Pagan in Exile Read Free Page A

to God’s will.’
    He pauses, to catch his breath. Well done, Roland. Nicely put. Jordan’s expression is hard to read.
    ‘So you took your vows, did you?’ he finally remarks.
    ‘Yes, I did.’
    ‘And do those vows still apply?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Jordan leans forward, thrusting his face so close to Roland that they’ve practically got their heads up each other’s nostrils.
    ‘In that case,’ he breathes softly, ‘what in the Devil’s name are you doing here, you unspeakable little by-blow?’
    Suddenly someone yells outside. A distant, muffled sound, but it makes Jordan jump. He falls back, glancing towards the door.
    ‘They’re home,’ he mutters.
    More shouting, closer, this time. Jordan turns away, and flings himself down on the nearest bench. He starts stroking Acantha, whistling a little three-note melody. Roland stands like a statue, his face completely blank.
    I wish I knew what was going on here. I seem to have lost the thread of this plot. Are we on friendly soil, or in an enemy camp? This isn’t quite what I expected.
    Hurried footsteps: someone’s climbing the stairs. And here he is, bursting through the door – big – heavy – shoulders a mile wide. Head like a chewed knuckle of pork, all squashed and battered and misshapen, fringed by a patchy beard that’s having a hard time squeezing its way through all the scar tissue on his chin.
    But the nose is there. The de Bram nose, slightly pushed to one side, as if by the force of a flying punch. It looks wrong, on that face – like a steeple on a pig sty.
    ‘Well stone the saints!’ (A hoarse bellow.) ‘It is you! I didn’t believe it, when they told me!’
    ‘Hello, Berengar,’ says Roland. He doesn’t sound overjoyed.
    ‘What’s that nun’s outfit you’re wearing, in God’s name? You look like a dead virgin!’
    ‘It’s his habit,’ Jordan remarks. ‘He’s a Templar, now.’
    ‘A what?’ (Is Berengar deaf? Or does he shout for plea sure?) ‘You must be out of your mind, you fool! Templars! Bunch of mincing Ganymedes!’
    ‘That’s not true.’ Roland speaks in level tones. ‘You’re mistaken, Berengar.’
    ‘Up your arse, Roland! I know what I know.’ Berengar stomps across the floor, smelling of horse-sweat and garlic. Still wearing his cloak and riding boots. Sighing as he lowers himself onto a bench, which creaks under his weight. ‘Whoof! I’m flattened. Where’s the wine? Give me a drink, someone. You. Boy.’ (To me.) ‘Who are you, when you’re breathing?’
    ‘This is my squire.’ Roland answers before I can open my mouth. ‘His name is Pagan.’
    ‘Well he can pass me the wine, then. Damn, but those Morlans take it out of you. Do you know they had a notary with them? A notary! I almost told them where they could stuff the bastard!’
    Wait a moment. Who’s this? Two more people, appearing at the door. One of them short and wiry, with leathery skin and some very impressive scars. Missing an eye, an ear, two fingers and a big lump of forehead, as well as a large number of teeth. The sword at his waist is almost as big as he is.
    The other man is built like Berengar: broad, heavy, powerful, tall, but not as tall as Roland. He has a big black beard and a bald patch. Shaggy eyebrows. Tombstone teeth, slightly brown at the ends. An inflamed complexion. Wearing a lot of leather and fur.
    He stands there, dragging his gloves off. Everyone falls silent.
    Could this –? This couldn’t –
    ‘My lord,’ says Roland. And he bends his knee.
    Lord Galhard.
    Oh yes, that’s him all right. It’s got to be. You can tell by the way he’s suddenly the centre of attention. He clumps across to the high table, picks up Jordan’s cup, and drains it. Pours himself another. Drains that, too. Everyone watches . . . watches and waits.
    ‘Just passing through?’ he says at last. His voice is like the sound of gravel crunching under the wheel of an overloaded wagon. Like the sound of bones being ground up in stone