Pagan's Crusade (5 page)

‘Adalbert of Prague,’ he murmurs.

‘No.’ Frogface shakes her head. ‘I was an English archbishop –’

‘Augustine!’ Input from Corba, the merchant’s widow. Heavily pious. A bundle of nerves wrapped up in fine wool. ‘Oh, no – Augustine came from Rome . . .’

‘Ambrose?’ (Joscelin.)

‘No. I was Archbishop of Canterbury –’

‘
Aelfric! Aelfric!
’ (Corba’s getting over-excited.) ‘Is it Aelfric?’

‘Aelfric wasn’t a saint. I was Archbishop of Canterbury, and I was stoned to death in Greenwich by the Danes.’

Long pause. This one’s a real brain-strangler. Raimbaut chews his thumbnail.

‘Anselm?’ he suggests. ‘What happened to Saint Anselm?’

‘I give up,’ says Agnes.

‘So do I.’ (Joscelin.)

‘It must be Anselm.
He
was Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘No. Give up?’

‘It’s – um – it’s –’

‘Yes, we give up,’ says Agnes. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s
Saint Alphege
!’

A chorus of groans. Father Raimbaut looks disgusted.

‘I
knew
it,’ he says. ‘It was on the tip of my tongue . . .’

‘Your turn, Mistress Agnes.’ Frogface, graciously. ‘If you think you can . . .?’

‘Right.’ Agnes is the colour of minced beef, and shiny with sweat, but she looks a lot more cheerful than her donkey – whose knees are beginning to tremble under the combined weight of Agnes, Gerald and a hearty breakfast. ‘This is really difficult. I learned it from a nun and it will destroy you. Which saint am I? My name begins with “U”–’

‘Ursula!’

‘No.’

‘
No?
’ Frogface can’t believe her ears. ‘But that’s the only “U” there is!’

‘I said it was difficult.’

‘Urban?’ (Raimbaut.) ‘One of the popes?’

‘No. I was a bishop –’

‘Oh!’ Frogface almost falls off her donkey. ‘I know! I know!
Ulrich of Augsberg!

’ ‘No. I was Bishop of Samosata, and I was killed by a blow on the head from an Aryan heretic in Syria.’

A long, long silence. Brains are wracked. Faces fall.

No one has any suggestions.

‘We give up,’ says Joscelin.

‘Yes, we give up.’

‘I knew you would.’ Agnes beams. ‘It’s Saint
Eusebius
!’

Saint who? (Didn’t even know there was one.) People glance at each other, embarrassed by their own ignorance. Father Raimbaut frowns.

‘Wait a minute.’ He sounds puzzled. ‘Saint Eusebius was a Roman pope. He died in Sicily.’

‘Oh no, Father. The nun told me. He died in Syria.’

‘Unless there were two of them . . . What’s his feast day?’

‘Um – now she told me that, too. Let me think . . .’

I wonder if anyone’s going to point out the obvious?

Agnes furrows her brow over the problem, until she works out that the feast day was on June twenty-first. Aha! That explains it. Raimbaut’s saint has
his
feast day on the seventeenth of August. Clearly they’re two entirely different saints. But it’s no good – I can’t hold back any longer.

‘Excuse me. Doesn’t Eusebius begin with an “E”?’

Father Raimbaut slaps his forehead. Of course! It turns out that Agnes can’t read, though she does know the sound of one or two letters. I didn’t think this game was going to get very far.

‘Pagan.’

Duty calls. He’s a pace or two ahead, trying to maintain a professional silence. You can tell he’s displeased by the way his nostrils twitch.

Time to kick a little speed into this idle nag.

‘I have asked you to stay close to me, Pagan.’ Solemnly. ‘Please keep this in mind.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And I would prefer it if you didn’t talk to the pilgrims. We are
not
here to entertain them.’

(Come again?)

‘But I didn’t!’

‘I heard you. Now I believe Brother Tibald talked about brigands in yesterday’s chapter of squires. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Did he talk about the Valley of Running?’

‘No, my lord.’ (At least I don’t think he did.)

Saint George lifts an eyebrow. Something tells me I must have missed the bit about the Valley of Running.

‘The Valley of Running lies between here and the Jordan,’ he explains. ‘It is a narrow and very dangerous gorge which brigands tend to favour when they ambush our escorts.’

‘I think I’ve heard of it.’

‘Good. So can you tell me what is the best method of defence on such a road?’

Damn, damn, damn. If I’d known we were going to be
tested
, I’d have paid more attention to Rockhead’s talk. This is like Saint Joseph’s all over again.

‘Well?’

‘Well, my lord . . . I think the best method of defence would probably be to run like hell.’

A long, long silence. Saint George seems to be choosing his words with care.

‘Speed
is
essential.’ (Unenthusiastically.) ‘But it’s more than a matter of speed, Pagan. When you’re moving fast, it’s the vanguard which becomes the archers’ target, while those in the centre are exposed to the full force of the running attack. So it’s important to put the shields up front, and the swords behind them. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘That’s why I’ll be putting you in front when we approach the Valley. You will
not
be required to stay near me. I shall be stationed behind, on the right flank. You are not to turn back on any account: you will form part of our arrowhead, and you must cut straight through. Do you understand?’

Oh, I understand, all right. Can’t handle a sword, but good enough for target practice. Same old story.

‘Yes, my lord. I understand.’

He falls silent. Not a single bead of sweat on his brow, though it’s as hot as hell’s kitchen. Not a breath of wind. Fans flap. Children whine. Horseflies drone like monks at prayer. If I was a brigand, I wouldn’t be out boiling my brains in this sun. I’d have my feet up in some nice, cool cave, with a jug of lime juice and a damp cloth over my eyes.

‘Pagan?’

(What
now
?)

‘I heard you say something to those pilgrims . . .’ Pause. ‘Am I to understand that you can
read
?’

‘Yes, my lord. I can read.’

‘And write, too?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Another brief silence. That wide, blue stare: wide, blue and empty, like the desert sky.

‘I suppose you were taught at the monastery, when you were a child?’

(Well I certainly didn’t learn it in the guardroom.)

‘Yes, my lord.’

He nods. Behind us, the pilgrims are growing restless. Agnes, especially. There’s no mistaking those dulcet tones.

‘Let’s sing!’ she squawks. ‘I always like a good sing-along.’

‘What about Psalm Forty-Six?’ (Frogface.) ‘What about “There is a river the streams whereof shall make glad the City of God”?’

‘No, no.’ Naturally Joscelin has to put his word in. (Poisonous little scorpion.) ‘We should sing Psalm Fifty-Three. “Corrupt are they, and have done abominable iniquity.” After all, we’ll be passing the ruins of Gomorrah, soon.’

Gomorrah!
Thrills! Excitement! A babble of questions! Where? Where is it? Can we see it? Can you show it to us?

Meanwhile Joscelin – the expert – takes it all in his stride. If anyone knows about Sodom and Gomorrah, it’s the man who should have been born there.

‘No, it’s not far. It’s down to the south,’ he says. ‘You can see the Pillar of Salt two parasangs from the Dead Sea.’

‘The Pillar of Salt? You mean Lot’s wife? The real Lot’s wife?’ Corba can’t believe her ears. ‘Where she was turned to salt for gazing at God’s vengeance on the Cities of the Plain?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you can
see
her?’

‘That’s right.’

Awestruck silence – but not for long.

‘What does she look like?’

The scorpion rolls his eyes skyward like a dying cow.

‘She looks brave and tormented and beautiful,’ he drivels – forgetting the fact that he’s never been farther south than Hebron in his entire life. I have, though. I’ve also seen the Pillar of Salt. And if that was Lot’s wife, she was a midget hunchback with one leg missing.

‘Can we visit her?’ Frogface inquires.

‘Alas no.’ Joscelin shakes his head. ‘The Infidel lurks in that region during the warm months. But miraculously, although the sheep are always licking it, the pillar always grows back again. So you can take as much salt away as you like. And I happen to know a man who can sell you half a pound of Lot’s wife, beautifully presented in a hand-crafted salt cellar made from the famous Tyrian green ware –’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Doesn’t he ever give up? Saint George clears his throat, loudly. I suspect it’s the closest he’s ever come to shoving his fist down a pilgrim’s throat and ripping his tonsils out.

‘Sergeant Gildoin!’

‘My lord?’

‘We’ll call a rest break, I think. Women to the north, men to the south.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And make it fast.’

Which is easy enough for
him
to say. If you ask me, Saint George the Man of Marble doesn’t even
have
a bladder. If you ask me, he doesn’t perform any natural functions at all.

Some people seem to think you can’t drown in the Jordan.

It’s quite shallow now, of course – thick and sluggish between stretches of dry, brown mud – but it’s still water. If God had meant us to inhale it, He would have given us gills. You can’t tell that to the pilgrims, though. It’s like reasoning with a herd of mad donkeys.

‘God’s pilgrims!’ Saint George makes a futile attempt to stem the tide. ‘Please dismount and proceed in an
orderly
fashion to the riverbank, taking care to remain within calling distance . . .’

Pointless, of course. Might as well ask an avalanche to please turn round and go home. The hairy fanatic is first off the mark: heads straight for the shallows and keeps running. Gildoin gives chase on horseback. Meanwhile Agnes has hit the water (whoosh! like a sheep in a well), followed by Corba and Radulf and a gaggle of children. The force of the rearguard push throws some of these children completely off their feet. Mothers lurch in after them. Old men go under. A blind girl panics. Elbows connect violently with foreheads.

Last one in’s a dirty Infidel!

No wonder the brigands didn’t attack us in the Valley of Running. Why bother, when all they have to do is sit back and wait for us to commit suicide?

‘Pagan! Over here!’

Saint George to the rescue. He’s already thigh-deep in a boiling mass of water, mud and bodies, fishing out toddlers by the hair. Very calm, of course. Takes more than forty drowning pilgrims to panic the Man of Marble.

‘
Nun
, Pagan!’

Nun, Pagan. Four steps to the right, flat on her face, too weak to haul herself out of the mud. Pulled down by the weight of her wet robes. Hard to get a firm hold – and the mud is like glue. One step (slurp). Two steps (slurp). Drag her up by the wimple. Half dead already. Gasping for breath and groping for support. Old and fat and hard to move.

‘Oi! Hey! Can I have a bit of help here?’

Sergeant – what’s his name? Gaspard? Gregory? – staggers over to lend a hand. Takes the feet while I take the shoulders. (
Hups-
a-daisy!) Six steps to dry land. Drop her like a sack of bricks. Then back to the battle. But what’s left to do? The children are safe, restored to their mothers. Gildoin’s rescued our hairy fanatic. The last old man’s being hauled ashore. No casualties, by the look of it. Saint George is collecting the bottles and rags still afloat on the choppy water. A
very
smart move. Leave them to drift and we’ll have the whole lot in again, trying to rescue their precious possessions.

Quick glance around: no lurking brigands. No wolves. A guard’s been mounted (when did he give the orders?) and Welf’s rounding up stray donkeys. Someone’s thumping an old woman’s back. Father Raimbaut in shock. Frogface. Radulf . . .

Joscelin.

Hasn’t lifted a finger. Still in the saddle, calm, cool, collected.

If only I’d moved faster, he could have been drowned by now.

‘God’s pilgrims!’ Saint George dumps an armload of wet luggage onto the riverbank. He looks a little grim around the mouth. ‘There is a belief held by some ignorant people that only Infidels drown in the Jordan, because these are the waters wherein stood the feet of the priests who bore the Ark of the Covenant. Unfortunately, such people are
seriously mistaken.

’ Gerald starts to cry, setting off a whole, dismal chorus. It’s hard to believe that most of the Templars in this escort actually
volunteered
their services.

‘Many Christians have drowned in the holy river you see here,’ Saint George continues (raising his voice), ‘so for your own safety I am not permitting anyone to enter the water any higher than their knees. Is that understood?’

Despondent murmurs. No one’s going to argue, though. You don’t feel too assertive when you’re sitting in a puddle of mud.

‘When the sun moves behind that tree we’ll be leaving,’ Saint George concludes. ‘Kindly stay between the two guards on horseback. And remember that each pilgrim is allowed no more than eight full bottles of holy water. Sergeant Maynard will be counting each load before we depart.

‘Thank you – that is all.’

Pilgrims, pilgrims, pilgrims. You wonder what they expect to find here. You wonder if they’re ever disappointed. Do they know about the Patriarch of Jerusalem? Do they know that this so-called man of God chases after every woman in sight? Do they know that every second blind man begging on the streets around here can see just as well as
I
do? That for every genuine saint’s relic on sale, there are five hundred worthless bits of rag and bone selling for the same price?

Look at them, filling their bottles. Bathing their crippled limbs. So pathetic, really. Too dense to be afraid, even in the Valley of Running. Singing cheerful little psalms as we wind our way through that steep-sided gorge, where the earth is black and salty with the blood of dead pilgrims.

‘Excuse me.’

A woman, heading my way. Skinny, squinting, face like a trip to the city dump. Frankish, by the sound of it. Slopping around in unsuitable footwear.