Pagan in Exile Read Free

Furneria. So now he’s out looking for number four.’ A cynical smile. ‘Personally, I think he’ll be lucky to find another, since he goes through wives like rope horseshoes. But then I never understood why any of them married him in the first place. Unless they actually liked the smell of ripe sewage.’
    ‘What happened? What happened to them?’
    ‘Well, now. Let me think.’ (On reflection, his voice isn’t identical to Roland’s. It’s slower, quieter. More of a drawl.) ‘Fabrissa miscarried. Furneria died of a wasting disease. Airmenssens poisoned herself.’
    Roland traces a cross on his chest.
    ‘You couldn’t blame her,’ Jordan continues. ‘I’d have done the same. Of course, the old lord was delighted. Three dowries, and a fourth within grasp! He’s very pleased with Berengar.’ A sigh. ‘I’m afraid that I haven’t done so well. My wife is still breathing.’
    Roland stiffens.
    ‘ Your wife?’ he says, sharply.
    ‘Oh yes. My wife. You haven’t met Gauzia. That pleasure still awaits you.’ Jordan pauses an instant, as if expecting some kind of comment. But Roland remains mute. ‘God knows, I’ve done my best to get rid of her. I can’t help it if I’m lacking in those repulsive qualities which Berengar finds so useful. It’s my belief that his breath is what ultimately killed them.’
    ‘Has he – has Berengar chosen –?’
    ‘One of the Morlans. Ada. Apparently she’s about fifteen years old, so he’ll probably make a nice, quick job of her.’ His expressionless blue eyes drift down to where I’m lurking. Spotted, damn it. ‘And who might this be? Your fancy-boy?’
    ‘This is my squire.’ (Roland, through clenched teeth.) ‘Pagan Kidrouk.’
    ‘Your squire?’ Jordan sounds startled. ‘How old is he? Twelve?’
    ‘I’m seventeen years old, my lord.’ No point letting him think he can wipe his boots all over my face. Look him straight in the eye, speak clearly, don’t fidget. Just keep a civil tongue in your head, Lord Jordan.
    ‘Seventeen?’ he murmurs. ‘Is that so?’
    ‘Pagan has been with me for a year now. He came with me from Jerusalem. That’s where he was born.’
    ‘Yes, I’m not surprised. He’s very dark. Turkish blood, I suppose? Funny to see you with a Turkish squire.’
    ‘Pagan is not a Turk. He is a Christian Arab. He is also a good fighter and a loyal servant.’
    ‘Mmmm.’ Jordan switches his gaze back to Roland. ‘And you, Roland. May I ask if that extraordinary costume of yours is some kind of joke? Because if it isn’t, I suggest you get rid of it right away.’
    Whoops! That’s done it. Roland’s rejoinder sounds like a series of crossbow bolts hitting a stone wall. He really spits out the words.
    ‘This is a Templar garment,’ he says. ‘And I am a knight of the Temple.’
    Jordan makes an odd little sound at the back of his nose. He moves right up to Roland, all loose and lazy, as the falcon flutters on his wrist.
    By God he’s tall, though. Really tall.
    ‘So that’s what you call yourself. A knight of the Temple,’ he croons.
    ‘That’s what I am.’
    ‘But what does it mean, exactly? What does it involve?’
    ‘You’ve heard of the Order. You must have.’
    ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. At least, I’ve heard that you’re a bunch of Infidel-loving usurers who’ve all been castrated –’
    ‘That is not true!’ Roland’s holding himself steady. He squares his shoulders, like someone preparing for battle. ‘The Order of the Temple is a military order dedicated to protecting Christians and fighting unbelievers,’ he declares. ‘We have taken vows of obedience, chastity and humility. It is our duty to fight to the death, in defence of Christendom. In this we are following the Rule of the Order and the will of God. The blessed Bernard of Clairvaux called us the valiant men of Israel. He called us the chosen troops of God. We are not usurers. We are not castrates. We are a band of men doing our duty, according