‘. . . the city was being defended by Lady Carcas, widow of the previous Saracen governor. After a siege of five years, Carcas ordered that the last pig be fed a sack of grain, and thrown over the battlements. It burst, of course, and Charlemagne decided that people who fed grain to their pigs would never be starved out. He was just about to withdraw when the trumpet sounded for a parley. The cry went up: ‘Carcas sonne!’ Which is how the city got its name.’
Yak, yak, yak, in that syrupy, sing-song accent which must be northern, I suppose, like the copper curls and the curious design on his scabbard. No wonder Commander Folcrand decided to send him with us. Probably couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Clattering across the bridge towards the castle. Its massive sandstone walls gleam like gold in the late afternoon light. Its colours flap sluggishly above the keep, like a couple of dirty old stockings.
‘. . . of course, Charlemagne married Carcas to Tren-cavel, the bravest of his knights, and gave him the city as a wedding present. It’s been in the family ever since . . .’
Yak, yak, yak. (He just goes on and on and on, like the Book of Numbers.) Wait a moment, this is very strange. Why would Isoard be on guard duty? Don’t tell me he’s joined the garrison? I thought he was a servant. He comes to attention as we pass, his gigantic skull much too big for the borrowed helm he’s wearing.
I wonder if Roland noticed? Probably not. No doubt his senses have been dulled by the ceaseless pounding of Ferry’s indomitable voice.
‘. . . you’re very lucky to share the name of Charlemagne’s most illustrious knight, Brother. Probably the greatest of all knights, don’t you think? I have to confess, I’ve always tried to model myself on Roland . . .’
Through the gates and into the bailey. It seems very quiet. Full of dung and straw and long shadows, but nothing much else. One of the stable-boys seems to be torturing a small animal near the kitchen. He sees us, and scrambles to his feet.
Smoke drifts across the empty expanse of cobbles.
‘These fortifications are well constructed,’ Ferry remarks, ‘but they don’t seem to be properly manned. Is it your father’s usual custom, to mount a skeleton watch? It seems rather imprudent.’
Roland, however, doesn’t reply: he’s already dismounting, his movements quick and tense. ‘Germain?’ he calls. ‘Joris? You, boy, where’s Germain? Is my father home?’
The stable-boy just stares with his slit eyes, an evil grin cracking the dried mud on his face. That little tick wants a good kick up the crupper. I’ll do it myself, as soon as I have the time.
Suddenly Bernard appears at the kitchen door, wiping his hands on a towel. He smells of onions.
‘Bernard,’ says Roland, ‘is my father home?’
A shake of the head. Uh-oh. This doesn’t look promising.
‘Where is he?’
Bernard would prefer not to say. He scratches his belly. He scratches his chin. His jowls tremble as he wriggles like a worm on a fish-hook.
‘I don’t know, it’s not my place,’ he squeaks. ‘You must ask Germain.’
‘Germain’s here?’
Bernard points towards the keep. And there’s Germain, standing at the top of the stairs. He must have heard Roland shouting.
Even as we turn, he vanishes inside again.
‘Who is Germain?’ Ferry asks. He’s on his feet, now, like the rest of us. Doesn’t seem over-enthusiastic about yielding his horse to that nasty little toad of a stable-boy, but doesn’t really have any choice. Roland heads straight for the keep, frowning.
You’d swear he’d gone deaf.
‘Brother?’ Ferry cries. ‘Brother Roland! Who is Germain?’
‘Germain is Lord Galhard’s steward.’ (I suppose someone had better answer the poor fool.) ‘He’s called Germain Bonace.’
‘Oh, I see. So he’s not one of the sons of the house?’
‘No, my lord. Lord Galhard’s sons are Lord Berengar and Lord Jordan.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not as well acquainted with the inhabitants of this area as I should be. Of course, I haven’t been stationed at Carcassone very long. And I’ve met some of the local lords, such as the lords of Pennautier, Bertrand and Aimery-Olivier de Saissac, Raymond de Vintron . . .’
Yak, yak, yak. Following in Roland’s wake, with Den bringing up the rear. Plunging into the dimness of the great hall, which smells like ferrets. Still haven’t swept out the rushes, I see. Germain’s standing just inside the door, fiddling with his thumb-ring: Ademar’s draped across a nearby bench, talking to Tayssiras. Why in God’s name does she bother with him? He’s nearly as old as Germain, and he’s 181 also the biggest bore in Languedoc. Thinks he’s so superior. So sophisticated. I’ve sat on more sophisticated things than Ademar in my time. And cleaned them up, too.
‘Germain,’ says Roland. ‘Where is Lord Galhard?’
‘My lord –’ Germain glances nervously at Ademar, who slowly rises. I hate the way Ademar sucks his cheeks in, like that. Does he think it makes him look serious? Important? What a laugh.
‘My lord,’ he says, ‘events have escalated considerably since you were last in residence.’ (Groan. Just listen to the way he talks!) ‘As a result of unprovoked aggression, Lord Galhard has been obliged to undertake several excursions into the territories of Abbot Tosetus.’
‘What do you mean?’ Roland speaks sharply, and Germain flinches. ‘He didn’t burn down the mill, did he?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ (Ademar.) ‘On the very day you left.’
‘After which the Abbot’s men came in stealth,’ Germain adds nervously, ‘and pulled up the vines in the vineyard of Saint Felix, and burned them.’
‘So Lord Galhard, who was naturally enraged, took an armed force to the Abbey,’ Ademar concludes. ‘With Lord Jordan and Lord Berengar.’
Dead silence. Suddenly Roland looks a good deal older. Ferry shakes his head. Den spits. (It’s his only form of communication.)
‘When did they leave?’ Roland asks, in a hoarse voice.
‘This morning, my lord, just before sunrise.’
‘Then they’ll be there already . . .’
God preserve us. I knew this would happen. And it’s going to keep on happening, too. What can a blow-hole like Ferry do to stop it? These people were bred to fight.
There’s a glum kind of pause as the news sinks in. Germain shuffles uneasily. Tayssiras fingers the pendant on her bosom. Den shifts his weight from his right foot to his left.
‘It was his toothache, my lord,’ Germain says at last. ‘Lord Galhard said he needed to do something, to take his mind off his toothache. It was very bad.’
‘How many people were killed?’
‘My lord?’
‘How many people were killed?’ You can see the sweat gleaming on Roland’s face. ‘At Ronceveaux? How many?’
‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘Should we follow Lord Galhard to the Abbey, Brother?’ Ferry interrupts. ‘Or should we wait until he returns? How far is the Abbey from here?’
‘About half a day’s ride.’
‘Then it’s too late to set out. We’d be foolish to start now, even if we did go.’ Ferry sounds brisk and unperturbed. ‘I suggest that we eat and sleep, and if they aren’t back by noon tomorrow, we should go after them.’
Hear, hear. No more riding, not tonight. My backside’s completely worn away. My spine feels as if it’s been stewed. My eyeballs are still bouncing.
Roland sits down abruptly, as if he’s gone weak at the knees.
‘No,’ he murmurs, ‘we must leave as soon as possible.’
‘But not now, Brother. That would be foolish. That would be dangerous.’
‘Please, my lord.’ (Have some mercy, I’m falling to pieces, here.) ‘Please, my lord, couldn’t we rest? Think of the horses.’
Roland looks at me with glazed eyes. This blow has hit him hard. Very, very hard.
‘We shall leave at first light,’ Ferry declares, and turns to Germain ‘I am Lord Ferry de Lezinnes, of
the Knights Templar. This is my squire Den. We require some food and two beds, as soon as possible.’
‘Y-yes, my lord.’
‘You can put us in here, if you like. Whatever’s most convenient. Den will help you.’
All of a sudden, everybody’s moving. Ademar disappears. Tayssiras slips out. Roland stands up, grabs a candle, and heads for the circular staircase. Clump, clump, clump. His footfalls are heavy and hopeless.
Ferry calls after him: ‘Where are you going, Brother?’
‘To pray.’
‘Good idea. I’ll join you, presently.’
God preserve us. Can you imagine? I foresee the world’s longest prayer. Roland’s still climbing: clump, clump, clump. I suppose he’s off to the chapel.
‘My lord?’
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Following his footsteps up the staircase, into Berengar’s room. It’s empty, of course, except for the dogs.
‘My lord? Wait.’
He stops. Turns. His face is white and heavy; his shoulders droop. Poor Roland.
‘My lord, it’s not your fault. There’s nothing we could have done. You’re not responsible for your family.’
How many times do I have to say it? But it bounces straight off him like an arrow bouncing off a battlement. He just sighs.
‘My lord, they don’t care about you. Why worry about them?’
‘I know you’re right, Pagan.’ His voice is low and unsteady. ‘In my head I know you’re right, but not in my heart.’
And off he goes to the chapel. Should I go with him? Probably not. Crossing the next threshold, taking a deep breath and phew! What’s that smell? It smells like urine! Who’s been pissing in our room?
Oh for – this is disgusting. Disgusting! Where –? My bed. It’s coming from my bed.
Someone’s been pissing on my palliasse.
Isarn. It must have been Isarn. Or Isoard? No, I don’t think Isoard’s even allowed up here. Anyway, Isoard didn’t get his skull bashed in. It’s got to be Isarn.
That stinking, pestiferous pus-bag.
I’m going to kill that reptile.
No, I’m not. Calm down, Pagan. Take a deep breath, think carefully. What can you do? There must be something you can do. Piss on his bed? No, that would be stupid, because you’re going to be using his bed tonight. You’re not going to sleep in a puddle of piss.
What, then? Come on, Pagan, use your brain.
Stumbling back into Berengar’s room. There’s Isarn’s palliasse, with his possessions stacked neatly around it. His best pair of boots; his hunting horn; his festival surcoat. I wonder . . .?
No. On second thoughts, I won’t relieve myself all over them. Somehow that wouldn’t be – I don’t know. Why stoop to his level? Besides, Roland wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like it at all.
I know what I’ll do, I’ll hide them. I’ll stash them away somewhere. But where? The stables? He’s always in there. And the barracks are always crawling with people. So is the kitchen. The chapel? Too empty . . .
The cellars. That’s it, the cellars.
Putting down my lamp. Dumping everything onto Isarn’s blanket: tying the corners together, and slinging the whole lot over my shoulder. Picking up the lamp again. Can’t hear anyone on the stairs. If I’m asked, I’ll say that this is a bag of dirty laundry. And what will I do with my palliasse? Can’t just leave it there: a smell like that will kill Roland, if he has to breathe it in all night. I suppose I’ll have to drag it into the bailey, and let it soak up a bit of rain.
Down, down, down, past the great hall. The stairs get clammier, and more slippery. Careful, Pagan, you don’t want to break your neck. Reaching level ground, at last. God, but it’s dark, down here: dark and cold. The hollow tinkle of water dripping, somewhere nearby.
Taking it slowly, step by step, through the first big room. Shadows dancing in the flickering light of my lamp. Iron rings thrust high into the walls. (What for, I wonder?) Pikes and rusty axes. A knot of rope. There’s that milk churn, again.
Now where should I hide this bag? Inside a cask? Behind that cluster of old trestles?
Suddenly, a noise. A rat? No, rats don’t squeal like that. A pig? A puppy?
A person?
‘Who’s there?’
No answer. Don’t tell me Galhard’s got someone else imprisoned down here. My heart’s pumping so hard that the flame on my lamp quivers with every beat.
‘I heard you! Who is it? You might as well come out.’
Taking a few steps forward. There! A rustle. A movement. (I wish I had my sword.) Swinging the bag in one hand, just in case somebody springs. If you do, my friend, you’ll get a face-full of Isarn’s best boots. Pushing my lamp into one shadowy corner . . .
And it’s Ademar, blinking up at me. Hair ruffled. Knees bare. Tunic flapping.
Beside him, Tayssiras.
‘What are you doing here? You’re not allowed down here!’ He’s blustering; panting; sweating. And she – she just sits there, with hardly anything on.
‘If you say one word about this, I’ll slit you open!’ Ademar spits, rising to his feet. She stays where she is, but her hand moves. Slowly, smoothly, she brushes a lock of hair from her impassive face.
Shameless. She’s shameless. How could she ever – she’s just – and with him?!
‘Did you hear me?’ he croaks. ‘I mean it! I’ll kill you –’
Whump! Throw the bag. It hits him right in the chest, and he reels back, falling. Turn and run. Run. I’ve got to get out. I can’t breathe down here. It’s like a sewer! Writhing around in the muck, like a pair of maggots, like rutting pigs, it makes me sick, I’m going to be sick! Oh Jesus.
This place, this place, this filthy place. This place is the Devil’s work.
Chapter 20
You can’t really blame her, I suppose.
After all, Germain’s an old man. As for most of the other people at Bram, well, you only have to listen to Berengar. He’s so crude and filthy. At least Ademar doesn’t have a foul mouth. At least he talks about love and courtship and nightingales, instead of teats and rumps and wantons. Fancies himself as a bit of a courtly lover, I suspect. Makes him look superior. I’ve even heard him quoting poetry, in his arguments with the other guards. Talking about Twin Souls and the Garden of Happiness and the Triumph of Love over Intellect. I mean, you can’t blame her for being swept off her feet.
And of course, lots of women do that kind of thing, especially in the summer time. Even married ones. Even queens. You only have to listen to the troubadours’ songs. Some women can’t help it: they’re like flowers, giving off a beautiful perfume. They just can’t help attracting bees.
‘Pagan.’
(Whoops!) ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Roland, up ahead, craning around to see what I’m doing. ‘Wake up, Pagan, this is no time for daydreaming. Can’t you see we’ve arrived?’
So we have. I didn’t even notice the vineyards. And there are the Abbey walls, with those square church towers rising above them, and a few stray sheep wandering through the ancient, overgrown rubble that lies half-buried not far from the gates. (Ruins of an old guest house? Or barn? Or chapel?) Wisps of smoke dissolve into the air. A perfectly good leather bucket lies on the road in a mess of squashed vegetable peelings.
Ferry frowns when he sees it.
‘That doesn’t look good,’ he says. Beside me, Den loosens his sword in its scabbard.
The gates stand open, unmanned. Not a soul to be seen. Entering cautiously, through a terrible absence of noise: no pots clanging, no people talking, just the mournful sound of crows and the ominous hum of flies. Flies everywhere, buzzing and swarming just inside the gates, where a dead servant is sprawled in the dirt. He’s still clasping a hoe, his dried blood almost black in the sunlight. May God have mercy. (Turning away.) May God have mercy, what a mess. Ferry crosses himself, but Roland doesn’t move a muscle. He seems to have turned to stone.
Pressing on past t
he trampled gardens, with their broken sticks and flattened shoots, and a scarecrow now wearing rich, embroidered vestments – feast-day clothing – 189 all purple and white and crimson. More flies are feeding on a dead pig, which is also wrapped in the remains of a priest’s garment, a cope perhaps, but so torn and muddy and soaked in blood that it’s impossible to tell. Everywhere the ground is covered in litter: discarded shovels and water-buckets, bits of clothing, a disembowelled feather pillow, a smashed earthenware bowl, a dead chicken, an uprooted sapling, the ripped and scattered pages of an illuminated book. There’s a large barrel standing about fifteen paces from the church’s western door. Beside it, a statue of Saint John the Baptist lies broken on the ground, its wreckage still clad in somebody’s chain mail hauberk.
This is unbelievable. I’ve never seen anything like this. They’ve been tilting at Saint John the Baptist!
‘Den, you stay with the horses,’ Ferry says quietly, as he dismounts. ‘If anyone bothers you, I give you permission to retire.’
Den nods. But what about me? Roland? What should I do? He’s already making for the church, both hands on his sword hilt. Well, I’m not staying here with Den. Anything but that. Wait, Roland! Wait for me! Slipping from the saddle. Chasing him up the shallow flight of stairs, past a puddle of vomit, and beneath the carved stone Judgement over the western door. There’s a strong smell of wine. Wine and incense and something else. Horses? It can’t be.
Advancing into the candle-lit gloom. Whoops! Ferry almost trips over a body which can’t be dead, because it groans and rolls over. Wounded? No, drunk. It’s Pons, and he’s drunk. The light trickles in through broken windows, splashing onto the tiled floor and painted walls and the 190 columns which stand to attention on both sides of the centre aisle, propping up a very lofty, vaulted ceiling. Crunch, crunch. It’s all glass and straw and manure underfoot: horse-manure, to be precise. Fresh and steaming. The horses have been stabled along the southern wall, beneath a mural depicting Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. The altar has been stripped: no plate, no cloth, no crucifix. A smashed cask has flooded the chancel with wine.