Pagan in Exile (23 page)
Roland stops suddenly, as Esclaramonde covers her eyes with one hand. He pulls back, and glances at me. Don’t look like that, Roland, it’s the truth. It had to be said. She can’t hide from the truth.
But when she unveils her eyes, they’re quite tranquil.
‘If they come, they come,’ she says quietly ‘I would rather stay and protect our home than run away and leave it. We’ve weathered other storms. We’ll weather this one. There’s always the forest to hide in, and I would prefer the forest to your father’s protection, Lord Roland. No offence meant.’
Mad. She’s mad. Does she want to die? Roland watches as she picks up the mortar and begins to grind leaves again, reducing them to a sticky green paste.
‘Please,’ he says at last. His voice is so gentle, so muted, that she can’t help glancing up in surprise. ‘Please, my father has nothing to do with this. I have come here to fulfil a duty of protection. I can’t let you stay here. I can’t let you run such a risk. Do you think that I can just walk away? If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Christ in a – could it be? Could it really be? I’ve never heard him so . . . so . . . if only I could see his face!
But his face is turned to Esclaramonde. They’re practically eye to eye. And suddenly she blushes a deep, fiery pink. Blushes and looks down at her hands.
‘Please,’ he murmurs, ‘if you don’t leave, then we must stay.’
‘Very well.’ She still won’t look at him, but keeps her gaze firmly locked on the paste she’s grinding. ‘If you insist, we’ll go to Bram.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Very well, tomorrow.’
Roland sighs. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. She’s a heretic! How could someone like Roland –? But she’s very good, of course. Very, very good. And so is he . . .
Oh God. And I bet he doesn’t even realise. What will happen when he does? It’ll never work. It’s a disaster, a complete disaster. He’d be better off falling in love with a unicorn. Or a stained-glass window. Or a Turkish princess.
God preserve us. What’s going to happen now?
A
demar is guarding the castle gates. He gawks at the overloaded wagon as it creaks towards him, barely big enough to contain the sixteen blankets, twelve cooking pots and ten tightly packed bodies which have somehow been squeezed on board. But he recognises Esclaramonde, and comes to attention as Roland passes.
So Galhard made it back, then. I wonder how Ferry managed to get him out of the Abbey? With a boot up the backside? Looks as if we’ll never know, because Galhard certainly won’t tell us. As for Ferry, I can guarantee that we won’t be seeing him at Bram. If he’s not still clearing things up at Saint Jerome, I suppose he’ll be on his way back to Carcassone, by now.
‘Stop here,’ says Roland. He’s talking to Estolt, who drags at the reins of his two plodding carthorses. They come 209 to a halt just inside the gates. ‘I’m going to talk to my father,’ Roland continues. ‘It shouldn’t take long. If you would just wait here, I’ll be back in a moment.’ Turning towards the stables. ‘You! Boy! Take my mare.’
And mine too, please. Dismounting more quickly than Roland (for once) beneath the hostile gaze of Isarn, who’s hovering near the kitchen. There’s Bernard, too. And Pons. In fact the bailey seems to be full of sluggish, aimless people with nothing better to do than stop and stare at our wagon-load of unexpected visitors.
‘Is Lord Galhard in the keep?’ Roland asks Bernard. (He obviously can’t bring himself to talk to Isarn.) Bernard nods, and Roland flaps a hand at me. Come on, Pagan.
Moving towards the keep across the greasy grey cobbles.
That keep. That sink of a keep. Murky and sombre in the half-light, streaks of damp on its featureless walls, its crenellated battlements like the jagged ruins of a rotten tooth against the sky. How I hate it. Woe to the bloody city, to the pot whose scum is therein. Walking through the door of this miserable place is like jumping into a cesspit.
Yuk! Especially since they still haven’t swept out those rushes. The floor is practically steaming, by now. It’s like a damned quagmire. Give it another two days and they’ll be harvesting mushrooms from under the tables.
Joris looks up as we enter.
‘Where is Lord Galhard?’ Roland demands. Joris nods at the door behind the dais, and immediately returns to the sword he’s polishing. There’s no one else in the room. I suppose Berengar must be upstairs, nursing his injured leg. And Jordan? I wonder if Jordan survived that beating? Let’s 210 hope so, for Roland’s sake. Fratricide is the last thing Roland needs, right now.
He limps to the threshold of Galhard’s sleeping chamber, worn and weary, his white tunic as grey as a dishcloth with dirt and sweat. Dust has settled into the lines around his eyes. His bruises are blooming like bouquets of flowers. ‘My lord?’ he says. ‘May I come in?’
A grunt from behind the door. Roland pushes it open, and here we are in Galhard’s room. The smell is foul. Walls black with smoke; corners thick with cobwebs; a floor slippery with spit and candle-wax. Frayed hangings on the beautiful carved bed, which looks exactly like a rat’s nest: a porridge of blankets and straw and dirty clothes and bread crusts. Galhard is sitting on the only chair, yawning and rubbing his eyes. (Must have been asleep.) He’s dressed in the most exquisite, ankle-length robe, an angel’s robe, of the very finest embroidered blue silk. A jewelled girdle, too. And a woollen cloak as soft as a duckling’s down.
He’s even combed his hair.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he growls, glaring at Roland with his rodent’s eyes. ‘I thought you’d gone for good.’
‘No, my lord.’ Roland’s voice is as cold as steel.
‘Better not let Jordan see you. He’s armed and dangerous.’
‘My lord, I’ve come back here to make a request.’
‘Well you’d better hurry. I’m expecting the Morlans sometime soon –’
‘My lord, owing to your recent expedition, the countryside is no longer safe for people such as Esclaramonde Maury.’ (Roland doesn’t even wait for Galhard to finish his sentence: he just ploughs on.) ‘She and her companions are 211 now waiting at the gates, seeking sanctuary within these walls. Her own farm is not defensible.’
‘Esclaramonde Maury?’ Galhard wrinkles his brow. ‘Who’s she?’
‘My lord –’
‘Hold on. You don’t mean that loud-mouthed Holy Woman?’
‘She’s not –’
‘Damn your eyes, Roland.’ Galhard’s face is twitching. His hand is unsteady. Could he be suffering from a hangover? ‘I told you before, that woman’s not setting foot in this castle again.’
‘My lord, Mistress Maury and her friends are under your jurisdiction. You owe her your protection, my lord.’
‘That doesn’t mean I owe her a bed. She can lodge with someone in the village.’ Galhard lurches to his feet and stands for a moment, massaging his temples with both hands. He makes a face as if he’s just bitten into a lemon.
Yes, that’s a hangover, all right. And it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving soul.
‘Where’s the wine?’ he mutters, casting around for something to drink. But Roland isn’t about to admit defeat.
‘My lord, you do owe her a bed,’ he says, very quietly, but with great force. ‘If it wasn’t for your actions, she wouldn’t be here in the first place.’
‘My actions?’ Galhard sounds grumpy ‘You’re the one who brought her here.’
‘And you’re the one who desecrated the Abbey of Saint Jerome!’ The blood rises in Roland’s cheeks as he steps 212 forward. Uh-oh. Keep it cool, Roland. Please don’t lose your temper, not now. ‘You’re the one who fouled Christ’s sanctuary, my lord! You’re the one who shed the blood of God’s faithful! When the lords of Montferrand have seen what you’ve done, they will lay waste to your lands and pour out their fury upon it!’
Galhard snorts. ‘I’d like to see them try,’ he says, stooping to pick up a jug. But it’s empty.
‘Indeed they will try!’ Roland exclaims. ‘You know they will! That’s why the innocent must be protected –’
‘Rubbish.’ God preserve us. Galhard’s getting impatient, now. ‘Why should Roquefire de Montferrand bother with a bunch of crazy women? He’s got more important things to worry about.’
‘That’s not true –’
‘And even if he does rape a couple of them, so what? It won’t do any harm. It’ll probably do them some good, especially that loud-mouthed mosquito in charge. What she needs is a damned good roll, if you ask me. In fact she’d probably enjoy it.’
Oh, you filthy pus-bag –
‘How dare you?!’ Roland, exploding. ‘How dare you – you – stinking worm – dunghead – take that back, you scorpion! Disgusting, filthy, stupid –’
‘What?’ Galhard. Through his teeth. ‘What did you say?’
‘Animal! You’re an animal!’ (God, Roland, no. No. Please don’t say it.) ‘You’re brainless! You smell like a pig! You make me ill – you – you’re not even a man! You’re the whore of Babylon, drunk with the blood of the saints! You’re the Devil’s spawn, and you’ll go to the Devil with all your 213 bloody deeds, you verminous scum, you excrement, may God smite you down in your corruption –’
Galhard springs. He grabs Roland’s surcoat with both hands and slams him against the wall.
‘Shut up!’
‘Louse! Bile! Peasant –’
‘SHUT UP!’
Whoomp!
Roland buckles – punched in the belly – Galhard grabs his hair –
God preserve us! ‘Stop! No!’
Driving his knee into Roland’s forehead.
‘No!’ You bastard! You maggot! Launching myself at Galhard’s waist and he stumbles, off-balance, caught by surprise. Reeling. ‘Leave him alone! You slime-bag! Don’t you dare touch him!’
Oh God. Galhard’s face. He’s going to kill me. Run, Pagan, run! But Roland – I can’t leave him –
Owch! Let go!
‘You’ve got an impudent tongue, boy,’ Galhard pants. (Ow! Owch! My wrist!) ‘It’s the sort of tongue I can do without.’
Fingers like clamps. Practically pulling my arm from its socket. Kick out; miss; make haste, O God, to deliver me, make haste to help me, O Lord. Roland groaning on the floor, doubled up, blood streaming from his nose.
Galhard’s grip on my neck. Help! What’s he doing? God, he’s strong. ‘Let go! Let go, you scumbucket!’
Crack!
Stars. What –? Who –? He must have hit me . . . and this is the bed. The bed? On my stomach, on the bed. Can’t get up – something heavy – and Galhard’s fingers knocking against my teeth.
What’s he –?
‘If you can’t use this tongue properly, you don’t deserve to have it at all,’ he hisses. Groping in my mouth. Mouth. Tongue. Tongue! Help!
‘NAAGH!’
Biting hard – hold on. He shouts. Yes! Salty blood. Don’t let go.
Whoomp!
Shock. Darkness. Fading to pink. Eyes all blurred, jaw numb. Feels like a blow to the side of my head. The taste of his fingers – the flash of a blade
– No!
‘Naagh!’ Fight, Pagan, fight! Bite and scratch and scream and scream –
‘I’ll kill you!’ Roland’s voice, faint, far away. ‘If you hurt him, I’ll kill you! I’ll tear you apart!’
Help! Help me!
I can’t even – he’s pulling my tongue
–
Roland! ROLAND!
‘My lord!’
Jordan. It’s Jordan’s voice. Galhard freezes.
‘What is it?’ he gasps.
‘The Morlans have arrived, my lord.’
‘The Morlans?’ Galhard’s weight shifts.
‘They’re crossing the bridge now.’
A pause. Galhard’s heavy breathing. My own heart, pounding in my ears.
‘My lord, I really don’t think bloodstains would suit the occasion.’ Jordan, speaking calmly and quietly. ‘You don’t want to ruin your best gown.’
Galhard releases my tongue. My tongue! It’s still there! Hallelujah.
He climbs off.
‘Tell Berengar to come down,’ he declares. ‘Find Germain. Get your wife. Hurry.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Footsteps. Can I move, now? Raising my head. Oh God, oh God. Shivering so hard that I can barely see straight.
A hand on my shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’ Must be Jordan’s hand. Look around and there he is, beside me. Peering down through a monumental black eye. ‘Are you hurt?’
Can’t speak to say no. My tongue’s still in shock. Shaking my head, by way of an answer.
‘Are you sure?’
Of course I’m sure. Roland. Where’s Roland? Is he bad? Pushing myself upright, but my knees are like cotton. Have to sit down.
Have to stop shivering.
‘You’ll be all right.’ Jordan’s hand, cool and dry on the back of my neck. ‘But you’d better go before my father returns. Take yourself off somewhere, and keep your head down for a few days.’ Squeezing gently. ‘He’s always like this when he’s got a hangover, not to mention a toothache.’
Roland. Poor Roland. Creeping across the floor, one hand jammed under his bloody nose, breathing through his mouth in sharp little gasps.
‘Oh my lord. My lord, is it serious?’ Please, please don’t let him be hurt. Don’t let him die. Oh, of course he won’t die. Of course he won’t. Don’t be stupid, Pagan. Suddenly Jordan releases my neck.
‘Get out,’ he says. ‘Just get out, fast.’ And he leaves the room slowly, using the wall for support, stiff and pale and 216 rather tense around the middle. Of course! He’s been injured, too.