Pagan in Exile
Catherine Jinks
THE PAGAN CHRONICLES
‘Full of the richly-textured, high-smelling, highly individualistic atmosphere of the Middle Ages, Catherine Jinks’s Pagan series offers unforgettable characters in an extraordinary setting and time, presented in crisp, pungent prose.’
SOPHIE MASSON
‘Humour, romance, adventure, violence – who would have thought Medieval Jerusalem could be so much fun?’
LILI WILKINSON
‘The Pagan Chronicles are a kind of medieval version of Tin Tin, meticulously researched and told with a delightfully slapstick, cinematographic vigour.’
URSULA DUBOSARSKY
‘What a romp! Not since Don Quixote took up with Sancho Panza has a knight had a squire like Pagan Kidrouk.’
Voice of Youth Advocates
‘There have been few characters in recent historical fiction more vibrant than the street-smart, fast-talking protagonist of this series.’
School Library Journal
‘Rich, vivid storytelling, with a sturdy base in historical events, and undercurrents both comic and serious. ’
Kirkus Reviews (STARRED REVIEW)
‘Jinks dramatically evokes a historical time that was particularly dark and dirty ... Along with the drama and darkness, readers will find intensity and, yes, humor. Series fans may find other books set in the Middle Ages pallid after this one.’
AMERICAN LIBRARY ASSOCIATION
‘Pagan is a real, live boy who leaps off the page and compels you to listen to his story.’
KIRSTY MURRAY
‘Humour? Rage? Agony? Spiritual journeys? Murder? Moral turpitude? Twists both welcome and dismaying? This decidedly unique historical saga has it all.’
Kirkus Reviews (STARRED REVIEW)
‘Brimming with wit and fascinating details of medieval history, with its vividly drawn characters ... this emotionally satisfying epic brings the Middle Ages to life.’
The Horn Book
CATHERINE JINKS is a scholar of medieval history and a prolific author for teenagers, children and adults. Her books have been published to wide acclaim in Australia and overseas and have won numerous awards. She loves reading, history, films, TV and gossip, and says she could write for eight hours straight every day if she had the chance. Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains of NSW with her husband and daughter.
www.catherinejinks.com
THE PAGAN CHRONICLES
Pagan’s Crusade
(shortlisted CBCA and Victorian Premier’s Literary awards)
Pagan in Exile
Pagan’s Vows
(winner CBCA Book of the Year Award for older readers)
Pagan’s Scribe
(winner Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for children’s literature)
Pagan’s Daughter
(notable book CBCA Book of the Year Award for older readers)
Catherine
JINKS
The author would like to thank John O. Ward for his assistance.
First published in 1994
This edition published in 2007
Copyright © Catherine Jinks, 1994
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Jinks, Catherine, 1963– .
Pagan in exile.
For ages 12 and over.
ISBN 978 1 74175 232 8 (pbk.).
1. Orphans – Juvenile fiction. 2. Knights and knighthood – Juvenile fiction. 3. Heretics, Christian – Juvenile fiction. 4. France – History – Medieval period, 987–1515 – Juvenile fiction. I. Title. (Series: Jinks, Catherine, 1963– Pagan chronicles; 2).
A823.3
Cover & Text Design by Zoë Sadokierski
Set in Celestia Antiqua 11.5/15pt by Midland Typesetters
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Rachael Westwood
‘. . . And so it was that, the Kingdom of Jerusalem having fallen to the enemies of Christ in the year of Our Lord’s incarnation 1187, there was great lamentation across many lands, and the Holy Father Pope Gregory beseeched all his valorous subjects to gird themselves manfully, and liberate from the defilement of the Infidel that city in which our Saviour suffered for us. Alas, however, although many were kindled by love of the divine majesty to shed their blood, others brought down God’s final punishment, making war upon fellow Christians when they should have been united in the bonds of peace. Thus did Richard of England, called Lionheart, and the King of France, Philip Augustus, take up the sign of the cross; and thus did they fall upon each other in discord and dissension before they had assembled their crusading armies. Meanwhile, in the region of Languedoc, there arose certain heretics – sons of Baal and witnesses of the anti-Christ – who seduced many simple and weak-minded Christians with the abominable pestilence of heretical depravity. These vessels of Satan, the ‘Cathari’, called their priests ‘Good Men’, and believed that there were two creators: one of the invisible world, whom they called the benign God, and one of the visible world, or the malign God. And by clinging to these monstrous doctrines they infected our holy church, depriving it of divine favour, so that when the crusade was finally fought, the pagan multitudes bore away the glorious palm of victory . . .’
– Simon of Saint Medard, c. 1230
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
June, 1188
Chapter 1
What’s everybody staring at?
All right, so you’ve never seen an Arab before. Is that any reason to stare? My hair’s not green. My skin’s not blue. It might be darker than yours, but dark skin is quite normal in my country. So I’m short. So what? I’m not that short. I’m tall enough to see over my own knees. Anyone would think I had a giant candle-snuffer growing out of my forehead.
Look at that fellow there, gawking away. Face like a gob of spittle, and he’s staring at me! Why don’t you get yourself a mirror, Spitface, if you really want something to stare at.
A one-armed child makes a rude gesture. Runs away as I poke out a viciously threatening tongue. No backbone, the little coward.
‘Pagan.’ Roland’s voice is cold and stern. (Doesn’t want his squire eroding the dignity of his arrival.) ‘Please behave yourself.’
&nb
sp; ‘It’s not my fault. What’s wrong with them? They don’t seem very pleased to see you.’
‘It’s been a long time, Pagan. Six years. They may not remember who I am.’
Six years. Imagine what it must be like, coming home after six years. A quick glance at his profile, jolting along not two arm-lengths away, as Jennet and Coppertail and poor old Bruno pick a path between the puddles. (Jennet is such a lady, she can’t stand getting mud on her fetlocks.) But there’s no expression on Roland’s chiselled face. His eyes aren’t even misty. Not that I was expecting anything different: you’d see a pig become Pope before you’d ever see Lord Roland Roucy de Bram in tears.
He twitches his reins, and it’s time to turn right. Another narrow little street lined with pale sandstone houses, all sporting those funny peaked roofs. You don’t often see roofs like that, back in Jerusalem. Wooden shutters and wandering chickens. The smell of smoke and sewage. High walls. Flapping laundry. The sharp sounds of a smithy somewhere nearby.
People clustered on doorsteps, staring.
They’re staring at Roland too, of course. You have to admit he’s worth a look. The golden-haired knight on his glossy black horse, with his blue eyes and wide shoulders and white tunic (well, off-white really, I can’t have washed it in weeks), and the distinctive red cross on his chest. You don’t often see a vision of Saint George wandering past your scrap bucket on an overcast afternoon in the middle of nowhere. It’s like watching a stained-glass window come to life. People push and whisper and cross themselves. A sort of hush seems to follow us down the street.
This is really embarrassing.
‘My lord!’
Aha. Someone’s coming forward, at last. And there he is: a grey-haired, grey-bearded man with a wrung-out face like a dishcloth, dressed a little better than most of the people around here (who seem to be wearing tailored feed-sacks) in a tunic the colour of raw kidneys, and a cloak of cheese-mould blue. He looks almost groggy with shock, staggering out from under a carved stone lintel.
‘My lord Roland –’
‘Germain.’ Roland looks around. ‘Germain Bonace.’
‘My lord – God save us – we thought you were dead –’
‘How is it with you, Germain?’
‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re alive.’
‘Certainly I am alive. And well.’
‘It’s a miracle.’
‘Not at all.’
‘We never thought we’d see you again.’
Roland’s beginning to get just a little impatient. You can tell by the way the muscles twitch in his jaw.
‘And now I have returned,’ he declares. (Subject closed.) ‘Is my father in good health?’
‘Oh – oh yes, my lord. That is, he’s feeling his age, of course –’
‘And my brothers?’
‘Yes, my lord. They’re both well enough . . .’
‘Good.’ Turning to me. ‘Pagan, this is Germain Bonace, my father’s steward. He has served my family all his life. Germain, this is my squire Pagan Kidrouk. He comes from Jerusalem.’
A mutter runs along the street. Jerusalem! The Holy City! All eyes on the skinny little Turcopole who badly needs a haircut. They’re probably wondering what happened to my halo.
Yes, that’s right, have a good stare. Sooner or later someone’s going to come up and poke me with a stick. Just to see if I’m real or not.
‘Are you on your way back to the castle?’ Roland inquires. But Germain doesn’t seem to understand.
‘To the –?’
‘We are on our way to the castle. I assume you still live there?’
‘Oh yes.’ The steward looks around in a dithery sort of way, as if his mind is somewhere far off, beyond the rooftops of Bram. ‘I’ve been discussing rents with . . . um . . . with Baimac –’
‘Then we shall not keep you from your duties,’ Roland says, nudging Jennet forward. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you this evening at supper. We must go now. Pagan?’
Yes, yes, I’m coming. The gathering crowd flinches back as we move. Toddlers scatter in all directions. Germain trails after us for a few steps, dragging a stiff knee. ‘Welcome back, my lord! Welcome home!’ he cries, in a wavering voice. Somehow it doesn’t have the desired effect.
What’s the matter with these people? I thought there’d be garlands and cheering. I thought there’d be dancing in the streets. Lord Roland is one of the lords of Bram, isn’t he? Don’t they like their lords, in this part of the world? I just don’t understand.
The street opens onto a little round marketplace. There’s a church in the middle of it – your basic country affair – with a tower and a peaked roof and small windows. Cobbles and manure underfoot. A well. A trough. A sheep pen. A scattering of dogs and chickens and people.
Beyond it, more houses. Built in widening circles around the central square. And beyond that, the castle of Bram. Visible for miles as you approach it along the tedious road from Carcassone to Toulouse, where everything is flat, flat, flat, like the bottom of a pan, and just about as interesting. Not quite what I expected, this castle. Not at all like the castles in Jerusalem. Those castles are big. This one’s more like an overgrown road-fort: a four-sided block of beige-coloured stone, with the village spilling from beneath its southern flank like an accident that someone forgot to clean up. But perhaps these people wouldn’t call it a village. Perhaps they’d call it a town. Two chandlers sitting on a graveyard fence are quite enough to qualify as a town, in Languedoc.
You can’t see the entrance to the bailey from this point (it must be behind all those houses) but you can see the top of the keep, rising above the battlements. There are colours flapping sluggishly on a flagpole, way up high. Not that I’d personally dignify them with the name of colours. They’re so worn and ragged, they don’t seem to have any colour at all.
I just can’t believe that this is Roland’s birthplace.
‘Perhaps we should stop here for a moment,’ he remarks, glancing at the church. ‘Pay our respects to the priest, before we go further.’
Oh, what?
‘Please, my lord.’ (Whine, whine.) ‘If I have to sit on this horse much longer I’ll never cross my legs again. You’ll have to chisel me off. Can’t we just get to the castle and rest?’
A long, blue look from the Man of Marble. One whole day on the back of a horse means absolutely nothing to him. He could probably run from Acre to Antioch right now, if he had to. Dragging a dead donkey.
‘Very well, I shall visit the priest tomorrow morning.’ (Hooray!) ‘We’ll rest first. Come, it isn’t far.’
I’m so sick of riding. Riding, riding, riding. That’s all I seem to have done for the last year. How long is it since we stayed in one place for more than two weeks at a time? Probably not since Jerusalem. Oh, and there was the ship, of course. But that didn’t really count. We never stayed still on the ship, either. That was worse than riding. Up, down, up, down. God how I hate those floating buckets of vomit.
Speaking of vomit, there’s a very nasty smell around here. Where’s it coming from? A tannery? A slaughterhouse? Whew! Passing the charred ruins of some unfortunate person’s home. Or maybe it wasn’t a home. Stables, perhaps. Or a workshop. They’re lucky the fire didn’t spread.
Castle walls, looming closer and closer. Dark against a pearl-grey sky. The ground rising slightly (very slightly) as the houses thin, giving way to untidy kitchen gardens, and finally to cleared land. Burned off, by the look of it. No cover here for besieging forces. A well-kept ditch (no scrub or boulders), deep enough to bury an army in. Over it, a wooden bridge. Easy to demolish, during an emergency, especially since it doesn’t seem to be in the best repair. One well-aimed rock from the ramparts and whoomp! No more bridge.
The horses’ hooves clatter as we cross.
Someone’s stationed under the big, deep arch of the entrance. He’s so small that you can hardly see him. Most of his face is obscured by a peculiar, greenish growth which seems to be a beard �
� unless it’s a skin disease. But there must be a mouth hidden behind it somewhere, because he speaks as he advances towards us.
‘State your business.’ (His voice is a hoarse drone, very grating.) ‘Halt and state your business.’
It’s hard not to laugh. The look on Roland’s face! As if he’d cracked open a nut and found a turd inside.
‘My business,’ he says, in his sharpest, chilliest, most patrician tones, ‘is with my family. I am Lord Roland Roucy de Bram.’ And he presses forward, ignoring old Green-beard, who’s got about as much authority as an apple core in a suit of armour.
Through the gates, into the bailey.
It’s a fair-sized plot, but pretty crowded. All kinds of ramshackle buildings propped up against the walls. Smoke and ash drifting about. Goats browsing. And the keep, of course, towering over everything, well built, with stairs in the east wall leading up to the second storey entrance. It’s the only entrance that I can see: just a single hole, punched through thick stone, hardly bigger than the three tiny windows sitting high up under the battlements. No one’s getting in there without an invitation.
Glance at Roland. Expressionless, as usual. He’s scanning the faces of the people nearby: a tall, wiry, grey-haired soldier and a drooping individual built like a beanstalk, with long, pale limbs and cold sores. They’re both staring at us, speechless with astonishment.
A brief pause as Roland dismounts, moving without the slightest trace of stiffness. While his squire has to peel both buttocks off the saddle. God preserve us! I can’t even straighten my knees! They’ll have to break the bones and reset them. Ow! Owch! God, my back!
‘Foucaud,’ says Roland, carefully. He’s addressing the Beanstalk. ‘It is Foucaud, isn’t it?’
The Beanstalk simply goggles. What a pathetic sight. Looks completely boneless. Lank-haired. Unhealthy. He sniffs, and wipes his nose on the back of a hand that looks exactly like a dead squid.
‘Do you remember me? I’m Lord Roland.’
No reply. The Beanstalk’s eyes flicker uneasily towards the soldier.
