‘This is Fennel, my battle mount.’ He lays a hand on his horse. ‘My palfrey is called Brest and my packhorse is Coppertail. Fennel is not your responsibility. The others will need your attention. They are without spite or anger – a joyful duty.’
Ah yes. The joyful duty of steaming manure. The joyful duty of a kick in the guts. I know it well, that joyful duty.
Saint George caresses the big, brown backside under his nose (just my luck to draw an animal lover) and looks up, deadpan.
‘Tell me, Pagan – if you were confronting an armed man in battle, would you prefer it that he carried a shield and a Turkish mace, or a shield and a short sword?’
Oh great. Terrific. A theorist.
‘Well . . . that would depend, really.’
‘On what?’
‘On where he came from.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What I mean is, everyone knows that an Englishman couldn’t scratch his backside with a Turkish mace, let alone aim it at me.’
Silence. Not a flicker. Face like marble, eyes like glass. Is this a man or a monument?
‘It also depends on what I’m carrying myself, I suppose. And how big he is. And how far away . . .’
‘Have you ever been wounded, Pagan? In a fight?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Where?’
‘You mean where was I hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well – once I was hit on the ear by a flying kettle. That was in a street brawl near the Syrian Exchange –’
‘No. I mean in close combat.’
‘In close combat?’ Sudden memory of that pig-faced Saxon – Heimrad? Conrad? – chopping down from nowhere. Knees giving way. No pain, at first. Just the impact, like a blow from something blunt and heavy.
And there was the taste, too: that bitter taste of bile in your mouth.
‘I was wounded with a sword, once. Across the neck and shoulder.’
‘Anywhere else?’
‘Not really. Just the odd knee in the groin. Tavern stuff.’
‘Come with me, Pagan.’
People nod respectfully as he passes, moving like a cat in his soft leather boots. Out of the stables, into the sunshine. There’s a big barrel arch over the door, and a ramp leading down to the training field – which is all dust and loose gravel. Nothing grows around here. Too salty, I expect, from all the blood that’s been spilled.
Saint George has collected a mule-goad on his way out. It’s made of light wood wrapped in leather. About three handspans long.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Take it and go over there. There. A bit farther. Just there.’ He stoops to pick up some stones. ‘I want you to hold that in your hands,’ he says, ‘and hit whatever I throw at you. Because I’ll be throwing quite hard. Do you understand? I want you to guard your body.’
Wham! So here I am, standing in a sea of dirt, with a big mad Templar lobbing rocks at my head. Wham! Like some kind of martyr. Wham! He throws like a catapult – like ten catapults – ouch! – like a hailstorm, in fact. Ouch! (Missed again.) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, my guardian angel has a mean sense of humour.
‘All right, Pagan, that’s enough.’ (I should damn well think so.) ‘Do you see what your problem is?’
Wait – don’t tell me. You are.
‘No, my lord.’
‘You were trained by a much taller man. Taller and heavier. He must have been as tall as I am. And he didn’t train you properly.’
Figures.
‘You fight like a tall man. You don’t use your weight to your best advantage. You are so light – you should move around more. And you’re holding your weapon too low.’
‘So you don’t want me, then.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re saying I should leave. Is that right?’ (I mean, I can take a hint. Especially when it’s small and solid and thrown in my direction as fast as an eight-legged rat.)
‘No, Pagan.’ Saint George shakes his head, slowly. ‘That is not right. You should pay more attention. I am telling you that your technique could be improved. You must realise this yourself, I think. What kind of sword have you been working with? I don’t suppose you’ve acquired one of your own.’
Oh yes, of course. A whole collection. And a dukedom in France, as well.
‘No, my lord. Somehow I never got round to stealing one.’
On guard! Will he or won’t he? He looks thoughtful, but nothing else. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s deaf in one ear.
‘Quite,’ he says at last. ‘Then I suspect you have been fighting with weapons that are much too heavy for you. Much too heavy, and poorly balanced. In fact I don’t suppose you were ever given a choice, in the past.’
‘Oh yes, my lord. Once I was given the choice between a Turkish sword with a missing quillon and a Frankish sword with a rusty blade.’
‘Battlefield pickings.’ He nods gravely, like someone who’s just had his worst fears confirmed. ‘You will not find any of those here. All our swords are Saxon – Solingen and Passau. The best available. I’ll check the weight myself, I think. Just to make certain.’ He looks around; up at the sky, back down at me. Back down his long, long nose at the midget mercenary who can’t even handle a man-sized sword.
‘It’s nearly nones,’ he continues. ‘I must go to chapel every afternoon for nones and vespers. Do you know what they are?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ (They’re dead bloody boring, is what they are.) ‘I grew up in a monastery, so I ought to know. They’re prayer services.’
Almost on cue, the bells start to ring. Saint George doesn’t notice. He’s too busy absorbing this . . . this revelation. This horrible shock.
‘You were in a monastery?’ he says, with more emphasis than usual. (Squinting a bit, as if to get me in focus.)
‘Charity child, my lord. Nothing special.’
‘I see.’ He puts out his hand for the mule-goad, in an absentminded sort of way. ‘You are fortunate. Not many are blessed with such a spiritually nourishing start to life.’
Spiritually nourishing! That’s a good one. The sound of bells, following us back to the cloisters while he outlines my daily schedule. Normally he’ll be at prayer in the early morning and late afternoon. That’s when I should groom the horses, clean equipment, polish harness, mend our clothes, air our blankets, empty our chamber-pots, sweep out our room etc. etc. etc. (The list goes on and on.) But today those jobs have already been completed. Perhaps I should spend an hour or so in prayer and meditation. Just to ‘keep myself amused’ until he collects me for the evening meal.
‘Perhaps you should reflect on what you’re doing here, and what it means to be a Templar,’ he says. ‘Then we can discuss your goals and expectations.’
‘Yes, my lord. And yours too.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The beard, for instance.’ (Might as well clear it up at the outset.) ‘Because I’ve been told that I have to grow a beard, my lord. And I might be able to squeeze out the odd hair, all right, but it won’t be what you’d call a healthy growth. Not unless I add a few clippings from my head. And a fake beard will make people think I’m an Infidel spy.’
He lifts an eyebrow. (Major breakthrough!)
‘How old are you, Pagan?’
‘Sixteen, my lord.’
‘Very well, then.’ A gracious nod. ‘In view of your tender years, you are excused facial hair.’
He turns on his heel, so quickly that you can’t tell whether he’s smiling or not.
Rockhead’s face is like a map of the Battle of Antioch. Every scar tells a story. Some look like gorges; some like patches of shiny white silk; some like piss-holes in the sand. His left cheek looks like a corn field, all ploughed up into neat furrows. Every hole is clearly visible from a distance of thirty paces.
‘Right!’ His call to order, sharp as a shutter banging. ‘Before we begin this chapter of squires, I have one or two announcements I want to make. Firstly – s
unburn. Our Brother Infirmarian, Brother Gavin, has reported an alarming increase in the number of sunburn cases reporting to the infirmary. Brothers in Christ – are we men, or are we Michaelmas daisies? Sunburn is not going to kill you. I, on the other hand, will kill you if you keep on wasting our Brother Infirmarian’s precious time.
‘Secondly – new arrivals. You should have noticed a couple of strangers in the ranks today. Stand up, Kidrouk and Fulcher.’
Twenty-two staring faces. Fulcher has freckles, no eyebrows and a bad case of sunburn.
‘Kidrouk has been assigned to Lord Roland and Fulcher will be posted to Acre next week to replace Bongratia, who was recently expelled for unmentionable conduct involving a female.’ (Replace the word ‘female’ with ‘pile of dead maggots’. He spits it out like a sour grape.) ‘The Scriptures tell us “by means of a whorish woman a man is brought to a piece of bread”. This is absolutely true and don’t you forget it. Sit down, Kidrouk and Fulcher.’
It’s hot inside the chapter hall, and there aren’t enough benches. Everyone’s squeezed together – sticky with sweat – under a pall of buzzing flies. The windows are too high to look out of.
‘Now, today’s tactical talk is on the subject of brigands. First of all, does anyone not know what a brigand is? Excellent. Then we should make some progress.’ Rockhead starts pacing back and forth, and the flies get the hell out of his way. (They know what’s good for them.) ‘One hundred years ago,’ he continues, ‘when Jerusalem was delivered from the hands of the Infidels and restored to Christ, the way was opened for many thousands of pilgrims to visit the Holy Land. The road from the coast became littered with their corpses, as bands of brigands picked them off like insects.
‘But then a small group of knights, led by the Order’s founder Lord Hugh of Payens, set themselves the task of protecting these pilgrims, accompanying each one along the dangerous pilgrimage routes. Gradually the number of dedicated fighters increased, until they became an army big enough to defend the entire kingdom. Right now they are defending the kingdom. But protecting pilgrims from brigands has remained a vital part of our Order’s sacred duty to this very day.’
Pause for effect. You can tell Rockhead’s learned this bit off by heart. Suddenly he snaps back to life again.
‘Some people might tell you that pilgrimage escort is a soft option. These people have boiled tripe for brains. Pilgrimage escort is hell on earth – and not because of the brigands. Pilgrims are called lambs of God for one very good reason: they’re as silly as sheep. Do not, at any time, give any pilgrim the credit for any brains. To do so is the road to instant disaster.’
Hear, hear. Tell me something I didn’t know. Pilgrims on street patrol – your very worst nightmare. Either you’re picking their corpses off scrap-heaps (robbed and murdered) or hauling them out of the gutter (penniless and dead drunk). Even worse, the ones that can talk. ‘You call yourself a Christian? . . . Do you know who I am? . . . Are you going to do something about this? . . .’ God preserve us from the pious pilgrim.
Someone sneezes, and Rockhead glares. He would ‘appreciate total concentration because of the important nature of the subject’, etc. etc. Looks like we’re in for a long haul.
‘Some brigands are just hungry peasants who throw stones,’ he announces. ‘Some follow caravans like wolves, preying on stragglers. Some come and go in the dead of night, leaving the odd corpse behind them. But they are rare. More common is the Infidel noble. He tends to wander through this kingdom on his way from Egypt to Damascus, and although he only travels in small groups, he is a man to be feared . . .
’ The noble – a man to be feared. Is Saint George a man to be feared? He seems too good to be true. And he never seems to smile, which is a worry. (Beware the man without a sense of humour.) At first glance you’d think he was the slow, spiritual type with his head in the clouds. But then you realise he’s not. So what is he? Why’s he so hard to understand?
‘. . . The other type of dangerous brigand is the one who works in a gang, with archers and tactics. These brigands are usually bedouin tribesmen. If they are, you should expect many fleeting attacks. And if you let them divide you, you’re lost. Never – I repeat, never – chase a lone bedouin. Why? Because there’s no such thing as a lone bedouin.’
It’s hard to concentrate when you’ve risen two hours before the sun. That was Saint George’s idea of a good time to start training. In a room as dark as a Syrian’s moustache, I was supposed to dress and arm him in the time it takes to boil an egg.
But it’s the middle of the night! I said.
It’s not the middle of the night, he said. It’s early morning. And it will often be early morning when you have to do this. Now concentrate.
It was hard to concentrate. Hard to remember. What was the arrangement, again? His chain mail hauberk was in one sack, and his mail leggings, and his mailed shoes, and his helm – no, his shoulder pieces – were in the other sack. Boots at his feet. Tunic under his head. His cloak doubles as an extra blanket. Where was the swordbelt? Swordbelt was on the right, helm and arming cap on the left. Didn’t know where to start, of course. Not at that hour. And Saint George was dropping hints all over the place.
Think, Pagan. No, not the tunic. I wear my tunic over my hauberk.
Hauberk. Right. Hauberk –
Wrong. The leggings must go on before the hauberk.
Oh.
And what comes before the leggings?
Urn . . . the legs?
The boots come first.
Boots. Of course, I said (trying to stuff his left leg into the right sleeve of his hauberk). You’re going to have to wake up a lot faster than this, Pagan – his voice in the darkness – otherwise you won’t be of any use before a battle.
The question is, do I want to be of use? Do I have any choice? I’m in trouble, all right. If only I had some money.
‘. . . The thing to remember about brigands like this is that they’ll pull their arrows out of corpses to use again.’ (Rockhead’s still soldiering on.) ‘They’re always short on supplies, so their first volley will almost certainly be their last. Use it as a signal. If your shields are up, they’ll have lost their chief advantage – which of course is surprise – without gaining anything in return.
‘Right. Any questions?’
No response. The audience is propping its eyelids open. A blanket of boredom has settled over the entire chapter hall.
Rockhead’s bloodshot glare travels over our nodding heads. He scowls ferociously.
‘So I take it you’re all experts on the subject?’ he snarls. ‘You’ll know exactly what to do when you’re confronted by a band of armed brigands, will you?’
Well I certainly will. I’ll run like hell.
‘Good. Then perhaps you can answer a few questions. Kidrouk!’ (Oh no.) ‘What’s the most dangerous kind of brigand?’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
‘The most dangerous kind of brigand, sir?’ (Stalling.)
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Well, sir – the most dangerous kind of brigand is probably one that’s still alive.’
General laughter. Rockhead’s eyes narrow. He is not amused.
‘Stand up, Kidrouk.’ He barks it like a dog. ‘Kidrouk thinks he’s funny.’ (Addressing the audience at large.) ‘Kidrouk won’t find it so funny when a brigand spears him in the guts. I’ll think it’s funny, though. It’s always funny when a goddamn fool finds out he’s not so smart after all.’ Raising his voice. ‘If Kidrouk lives through tomorrow it’s because the Devil won’t take him yet. That’s right, Kidrouk – you’re on pilgrimage escort tomorrow. See how far a sense of humour gets you on the road. Because I’ve yet to see a brigand die laughing.’
Well that’s odd, pus-bag. Because I’ve yet to see a face as funny as yours. If it was a building they would have knocked it down long ago.
What is it about me? Can somebody please explain? What is it that makes me the instant target of every iron-g
utted, bladder-brained, loud-mouthed, crater-faced, knock-kneed, vicious, murdering, soulless, arrogant dough-head in the entire kingdom of Jerusalem?
Chapter 2
The Cattle Market’s empty – not a pilgrim to be seen. Just a wide expanse of beaten earth divided into sheep pens. The sheep pens always confuse foreigners. Why call it a cattle market, they say, when there’s nothing in it but sheep? Don’t ask me, lady. I just live here.
The flocks don’t arrive from out of town until after the city gates open, and the gates don’t open until the bells ring at sunrise for the prime service. ‘Deus qui est sanctorum something, something . . .’ Memories of how cold it used to get, singing Latin hymns at prime.
It’s going to be a hot day today, though. A real sizzler.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Pagan.’
‘What happens if one of the pilgrims gets sunstroke? Do we keep on going or do some of us turn back?’
‘Safety in numbers, Pagan. That is the rule.’
‘But what happens if the pilgrim dies on us?’
‘Then he is blessed among men, and will go straight to heaven. Do not concern yourself with these things. They are my responsibility.’
Saint George, mounted on his fine white palfrey like a statue carved from ivory and gold. A reassuring sight for the pilgrims. Sitting up there in his white battle tunic, red cross on his chest, gilded sword in his scabbard. The visual impact alone should send every brigand with half a brain bolting for the hills.
A Syrian Jacobite wanders into view, and starts sweeping up manure. Still no other sign of life.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happens if no one shows up?’
‘Pagan, they have registered their names in advance. With the Templar Commander. Please don’t concern yourself.’
‘There’s one.’ Sergeant Gildoin points a calloused finger. He’s a little, dried-up man like a roasted nut, very fast on his feet. Doesn’t talk a lot. Big nose. Highly accurate when spitting. ‘And there’s another.’
‘Where is the chaplain?’ Saint George sounds worried. ‘He is already late.’