Tasters 27

Heloise wakened with a start. She had fallen asleep, her head resting against the wooden shrine. It was darker than it had been, and she sprang to her feet in sudden panic, lest Jehan should have come and gone without her. But it was only the haze above the river. The sun was still high, and she sat down again with a breath of relief. The book had fallen face downwards on the grass. She picked it up guiltily and smoothed the crumpled page. 'We keep the hour of sext,' she read, 'because at that time they crucified Him, and there was darkness over all the land Of Vespers, propter Recessum Dei, because of the departing of God: and because at evening the Lord was made known in the breaking of bread.'

Recessum Dei. The afternoon had grown closer and yet more still; so still that the running of the river outside the wall was audible. It was like the noise Time might make, if one could hear it slipping away.

Recessum Dei, the departing of God. Heloise stirred uneasily, and looked up at the rough little Virgin suckling her child. It was very old, she knew; the face was almost square, and out of all proportion with the body. The hands were large and the feet were hidden. Then came to her mind the memory of the broken marble foot that Gilles had in his chest. He had found it when he was a young man ferreting for rabbits among the gorse on Montmartre. There used to be a temple there to Mars, said Gilles, 'and his goddess walked there in the early morning barefoot through the wet grass.' Abelard in the morning had looked at her bare feet. She buried her face in the grass with a half-articulate cry. She had shivered when she saw his eyes that morning, and put her arm across her face. She was shivering now, but not with fear. 'Perfect love,' the words that she had copied in the cloister that afternoon began rippling before her eyes, 'casteth out fear. Wherefore ' she tried to halt them, for this was blasphemy, but the inexorable script ran on, 'I beseech you that ye present your bodies, a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.' It was blasphemy, but her heart had risen to greet it. She had found her God. In him she lived and moved and had her being. He was the very firmament above her, the air she breathed. It was between her and the others, though they could not see it, a wall of glass, so that their voices came muffled through. Go back? She had never left him.

Intent on their Druid-hunt, the soldiers ran on ahead.

'I know you're there,' Marric called to the shadows. 'Come out, or I'll shout for the Watch.'

What could a grey-robed, decrepit old fraud do to him anyway? [...] 'If you want to live '

'I would be on the next ship for the Isles of the Mists,' the Druid agreed. 'But where the Goddess' will is concerned, what is my life? So I remain here. By her will, it seems I owe you a debt. So listen to me, Prince ' [...] He raised hands over a scummy puddle in the alley. Were there accomplices lurking hereabouts? Marric doubted it, following the Druid as if this were foreordained.

The Druid's lips moved in an invocation to the goddess whom Marric had always called Isis. Intrigued, he bent forward to watch; conjury had always amused him. Surely he saw figures forming in the oil on the water.

'By the Hawk!' The priests of Osiris required extensive preparations before they scried, but this shabby barbarian performed his magic in the streets. Clear images were indeed forming: a man and a woman fighting, light erupting from her form; a body falling, another man, bleeding from many wounds, swinging a blade then falling near a ship.

'With your indulgence, my lord ...' Rockhead takes the plunge. 'I have appointed a new squire. From the city garrison. He might be suitable I don't know. If not, we can always put him somewhere else ...'

[...]

'Thank you, sergeant. You can leave him with me.'

'Very well, then. Excellent ...'

Rockhead shuffles his feet a bit, nods at Saint George, and shoots off to bestow more joy and delight on other fortunate souls. (You can hear him barking orders as he wends his merry way to the exit.) Saint George ponders his next move. What now, I wonder? More questions or more rules?

'I am Lord Roland,' he finally remarks. 'Sergeant Tibald has neglected to tell me your name.'

'It's Pagan, my lord. Pagan Kidrouk.'

He absorbs that without a blink. No comment. Obviously the strong, silent type.

'This is Fennel, my battle mount.' He lays a hand on his horse. 'My palfrey is called Brest and my packhorse is Coppertail. Fennel is not your responsibility. The others will need your attention. They are without spite or anger - a joyful duty.'

Ah yes. The joyful duty of steaming manure. The joyful duty of a kick in the guts. I know it well, that joyful duty.

Saint George caresses the big, brown backside under his nose (just my luck to draw an animal lover) and looks up, deadpan.

'Tell me, Pagan if you were confronting an armed man in battle, would you prefer it that he carried a shield and a Turkish mace, or a shield and a short sword?'

Oh great. Terrific. A theorist.

'Well that would depend, really.'

'On what?'

'On where he came from.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'What I mean is, everyone knows that an Englishman couldn't scratch his backside with a Turkish mace, let alone aim it at me.'

Silence. Not a flicker. Face like marble, eyes like glass. Is this a man or a monument?