Pagan in Exile (2 page)
Look at that fellow there, gawking away. Face like a gob of spittle, and he’s staring at
me
! Why don’t you get yourself a mirror, Spitface, if you really want something to stare at.
A one-armed child makes a rude gesture. Runs away as I poke out a viciously threatening tongue. No backbone, the little coward.
‘Pagan.’ Roland’s voice is cold and stern. (Doesn’t want his squire eroding the dignity of his arrival.) ‘Please behave yourself.’
‘It’s not my fault. What’s wrong with them? They don’t seem very pleased to see you.’
‘It’s been a long time, Pagan. Six years. They may not remember who I am.’
Six years. Imagine what it must be like, coming home after six years. A quick glance at his profile, jolting along not two arm-lengths away, as Jennet and Coppertail and poor old Bruno pick a path between the puddles. (Jennet is such a lady, she can’t stand getting mud on her fetlocks.) But there’s no expression on Roland’s chiselled face. His eyes aren’t even misty. Not that I was expecting anything different: you’d see a pig become Pope before you’d ever see Lord Roland Roucy de Bram in tears.
He twitches his reins, and it’s time to turn right. Another narrow little street lined with pale sandstone houses, all sporting those funny peaked roofs. You don’t often see roofs like that, back in Jerusalem. Wooden shutters and wandering chickens. The smell of smoke and sewage. High walls. Flapping laundry. The sharp sounds of a smithy somewhere nearby.
People clustered on doorsteps, staring.
They’re staring at Roland too, of course. You have to admit he’s worth a look. The golden-haired knight on his glossy black horse, with his blue eyes and wide shoulders and white tunic (well, off-white really, I can’t have washed it in weeks), and the distinctive red cross on his chest. You don’t often see a vision of Saint George wandering past your scrap bucket on an overcast afternoon in the middle of nowhere. It’s like watching a stained-glass window come to life. People push and whisper and cross themselves. A sort of hush seems to follow us down the street.
This is really embarrassing.
‘My lord!’
Aha. Someone’s coming forward, at last. And there he is: a grey-haired, grey-bearded man with a wrung-out face like a dishcloth, dressed a little better than most of the people around here (who seem to be wearing tailored feed-sacks) in a tunic the colour of raw kidneys, and a cloak of cheese-mould blue. He looks almost groggy with shock, staggering out from under a carved stone lintel.
‘My lord Roland –’
‘Germain.’ Roland looks around. ‘Germain Bonace.’
‘My lord – God save us – we thought you were dead –’
‘How is it with you, Germain?’
‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re alive.’
‘Certainly I am alive. And well.’
‘It’s a miracle.’
‘Not at all.’
‘We never thought we’d see you again.’
Roland’s beginning to get just a little impatient. You can tell by the way the muscles twitch in his jaw.
‘And now I have returned,’ he declares. (Subject closed.) ‘Is my father in good health?’
‘Oh – oh yes, my lord. That is, he’s feeling his age, of course –’
‘And my brothers?’
‘Yes, my lord. They’re both well enough . . .’
‘Good.’ Turning to me. ‘Pagan, this is Germain Bonace, my father’s steward. He has served my family all his life. Germain, this is my squire Pagan Kidrouk. He comes from Jerusalem.’
A mutter runs along the street. Jerusalem! The Holy City! All eyes on the skinny little Turcopole who badly needs a haircut. They’re probably wondering what happened to my halo.
Yes, that’s right, have a good stare. Sooner or later someone’s going to come up and poke me with a stick. Just to see if I’m real or not.
‘Are you on your way back to the castle?’ Roland inquires. But Germain doesn’t seem to understand.
‘To the –?’
‘We are on our way to the castle. I assume you still live there?’
‘Oh yes.’ The steward looks around in a dithery sort of way, as if his mind is somewhere far off, beyond the rooftops of Bram. ‘I’ve been discussing rents with . . . um . . . with Baimac –’
‘Then we shall not keep you from your duties,’ Roland says, nudging Jennet forward. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you this evening at supper. We must go now. Pagan?’
Yes, yes, I’m coming. The gathering crowd flinches back as we move. Toddlers scatter in all directions. Germain trails after us for a few steps, dragging a stiff knee. ‘Welcome back, my lord! Welcome home!’ he cries, in a wavering voice. Somehow it doesn’t have the desired effect.
What’s the matter with these people? I thought there’d be garlands and cheering. I thought there’d be dancing in the streets. Lord Roland is one of the lords of Bram, isn’t he? Don’t they like their lords, in this part of the world? I just don’t understand.
The street opens onto a little round marketplace. There’s a church in the middle of it – your basic country affair – with a tower and a peaked roof and small windows. Cobbles and manure underfoot. A well. A trough. A sheep pen. A scattering of dogs and chickens and people.
Beyond it, more houses. Built in widening circles around the central square. And beyond that, the castle of Bram. Visible for miles as you approach it along the tedious road from Carcassone to Toulouse, where everything is flat, flat, flat, like the bottom of a pan, and just about as interesting. Not quite what I expected, this castle. Not at all like the castles in Jerusalem. Those castles are big. This one’s more like an overgrown road-fort: a four-sided block of beige-coloured stone, with the village spilling from beneath its southern flank like an accident that someone forgot to clean up. But perhaps these people wouldn’t call it a village. Perhaps they’d call it a town. Two chandlers sitting on a graveyard fence are quite enough to qualify as a town, in Languedoc.
You can’t see the entrance to the bailey from this point (it must be behind all those houses) but you can see the top of the keep, rising above the battlements. There are colours flapping sluggishly on a flagpole, way up high. Not that I’d personally dignify them with the name of colours. They’re so worn and ragged, they don’t seem to have any colour at all.
I just can’t believe that this is Roland’s birthplace.
‘Perhaps we should stop here for a moment,’ he remarks, glancing at the church. ‘Pay our respects to the priest, before we go further.’
Oh, what?
‘Please, my lord.’ (Whine, whine.) ‘If I have to sit on this horse much longer I’ll never cross my legs again. You’ll have to chisel me off. Can’t we just get to the castle and rest?’
A long, blue look from the Man of Marble. One whole day on the back of a horse means absolutely nothing to him. He could probably run from Acre to Antioch right now, if he had to. Dragging a dead donkey.
‘Very well, I shall visit the priest tomorrow morning.’ (Hooray!) ‘We’ll rest first. Come, it isn’t far.’
I’m so sick of riding. Riding, riding, riding. That’s all I seem to have done for the last year. How long is it since we stayed in one place for more than two weeks at a time? Probably not since Jerusalem. Oh, and there was the ship, of course. But that didn’t really count. We never stayed still on the ship, either. That was worse than riding. Up, down, up, down. God how I hate those floating buckets of vomit.
Speaking of vomit, there’s a very nasty smell around here. Where’s it coming from? A tannery? A slaughterhouse? Whew! Passing the charred ruins of some unfortunate person’s home. Or maybe it wasn’t a home. Stables, perhaps. Or a workshop. They’re lucky the fire didn’t spread.
Castle walls, looming closer and closer. Dark against a pearl-grey sky. The ground rising slightly (very slightly) as the houses thin, giving way to untidy kitchen gardens, and finally to cleared land. Burned off, by the look of it. No cover here for besieging forces. A well-kept ditch (no scrub or boulders), deep enough to bury an army in. Over it, a wooden bridge. Easy to demolish, during an emergency, especially since it doesn’t seem to be in the best repair. One well-aimed rock from the ramparts and
whoomp
! No more bridge.
The horses’ hooves clatter as we cross.
Someone’s stationed under the big, deep arch of the entrance. He’s so small that you can hardly see him. Most of his face is obscured by a peculiar, greenish growth which seems to be a beard – unless it’s a skin disease. But there must be a mouth hidden behind it somewhere, because he speaks as he advances towards us.
‘State your business.’ (His voice is a hoarse drone, very grating.) ‘Halt and state your business.’
It’s hard not to laugh. The look on Roland’s face! As if he’d cracked open a nut and found a turd inside.
‘My
business
,’ he says, in his sharpest, chilliest, most patrician tones, ‘is with my family. I am Lord Roland Roucy de Bram.’ And he presses forward, ignoring old Green-beard, who’s got about as much authority as an apple core in a suit of armour.
Through the gates, into the bailey.
It’s a fair-sized plot, but pretty crowded. All kinds of ramshackle buildings propped up against the walls. Smoke and ash drifting about. Goats browsing. And the keep, of course, towering over everything, well built, with stairs in the east wall leading up to the second storey entrance. It’s the only entrance that I can see: just a single hole, punched through thick stone, hardly bigger than the three tiny windows sitting high up under the battlements. No one’s getting in there without an invitation.
Glance at Roland. Expressionless, as usual. He’s scanning the faces of the people nearby: a tall, wiry, grey-haired soldier and a drooping individual built like a beanstalk, with long, pale limbs and cold sores. They’re both staring at us, speechless with astonishment.
A brief pause as Roland dismounts, moving without the slightest trace of stiffness. While his squire has to peel both buttocks off the saddle. God preserve us! I can’t even straighten my knees! They’ll have to break the bones and reset them. Ow! Owch! God, my back!
‘Foucaud,’ says Roland, carefully. He’s addressing the Beanstalk. ‘It is Foucaud, isn’t it?’
The Beanstalk simply goggles. What a pathetic sight. Looks completely boneless. Lank-haired. Unhealthy. He sniffs, and wipes his nose on the back of a hand that looks exactly like a dead squid.
‘Do you remember me? I’m Lord Roland.’
No reply. The Beanstalk’s eyes flicker uneasily towards the soldier.
‘Lord Galhard’s youngest son,’ Roland continues, patiently. The soldier makes an explosive noise.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ he exclaims. ‘You mean you’re –’
‘I am Lord Roland Roucy de Bram.’ Cold and precise. ‘Who might you be?’
‘Ademar, my lord, I –’
‘Is my father here, Ademar?’
‘No, he’s gone to – I mean, no, my lord, he’s not. He’s at Castelnaudery, with Lord Berengar. But Lord Jordan is here.’ A crooked grin. (The soldier’s teeth remind me of tadpoles: soft and grey and slimy.) ‘He’s in the hall.’
Roland nods. He turns back to Foucaud.
‘Take these horses,’ he says. ‘You may find them a place in the stables, and remove their harness, but don’t feed them or brush them down. We shall attend to them ourselves shortly. Do you understand?’
A listless nod. Roland places Jennet’s reins carefully in the Beanstalk’s limp hand, and jerks his head in my direction. You don’t mean that I have to touch this – this boiled lentil? His fingers feel sticky, like seaweed. Clammy. Dead. He stands there, holding all three horses, as we march towards the keep.
‘My lord –’
‘What?’
‘Are you sure they’ll be looked after?’ Can’t help glancing back at the Beanstalk, who seems to have subsided into a trance. Roland doesn’t even break his stride.
‘Foucaud is my brother’s varlet. I have known him for many years. He can be trusted to carry out orders.’
‘If you say so, my lord.’
He takes the steps slowly, at a dignified pace. One hand on his sword hilt, one swinging loose. No rushing or yelling. Very cool. Very calm. Not a trace of sweat on his forehead, or moisture in his eyes. But there’s a vein beating like a hammer in his temple.
And he takes a deep breath as he steps through the door.
G
od preserve us, it’s dark in here! Can’t see a thing except that lamp. And there’s another one, way over there. On a table? Yes, on a table. You can just make it out.
Something squashy underfoot. Rushes, I suppose. Very old rushes. Probably haven’t been swept out in centuries. Full of grease, bones, spittle, dog turds. There’s an ominous smell in the air.
Maybe the darkness is a good thing, after all. Maybe I’d rather not see what I’m treading on.
‘Jordan?’ Roland, beside me, peering into the shadows. ‘Jordan? Are you there?’
A rustle. A creak.
‘Jordan?’
Something moves beside the table. (It’s getting easier to see, now.) A shape seems to unfold. A hand appears in the lamplight. There’s a glint of gold, and a shuffle of feet. Heavy breathing from out of the gloom.
A voice.
‘I don’t believe it.’
God preserve us. That voice!
‘I don’t believe it. You can’t be Roland. You must be a ghost.’
It’s incredible. I could have sworn – he sounds exactly like Roland. For a moment I thought it
was
Roland!