Pagan's Crusade Read Free

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