Free Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks Page A

tell you that he was defeated.’ A quiet voice: very clear, very thin. No expression at all. ‘I have to tell you that he was captured, and many of his liege men were killed. I have to tell you that the Holy Cross is now, for this reason, in the hands of the Infidel. May God have mercy on our souls.’
    There’s a shaft of light falling from the window above his head. You can see the dust motes floating down, whirling around his golden hair, his wide shoulders. Everything’s very still. It’s as if the entire room were empty.
    But it’s not. That’s the odd thing. It’s crammed; bulging; stuffed with people. It’s so full it couldn’t be fuller. And Lord Roland up the front, staring down at a sea of blank faces. You can see he’s trying to find the words. Very calm, though. Only his hands . . . his hands look wrong. Uncertain. Helpless.
    ‘You will realise,’ he continues, ‘that many of our most valiant and pious brethren, the flower of our Order, met a noble death on this battlefield to the greater glory of God. And those who didn’t fall in battle also suffered the fate of martyrs, for we have heard that they were later put to death at the hands of the Infidel. But in suffering for righteousness’ sake, they suffered as our Lord Jesus Christ suffered. They died with confidence, knowing that in dying they would be delivered to the arms of Christ. For the blessed Bernard of Clairvaux has said of the Templar knight, “should he be killed himself, we know that he has not perished, but has come safely into port”. And so we know that our brothers have been called to the higher glory, and are resting in the infinite love of our Lord Jesus Christ.’
    A muffled noise. Sergeant Maynard has shot to his feet. Very straight and stiff. Around him, everyone’s seated. Staring. The look on his face . . . wild and frantic. Ravaged. Mute. Terrible.
    He draws his sword, holds it aloft. His jaw moves, but he says nothing. Just stands there. Eyes on Lord Roland. Trying to speak.
    ‘Sit down, Brother.’ Lord Roland responds, very gently. ‘It’s not yet time to fight. It’s time to pray.’
    Nothing happens. Maynard doesn’t seem to hear. Suddenly Rockhead gets up, just a few rows behind. Pushes past everyone’s knees. Lays a hand on Maynard’s shoulder.
    Can’t hear what he says, but it seems to get through. The sword drops, for one thing. (‘. . . need . . . come . . . help . . . strong . . . Brother . . .’) Rockhead pulls at Maynard’s arm. They pick their way to the door, slowly. Not a word from Lord Roland: just a nod, as Rockhead throws him a questioning glance across the room. And the sound of their footsteps – shuffle, shuffle – as they disappear.
    The silence is so heavy, it seems to force all the air from your lungs.
    Only Lord Roland has the courage to break it.
    ‘So far we’ve had no news about our Grand Master of the Temple. We don’t know if he is alive or dead. But since it is the Rule of our Order that no ransom shall be paid for the release of any captive Templar, it is almost certain that Lord Gerard has joined our other brethren in the heavenly Kingdom of the blessed.
    ‘Therefore, if our Grand Master is indeed dead, and since our Brother Seneschal and our Brother Marshal have also perished, the cloak of the Grand Master’s authority shall fall on Brother Amalric, the Commander of these headquarters, who is now in the south as you know. From this time on we will look to Lord Amalric for directions.’
    Somebody’s crying. You can hear the gulps and the snuffles. Not far away – look around – and it’s Pons. His face is hidden, but his shoulders are shaking. Beside him, Gildoin. Glassy-eyed. As grey as offal.
    God preserve us. I can’t bear this. I just can’t bear it.
    ‘Brothers in Christ.’ Lord Roland, commanding attention. ‘Brothers in Christ these are days of tribulation for all of us here. Never before has this kingdom been under such a threat of darkness. But