Pagan's Crusade Read Free Page B

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