Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online

these situations. Nobody argues with a Solingen sword. I don’t even have to unsheathe it and he moves aside, swallowing the poison on his adder’s tongue.
    Time to go and pull a bit of weight. Round up a few stray pilgrims. After all, that’s what I’m here for.

Chapter 3
    S queak, squeak, squeak. Chink of harness. Smell of hot leather. One stupid fly that’s on a fast horse to hell, if it so much as sets foot on my bottom lip again. Slumping in the saddle with a pain in my back, because I haven’t ridden this kind of distance in two years, minimum.
    Saint George up ahead, sitting as straight as an arrow.
    You’ve got to admit he rides well. Probably born with a horse between his legs. Fully armed. Hard to imagine what kind of parents could have produced such a paragon. Lord Valiant and Lady Virtue. Most courteously married in the Castle of Chivalry. Baby Roland, tutored by twelve wise men (Patience, Courage, Faith, Hope, Charity, Justice, Wisdom, Etiquette, Cleanliness, Thrift, Good Taste and Perfect Table Manners), piously raised as a living dedication to God. Weaned on the sacred host and holy water.
    His only playmate, a statue of Saint Sebastian.
    Saint Sebastian, the Roman soldier. Killed by arrows. Saint George’s wound is a fearsome thing – though he seems to sit quite easily in the saddle. A terrible scar, red and brown, still leaking onto a linen pad under his clothes. Across the right flank and into the stomach. Probably would have killed anyone else.
    The hand of God, I wonder?
    ‘ Pagan .’
    Whoops! ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘What are you doing? Concentrate, Pagan, we’re almost at the Valley.’
    So we are. Should have felt the tension. Saint George has fallen back to keep pace with me.
    ‘A trick for the future, Pagan. If you’re on a long ride and you feel your mind wandering, start counting the bends in the road. Or the trees you pass – if there aren’t too many. Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘It’s wise to keep alert.’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘I should tell you,’ he adds (lowering his voice), ‘that if the brigands attack, they attack on the return journey. After they’ve judged our strength, and when the pilgrims are tired and weighed down with holy water.’
    Terrific.
    ‘We’ll take our positions now. Gildoin! ’ A nod. (Gildoin pulls back a little, signals to the rearguard.) ‘I want you in front with the shields again, Pagan, only this time remember to keep your shield right up , please. I don’t want to see any face exposed. They’ll be shooting from above, remember.’
    He reins in, slowing, so he can fall back and join the middle escort behind us.
    ‘My lord –’
    ‘What?’
    What? Good question. I don’t know.
    ‘Nothing.’
    He waits for a moment.
    ‘Is your shield too heavy?’
    ‘No, no. It’s all right.’
    ‘You mustn’t be disturbed by the noise these brigands make. It may sound like souls in torment, but it’s only hot air. It means nothing.’
    ‘My lord, I’ve heard Patriarch Heraclius singing hymns. Hell itself can’t hold anything as horrible as the sound of his high notes.’
    Brief pause. Then – could it be? Yes. No. Yes. I’m seeing things. A miracle.
    Saint George is actually smiling.
    O clap your hands all ye people and shout unto God with the voice of triumph. A proud moment in history, my friends. Lord Roland Roucy de Bram has delivered a small but healthy smile. No signs of stress or cracking in the facial area. Teeth remain in place. No nasty surprises. A brave and entertaining effort.
    Gone now, but not forgotten.
    ‘You are quite shameless, Pagan.’ Seriously, with his mouth under control. Can’t fool me, though. Now I know there’s someone hiding inside that statue. Someone who’s heard Heraclius sing. ‘You should have more respect. Now go and take up your position, please. And keep your eyes open.’
    You mean I can’t keep them shut ? But how else am I going to get through this business? Welf and