Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks

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.’
    Amen. Across the table, Odo pounces on his lentils like a leopard on a lamb. As long as it’s dead, the Dungheap will eat it. I’m surprised he hasn’t polished off his cutlery before now. Next to him, Arnulf. It’s enough to put you off your food.
    ‘Our reading today is from the First Book of Samuel, chapter seventeen,’ Amiel announces. ‘Now the Philistines gathered their armies to battle, and were gathered together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched between Shochoh and Azekah, in Ephesdammim . . .’
    Enter Fulk with the cheese – not a moment too soon. These lentils aren’t seasoned. Not even a pinch of salt or sage. I suppose the cook knew that Lord Roland wouldn’t be present, and decided not to waste his energy.
    But it’s an ill wind, despite everything, because Rockhead isn’t too thrilled. He hasn’t spoken a word (he’s not allowed to) but the look on his face says it all. What, cheese again? And goat’s cheese, at that. Scowling as he pokes at the lentil mush with his spoon. Think yourself lucky, bone-brain. There are people who’d be grateful to eat that quivering dollop. In fact there are people right here in this room who’d go down on their hands and knees just to lick it off the floor. There they are, the five of them, sitting at Lord Roland’s table. Already finished. Hoping there’s something more to come. The five lucky paupers who make it to every Templar meal, because charity is a Christian duty, even when supplies are running low.
    You can see them lined up outside headquarters every morning, dozens of them, fighting like dogs for a spot up the front and dressed in their filthiest tatters. Desperate for a free meal. Never the same face twice, I’ve noticed – at least not since I’ve been here. Which just goes to show what poverty there is in this city.
    ‘. . . Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose name was Jesse, and he had eight sons: and the man went among men for an old man in the days of Saul . . .’
    Odo eats like a hog. He wallows in his food, making the kind of noises you hear in swamps and laundries and bovine digestive systems. After eating with Odo, you spend half the day picking bits of his dinner out of your hair. Arnulf belches, loudly and richly, as Odo licks his bowl clean. It’s a wonder I have any appetite at all.
    And – yes! Here it comes. A pleading look from the Dungheap (otherwise known as the bottomless pit). Anything left for Odo? Not on your life, garbage guts. Time to bolt the last spoonfuls down, in case he decides to exert some force. When it’s a matter of food, you can’t trust Odo. Turn your back on him when he’s hungry and he’s likely to chew your leg off.
    ‘. . . Here endeth our reading.’ Amiel shuts his book with a bang: the signal for everyone to rise. You can feel the tension. One word, and the rush for the latrines will be on. Pons gives the order in Lord Roland’s absence. ‘Dismissed!’ he says – and away they go. (Some people have no bladder control.)
    The paupers file past more slowly, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Gaspard. It’s his job to make sure they don’t steal the cutlery. They’re all grey and seedy and listless, like a mild hangover. Crawling with vermin too, by the look of it. Limping. Coughing. Leaning heavily on sticks and crutches. But you never can tell: it might all be fakery. I’ve seen too many beggars who make their ulcerous