the threshold, one foot suspended.) Where the hell am I going to get a
beard
? There’s no beard concealed on
my
person.

‘Of course, sir. At
once.
’

* * *

You couldn’t shoot an arrow from one end of Templar headquarters to the other. It’s as big as a village. Gardens on the roof, all laid out neatly around stone seats and rainwater cisterns and sheltered court yards. You can see practically the whole of Jerusalem, from the western side. Rockhead takes a detour across the roof just to point out those places where squires aren’t allowed. (‘For spitting in Saint Antony’s grotto, a two-day fast; for pissing in the southern cistern, a five-day fast and a week’s confinement.’) To the north, the golden dome of the Templum Domini. Blazing away like a second sun.

It’s nice, all right, but it’s not for godless mercenary garbage like yours truly. Rockhead’s here to make sure of
that.
Looking down from the eastern wall, a very nice view of the Valley of Kidron. The valley where the Templars have their exercise field – and where all squires report for their daile dose of fresh air. Squires don’t need roof gardens. If you’ve got time to admire the view from the roof, you’ve probably missed your combat training.

‘The stables open onto the exercise field.’ Rockhead leans out over the parapet. ‘You can’t see the entrance from up here. It’s right underneath us.’

‘The stables are under here?’

‘The cloisters are under here, and beneath the cloisters come the stables. They are the greatest stables in the kingdom – probably the greatest in the world. That’s why they’re so heavily guarded. Some of the horses down there are worth a prince’s ransom.’

Makes you wonder how much a load of their dung would fetch. Rockhead takes the route through the old cloister, moving like a hog in mud. Head down. Stride short and quick. Shoulders hunched. Past the armoury and the kitchens (‘strictly out of bounds’), skirting the chapter hall, down a long stone tube like a rathole, taking the stairs at a run. Finally, the stables. You can smell them coming. They’re as high as the vaults of heaven, and twice as long as they are high. The horses stand in endless rows like saints on a church doorway. King Solomon
never
had stables like this.

‘Half these horses are from the south of France,’ says Rockhead. ‘They’re the best you can get. The Infidels would kill for such animals.’

Sounds as if he’s just given birth to the lot. Who needs a wife when you’ve got a gelding? There are people everywhere – squires, sergeants, servants – all raking muck and brushing hocks and filling feed-bins like priests tending a hundred four-legged altars. Squires might be dispensable, but horses certainly aren’t.

‘You will be spending a lot of time down here.’ Rockhead makes it sound like a punishment. ‘Lord Roland is very strict about his horses.’

‘Which one is his? Sir.’

‘He has three. That’s one of them over there. That’s another. And
that
–’ (A flourish.) ‘–
that
is Lord Roland.’

Lord Roland, son of Saint George. He looks like something off a stained-glass window. Tall as a tree, golden hair, wide shoulders, long nose, eyes as blue as the Virgin’s mantle. He’s wearing a white robe (spotless, of course) and a knife at his belt.

If he’s as good as he looks, I’m in big trouble.

‘With your indulgence, my lord . . .’ Rockhead takes the plunge. I have appointed a new squire. From the city garrison. He might be suitable – I don’t know. If not we can always put him somewhere else . . .’

Saint George takes a good, long look. You can’t tell what he’s thinking – if he
is
thinking. His eyes are big and blank, and shaped like crescent moons.

‘Thank you, sergeant.’ A lilting accent; lazy vowels; soft voice. Rockhead seems relieved. Another job off his hands.

‘I’ve put him in your quarters, my lord, but we can always shift him to the dormitories.’

‘Thank you, sergeant. You can leave him with me.’

‘Very well then. Excellent . . .’

Rockhead shuffles his feet a bit, nods at Saint George, and shoots off to bestow more joy and delight on other fortunate souls. (You can hear him barking orders as he wends his merry way to the exit.) Saint George ponders his next move. What now, I wonder? More questions or more rules?

‘I am Lord Roland,’ he finally remarks. ‘Sergeant Tibald has neglected to tell me your name.’

‘It’s Pagan, my lord. Pagan Kidrouk.’

He absorbs that without a blink. No comment.

Obviously the strong, silent type.

‘This is Fennel, my battle mount.’ He lays a hand on his horse. ‘My palfrey is called Brest and my packhorse is Coppertail. Fennel is not your responsibility. The others will need your attention. They are without spite or anger – a joyful duty.’

Ah yes. The joyful duty of steaming manure. The joyful duty of a kick in the guts. I know it well, that joyful duty.

Saint George caresses the big, brown backside under his nose (just my luck to draw an animal lover) and looks up, deadpan.

‘Tell me, Pagan – if you were confronting an armed man in battle, would you prefer it that he carried a shield and a Turkish mace, or a shield and a short sword?’

Oh great. Terrific. A theorist.

‘Well . . . that would depend, really.’

‘On what?’

‘On where he came from.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What I mean is, everyone
knows
that an Englishman couldn’t scratch his backside with a Turkish mace, let alone aim it at me.’

Silence. Not a flicker. Face like marble, eyes like glass. Is this a man or a monument?

‘It also depends on what I’m carrying myself, I suppose. And how big he is. And how far away . . .’

‘Have you ever been wounded, Pagan? In a fight?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Where?’

‘You mean where was I hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well – once I was hit on the ear by a flying kettle. That was in a street brawl near the Syrian Exchange –’

‘No. I mean in close combat.’

‘In close combat?’ Sudden memory of that pig-faced Saxon – Heimrad? Conrad? – chopping down from nowhere. Knees giving way. No pain, at first. Just the impact, like a blow from something blunt and heavy.

And there was the taste, too: that bitter taste of bile in your mouth.

‘I was wounded with a sword, once. Across the neck and shoulder.’

‘Anywhere else?’

‘Not really. Just the odd knee in the groin. Tavern stuff.’

‘Come with me, Pagan.’

People nod respectfully as he passes, moving like a cat in his soft leather boots. Out of the stables, into the sunshine. There’s a big barrel arch over the door, and a ramp leading down to the training field – which is all dust and loose gravel. Nothing grows around here. Too salty, I expect, from all the blood that’s been spilled.

Saint George has collected a mule-goad on his way out. It’s made of light wood wrapped in leather. About three handspans long.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Take it and go over there. There. A bit farther. Just there.’ He stoops to pick up some stones. ‘I want you to hold that in your hands,’ he says, ‘and hit whatever I throw at you. Because I’ll be throwing quite hard. Do you understand? I want you to guard your body.’

Wham!
So here I am, standing in a sea of dirt, with a big mad Templar lobbing rocks at my head.
Wham!
Like some kind of martyr.
Wham!
He throws like a catapult – like ten catapults – ouch! – like a
hailstorm
, in fact. Ouch! (Missed again.) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, my guardian angel has a mean sense of humour.

‘All right, Pagan, that’s enough.’ (I should damn well think so.) ‘Do you see what your problem is?’

Wait – don’t tell me.
You
are.

‘No, my lord.’

‘You were trained by a much taller man. Taller and heavier. He must have been as tall as I am. And he didn’t train you properly.’

Figures.

‘You fight like a tall man. You don’t use your weight to your best advantage. You are so light – you should move around more. And you’re holding your weapon too low.’

‘So you don’t want me, then.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’re saying I should leave. Is that right?’ (I mean, I can take a hint. Especially when it’s small and solid and thrown in my direction as fast as an eight-legged rat.)