way,’ Berengar responds. ‘They’re in the granary.’
Pushing on, through puddles and cobwebs, through cavernous, half-glimpsed rooms full of sacks and barrels. The squeak and scamper of rats. The sudden, overpowering smell of wine, as rich as plum syrup. The hollow sound of voices, growing louder and louder. And there’s another light, praise God. Through the far door, into a long room lined from floor to ceiling with giant wooden vats.
Grain vats? Probably. The floor’s gritty with corn and chaff and mouse droppings.
‘Roland.’ It’s Galhard. Fully dressed and armed, his face the colour of raw beef. Isarn beside him. Joris. Pons. Jordan, looking even more slovenly than he did this evening. ‘Roland, come and listen to this rat in the grain bin.’
What’s that funny scratching? Scrapes and thumps and whimpers – there’s something inside that vat.
No, not something. Somebody.
‘What – what have you done?’ Roland exclaims. And everyone else bursts out laughing.
‘Big bastard, isn’t he?’ Berengar crows. ‘Must have eaten the whole binful.’
Roland turns to Galhard. ‘What have you done, my lord?’
‘I told you I’d take care of that Abbot,’ his father replies smugly. ‘In my own way.’
‘This is the Abbot ?!’
‘Hell, no. I wish it was.’ Galhard thumps the vat with a clenched fist. ‘This is one of the Abbot’s men. What’s his name?’
‘Guibert,’ says Jordan.
‘Brother Guibert. That’s it. Germain informed me that Brother Guibert was staying in the village with our beloved Father Puy, on his way back from Carcassone. Just passing through. Lucky, wasn’t it?’
‘You should have seen his face when we burst in!’ Berengar adds. ‘Must have thought the Devil was coming to get him!’
Another moan from inside the vat. Roland appears to be speechless. Shock, I suppose.
‘We didn’t know where to put him, because the guardroom’s full and we’ve been storing sides of pork in the lockup,’ Galhard continues. ‘Then Jordan suggested this brilliant idea. Plenty of room, and no way out. Unless we knock that bolt out of the supply door.’
‘My lord, please, you can’t do this.’ Roland’s trying to stay calm, but you can tell he’s having trouble. ‘This won’t solve anything.’
‘Rubbish!’ Galhard barks. ‘The Abbot’s got one of my men. Now I’ve got one of his. If he releases mine, I’ll return the favour.’
‘My lord, this man is an innocent monk –’
‘Oh, grow up, Roland.’ (Berengar.) ‘You’re not in Jerusalem. There are no innocent monks, around here.’
‘My lord –’
‘I’ve made up my mind, Roland.’ Galhard’s voice is more threatening than a drawn sword: it’s enough to freeze the hair on your neck. But all at once the captive starts shouting. He pleads for help. He calls to God. His finger-nails scrape on wood like a dog’s claws.
I’ve never heard anything so frightful.
‘At least let him out of there!’ Roland’s turned quite pale. ‘You can’t keep him in a grain vat. He’s not a fieldmouse.’
‘I’ll do what I damn well like.’
‘But he can’t even see! And it must be so cold and airless –’
‘You’re breaking my heart, Roland.’
‘If it’s the cold that worries you, then I suggest you do something about your squire,’ Jordan remarks. ‘He’s shaking like a leaf, in case you haven’t noticed.’
Who, me? Suddenly realising how cold I am. Feet frozen. Teeth chattering. Roland looks around.
‘I’ll just take him upstairs, shall I?’ Jordan offers. But Roland turns on him. ‘You leave Pagan alone!’ Sharply. ‘He can find his own way.’
Of course I can. What am I, a moron? Silently, Jordan 105 passes me his lamp. His hands feel sticky. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ (The sooner I get out of here, the better.)
‘My lord, there must be some other option.’ Stubbornly Roland resumes his attack. ‘I’m sure that a single guard would be just as secure as this arrangement
Pushing on, through puddles and cobwebs, through cavernous, half-glimpsed rooms full of sacks and barrels. The squeak and scamper of rats. The sudden, overpowering smell of wine, as rich as plum syrup. The hollow sound of voices, growing louder and louder. And there’s another light, praise God. Through the far door, into a long room lined from floor to ceiling with giant wooden vats.
Grain vats? Probably. The floor’s gritty with corn and chaff and mouse droppings.
‘Roland.’ It’s Galhard. Fully dressed and armed, his face the colour of raw beef. Isarn beside him. Joris. Pons. Jordan, looking even more slovenly than he did this evening. ‘Roland, come and listen to this rat in the grain bin.’
What’s that funny scratching? Scrapes and thumps and whimpers – there’s something inside that vat.
No, not something. Somebody.
‘What – what have you done?’ Roland exclaims. And everyone else bursts out laughing.
‘Big bastard, isn’t he?’ Berengar crows. ‘Must have eaten the whole binful.’
Roland turns to Galhard. ‘What have you done, my lord?’
‘I told you I’d take care of that Abbot,’ his father replies smugly. ‘In my own way.’
‘This is the Abbot ?!’
‘Hell, no. I wish it was.’ Galhard thumps the vat with a clenched fist. ‘This is one of the Abbot’s men. What’s his name?’
‘Guibert,’ says Jordan.
‘Brother Guibert. That’s it. Germain informed me that Brother Guibert was staying in the village with our beloved Father Puy, on his way back from Carcassone. Just passing through. Lucky, wasn’t it?’
‘You should have seen his face when we burst in!’ Berengar adds. ‘Must have thought the Devil was coming to get him!’
Another moan from inside the vat. Roland appears to be speechless. Shock, I suppose.
‘We didn’t know where to put him, because the guardroom’s full and we’ve been storing sides of pork in the lockup,’ Galhard continues. ‘Then Jordan suggested this brilliant idea. Plenty of room, and no way out. Unless we knock that bolt out of the supply door.’
‘My lord, please, you can’t do this.’ Roland’s trying to stay calm, but you can tell he’s having trouble. ‘This won’t solve anything.’
‘Rubbish!’ Galhard barks. ‘The Abbot’s got one of my men. Now I’ve got one of his. If he releases mine, I’ll return the favour.’
‘My lord, this man is an innocent monk –’
‘Oh, grow up, Roland.’ (Berengar.) ‘You’re not in Jerusalem. There are no innocent monks, around here.’
‘My lord –’
‘I’ve made up my mind, Roland.’ Galhard’s voice is more threatening than a drawn sword: it’s enough to freeze the hair on your neck. But all at once the captive starts shouting. He pleads for help. He calls to God. His finger-nails scrape on wood like a dog’s claws.
I’ve never heard anything so frightful.
‘At least let him out of there!’ Roland’s turned quite pale. ‘You can’t keep him in a grain vat. He’s not a fieldmouse.’
‘I’ll do what I damn well like.’
‘But he can’t even see! And it must be so cold and airless –’
‘You’re breaking my heart, Roland.’
‘If it’s the cold that worries you, then I suggest you do something about your squire,’ Jordan remarks. ‘He’s shaking like a leaf, in case you haven’t noticed.’
Who, me? Suddenly realising how cold I am. Feet frozen. Teeth chattering. Roland looks around.
‘I’ll just take him upstairs, shall I?’ Jordan offers. But Roland turns on him. ‘You leave Pagan alone!’ Sharply. ‘He can find his own way.’
Of course I can. What am I, a moron? Silently, Jordan 105 passes me his lamp. His hands feel sticky. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ (The sooner I get out of here, the better.)
‘My lord, there must be some other option.’ Stubbornly Roland resumes his attack. ‘I’m sure that a single guard would be just as secure as this arrangement
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