Pagan in Exile by Catherine Jinks

Through the smoke – on his feet – staggering about. Flames licking the edge of his palliasse.
    Berengar, coughing and laughing in one corner.
    ‘Pagan –’ Roland can hardly breathe to speak. ‘Pagan, are you all right?’
    ‘My bed! Get my bed!’ Throwing my blanket onto the fire. Stamping on it. (Ouch!) ‘Drag it over! Hurry!’
    Clouds of smoke. Stinging eyes. Flecks of smouldering straw, whirling about. Watch it, Pagan. Watch your hair . . .
    Turn around. Where’s Roland? He’s got my palliasse. Rush to help him. One – two – three – heave!
    Casting it onto the embers. Whump. Smothering them. If that doesn’t put it out, nothing will.
    ‘Water,’ Roland gasps, ‘we need water.’
    ‘Oh, leave it,’ says Berengar. ‘It’ll be fine.’
    ‘That floor’s made of wood!’
    ‘Then I’ll piss on it for you.’
    Wait. Wait a moment. What’s Berengar doing with –? That pus-head!
    ‘You tried to kill Roland!’ (You wolf! You devil!) ‘You tried to kill him!’
    ‘Don’t be a fool.’ Berengar sounds drunk. ‘I tried to wake him up, that’s all.’
    ‘You set fire to his bed!’
    ‘Lord Galhard told me to wake him up. So I woke him up.’
    ‘Pagan.’ Roland puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Be still.’
    ‘If I’d wanted to kill him, boy, he wouldn’t be standing there now,’ Berengar continues, in slurred tones. ‘When I kill someone, I do it properly. And you’d better remember that.’
    Maggot-bag. Crater-face. You’re going to pay for this, you unspeakable lump of undigested offal.
    ‘Pagan, please, we have to get out of here.’ (Roland, tugging at my arm.) ‘There’s too much smoke . . . we need water . . .’
    ‘No, no, the water can wait,’ Berengar interrupts. ‘The old man wants you down in the cellars. It’s urgent. Come on.’ Wheezing and choking, he stumbles back into his room. Foucaud’s there. He looks dazed and dishevelled and sleepy, forced out of bed by the commotion. Blinking in the torchlight.
    ‘Foucaud,’ says Roland, coughing fiercely. ‘There’s been – there’s been an accident. A fire. Lord Galhard wants me, so I can’t finish putting it out. Will you fetch water, and douse the embers in my room? Make sure the floor is soaked. Take the beds outside.’
    ‘Come on, Roland!’ Berengar clamours. He’s already on the stairs.
    ‘Take care of it, Foucaud.’ Roland moves towards Berengar’s bed, with its mantle of furs and dogs and old horse-blankets. He pulls a dirty riding cloak out of the mess, and tosses it at me. ‘Wrap yourself in this, Pagan.’
    Of course. that’s right. I’ve got nothing on my top half. Or on my feet.
    Neither has Roland.
    ‘Come on!’ Berengar’s voice, echoing up the stairwell. Roland digs around a little more, ignoring the whimpering dogs, and produces a tunic so old and frayed and disgusting that it looks as if some bitch has given birth to a litter of puppies on it. Pulling it over his head.
    Oh no, he can’t wear that. ‘My lord, you can’t wear that –’

‘Come on, Pagan, don’t dawdle.’
    And down the stairs we go. Down, down, down. Treading carefully (it’s so dark, and this cloak is so long), past the first floor landing, way down to the cellars. Damper and damper. Colder and colder. What time is it? No light from the windows. A film of water on the stone walls, glistening in the light from Berengar’s torch. Slimy puddles on the flagstones. (I wish I was wearing my boots.) Roland ahead of me, nursing his arm. Why’s he –? ‘My lord! Are you burned?’
    ‘Just a little.’
    ‘Where? Let me see!’
    ‘It’s nothing. It’s a scorch. Don’t concern yourself.’
    Don’t concern myself! I swear, I’m going to kill that Berengar. I’m going to stick a lance in his ear and skewer his brains.
    ‘What’s that noise?’ Roland stops in his tracks, listening. What noise? Oh. That noise.
    A faint, muffled cry. And a thump, like somebody pounding on wood.
    ‘Here, I’ll show you. This