Pagan in Exile (26 page)
‘Roland – Roland –’
But he straightens and his lungs fill and he screams behind his hands, screams in agony – I can’t bear it – don’t, Roland, don’t, you’re going to kill me, and he’s groaning, now, groaning as if he’s being stabbed, and the tears spill down his bruised cheeks.
Roland, oh Roland. Feeling him shudder like a great tree under the blow of an axe as I hug him, try to comfort him, but I can’t, it’s impossible, it’s so bad that Helis has to put her hands to her ears, that Garsen’s stopped moaning and started praying. ‘Roland, don’t – Roland don’t, don’t, please . . .’ All I can do is hold him, my poor Roland, pierced to the bone by every one of his muffled cries because his face is buried in my chest, and he’s howling straight through my ribcage, clinging so hard that I can barely breathe. Slowly the howls become words; the words become intelligible.
‘Pagan, Pagan . . .’
I’m here, Roland. I’m here. I always will be.
I
t’s not a bad place to be buried, if you have to be buried in unconsecrated ground. At least half a mile from the nearest church, of course, but that wouldn’t matter to Esclaramonde. Why should it? She’d like the flowers, too. Golden buds everywhere, with a spray of purple iris near her feet. An oak tree shielding her from the northern winds. And Garsen’s clump of rosemary, planted in the freshly turned soil.
A dead leaf flutters down. That’s three dead leaves already. Soon her whole grave will be covered. The earth will dry out, the grass will come, and only the neat pile of rocks will remain. But they won’t be disturbed because it’s very peaceful, out here. Very lonely. In fact it’s a little too lonely. Oh Lord, please don’t let her be lonely. Please don’t make her suffer. Even if she was wrong, she had a good 237 heart. Think of the Magdelene: the Magdelene’s sins were many, and they were forgiven because she loved much. Surely it would be the same with Esclaramonde?
Garsen, kneeling, with her head covered. Garsen won’t speak to us now. Helis will, but she didn’t last long. Had to be taken back to the village by Estolt after she collapsed at the graveside. Grazide, sniffing. Braida, holding Othon’s hand. All completely silent, as a gentle breeze tugs at their shawls and hems and loose wisps of hair, and the oak dips above us, and the speckles of shadow rearrange themselves on Esclaramonde’s grave.
As for Roland, I can hardly bear to look at him. Such a difference, in just one day: it’s as if he’s being eaten away from the inside. Looking ten years older. And moving so slowly, so clumsily, like an invalid. Burrowing into himself behind a wall of glazed eyes and silence. Starting to do something, then losing the will. Trailing off into a motionless trance, until somebody jogs his elbow. Lying curled up in bed, with his arms folded across his ribs to stop his heart from breaking:
Kneeling there now, lost and speechless. What am I going to do? Everything’s in chaos, and my clothes still smell of smoke and blood. (Blood. Don’t think about it.) Coppertail’s been killed. Our saddlebags were looted. And then there’s Roland. How can he travel when he’s in such a state? I still have to steer him through every door.
Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me; for my soul trusteth in thee, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps. Crackle, crackle. Crunch, crunch. Seems to be coming from the other side of the copse. Will anyone notice? Yes. Othon’s heard; he looks around. Braida gives a little squeak and stands up, trembling. Garsen’s gone pale, but doesn’t move.
Should I draw my sword, or would that be disrespectful? Esclaramonde would never have allowed it, I know.
‘Someone’s coming, my lord.’ Touching Roland’s shoulder. ‘My lord? Someone’s coming.’
He looks up, dreamily, his thoughts far away. Gradually his eyes begin to focus. There’s a rustle of leaves, and the sharp crack of a stick breaking.
‘Who’s there?’ Garsen demands. Roland rises to his feet. Grazide stops sniffing.
But it’s only Jordan.
‘Ah, Roland.’ He emerges from a tangle of undergrowth, the hem of his tunic catching on burrs and thorns and clawing branches. He looks immensely tired. ‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere.’
‘What do you want?’ Roland says hoarsely. (He hasn’t spoken in hours.)
‘Just a quick word. It won’t take long.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Lord Galhard sent me. This wasn’t my own idea.’
Roland hesitates. He’s still in a fog, though it seems to be clearing. His brother sounds bored and irritable.
‘Lord Galhard wants to know if you would consider joining our planned attack on Montferrand,’ Jordan continues, and all at once Garsen loses her temper. Her angry tones cut across the conversation. ‘Go away! Both of you!’ she cries. ‘You desecrate this peace! You defile this mourning! How dare you come here with your bloody swords and your corrupt hearts? Go away!’
Jordan smiles, but he doesn’t even look at her. His eyes are fixed on Roland.
‘Lord Galhard,’ he finishes, ‘seems to think that you might have some personal motive for wanting revenge.’
God preserve us. How did they –? Quick glance at Roland, who catches his breath.
‘Revenge?’ he mutters, and somehow he’s come alive again. Somehow he’s inhabiting his face again. ‘Is that what you think I want? Revenge?’
‘You’re mistaken. I don’t think anything, myself. I’m merely a messenger.’
‘Then take a message back to Lord Galhard. Tell him I’m leaving. Tell him I’m finished with all this.’ A pause, as Roland swallows some emotion. ‘Tell him to forget that I ever existed.’
‘Don’t worry, he will.’
‘And tell him – tell him that he who does violence to his brother, does violence to himself. Tell him that.’
The brothers lock eyes across Esclaramonde’s grave. Jordan isn’t smiling anymore. His expression is guarded and sombre.
‘Very well,’ he says at last. ‘I’ll pass on that message.’ His gaze shifts to the blood-spattered squire who’s trying to make himself as small as possible in Roland’s shadow (without much success). ‘What about you, Pagan? Have you changed your mind?’
‘Uh, no. No, my lord. I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. I only hope you’ll live to regret it.’ He turns back to Roland. ‘In God’s name,’ he says quietly, ‘look after him. Just look after him, will you?’
And off he goes. Head bowed, watching his feet, still a bit stiff around the middle.
I wish I knew how to feel about him.
‘My lord!’
He stops. Waits. But doesn’t swing around.
‘Don’t worry, my lord, I can look after myself.’
No reply. Suddenly Roland tugs at my arm. What? What is it? You want to go? Jordan’s moving again, disappearing into the bushes. Roland strikes out in the opposite direction. Praise God, he seems to be functioning at last. Making decisions and carrying them through.
I can feel Garsen’s glare sizzle on our backs.
‘My lord.’ (Where are you going?) ‘This isn’t the way to the village.’
‘I know. I want to talk to you.’
Talk to me? What does that mean? Grasshoppers springing away as we crush the turf underfoot. Low branches tweaking my hair. Does he want to talk about Esclaramonde? About our plans? I hope it’s not Jordan. I don’t want to talk about Jordan.
Right through a thicket, with Roland ahead of me. Shielding my face from the slapping bushes. Ouch! Thorns. Prickles. The whirr of tiny wings as we flush a bird from its hiding place. Roland’s footsteps: crunch, crunch, crunch. Uneven ground, full of rocks and disguised holes. Skirting a tree trunk.
‘My lord? Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere private.’
Whoops! Watch that log! Clambering over it: slipping on a fan of yellow fungus. What about here? We could stop here. But he ploughs on, straight into the wall of leaves up 241 ahead. This is ruining my stockings, Roland, they’re beginning to look like a goat’s fleece.
‘Here,’ he says, and stops (so that I almost run straight into his back). ‘Careful. Watch your feet.’
Look down, and it’s a hole. A gigantic, overgrown hole, with walls of loose rubble and a pool of stagnant water at the bottom.
‘What’s this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it an old quarry?’
‘Perhaps. It’s been here a long time.’ Roland crouches at the edge of the slope. ‘Sit down, Pagan.’
‘How deep is the water?’
‘Deep enough. Please sit down.’
Finding myself a seat on a rock. It’s very warm and quiet. Insects hover above the still, murky pool.
Roland takes a deep breath.
‘I’ve come to a decision, Pagan. About our future.’
Here it comes. I knew it was coming. He’s examining a little tuft of weeds near his right foot. Frowning down at it. Fingering the minute pink blossoms.
‘I doubt if you realise how important you are to me,’ he says at last. ‘I want you to know that. After what happened yesterday – now that it’s finished – there’s no one more important than you. No one. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Pagan.’ He begins to pull at the little flowers, wrenching them from the soil, crushing them in his hands. ‘And that’s what makes it so difficult.’
Why? What do you mean? What’s difficult? What are you talking about?
‘Perhaps you don’t remember, about a year ago, when I 242 mentioned something about the Abbey of Saint Jerome.’ (He still won’t look at me.) ‘I told you that I went to the previous Abbot, when I was sick to the heart, and begged for a place behind the Abbey walls.’
‘Yes, of course I remember.’
‘But he told me that Christendom couldn’t spare a knight like me. He sent me to Jerusalem, to fight the Infidel. He said that it was my duty to God.’
‘Yes, my lord, I remember every word.’
‘Pagan –’ he begins, and pauses. Spit it out, Roland. Tell me. Talk to me. ‘Bloodshed is not the way to God, Pagan. I know that. No murderer shall ever have eternal life.’
‘But you’re not a murderer!’
‘Oh yes I am. And I’ve known it all along . . . it’s been so hard . . .’ He’s gasping a little, as if it’s hurting him to speak. ‘My mother never wanted me to live by the sword. She said that it wouldn’t bring me salvation, and she was right. She was always right, about everything. She wanted me to enter the church. When she – when she died . . .’ A long, long pause. ‘When she died,’ he continues at last, ‘I tried to follow her wishes. I did try. I just didn’t try hard enough. And now I – you see, Pagan, I –’
‘You want to become a monk.’
‘Yes.’
So that’s it. That’s it. I should have known.
‘Not here,’ he continues, in a breathless voice. ‘Not at the Abbey. Somewhere else. A small, humble place. And this time nothing will stop me, nothing and no one. Except you, perhaps.’
Me?
‘I know how you hate monasteries, Pagan. I know how 243 you ran away from your monastery in Bethlehem, and I wouldn’t want that to happen again. You shouldn’t be forced into a life which you don’t want to lead.’ Finally he looks up. Presenting his swollen cheek, his scabs, his bruises. ‘I can’t tell you what to do, because I don’t believe I truly have that right, any more. But I can offer you a choice. You have so many gifts that I’m sure you’d be welcome anywhere.’
Oh Roland.
‘If I took you to Carcassone,’ he adds, ‘and spoke to Commander Folcrand, he would make you a Templar sergeant immediately. My recommendation would be enough.’
‘My lord –’
‘Or you could join the Knights Hospitaller. There’d be no objection to that. I just – I don’t – I realise that Jordan made you an offer, Pagan.’ (Oh hell. I knew it, I knew we’d come to this.) ‘Maybe I haven’t done justice to him, in the past. Maybe I’ve been blind. I know there’s a kind of ancient wound – a poison – that lies between my heart and his, and I know I can’t tell you what to do, but I pray that you won’t decide to stay with him, Pagan. This place is a pit of vipers. I’d be so afraid for you, if you stayed here.’
‘My lord –’
‘I just want you to be happy. Safe and happy.’
‘My lord, I’m safe and happy with you.’ In God’s name, Roland, why do you even ask? ‘Where you go, I’ll go.’
‘But if I become a monk –’
‘If you become a monk, I can become a monk. Or at least a monastery servant.’
He doesn’t look very pleased. Knitting his brows. Biting his lips. Scraping a hole in the dirt with his heel. What’s the matter, Roland? Don’t you want me?
‘I feel as if I’m forcing you into something –’
‘No, my lord, never. Things have changed. I’ve changed. I don’t . . . I . . . you see I’d never killed anyone . . . not before yesterday . . .’ (Oh no. No. Stop. Don’t think.)
‘Pagan? What’s wrong?’
The slimy blood on my hand. The shudder. The jerk. The awful, deathly moans.
‘Pagan. What is it?’
‘I killed a man! I killed him!’ Oh God. God help me. God forgive me, forgive my sin, I can’t bear it, I can’t, I can’t, I’m cursed from the earth which hath opened her mouth to receive my brother’s blood. ‘I’m damned! I’m a murderer!’
‘Pagan –’
‘I can’t – I can’t do it – no. Never. Never again . . .’
‘Shhh. It’s all right. You’ll be all right.’
‘Oh God, oh God.’
Gulping for breath. The salty taste of tears. Roland’s hand on my back, up and down, up and down. ‘God knows your heart, Pagan.’ His gentle voice. ‘God will forgive you.’