Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks Page B

Since first light. We ought to notify Ascalon. I believe he has family there.’
    ‘Who? A mercenary?’
    ‘No, my lord. He’s taken his vows. Sergeant Bruno.’
    A quiet hiss, like steam from a kettle. Lord Roland has never uttered a curse in his life, and apparently doesn’t intend to start now. But you can tell it’s an effort.
    ‘Sergeant Bruno ?’ he says. ‘The spice merchant’s son? But he is such a good Templar.’
    ‘My lord, he’s taken all his equipment. And the cook reports some missing food.’
    A pause. This looks promising. Lord Roland fingers the hilt of his sword.
    ‘I have a training session now,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll attend to it after nones.’
    ‘But my lord, we have the strategy chapter after nones. About the city defences.’ Good old Rockhead. The inflexible man. Every appointment engraved in stone. ‘And then you’re inspecting the storerooms to see if they’re fit for housing refugees. Remember? The Abbot of Josophat is sending a representative to advise us.’
    Deliverance. Lord Roland throws a troubled glance in my direction. Time to help him out.
    ‘It’s all right, my lord. I have a lot of cleaning and polishing to do.’
    Cleaning my fingernails. Polishing up my collection of dirty jokes. I mean, why kill yourself working? We’ll all be dead soon enough.
    ‘My lord?’ Sergeant Pons arrives on the doorstep. ‘My lord, we have to organise the next watch bill –’
    ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’ It’s practically a snarl. Practically, but not quite.
    One of these days, before we all lay down our arms and face the judgement seat, I’m going to see Lord Roland lose his temper.

Chapter 5
    T he Palace of the Patriarchs. Not much to look at, from the street. A towering block of dung-brown stone, heavily fortified, no flags or banners, just two or three arched windows high up on the second storey. And a cavernous entrance punched through the eastern wall, opposite the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
    Solid workmanship is the best you can say for it.
    Never set foot inside, myself, though I’ve passed it often enough. Don’t much care for the neighbourhood, personally. Wedged between the grain market and the Postern of Saint Lazarus: between a floating mist of chaff and the stink of decaying lepers (huddled around the postern like flies around an open wound). Either way, you can hardly breathe. And the smell hasn’t improved since I was last in the area. In fact there seems to be more dung on the street – unless I’m imagining things.
    You forget what it’s like out here, when you’re living in Templar headquarters. You forget that people out here aren’t forced to scrub the pavement with lime when they piss on it.
    ‘Make way! Make way! Out of the way, woman!’ A palace guard, beating through the doleful crowds on the doorstep. They’re new, as well. Never seen them before. Not beggars, either: most of them are quite well dressed, in rain capes and lamb’s wool and embroidered money pouches. Hugging their bags and bundles, nursing listless children on their knees. At a guess, I’d say they were stranded pilgrims. Stranded pilgrims waiting for help.
    Lord Roland catches my eye as they shuffle apart to let us through. He obviously doesn’t like it.
    ‘Pagan.’ (Softly.) ‘Does that child look ill to you?’
    ‘I don’t know, my lord.’ Who do you think I am – Brother Gavin? Doesn’t look too bad. Doesn’t look too good, either. ‘Do you want me to ask anyone?’
    ‘No, no. I’ll take it up with the Patriarch.’
    On through the gate and into the courtyard, which is paved with stone and deep as a well. Shadowy doorways lead off in all directions. Bales of straw. A broken cartwheel. And stretched out on an empty barrel to dry, somebody’s quilted corselet. Most of the guards are wearing them. Used to wear one myself, on night patrol. The poor man’s armour: two flimsy layers of linen stuffed with flax. A single downpour and you spend the rest of your