Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online Page A

Bonetus are up front, side by side, big and square but not big enough to hide behind. Welf in particular: built like a road fort, wrists as thick as your average pilgrim, skin the colour of a smoked eel. Practically bald under his helmet and missing two fingers and half an ear. Rather slow on the uptake, but a man to inspire confidence.
    And Bonetus. Smaller, slimmer, quicker, fiercer. A temperament hotter than most Templar sergeants – or so they tell me. Nicknamed ‘the Mace’ because of the mace hanging from his saddle: vicious but lightweight, with a well-worn leather grip. Swinging back and forth, back and forth. Scrubbed clean of blood, hair, flesh, clothing.
    Behind him, Sergeant Maynard. A living, walking apocalypse. Teeth like tombstones under his bloodshot glare. A ravaged crater of a face, dark, frozen, twisted. Extremely tall. Hardly human. They talk about Maynard in quiet corners, because his wife and two children were struck down with leprosy. He has fits himself, sometimes, but not violent ones. Only Saint George can look him in the eye for long.
    They say he fights like a panther in a sheep-pen.
    Welf, Bonetus, Maynard. With a line-up like this, what do they need me for? I’m only going to get in the way. I’m only going to damage their invincible image, like a lame puppy trailing after a victory procession. You can see Bonetus is thinking the same thing. You can tell by the way he orders me to fall in behind him.
    Saint George gives the signal, and we raise our shields.
    The Valley, deep in shadow. An afternoon chill falls onto the pilgrims, subduing them, shutting their mouths at long last. The echo of horseshoes clinking on loose rocks. The whimper of a weary child, way back in the column. Someone sneezes. A glance at Saint George: he’s guarding the left flank, stone-faced. Doesn’t look too worried. (But then he never does.) Hand on his sword hilt. Eyes on the move. Sees me looking and jerks his head. Turn around, Pagan. You’re supposed to be watching the road.
    But there’s nothing to report – nothing of interest. If they’re going to attack, why not get it over with? Nothing stirs behind the brush and boulders. A pilgrim starts praying. ‘God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear . . .’ Speak for yourself, stupid.
    A bend in the road. A blind corner. Could this be it? There’s a shifting of postures, a rustle of fabric, as muscles tighten all over the escort.
    Still nothing.
    If I were a brigand, I wouldn’t take on a party like this. I’d rather raid villages. No Templars in villages. Hardly any men either, nowadays. You can do what you like in a place like that. Burn, rape, pillage. God knows it’s been done before. I suppose I wouldn’t be here, if it hadn’t.
    Sudden thought. What if I were attacked, here and now, by my very own father? What if dear old Dad came screaming down that dusty slope, swinging an axe-head? What a laugh that would be. Not that I’ve ever laid eyes on the pus-bag. But maybe I’d know all the same. Maybe you can tell , somehow. Blood will out. Blood to blood. Maybe I’d recognise myself in his cheekbones.
    Childhood dream: to grow up, get strong, and hang my father’s guts out to dry. Who knows? Perhaps that dream is about to come true. Perhaps he’s just around the corner, slavering into his bloodstained beard. Not quite as strong as he used to be . . .
    ‘Look there!’
    Action stations!
    No. False alarm. One of the pilgrims has spotted a scattering of bones by the roadside. Could be human, could be animal. No rags or horns to give you any clue. Welf and Bonetus exchange glances.
    ‘Keep moving.’ Saint George raises his voice as the procession slows. ‘ Move along, please.
    ’ ‘Should we not collect them? Just in case?’ Father Raimbaut addresses Saint George, who shakes his head silently. The bones are grey and splintered, very old. Dust to dust. Leaving them behind, rounding the last