Pagan in Exile Read Online Free PDF

garbage!’
    Takes a while for the insult to really sink in. Isoard goes red. Pons goggles. Isarn bears his teeth.
    ‘Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?’ he hisses.
    ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not alone in that opinion.’
    ‘Well I think you’re lying.’ He takes a step forward. ‘I think you are an Infidel. And I also think you’ve been circumcised. Isoard!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ve never seen a circumcised penis before. What do you say we take a little look?’
    Isoard grunts, and moves around the end of the table, covering the left flank. Isarn sidles off to the right. Damn, damn, damn. Why is this always happening to me?
    ‘Back off, bog-brain.’
    ‘Listen to him whine.’
    ‘I said back off! ’
    ‘You’re not scared, are you? He’s scared, Isoard.’
    Loud laughter. Pons isn’t playing: he’s decided to watch. Segura? She’s retired to a safe distance. No help there.
    Get up, Pagan. Slowly, now . . .
    Isarn lunges. Smash! Gets a big bowl of tallow, full in the face. He staggers as Isoard lurches forward. Grab the stool! Throw it – crunch! Off his elbow. Time to go, Pagan. Run straight through the middle and – hup! Onto the table. Pons at the other end. Isarn grabbing from behind. jump to the right, but Pons is surging forward – ouch!
    Knees hit the floor.
    ‘What’s going on here?’
    Jordan. Oh no.
    Someone releases my collar.
    ‘Lord Jordan.’ Isarn’s voice? Look up, and it’s Jordan, all right. Wearing a long, blue robe and carrying a hooded falcon on his wrist. Bit puffy around the eyes.
    Late night, by the look of it.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing, Pons?’ he says gently.
    ‘N-nothing, my lord –’
    ‘What’s that on your face, Isarn? Dog-spit?’
    ‘No, my lord, it – he – that boy threw grease at me.’
    ‘Did he, now? And why was that? Because he didn’t like your far-from-endearing face? Or was there another reason?’
    ‘No, my lord – I mean – I don’t know –’
    ‘You don’t know? Somehow I find that hard to believe.’ A prod from Jordan’s leather-clad foot. ‘Get up, boy. What’s your name? Pagan?’
    ‘Yes, my lord, Pagan.’
    ‘Is it true? Did you throw grease at my brother’s varlet?’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he was going to attack me. He wanted to see if I was circumcised.’
    ‘He’s a liar, my lord.’ Isarn. Whining. ‘That’s a dirty lie.’
    Jordan looks around. He spies Segura.
    ‘Were you here?’ he asks.
    She nods.
    ‘Is this boy telling the truth?’
    Another nod. Isarn begins to protest.
    ‘That stupid old woman – she’s practically blind –’
    ‘Listen to me, Isarn.’ Jordan places his free hand on Isarn’s shoulder. ‘If you’re so terribly interested in genitals, I suggest you concentrate on your own pathetic set.’
    Whomp! A swift kick, straight to the groin. Isarn buckles.
    God preserve us.
    ‘There,’ says Jordan. ‘That’s given you something to think about, hasn’t it?’
    No reply from Isarn. Just a terrible groan. Jordan turns to Isoard, who flinches.
    ‘Get out. You too, Pons. Out!’ Another kick for Isarn, this time a light one aimed at the ribs. ‘Get out of here, you disgusting creatures. All of you!’
    No one waits to be told again. Isarn crawls. Isoard staggers. They’re gone before you can draw breath.
    Leaving Jordan to finish his business.
    ‘I need meat for my bird,’ he announces, without even looking at Segura. He seems more interested in me. She scurries off to serve him while he stands there, gazing down that long, familiar nose.
    ‘Roland tells me you can read and write,’ he says at last.
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘Where did you learn to do that?’
    ‘In a monastery, my lord.’
    ‘A monastery ?’
    ‘I was brought up in a monastery. In Bethlehem.’
    Pause. He moves over to the table, dusts off some flour, and seats himself.
    ‘Then why aren’t you a monk?’ he says.
    ‘Because I ran away.’
    ‘Ah, of course. You ran away. When