Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks Page A

sores out of oatmeal and pig’s blood. Every evening Jerusalem is the scene of a thousand miracles, as blind men recover their sight, cripples recover their legs, mutes recover their voices and lepers recover their health. It’s a thriving little industry, moving the hearts and milking the pockets of gullible visitors . . .
    ‘Pagan.’
    Lord Roland on the doorstep. Damn, damn, damn. Where on earth did he spring from? I thought he was discussing strategy with the Patriarch.
    ‘Time for a sparring session before nones, I think.’ He’s still wearing his ceremonials: cloak, robe and ancestral sword. There’s something unsettled about his forehead. ‘It will only take me a moment to change.’
    The shackles of duty. Trailing after him with dragging feet, my peaceful afternoon demolished. Hoping that someone will grab his attention. But they all bustle past, intent on their business. Buzz, buzz, buzz – like bees in a hive.
    ‘Are you sure you’re not too busy, my lord?’ (Please, please say you are.) ‘Don’t feel you have to neglect others because of me. It really doesn’t matter . . .’
    ‘Of course it matters. You’re going to need all the combat training I can give you before long. Despite what the Patriarch might think.’
    Do I detect a certain crispness in his voice? It’s hard to tell: someone’s sharpening a blade in the armoury, and the noise is enough to make your hair stand on end. Besides which, I can’t see his face.
    ‘You mean the Patriarch actually thinks , my lord?’ (Hurrying to catch up.) ‘I couldn’t be more surprised.’
    ‘No, you’re right. The Patriarch doesn’t think. He prefers to dream. He doesn’t want to believe that the Infidels will come. Someone else will deal with them before they reach Jerusalem. Maybe the refugees in Tyre. Or the garrison at Ascalon. Maybe the King of France will send a great army.’
    ‘Maybe a plague of giant locusts will descend, and eat all the Saracens.’
    ‘I’m sure he is praying for it. Meanwhile he refuses to take emergency measures. Doubtless he thinks his prayers will save us.’
    Interesting. Very interesting. Lord Roland is actually annoyed. He’s out of his cloak before he enters our room. Tossing it at me over his shoulder. Flinging open the lid of his chest. Unwrapping his swordbelt in one fluid motion.
    ‘What emergency measures are you talking about, my lord? What won’t the Patriarch do?’
    ‘Raid the treasury. What do you think? Raid the treasury to buy food. We need food and clothes for the pilgrims trapped here. We need to open up space for refugees in the Tower of David. We need to distribute arms. That is the Master-Sergeant’s decision. He refuses to distribute arms.’
    Which doesn’t surprise me. Distribute arms to the populace and our beloved Master-Sergeant’s a dead man. There can’t be many people in Jerusalem who wouldn’t gladly fry up his liver in olive oil and mushrooms.
    Lord Roland pulls his campaign tunic over his shirt. With his hair all ruffled he looks almost peevish.
    ‘If I had the power, I’d deprive them both of their military authority,’ he says. ‘They are jeopardising lives with their foolishness. But what can I do? It’s not my place to concern myself with these things. I am here to advise. So if they want my advice, then they should take it. Instead of wasting my time in useless chatter.’ He smooths his hair, looks up, and sees my expression. The astonishment must show. It makes him twist his mouth and straighten his shoulders.
    ‘I find them offensive,’ he explains. It almost sounds like an apology. ‘They are the sort of people I would like to avoid. People like that make you forget God.’
    And suddenly, from the threshold, a hesitant summons. ‘Lord Roland? My lord?’ Rockhead peers around the door, suitably deferential. He’s sweating like a piece of cheese.
    ‘What is it, Brother?’ (Frowning.) ‘I’m very busy.’
    ‘My lord, we have an absent without leave.