‘Pagan can watch the stairs,’ he hisses, ‘and Odo can do the job. If someone comes, just whistle. And when you’re finished, Odo, you must collect me, and then we’ll backtrack past Pagan and leave by the stairs. Got that?’
‘Ummm . . . no.’
Once more for the Dungheap. No use hanging about. It’s twenty-five paces to the top of the stairs. Past Rockhead’s closed door, past the entrance to the armoury. All clear at this end. Someone’s spilled lamp oil on the second step down – just where you’re certain to slip on it. Strange that someone hasn’t slipped already.
Perhaps I ought to clean it up . . .
‘Hey! Hey Arnulf!’
The Dungheap. (Stupid fool. What’s he shouting for?)
‘Hey Arnulf, I can’t get in!’
Well that’s it, then. Pity. Wouldn’t have expected a lock on the door. I mean, what’s in there to guard? Except account books.
‘Don’t force it!’ Arnulf’s voice, echoing down the passage. Better see what’s going on. Past the armoury (again), round the corner (again) . . . and there he is. Trying to stop Odo from breaking the door down. ‘You can’t open it, Odo, it’s
locked
,’ he says. ‘There’s a
lock
on it.’
‘Then how do we get in?’
Good question. First good question the Dungheap’s ever asked, I suspect. Time to make tracks.
‘Come on, you two. Let’s go.’
‘Wait.’ Arnulf’s thinking. You can tell by the way his veins throb. ‘What about the window?’
‘The
window
?’ (That arrow-slit?) ‘Arnulf, it’s about
two fingers wide.
You can’t expect anyone to crawl through
that.
’
‘No, but – well, if you could just aim properly . . .’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
‘You
must
be
joking.
’ ‘Pagan?’
Dead shock.
It’s Lord Roland.
‘What are you doing?’
Standing there in his long white robe. What am I doing? Glance at Arnulf. No help there. All the blood’s drained from his head to his ankles.
Come on, Pagan, think.
‘We – we were looking for Sergeant Tibald, my lord.’
‘Well he’s not here. He’s with Sergeant Pons. What did you want him for?’
‘Oh – it was just a question. About our pay.’
‘I see.’ His blue eyes drop to the bundle in my arms. ‘Have you finished with that tunic?’
‘Uh – no, my lord.’
‘Then I suggest you keep your question for later. When you’ve completed your task.’ A long, hard stare for the Dungheap, who goggles back like a sun-struck mule. Arnulf examines his toenails. ‘I’m sure these men have their own jobs to do. Is that not so, sergeant?’
It’s a tough one. Will the Dungheap’s brain collapse under the pressure? But Arnulf takes his arm to lead him away, and Lord Roland waits in silence until they’re out of sight.
He looks a little pinched around the nostrils – as if he’s just smelt something unpleasant.
‘I hope you’re not spending too much time with those men,’ he murmurs. ‘I doubt you’ll benefit from their acquaintance.’
‘Oh really? Do you know them, my lord?’
‘Of course not.’ (Perish the thought.) ‘But I’m familiar with their . . . they have a reputation. A bad one. They are of dubious character, and are therefore unsuitable companions.’
Are they indeed?
‘If they’re dubious characters, my lord, what are they doing in the Order?’
Whoops! Just a little too artless. He raises an eyebrow.
‘I hope you’re not questioning our
judgement
, Pagan?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Take my advice. Do not associate with such people. They have nothing to offer a person of your intelligence.’
Well I’m glad
you
think so. Trailing after him as he moves down the corridor. Fighting the urge to pull a face at his back.
‘I know I haven’t given enough time to you since Brother Amalric left for the coast, Pagan. There’s so much to do, as Commander of this house. I’ve commanded many forts, and Safed wasn’t small, but these headquarters are quite different.’ Nevertheless, he hopes I’ll have the good sense and discipline to keep myself usefully employed even without his constant guidance and attention etc. etc. etc. (Pardon me while I catch up on my sleep.) Down four steps, turn right through the archway, and here’s our room – with two people outside it.
One of them is Sergeant Pons, looking worried. The other is an unknown cleric – a priest, perhaps? – with a round, sweaty face.
‘My lord!’ Pons leaps forward. (He’s a nervy type, always jumping about like a grasshopper.) ‘A message, my lord! From the Patriarch!’
‘It’s urgent, my lord.’ The cleric chimes in. ‘Your presence is urgently required, by your leave. It’s very important.
Very
important.’
Lord Roland doesn’t flinch. He studies both faces, carefully, before speaking.
‘Is it from the King?’ he says at last. And there’s something in the way he says it . . . something chilly and tense and ominous.
‘I don’t know, my lord.’ The cleric is wringing his hands. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t heard. But I do know it’s bad news. Terrible, terrible news. My lord, the Patriarch is in bed with the shock of it.’ He pauses, his lips trembling. ‘I think you’re right, my lord. I think it’s from the King.
‘I think there’s been a battle.’
‘Brothers in Christ. As acting Commander of our Temple garrison, I have called this emergency chapter to inform you that the kingdom of Jerusalem has suffered its most terrible defeat.’
God preserve us.
‘As you know, during the last month our noble King was in the northern provinces, gathering a great army. He was gathering this army to defend our kingdom against the forces of the Sultan Saladin. Several days ago, Saladin crossed the River Jordan. And in response to this challenge, our King rode out to meet him.’
A pause. Well go on. What are you waiting for? What are you
waiting
for?
Say
it, for God’s sake!
‘I have to tell you that he was defeated.’ A quiet voice: very clear, very thin. No expression at all. ‘I have to tell you that he was captured, and many of his liege men were killed. I have to tell you that the Holy Cross is now, for this reason, in the hands of the Infidel. May God have mercy on our souls.’
There’s a shaft of light falling from the window above his head. You can see the dust motes floating down, whirling around his golden hair, his wide shoulders. Everything’s very still. It’s as if the entire room were empty.
But it’s not. That’s the odd thing. It’s crammed; bulging; stuffed with people. It’s so full it couldn’t be fuller. And Lord Roland up the front, staring down at a sea of blank faces. You can see he’s trying to find the words. Very calm, though. Only his hands . . . his hands look wrong. Uncertain. Helpless.
‘You will realise,’ he continues, ‘that many of our most valiant and pious brethren, the flower of our Order, met a noble death on this battlefield to the greater glory of God. And those who didn’t fall in battle also suffered the fate of martyrs, for we have heard that they were later put to death at the hands of the Infidel. But in suffering for righteousness’ sake, they suffered as our Lord Jesus Christ suffered. They died with confidence, knowing that in dying they would be delivered to the arms of Christ. For the blessed Bernard of Clairvaux has said of the Templar knight, “should he be killed himself, we know that he has not perished, but has come safely into port”. And so we know that our brothers have been called to the higher glory, and are resting in the infinite love of our Lord Jesus Christ.’
A muffled noise. Sergeant Maynard has shot to his feet. Very straight and stiff. Around him, everyone’s seated. Staring. The look on his face . . . wild and frantic. Ravaged. Mute. Terrible.
He draws his sword, holds it aloft. His jaw moves, but he says nothing. Just stands there. Eyes on Lord Roland. Trying to speak.
‘Sit down, Brother.’ Lord Roland responds, very gently. ‘It’s not yet time to fight. It’s time to pray.’
Nothing happens. Maynard doesn’t seem to hear. Suddenly Rockhead gets up, just a few rows behind. Pushes past everyone’s knees. Lays a hand on Maynard’s shoulder.
Can’t hear what he says, but it seems to get through. The sword drops, for one thing. (‘. . . need . . . come . . . help . . . strong . . . Brother . . .’) Rockhead pulls at Maynard’s arm. They pick their way to the door, slowly. Not a word from Lord Roland: just a nod, as Rockhead throws him a questioning glance across the room. And the sound of their footsteps – shuffle, shuffle – as they disappear.
The silence is so heavy, it seems to force all the air from your lungs.
Only Lord Roland has the courage to break it.
‘So far we’ve had no news about our Grand Master of the Temple. We don’t know if he is alive or dead. But since it is the Rule of our Order that no ransom shall be paid for the release of any captive Templar, it is almost certain that Lord Gerard has joined our other brethren in the heavenly Kingdom of the blessed.
‘Therefore, if our Grand Master is indeed dead, and since our Brother Seneschal and our Brother Marshal have also perished, the cloak of the Grand Master’s authority shall fall on Brother Amalric, the Commander of these headquarters, who is now in the south as you know. From this time on we will look to Lord Amalric for directions.’
Somebody’s crying. You can hear the gulps and the snuffles. Not far away – look around – and it’s Pons. His face is hidden, but his shoulders are shaking. Beside him, Gildoin. Glassy-eyed. As grey as offal.
God preserve us. I can’t bear this. I just can’t bear it.
‘Brothers in Christ.’ Lord Roland,
commanding
attention. ‘Brothers in Christ these are days of tribulation for all of us here. Never before has this kingdom been under such a threat of darkness. But despite our trials, we must not lose hope. Because our Lord God has
not forsaken us.
‘You may say that such a terrible defeat is proof that we have been forsaken. Well
I
say that God has sent this defeat to test us in our faith, just as Job was tested. Because faith in God is
trust
in God. Many times, I have been told to consider the words of Macabees: “Victory in war is not dependent on a big army, and bravery is the gift of heaven”. I now ask
you
to consider these words.
‘So far as we know, Saladin has taken only one city in this kingdom. How many cities does that yet leave us? Cities full of men and women willing to defend Jerusalem with their lives, if necessary? I say to you that we may have lost the battle, but we have not yet lost the kingdom.
‘Brothers in Christ, remember who you are. Remember the words of the blessed Bernard. You are the chosen troops of God. You are the valiant men of Israel. Your souls are protected by the armour of faith just as your bodies are protected by the armour of steel. How can you lose courage, knowing that you are armed with the sacred Rule of the Temple? As long as you follow the Rule, as long as you bow to its perfect discipline, rest assured that you walk in the way of salvation.’
Well I hope you’re right, my lord. I certainly hope you’re right. Because if you’re not, we’re finished.
‘Praise be to God.’ A voice in the crowd. ‘Praise be to God for all his mercies.’
‘Amen.’
‘Amen.’
A chorus of pious types. All
what
mercies? Have I missed something, here? I thought we were talking about a
disaster.
Lord Roland bows his head, briefly.
‘Before we begin our prayer,’ he concludes, ‘I want to inform you that I shall be discussing this city’s defence with the Patriarch, who of course holds authority here now in the absence of any liege lords. And I am calling a day of prayer and fasting tomorrow in honour of our fallen brethren, may their souls rest in peace, as well as a vigil tonight in the Chapel of the Cross for any of you who wish to attend.
‘I now call on Father Amiel to lead us in our devotions.’
It’s a peculiar feeling – like a cold wind on your heart. The fact that it’s
actually happened.
It’s actually happened. You live with it all your life, like a cloud on the horizon, and suddenly the storm is overhead. They’ve come at last, after all this time. The Infidels. Practically on the doorstep. And it’s not a surprise. That’s what’s so awful. Everyone born here – we all knew they would come. Everyone born here is born waiting.
I don’t know. It’s bad enough not having a father and mother. Now I don’t even have a
country
any more.
Lentils again. Terrific.
Nothing like lentils to get the old blood flowing. Boiled lentils – they really put the spark back into your spirits. The lift back into your life. Bounce back with boiled lentils! It must be the eighth time this week, surely.
There’s something about the way that Fulk swings each soggy spoonful into our bowls. Splat! Like a horse depositing a load of dung. You can tell he doesn’t
respect
the food. Not that there’s much to admire in your average lentil. But a cook who doesn’t respect his food – it makes you wonder what he’s done to the stuff. (Or where it’s come from, for that matter.)
Splat! Right under my nose. The scrapings of the pot, by the look of it. We always get scrapings down this end of the room. Knights’ table first; then sergeants; then Turcopoles; and then, at long last, the mercenary scum. So what if the supply runs out before it reaches our bowls? We don’t deserve any better.
Fulk stomps back to the kitchen to fetch the next course. Cheese, I suspect. Or crushed nuts and succory in fried cabbage rolls. Not mutton, anyway – not with everyone on rations. They promised meat or fish three times a week, and what do I get? Mutton stew on Sunday. Once upon a time they served up salt pork around here: salt pork, spiced lamb, imported beef, duck, chicken, the lot. Now everyone thinks that there’s going to be a siege when Saladin comes, and they’re storing all the meat with lard and salt, down in the cellars. While up here we live on chick-peas and lentils like a bunch of desert hermits.
‘Let us pray.’ Father Amiel at the lectern. ‘Praise ye the Lord for these His blessings; praise Him for our daily bread, and all the good victuals which sustain us. Praise ye the Lord who giveth food to all flesh, for His mercy endureth forever.’