Free Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks

from his head to his ankles.
    Come on, Pagan, think.
    ‘We – we were looking for Sergeant Tibald, my lord.’
    ‘Well he’s not here. He’s with Sergeant Pons. What did you want him for?’
    ‘Oh – it was just a question. About our pay.’
    ‘I see.’ His blue eyes drop to the bundle in my arms. ‘Have you finished with that tunic?’
    ‘Uh – no, my lord.’
    ‘Then I suggest you keep your question for later. When you’ve completed your task.’ A long, hard stare for the Dungheap, who goggles back like a sun-struck mule. Arnulf examines his toenails. ‘I’m sure these men have their own jobs to do. Is that not so, sergeant?’
    It’s a tough one. Will the Dungheap’s brain collapse under the pressure? But Arnulf takes his arm to lead him away, and Lord Roland waits in silence until they’re out of sight.
    He looks a little pinched around the nostrils – as if he’s just smelt something unpleasant.
    ‘I hope you’re not spending too much time with those men,’ he murmurs. ‘I doubt you’ll benefit from their acquaintance.’
    ‘Oh really? Do you know them, my lord?’
    ‘Of course not.’ (Perish the thought.) ‘But I’m familiar with their . . . they have a reputation. A bad one. They are of dubious character, and are therefore unsuitable companions.’
    Are they indeed?
    ‘If they’re dubious characters, my lord, what are they doing in the Order?’
    Whoops! Just a little too artless. He raises an eyebrow.
    ‘I hope you’re not questioning our judgement , Pagan?’
    ‘No, my lord.’
    ‘Take my advice. Do not associate with such people. They have nothing to offer a person of your intelligence.’
    Well I’m glad you think so. Trailing after him as he moves down the corridor. Fighting the urge to pull a face at his back.
    ‘I know I haven’t given enough time to you since Brother Amalric left for the coast, Pagan. There’s so much to do, as Commander of this house. I’ve commanded many forts, and Safed wasn’t small, but these headquarters are quite different.’ Nevertheless, he hopes I’ll have the good sense and discipline to keep myself usefully employed even without his constant guidance and attention etc. etc. etc. (Pardon me while I catch up on my sleep.) Down four steps, turn right through the archway, and here’s our room – with two people outside it.
    One of them is Sergeant Pons, looking worried. The other is an unknown cleric – a priest, perhaps? – with a round, sweaty face.
    ‘My lord!’ Pons leaps forward. (He’s a nervy type, always jumping about like a grasshopper.) ‘A message, my lord! From the Patriarch!’
    ‘It’s urgent, my lord.’ The cleric chimes in. ‘Your presence is urgently required, by your leave. It’s very important. Very important.’
    Lord Roland doesn’t flinch. He studies both faces, carefully, before speaking.
    ‘Is it from the King?’ he says at last. And there’s something in the way he says it . . . something chilly and tense and ominous.
    ‘I don’t know, my lord.’ The cleric is wringing his hands. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t heard. But I do know it’s bad news. Terrible, terrible news. My lord, the Patriarch is in bed with the shock of it.’ He pauses, his lips trembling. ‘I think you’re right, my lord. I think it’s from the King.
    ‘I think there’s been a battle.’
    ‘Brothers in Christ. As acting Commander of our Temple garrison, I have called this emergency chapter to inform you that the kingdom of Jerusalem has suffered its most terrible defeat.’
    God preserve us.
    ‘As you know, during the last month our noble King was in the northern provinces, gathering a great army. He was gathering this army to defend our kingdom against the forces of the Sultan Saladin. Several days ago, Saladin crossed the River Jordan. And in response to this challenge, our King rode out to meet him.’
    A pause. Well go on. What are you waiting for? What are you waiting for? Say it, for God’s sake!
    ‘I have to