‘Get out. You too, Pons. Out!’ Another kick for Isarn, this time a light one aimed at the ribs. ‘Get out of here, you disgusting creatures. All of you!’
No one waits to be told again. Isarn crawls. Isoard staggers. They’re gone before you can draw breath.
Leaving Jordan to finish his business.
‘I need meat for my bird,’ he announces, without even looking at Segura. He seems more interested in me. She scurries off to serve him while he stands there, gazing down that long, familiar nose.
‘Roland tells me you can read and write,’ he says at last.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘In a monastery, my lord.’
‘A monastery?’
‘I was brought up in a monastery. In Bethlehem.’
Pause. He moves over to the table, dusts off some flour, and seats himself.
‘Then why aren’t you a monk?’ he says.
‘Because I ran away.’
‘Ah, of course. You ran away. When did you run away?’
‘When I was ten years old, my lord.’
‘I see. And where did you go then?’
‘To Jerusalem.’
‘To your family?’
‘No, my lord, I don’t have any family. I never knew my father, and my mother didn’t want me.’
What’s all this about? Is it some kind of trick? He sits there, stroking his falcon with one long finger.
‘You can’t have joined the Templars when you were ten years old,’ he murmurs.
‘No, my lord, I did that when I was sixteen.’
‘And before then? What did you do before then?’
‘Nothing, my lord. At least nothing to be proud of. Just garrison work.’ And that’s all I’m going to say, Lord Jordan. Because I don’t trust you. You’re a cut above the other two, and you certainly saved my skin, but you’re dangerous. I can smell it. There’s something hidden underneath.
‘Well, I’m sure that whatever you did, it was interesting.’ A smile creeps across his face. ‘No one else in Bram can read or write, you know Not even the priest. And none of my family ever had an education; we’re all just as illiterate as Roland is. Of course, we used to have a chaplain who could read – he lived here in the castle – but he’s dead now.’
I’m not surprised.
‘He was my mother’s chaplain.’ Turning to look at Segura, who’s sidled up with a long, ragged piece of bluish flesh. ‘What’s that supposed to be?’
‘It – it –’
‘What do you think I’ve got here? A lymer hound? Cut it up, quickly.’
‘Y-yes, my lord.’
‘And I want small pieces. Small. Understand?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Stupid woman.’ He shifts his gaze back to me. ‘My mother had three books, which were part of her dowry. The chaplain used to read them to her. He had to translate them, of course, because they were all written in Latin. Two of them were gospels, but the other was an historical book. William of Malmesbury’s Chronicles of the Kings of England. My father burnt the gospels, but I kept the history. I was never very interested in it when I was young, although I do recall one extract about a witch who was carried off by the Devil when she died. I was read that particular story in the hope that it would encourage me to mend my wicked ways.’ He smiles a little. (Now I know why his stare is so compelling. He hardly ever blinks.) ‘But lately,’ he adds, ‘I’ve been looking at the pictures, and they make me wonder what the words mean. Do you read Latin, by any chance?’
‘Yes, my lord. Latin is what I read best.’
‘Then perhaps you could read me this book, some time?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It would give me something new to think about.’
Segura is still frantically sawing away at the sinewy meat, with a knife as big as a battleaxe. Jordan rises, and the falcon on his wrist flaps her wings a few times before settling. The bells on her legs tinkle as she moves.
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she? A real diamond.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Exotic, too. She’s not a local.’ He fixes me with that blank, blue look again. ‘A bit like you, in fact. Have those witless animals bothered you before?’
‘No, my lord. This is the first time.’
‘Well if they do it again, don’t hesitate to call me.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ (Are you serious?) ‘But I don’t think they’ll be that stupid.’
‘My dear Pagan, you must never underestimate the stupidity of the people around here. I assure you, it never ceases to surprise. Ah, at last.’ Once more Segura has approached him, this time with the meat neatly sliced, and carefully arranged in an earthenware bowl. He takes it without a word of thanks.
‘I daresay you must feel like a walking spectacle, at the moment, but it won’t last,’ he continues. ‘And even while it does, you mustn’t let such ignorance affect your peace of mind. Remember that no one here has much to do, so they’ll stare at anything out of the ordinary.’ He moves to the door, treading carefully on noiseless feet. The dogs don’t follow him: they keep their distance, their eyes on the bowl he’s carrying.
Suddenly he stops, and turns.
‘Don’t forget about that book,’ he adds. ‘I’m ready whenever you are. Or whenever Roland decides to allow you a few spare moments. He’s obviously much too busy praying to do anything for himself.’
Now what’s that supposed to mean? Watching as he walks away, his falcon lurching and flapping on his wrist.
If you think I’m going to stand and smile while you make remarks like that, my lord, you’re very much mistaken.
Chapter 5
Casting an eye around the bailey. No sign of Roland here. No sign of anyone, very much. Just a scattering of people watching Aimery tilt at a chain-mail hauberk, which he’s stuck on a pole and stuffed with straw. (I suppose you could call it a quintain.) Riding a rather nice grey gelding that’s much too small for him. Doesn’t old pimple-face ever do anything else? I’m beginning to think he must take his lance to bed every night.
No sign of Isarn, thank God. Or Pons. Or Isoard. Who’s that on the stairs? Germain’s wife? That’s it, Germain’s wife. Tayssiras. I recognise the bosom. Lifting up her skirts to feel for each step with her foot. Tiny feet, she has, for a woman of such ample curves.
‘Hello, Master Pagan!’ Dimpling at me. Nice to see a happy face, around here. ‘I hope you’re well this morning.’
‘Hello, Mistress Tayssiras. You’re looking very pretty.’ She does, too. All dressed up in a rich, red gown over something long and pink, her glossy hair wrapped around her head and pinned into a silk net trimmed with silver.
‘Thank you.’ Dimple, dimple. ‘I’m just off to visit my friend Dulcia, in the village. She has a new baby.’
‘That’s good.’ (Good that it’s over in the village. God preserve me from drooling babies.) ‘Have you seen Lord Roland?’
‘Lord Roland? I think he’s in the hall.’
Aha! Thought so. ‘Thank you, Mistress Tayssiras. I hope you enjoy your visit.’
Waiting politely until she’s cleared the last step. Wonder how Germain ever got himself a wife like that? She must be thirty years younger than he is. Nice-looking, too. She’s left a trail of perfume behind her, strong and flowery. Teasing my nostrils all the way up the stairs.
From inside, the sound of someone’s voice.
‘– 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 tra
ce 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.’