Pagan in Exile Read Online Free PDF Page A

things.’
    Without a word she shuffles towards a set of shelves which run across the entire length of the room. They’re piled high with pots, spoons, knives, string, onions, garlic, dried herbs, flour sacks, dish rags – you name it. I suppose she’s his wife. Pulls down a green-glazed bowl, and examines its contents.
    Passes it to me.
    ‘Thank you.’ Just two simple words, but she behaves as if I’d given her the crown of England. Stands there with her mouth open, gawking. ‘Do you think you could give me a rag, as well?’
    With an effort she drags her eyes from my face, and starts rooting around in a corner. Pushing the dogs aside as they jostle for position. Bernard throws down his wooden stick.
    ‘I’m going to have a word with Germain about those eggs,’ he says.
    ‘It won’t do any good,’ she replies. Crossly.
    ‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’
    Cheery place, Bram. Full of love, life and laughter. Bernard lumbers out the door, puffing and blowing like a bull on a cow’s back. His wife hands me a shred of grey fabric that looks as if it’s passed through somebody’s bowels.
    ‘Oh. Thank you.’
    Better than nothing, I suppose. Now, where shall I sit? Not too near that big vat of frothy grey stuff. It might be quite harmless (whey, perhaps, or dishwater), but then again it might not. The stool near the fireplace looks all right. Nobody seems to be using it. And nothing seems to be on it.
    Get out of my way, dog, or you’ll be wearing your teeth out the back of your head.
    ‘There! There he is! I told you!’
    Look up. It’s Isarn. I recognise that lazy eye from supper last night. Belongs to Berengar, doesn’t he? Oily hair and sharp elbows. A sly, unsavoury smile. Always cracking his knuckles.
    Beside him, the kitchen hand with the battleaxe chin. The one who smells like very old fish guts. They told me his name, too. Not Isarn. Is – Isold? No. Isoard! That’s it. Isoard. He sneers at me, and folds his arms.
    ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘that’s the one.’
    ‘No wonder I didn’t notice him last night. He’s a midget.’
    ‘Not only that, he’s an Infidel.’
    Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Not again.
    ‘If you’re talking about me, I can assure you that I’m not an Infidel. I might have Arab blood, but I’m a baptised Christian. My mother was also a Christian, because she put me in a monastery when I was very small. So don’t call me an Infidel. There are lots of Arabs in Jerusalem who are just as dark as me, and they’re all better Christians than you are.’
    Isarn snickers. Obediently, Isoard proceeds to make various farmyard noises that might be mistaken for laughter. But you can see he’s waiting for Isarn to explain the joke. At last Isarn obliges.
    ‘Listen to the way he talks!’
    ‘Oh yes, that’s right, he talks funny. Ha ha ha.’
    God give me patience. No point wasting breath on those morons. Dip my rag into the bowl. Scoop up some grease . . .
    ‘His skin’s a funny colour. It’s all muddy. Don’t those Infidels ever wash?’
    ‘Wash? They wash about five times a day. They’re always taking hot baths. With perfume in them!’
    ‘They sound like a bunch of eunuchs.’
    ‘They’re not eunuchs. But you know what they are? They’re circumcised!’
    ‘Huh?’ Look at that pus-bag Isoard. Doesn’t even know what ‘circumcised’ means. Suddenly someone else comes in. It’s Greenbeard. ‘Ademar wants to see you, Isarn,’ he drones.
    ‘Ademar? What does he want?’
    ‘I don’t know, but he says he wants you now.’
    Must be the only soul on earth who does. Isarn points at me.
    ‘Look, Pons. See that Infidel over there? That Infidel doesn’t have a foreskin.’
    ‘Now listen.’ (That’s just about as much as I’m going to take.) ‘I do have a foreskin, I’m not an Infidel, and would you kindly remove your malodorous great mouths before someone mistakes you for kitchen scraps and throws you to the pigs with the rest of the