Pagan in Exile (22 page)
Yes, that’s right, go away. Get lost. Waiting until he’s disappeared from sight: turning to Roland – he still hasn’t moved – but at least he’s breathing. ‘My lord! My lord, are you hurt? Are you all right? Answer me!’
He raises his head a little. His beard is soaked in blood and sweat. There’s a ragged cut extending from the bridge of his nose all the way down to the left side of his jaw. I don’t think it’s very bad, but I don’t like the way he winces when he tries to look round.
‘Where does it hurt, my lord? Is anything broken? You should let me check –’
‘No,’ he gasps, ‘I’m all right. It’s nothing.’
Nothing? Is that what you call it? Look at you, Roland. Look at what you’ve done.
‘Listen, my lord.’ Pressing his arm. ‘You’ve got to get out of here. You can’t stay here.’ I can feel him trembling: he looks at me sideways. ‘Please, my lord. Let’s leave Languedoc. Let’s go now.’
Slowly, painfully, he shakes his head.
‘My lord, this place is poison! It’s poisoning you! You’ve got to get away, before you lose everything!’ (Before I lose you, Roland.) ‘Please, my lord. I don’t understand families, I’ve never had one. But there’s something wrong, here. They’re like parasites, they’re sucking you dry. They’re pulling you apart. They’re dragging you down, my lord.’ What is it? What are you shaking your head for? Look around, Roland! Is this the work of a Templar knight? Is this a Holy War? ‘In God’s name, don’t shake your head at me! Look at what you’ve done! You almost killed your own brother! I can’t stand it, I just can’t. This isn’t you. This is them. Please, my lord, please, I won’t stand by and let this happen.’
‘I can’t go,’ he says hoarsely, ‘not yet.’
‘Why? You can’t stop this! No one can! Give me one good reason why we should stay!’
‘Because there may be more killing.’ Every word is forced out. ‘And the innocent must be protected.’
‘The innocent?’ Sweet saints preserve us! ‘What innocent? Who is innocent, in all of this? Who?’
His eyes are no longer blank and dazed. They’re full of feeling. Full of anguish.
‘Esclaramonde,’ he murmurs. ‘Esclaramonde is innocent.’
T
here’s something about a warm, well-watered, flourishing kitchen garden. It makes you think about God. The swelling cucumbers, snuggled in their soft beds of loam; the neat rows of strawberry plants; the almond blossom; the apple trees; the sweet-smelling, flowery borders; the happy hum of bees in the sunlight. It’s so peaceful, so healing. And such a beautiful day, despite this morning’s horror. Not too hot, not too harsh, with a gentle breeze and a soaring, cloudless sky.
No wonder they’re thanking God for it, these women. No wonder they’re singing songs of praise. The words of a psalm drift over the seedbeds, high and thin: ‘ . . .
Praise ye
him, all his angels: praise ye him, all his hosts. Praise ye him, sun
and moon: praise ye him, stars of light . . .
’ And there they are, picking beans. Tall Garsen; fragile Helis; Garnier’s daughter 199 Braida, with her disfiguring birthmark and her old green gown. Garnier’s widow, sharing a basket with her mother. And Esclaramonde. That must be Esclaramonde in the wide straw hat, with the basket on her arm. She straightens, and turns, and –
Yes, that’s Esclaramonde. You can see her smile gleaming in the shadow of her hat-brim, as she jokes with Braida.
Beside me, Roland stops. Is he going to faint? No, he doesn’t look too bad. I’m so afraid that he’ll just keel over, suddenly, without warning. He still limps, and the bruises are beginning to show all over his face and neck and knuckles. Those knuckles! What a mess. So swollen that he could hardly hold the reins in one hand. And I can tell that his guts hurt, too, from the way he breathes. But of course he won’t let me help him with anything. He won’t even complain. Not a single grunt of protest has passed his lips since we left the Abbey.
‘My lord? Perhaps you ought to lie down for a while. Perhaps you should rest.’
No answer. He seems to be lost in a dream, gazing at the women as they pick and sing and occasionally slap at an insect, serene, industrious, intent, like a group of monks at prayer. All at once Esclaramonde looks up, and sees us. She stiffens. Gradually the singing falters; the hands freeze; the heads turn.
They’re like a herd of grazing animals, sensing the presence of wolves.
Esclaramonde puts her basket down. She moves towards us, a little figure in a big hat, like a mushroom. (How pretty she looks in that ridiculous hat.) As she 200 draws closer, her eyes fall on Roland’s wounds, and they widen.
‘Lord Roland!’ she exclaims. ‘What happened to you?’
‘It’s nothing. It’s not important.’
‘But your face! And your fingers –’
‘There’s been trouble. More trouble.’ He steps backwards, as Esclaramonde reaches for his right hand. ‘I must talk to you about your safety.’
‘First let me dress these wounds. They haven’t even been cleaned –’
‘No, there isn’t time.’
‘What do you mean? Don’t be foolish.’ She sounds almost angry as she grabs his wrist. But her hands are very gentle, feather-light and cautious, examining his swollen fist as if it’s an injured duckling. ‘You need care. You’re in pain. You’re not breathing properly. You should rest.’
‘That’s what I told him. But he won’t listen.’ (You might as well ask a pig to shell peas.) ‘Please, my lord, Mistress Maury knows all about herbs and healing. Why don’t you let her help you?’
He struggles for an answer, flushed and tense, the veins standing out on his forehead. Esclaramonde waves at her companions. It’s a wave that means ‘keep working’.
‘I’ll be back soon!’ she calls, adding quietly, ‘Somehow I knew that this was too good to last.’ But the words are barely out of her mouth before she regrets them. She smiles a flustered smile as she turns back to Roland. ‘I’m sorry, that was discourteous. I don’t mean that you’re unwelcome. Not at all. It’s just that – more bad tidings, on such a beautiful day – but I mustn’t keep you standing in this heat. Come, we’ll go to the kitchen –’
‘Wait.’ Roland suddenly finds his tongue. His voice is jerky and abrupt. His expression is strained. ‘There’s something I must ask you.’
She stares at him in surprise. ‘Of course,’ she says.
‘It puzzles me – I don’t understand – how can you say that this world is the work of the Devil?’ Suddenly Roland seems very young. Younger than Esclaramonde. Younger even than me. ‘In a garden like this, on a day like this, with all your loving friends and in the midst of such bounty.’ He gestures at the budding fruit, the blazing flowers. ‘How can you say that this is the kingdom of darkness? Surely this is a gift from God?’
Hear, hear, that’s just what I was thinking. If it’s such a beautiful day, how could it possibly be evil? Esclaramonde lowers her gaze, and the brightness, the energy, seems to drain from her face.
‘It may be lovely, but it is still the Devil’s realm,’ she murmurs. ‘It must be so.’
‘Why? I don’t understand why you believe this. Why do you follow such a morbid faith?’ Roland’s almost pleading, now. ‘There are bad things, I know. There is blood and pain and suffering, but there are good things too. God’s love is all around us.’
‘No.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘God has no power, in this world.’
‘But how can you say that?’
‘Because it’s true! It must be!’ She looks up at last, and her eyes are moist and fierce. ‘I once had a husband,’ she chokes. ‘I also had a baby son. A tiny baby, nine weeks old, who died. He died in great pain, great suffering –’ She stops for a moment. Swallows. Proceeds. ‘If God is good, if God is 202 loving, how could he have allowed that to happen? Death comes to us all, but not that kind of suffering. That was the Devil’s work. The priest said my baby must have suffered for
my
sins, but I don’t believe it. A loving God wouldn’t punish an innocent child for the sins of his mother. Only a monster would do such a thing.’
God preserve us. More misery. It’s all too much. I’m so sick of the endless sorrow and anger and betrayal. Wnen will it end? When are we going to get a bit of peace and quiet?
‘So you see,’ Esclaramonde concludes, in a much softer voice, ‘though it’s very difficult, sometimes, and there are many things that trouble me, I have to believe that this world is the kingdom of darkness. Otherwise, nothing makes sense.’ A pause, as she studies Roland’s battered features. ‘It’s the only way I can live, my lord. Do you understand?’
No reply from Roland, whose face has lost all its colour. He swallows, and bites his lip, but he doesn’t say a word. Perhaps he really doesn’t understand. I do, though. I understand why she became a heretic, at least in my head. In my heart, however, I just can’t believe that this garden is the work of the Devil. I’ve seen the Devil’s work before, several times. And this isn’t it.
‘Come, my lord.’ (She’s given up waiting for an answer.) ‘We can’t talk here. Let me dress your wounds, and we can sit down, and have a drink. Come, you shouldn’t be standing on that leg.’
She leads us to her dwelling in silence. Past the storehouse. Across the farmyard. Removing her hat at the door. Old Grazide, Garsen’s mother, is the only person 203 inside: she’s sitting near the hearth, snoring, propped up in a high-backed chair. It’s very dim in this room, but you can just make out the table, and the benches, and the entrance to the sleeping-chamber. Dirt floor. Oak chests. Firewood. A basket of mushrooms. Esclaramonde speaks softly, so as not to disturb the old woman. ‘Sit down, my lord. You too, Master Pagan. There’s mead. Would you like some?’ Producing the cups that we used last time. Blue glass cups; her very best. ‘Where are your horses?’
‘Othon took them.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Is that too strong?’ She watches intently as I swallow my first draught. ‘Do you want some water in it?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Mistress –’ Roland begins, but she darts into the next room, returning with a handful of olive leaves, a mortar and a pestle.
‘Crushed olive leaves are good for cleaning wounds,’ she explains.
‘Mistress –’
‘Forgive me, my lord, could you just give me one moment? I want to be sitting down when I hear this.’
She bustles about, filling a small iron pot with water from a large bucket; placing the pot on the table; rummaging in one of the oak chests; producing several pieces of clean linen. Finally she sits down next to Roland and starts grinding away at the olive leaves, which fill the air with a fresh, clean smell.
‘Now,’ she observes, ‘what were you saying?’
‘Mistress, I have to tell you that your fears have been realised.’ Roland uses his crispest, driest, most official 204 Com mander-of-the-Temple voice. ‘After we left for Carcassone, last week, my father took a force and burned down the Abbey mill at Ronceveaux.’
A sigh from Esclaramonde.
‘Shortly afterwards, the Abbot sent men to burn the vines in one of my father’s vineyards. My father responded by desecrating the Abbey.’
Esclaramonde bites her lip, and shakes her head.
‘I have also heard,’ Roland continues, ‘that the lords of Montferrand may be returning from Toulouse. They have some jurisdiction over the Abbey. If they do return, and hear what has happened to it, they will almost certainly want vengeance.’
‘God forgive them,’ Esclaramonde groans. ‘God forgive them all.’
‘For this reason, your community is no longer safe here,’ Roland finishes. ‘You would be much safer if you came to Bram, where it will be easier to protect you.’
She looks at him, astonished.
‘But we can’t go to Bram!’ she exclaims.
‘You must.’
‘No.’ (Shaking her head firmly.) ‘No, that’s not possible. What about Grazide? What about Helis? They are both very frail. Sitting in that bumpy cart would be so bad for them.’
‘Mistress Maury, I don’t think you understand –’
‘Besides, why should the lords of Montferrand trouble themselves with us?’ Esclaramonde dips her hand into the iron pot, and sprinkles some water on her crushed olive leaves. ‘We have no quarrel with them. We are harmless. No, my lord, I thank you, but you mustn’t worry. I’m sure we’ll be quite safe.’
‘Listen to me!’ Roland speaks so sharply that Esclaramonde jumps, and Grazide chokes on a snore. The old woman opens one bleary eye. ‘This is not a game,’ he snaps. ‘This is serious. My father has killed several of the Abbey brethren. He took the Abbot, and stripped him, and covered him in honey, and left him outside for the ants and bees, so that by the time we found him he was almost mad. My father dug up the corpse of the former Abbot and placed it in the chapter house. He locked the monks in a cellar with a savage dog. He slaughtered a pig in the crypt, and threw its guts around the nave –’
‘Please, my lord.’ She puts her hands to her ears. ‘No more, please.’
‘Do you think that the lords of Montferrand will forgive him for this?’ Roland leans towards her. ‘Will they think: ‘do good to them which hate you’? No. They will think: ‘an eye for an eye’. They will want to do the same to my father. But my father will be well armed, and well protected. So instead of attacking him, they will attack his vassals. They will attack farms like this one. The Abbot will tell them ‘those heretics started all this’, and they will come here because they believe that it’s good to kill heretics –’