Pagan's Crusade (20 page)
Saladin nods. Roland bows. May peace be upon you . . . praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord and all His angels! Praise Him with the sound of trumpets! Praise ye – whoops!
And hauled to my feet.
‘Thank you! Thank you, my lord Sultan!’ Shouting back over the heads of the audience. (Where are we going? Roland? Let go. You’re hurting my arm.) ‘May peace be upon you, my lord! May peace be upon you!’
Last glimpse of the Great Man. May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be upon our noble enemy. I don’t care
what
he’s done. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the lost sheep in the wilderness.
The crowds part at the door to let us through. Roland still clutching my elbow.
‘My lord? Don’t be angry – please – my lord?’
No reply. God, he’s going to kill me. But I don’t care. I don’t care. As long as he doesn’t kill himself.
Through another door, and into another room. A small room. A library? The walls are lined with scrolls and books. He’s trying to control his breathing. Drops my arm the way you’d drop a live ember.
Stands there with his hands on his hips. Chest heaving.
‘Well?’ he says.
‘Well what?’
‘How
dare
you disobey me!’
‘I’m sorry, but I had to.’
‘The
insult!
’ ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You deserve to be flogged for such insolence!’
‘Oh don’t say that. It was only fair.’
‘What?’
‘Well how many times have you saved
my
life?’
Pause. He’s speechless. Throws up his hands, turns on his heel, paces to the window and back again. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. Seems to be calming down a bit.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Pagan. I know you meant well, but you shouldn’t have done that. It was a great shame to me. You must promise never to do anything like it ever again.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t.’
‘
Pagan –
’
‘My lord, how can I?’ Look at me, Roland.
Look
at me. I might be your squire, but I’m also your friend. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what I’m feeling? ‘My lord, have some mercy. For God’s sake, think of
me.
Don’t you understand? You’re all I have left.’
Outside, the babble of a foreign tongue, as foreign soldiers make themselves at home.
P
raise God for a full moon, so bright you could almost read by it. A full moon makes things so much safer. You don’t get lions or wolves or brigands sneaking into the camp unnoticed, under a full moon.
And here comes Roland, back from the burial. At this rate there won’t be any convoy left, by the time we find a haven. If only they’d given us a bit of extra food at Tyre . . .
‘Fig, my lord? They’re not very good.’
‘Where did these come from?’
‘That hairy soapmaker found a grove just over the hill.’
Somewhere down the line a baby begins to scream. (Amazing it still has the energy.) Not much of a mouthful, these figs. Dry, stringy, tasteless.
Spitting the stalks into the fire.
‘My lord?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Even if we reach Tripoli tomorrow . . .’
‘We seem to be quite close, Pagan.’
‘Yes, but will they take us in? They must be overcrowded in Tripoli, as well.’
A sigh. Poor Roland. He’s so weary.
‘We can only hope. And pray.’
‘If we don’t find somewhere soon, we might have to spend the whole winter here. There aren’t many ships on the sea routes, in winter.’
‘God’s will be done. Our first duty is to the refugees.’
Duty, duty, duty. If it wasn’t for this feeble mob we’d be on our way to France by now. Tyre would have welcomed us with open arms – two healthy fighting men – and we could have sailed to Sicily with the Archbishop. Gone to seek help from the courts of Europe. Gone to rally the Order’s western branches. Gone to see the
Pope
, perhaps!
Instead of which we sit here in the dust eating dross for our dinner, with half the population of Jerusalem starving to death around us.
Ah, well. Could be worse, I suppose.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is it cold in your country?’
‘Not too much colder than here. My father’s lands are quite far south.’
‘And still you don’t have baths?’
‘It’s not the custom.’
There are countries in the north where the ice only melts for three days of the year. I’ve heard of them. But I wouldn’t want to visit.
‘My lord?’
‘What?’
‘Do they speak the same language in your country?’
‘More or less.’
‘What about the food? Do they eat the same food?’
‘I suppose so. Basically the same. They just put it together differently.’
‘And – the people?’
‘What about them?’
‘Do they look the same as you?’
A puzzled stare across the flames.
‘Of course not. How could they? Half of them are women.’
‘Yes, but – well – do they look anything like
me
?’
Pause. He’s smiling. You can see the glint of teeth through his beard.
‘How could they, Pagan? There’s no one like you.’
‘No, but I mean – are any of them as
dark
as me? As dark as a Turk? I was just thinking . . . you know . . .’
‘No I don’t know. Are you afraid they will stare? Then you should conduct yourself with more decorum.’ He shakes his head, still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Pagan. Whatever happens, you’ll be all right. I promise.’
And the sparks fly up as the embers release them, fading into the shadows of dusk.