Free Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Page A

said that it was better for fifty children to go free, than one knight.’
    By the blood of the Lamb. What nobility! ‘Did he escape, then?’
    ‘No, no. I begged Saladin to spare him, and my petition was granted.’ A taunting smile creeps across his face. ‘Didn’t I tell you that Saladin was a great man?’
    ‘But what happened then? Why did Lord Roland become a monk? Why did he leave the Templars?’
    ‘Oh, it’s all a bit complicated . . .’
    ‘Tell me!’
    The Archdeacon’s smile widens into a broad and gratified grin. ‘You really want to know, don’t you?’ he says. ‘What a strange boy you are.’
    ‘You haven’t finished the story!’
    ‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘Of course. I understand. It’s the story you want, isn’t it? Well now . . .’ He covers his eyes with his hand, and thinks for a moment. ‘After Jerusalem fell, we took a ship to Marseilles, and rode back to Roland’s birthplace. His father was the Lord of Bram. Do you know Bram? It’s north of here, about a day’s ride from Carcassonne. We were going to persuade his father to join the Crusade against Saladin.’ A short, sharp snort. ‘That was in the old days, when crusades were really crusades. Not glorified territorial disputes.’
    The Crusade! Of course! I’ve read about the Crusade. I’ve read about King Richard.
    ‘Did you meet King Richard?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘King Richard the Lionheart. Didn’t he lead the Third Crusade?’
    ‘Oh. Him.’ The Archdeacon sniffs, and waves the subject aside. ‘I don’t know much about him, because in the end we didn’t join the Crusade. When we reached Bram, Roland’s family were involved in a nasty little feud with their neighbours, the lords of Montferrand. One of the people involved – do you remember that Cathar priest I was telling you about? The one called Esclaramonde? Well she lived near Bram, and Roland fell in love with her –’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But she was a heretic!’
    ‘She was a very good woman, Isidore.’ He looks at me, and his eyes gleam in the lamplight. ‘All she wanted was peace. She was very small and young and pretty, with long black hair right down to her ankles.’
    ‘And Lord Roland? What does Lord Roland look like?’
    ‘Oh, Roland looks like a saint. He’s tall and strong, and his eyes are as blue as the sky, and his hair – well, it’s grey now, but it used to be the colour of gold. Pure gold. He’s as beautiful as a stained-glass window.’
    So his beauty surpasseth all men. How wonderful. It sounds just like a poem.
    ‘And did he marry the pretty girl?’
    ‘No,’ the Archdeacon sighs. ‘No, I’m afraid something terrible happened. You see, Roland brought Esclaramonde to Bram, to protect her from the lords of Montferrand. One morning, just before dawn, the Montferrands attacked Bram, and Esclaramonde was killed.’
    ‘Oh no.’ Poor Lord Roland. ‘Couldn’t he save her?’
    ‘He wasn’t anywhere near her. She ran in front of the Montferrands’ horses, to try to stop them, but they went right over her. Trampled her to death.’ The Archdeacon drops his gaze to the floor, and adds in a low voice: ‘I remember her hair, spread all over the ground. It was lovely hair.’
    ‘But what did Lord Roland do?’
    ‘He threw his sword away. He threw it away, and he entered the Abbey of Saint Martin. I went with him, but I didn’t stay very long. They sent me off to Carcassonne, to study at the cathedral school.’ He laughs, as if at some private joke. ‘But that’s another story,’ he concludes.
    So Lord Roland cast off his sword. He cast off his sword for love, and dedicated his heart to God’s service. What a right eous soul. What a magnificent story. The golden knight and the dark-haired maiden.
    ‘How I’d love to meet him.’
    ‘Meet who?’
    ‘Why, Lord Roland.’ (Who else?) ‘He must be a great hero.’
    ‘But you are going to meet him.’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re visiting