Pagan's Crusade (6 page)

‘Excuse me, Master Templar, it’s about those bottles. The bottles of holy water we can take back with us . . .’

Deaf, perhaps? Or just a bit simple?

‘You’re allowed eight.’ (How many more times?) ‘Eight bottles each.’

‘Yes, but – I have a sister, you see. She’s ill. And I promised to bring some holy water back for her.’

‘Well you can, can’t you? Or don’t you have a bottle?’

‘Yes, I have many bottles. So does my husband. But I already promised my aunt. And her son-in-law. And my mother and my husband’s stepbrother and our parish priest, and my cousin, because he gave us money for the pilgrimage –’

‘All right. So what’s the trouble?’ (Afraid of draining the river? It’s not the Red Sea, you know.)

She sidles up like a hungry dog, all grinning teeth and pleading eyes.

‘Can’t we take just one extra bottle?’ she whines. ‘Just one?’

‘No.’

‘It’s only small, look –’

‘Sorry.’

The hackles rise.

‘We come all this way across the ocean, and now you say we can’t take a drop of holy water back to my suffering sister?’

‘Listen. I don’t give the orders, understand? It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘And what if my sister dies? If my sister dies, God will know who killed her!’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. I don’t have to listen to this.

‘Lady, if your sister’s so damned sick, why can’t your husband’s stepbrother do without?’

‘When his poor wife’s as barren as a beef bone? I
promised
him some
genuine Jordan water –
’

‘Dame Helvis.’

Joscelin. Sneaking up from behind like a cutpurse. Angelic smile on his face. No mud on his clothes. Mischief on his mind.

‘Dame Helvis, you can still have your genuine Jordan water.’

She turns. ‘I can?’ This has got to stop. Right now.

‘
March
, maggot.’

‘You see, I too am allowed my ration of eight bottles.’ Joscelin ploughs on, ignoring me. ‘So I can take some of the precious liquid back for you. And it will only cost you three dinars a bottle.’

‘
Three dinars?
But I can get it here for
free
!’

‘Only eight bottles, though. You heard what Master Pagan said. And you must realise there’s a very great demand for Jordan water – especially now that the trip here is so perilous. Demand is outstripping supply. I can get five dinars for every bottle I bring back from this journey. So you see, I’m making a very generous offer.’

She looks him up and down, spits at his feet. No sale.

‘Call yourselves Christians!’ she hisses. ‘You filthy hypocrite Turcopole soft-bellied traitors!’ And she waddles away through the mud, puffing and blowing like an angry plough-horse.

Joscelin smiles at her retreating back.

‘Stinking brainless slug-faced bitch,’ he mutters. ‘Of course you know what she wants it for, don’t you? That holy water. She wants it to sell when she gets back home. She can recoup her outlay threefold, if she does. It’s quite common.’

‘Take a walk, maggot.’

‘You surely don’t believe that tale about the sister?’

‘I said take a walk.
Now.

’ ‘Before I do, Pagan, there’s something we ought to discuss. And I promise I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘There’s nothing we have to discuss.’

He grabs my arm as I turn away. It’s like having a leech crawl down the back of your neck.

‘Get
off
me!’

‘All right, all right. Don’t upset yourself. I just want to make a proposition. A
paying
proposition.’

He leans so close that I can feel his hot breath on my face. Still gargling perfume, to judge from the stink. Still using scent in his hair oil. Sweet and sickly, like the smell of gangrene. So strong I can hardly draw breath.

‘Didn’t I tell you to stay downwind?’

‘Listen, Pagan. You need cash, or you wouldn’t be playing mother to a lot of half-wits. Now I can help, if you’d just lend me an ear.’

‘An
ear
? What would you do with an ear, sell it off as a relic?’

‘Pagan –’

‘I’ve had your kind of “help” before, you bloodsucker. And I don’t want any more of it.’

‘All you have to do is put in a good word for me, Pagan. That’s all.’ He’s like a wasp, hovering and buzzing. ‘You’re on pilgrimage escort, aren’t you? Well I need pilgrims. It’s the perfect relationship. You recommend me to your pilgrims as a guide, and I’ll give you a cut of their fee. Say, twenty per cent. You’ll have all the money you need in a month.
Under
a month. We could make a
fortune.
You know how everyone trusts a Templar . . .’

Buzz, buzz, buzz. I can hardly hear him through the hum of the flies. It’s still stinking hot, and you can smell the river. The sweat’s stinging my sunburned neck. My boots are full of mud. I’m in the dead heart of brigand country, shackled to a herd of blind cripples.

What the hell am I doing here?

‘. . . could even make it official, perhaps. Get me appointed. Official Escort Guide. Ask your knight what their position is . . .’

My knight is mounting guard. Thought I’d lost him, for a moment, but he’s up on the rise behind us, strategically stationed. Sitting up there on his white horse like a statue at the Gates of Paradise, all white and gleaming gold. Scanning the horizon with his blue hawk’s eyes. Any moment now he’s going to see who I’m with.

I must be mad, listening to this rubbish.

‘. . . make it thirty per cent, if you like. Thirty per cent for practically nothing. What have you got to lose? Think about it, Pagan . . .’

‘I’ve thought about it, bog-breath. And do you know what I think?’ Slowly. Quietly. ‘I wouldn’t ask for your help if I was drowning in a vat of manure. Understand? So get your festering carcass out of my way, or I’ll slice it up and feed it to the vultures.’

Nice to have a good, solid piece of metal at your hip, in these situations. Nobody argues with a Solingen sword. I don’t even have to unsheathe it and he moves aside, swallowing the poison on his adder’s tongue.

Time to go and pull a bit of weight. Round up a few stray pilgrims. After all, that’s what I’m here for.

Chapter 3

S
queak, squeak, squeak. Chink of harness. Smell of hot leather. One stupid fly that’s on a fast horse to hell, if it so much as sets
foot
on my bottom lip again. Slumping in the saddle with a pain in my back, because I haven’t ridden this kind of distance in two years, minimum.

Saint George up ahead, sitting as straight as an arrow.

You’ve got to admit he rides well. Probably
born
with a horse between his legs. Fully armed. Hard to imagine what kind of parents could have produced such a paragon. Lord Valiant and Lady Virtue. Most courteously married in the Castle of Chivalry. Baby Roland, tutored by twelve wise men (Patience, Courage, Faith, Hope, Charity, Justice, Wisdom, Etiquette, Cleanliness, Thrift, Good Taste and Perfect Table Manners), piously raised as a living dedication to God. Weaned on the sacred host and holy water.

His only playmate, a statue of Saint Sebastian.

Saint Sebastian, the Roman soldier. Killed by arrows. Saint George’s wound is a fearsome thing – though he seems to sit quite easily in the saddle. A terrible scar, red and brown, still leaking onto a linen pad under his clothes. Across the right flank and into the stomach. Probably would have killed anyone else.

The hand of God, I wonder?

‘
Pagan
.’

Whoops! ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘What are you doing? Concentrate, Pagan, we’re almost at the Valley.’

So we are. Should have felt the tension. Saint George has fallen back to keep pace with me.

‘A trick for the future, Pagan. If you’re on a long ride and you feel your mind wandering, start counting the bends in the road. Or the trees you pass – if there aren’t too many. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘It’s wise to keep alert.’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘I should tell you,’ he adds (lowering his voice), ‘that if the brigands attack, they attack on the return journey. After they’ve judged our strength, and when the pilgrims are tired and weighed down with holy water.’

Terrific.

‘We’ll take our positions now.
Gildoin!
’ A nod. (Gildoin pulls back a little, signals to the rearguard.) ‘I want you in front with the shields again, Pagan, only this time remember to keep your shield right
up
, please. I don’t want to see any face exposed. They’ll be shooting from above, remember.’

He reins in, slowing, so he can fall back and join the middle escort behind us.

‘My lord –’

‘What?’

What? Good question. I don’t know.

‘Nothing.’

He waits for a moment.

‘Is your shield too heavy?’

‘No, no. It’s all right.’

‘You mustn’t be disturbed by the noise these brigands make. It may sound like souls in torment, but it’s only hot air. It means nothing.’

‘My lord, I’ve heard Patriarch Heraclius singing hymns. Hell itself can’t hold anything as horrible as the sound of his high notes.’

Brief pause. Then – could it be? Yes. No. Yes. I’m seeing things. A
miracle.

Saint George is actually smiling.

O clap your hands all ye people and shout unto God with the voice of triumph. A proud moment in history, my friends. Lord Roland Roucy de Bram has delivered a small but healthy smile. No signs of stress or cracking in the facial area. Teeth remain in place. No nasty surprises. A brave and entertaining effort.

Gone now, but not forgotten.

‘You are quite shameless, Pagan.’ Seriously, with his mouth under control. Can’t fool me, though. Now I
know
there’s someone hiding inside that statue. Someone who’s heard Heraclius sing. ‘You should have more respect. Now go and take up your position, please. And keep your eyes open.’

You mean I can’t keep them
shut
? But how else am I going to get through this business? Welf and Bonetus are up front, side by side, big and square but not big enough to hide behind. Welf in particular: built like a road fort, wrists as thick as your average pilgrim, skin the colour of a smoked eel. Practically bald under his helmet and missing two fingers and half an ear. Rather slow on the uptake, but a man to inspire confidence.

And Bonetus. Smaller, slimmer, quicker, fiercer. A temperament hotter than most Templar sergeants – or so they tell me. Nicknamed ‘the Mace’ because of the mace hanging from his saddle: vicious but lightweight, with a well-worn leather grip. Swinging back and forth, back and forth. Scrubbed clean of blood, hair, flesh, clothing.

Behind him, Sergeant Maynard. A living, walking apocalypse. Teeth like tombstones under his bloodshot glare. A ravaged crater of a face, dark, frozen, twisted. Extremely tall. Hardly human. They talk about Maynard in quiet corners, because his wife and two children were struck down with leprosy. He has fits himself, sometimes, but not violent ones. Only Saint George can look him in the eye for long.

They say he fights like a panther in a sheep-pen.

Welf, Bonetus, Maynard. With a line-up like this, what do they need
me
for? I’m only going to get in the way. I’m only going to damage their invincible image, like a lame puppy trailing after a victory procession. You can see Bonetus is thinking the same thing. You can tell by the way he orders me to fall in behind him.

Saint George gives the signal, and we raise our shields.

The Valley, deep in shadow. An afternoon chill falls onto the pilgrims, subduing them, shutting their mouths at long last. The echo of horseshoes clinking on loose rocks. The whimper of a weary child, way back in the column. Someone sneezes. A glance at Saint George: he’s guarding the left flank, stone-faced. Doesn’t look too worried. (But then he never does.) Hand on his sword hilt. Eyes on the move. Sees me looking and jerks his head. Turn around, Pagan. You’re supposed to be watching the road.

But there’s nothing to report – nothing of interest. If they’re going to attack, why not get it over with? Nothing stirs behind the brush and boulders. A pilgrim starts praying. ‘God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear . . .’ Speak for yourself, stupid.

A bend in the road. A blind corner. Could this be it? There’s a shifting of postures, a rustle of fabric, as muscles tighten all over the escort.

Still nothing.

If I were a brigand, I wouldn’t take on a party like this. I’d rather raid villages. No Templars in villages. Hardly any men either, nowadays. You can do what you like in a place like that. Burn, rape, pillage. God knows it’s been done before. I suppose I wouldn’t
be
here, if it hadn’t.

Sudden thought. What if I were attacked, here and now, by my very own father? What if dear old Dad came screaming down that dusty slope, swinging an axe-head? What a laugh that would be. Not that I’ve ever laid eyes on the pus-bag. But maybe I’d know all the same. Maybe you can
tell
, somehow. Blood will out. Blood to blood. Maybe I’d recognise myself in his cheekbones.

Childhood dream: to grow up, get strong, and hang my father’s guts out to dry. Who knows? Perhaps that dream is about to come true. Perhaps he’s just around the corner, slavering into his bloodstained beard. Not
quite
as strong as he used to be . . .