Free Pagan in Exile by Catherine Jinks Page A

‘Follow that path you have chosen! You are following a writhing serpent down a sink and abyss of errors! The assembly of the wicked have enclosed you, my lord! Beware, for the wicked watcheth the righteous, and seeketh to slay him! The words of her mouth are smoother than butter, but war is in her heart! ’
    ‘How can you say that?’ Esclaramonde cries. ‘I do not want bloodshed! It’s you who are violent! You are the one with war in your heart!’
    Oh hell. ‘Mistress Maury –’
    ‘Please, Lord Abbot, I beg you.’ She falls to her knees. Hands outstretched. ‘Be merciful. Don’t shed any more of this man’s blood. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful –’
    Roland! Help! What shall I do? Turning to see where he is – and he’s already retracing his steps. ‘Come,’ he murmurs. (Dragging her upright.) ‘Come, there is nothing more we can do, here.’
    ‘Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned!’ she pleads. ‘Are we greater than God, we sinners, to pass judgement on other sinners? He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone!’
    What a terrific preacher she’d make. And she’s strong, too. It’s quite a task, pulling her towards the doorway.
    ‘Aribert!’ she shouts, twisting her head to catch one last glimpse. ‘Aribert! My prayers are with you! God loves you, Aribert!’
    Stumbling into the cloister-garth.
    ‘I’ll take her to the stables and saddle the horses,’ Roland says quietly, putting his mouth to my ear. ‘You get our things. Can you find the stables, by yourself?’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘My lord.’ Esclaramonde grips his arm with both hands. ‘My lord, must we leave him? Is there nothing you can do?’
    ‘No, I’m sorry.’
    ‘He’ll be all right, Mistress.’ (She’s really taking this hard, isn’t she?) ‘I’ve seen worse, truly. And they were always up and walking within a couple of weeks.’
    ‘So much violence,’ she whispers. ‘So much blood.’ Her face is as white as chalk. You’d think she was actually ill, just to look at her.
    It’s almost frightening.
    ‘If only there was something I could do!’ she cries.
    ‘You can pray,’ says Roland. ‘There is always prayer. Pagan, if you need help, you should call a monk. And don’t dawdle.’
    No chance of that. Just watch me. I’ll stir up such a wind, it’ll bring the roof down.

Chapter 9
    Y awn, yawn. What a bore. Nothing to look at. Nothing to eat. Not much of a road, this one. A real goat track, hemmed in by scrubby forest: the occasional oak, lots of sweet chestnuts, wild thyme, campions, and other things I don’t recognise. Little brown birds. Twit, twit, twit. Enough to drive you crazy.
    No wonder Roland’s on edge. He doesn’t like riding through forests. Personally, I think he’s overreacting a little, because any snot-nosed peasant who attacked Roland would have to have his brain in a splint. He wouldn’t last as long as a fish in the Dead Sea.
    ‘There.’ Esclaramonde points. At last! A break in the trees. More sunlight, and the cleared land unfolds as we draw closer. Trees thin out. The wind picks up. A field of ripe barley. A stone fence. A sickly olive grove. And skulking behind it, a huddle of houses.
    Two small dwellings; stables; a winter store-house. Another building, large and sturdy, which I can’t identify. Smoke drifting from a hole in one of the thatched roofs.
    ‘Is this where you live?’ Roland asks. He doesn’t sound surprised, but I know he is. It’s the way his mouth moves. Must have expected something more lavish.
    ‘Yes,’ Esclaramonde replies. ‘This is the hospice.’
    So it’s a hospice, is it? I hope it’s not for lepers. Moving slowly past the olive trees, towards the muddy ruts of the farmyard. Doesn’t seem to be anyone about. Not many animals, either. No chickens. No sheep. No ducks or pigs or dogs. Just the two workhorses, grazing in a paddock by the stables.
    ‘What happened to your livestock?’ (I