Pursued by some rather unsavoury (and unwashed) characters from the Jerusalem slums, 16-year-old Pagan Kidrouk has a cunning idea to avoid paying his debts - he'll join the order of the Templars. But it's out of the frying pan and into the fire, when he's assigned as squire to Lord Roland.
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| A big man in brown, sitting behind a table. Big hands. Big chest. Short and broad. Head like a rock, face scarred like a battle axe. He looks up and sees-what's this? A street urchin? Whatever it is, it's trouble. Trouble advances cautiously. | |
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| "They said I should report to the Standard-Bearer." | |
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| The big man nods. | |
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| "You can call me sir," he says. (Voice like gravel rattling in a cast-iron pot.) He pulls out a quill pen. "Name?" he says. | |
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| "Pagan." | |
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| "Pagan what?" | |
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| "Pagan Kidrouk." | |
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| "Pagan Kidrouk, sir." | |
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| (Hell in a handcart.) | |
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| "Pagan Kidrouk, sir." | |
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| Scratch, scratch. He writes very slowly. | |
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| "Age?" | |
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| "Sixteen. Sir." | |
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| "Born in?" | |
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| "Bethlehem." | |
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| Rockhead looks up. The brain peeps out from behind the brawn. | |
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| "Don't worry, sir. It didn't happen in a stable." | |
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| Clunk. Another jest falls flat on the ground. | |
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| "Rule number one, Kidrouk. In the Order of the Temple you speak only when you're spoken to." | |
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| "Yes, sir." | |
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| "Understand?" | |
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| "Yes, sir." | |
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| Rockhead smells rich and rare, like a well-matured piece of cheese. No baths for the Templars. Hot water is for girls and porridge and other soft, wet things. If a Templar wants a bath he can go and stand in the rain. That's what God put it there for. | |
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| "And where did you come from, Kidrouk?" (The unspoken question: out of a slop bucket?) Rockhead is highly suspicious. You can see what he's thinking. Just look at this runt! Smells like the Infidel, and looks like a Bedouin boy. Skin the color of braised almonds. Built like a horsewhip. Black hair. Black eyes. What in the name of God is this Order coming to? We'll be recruiting stray dogs next. | |
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| "I'm a local, sir. I served in the Jerusalem garrison." | |
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| "On?" | |
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| "The night watch. I patrolled the northern beat. Between the Postern of Lazarus and the Postern of Saint Magdalene." | |
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| "You mean the Jewry quarter?" | |
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| "That's the one. Sir." | |
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| "And why did you leave?" | |
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| "Well, sir... it was the jokes." | |
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| Pause. Rockhead's brows roll together like gathering thunderclouds. But the storm doesn't break. | |
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| "It was the what?" | |
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| "It was the jokes, sir. In the guardroom. Not that I object to jokes as such. Some of my best friends are complete jokes. But I don't like leper jokes. Or dysentery jokes. Especially when I'm eating." | |
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| Rockhead puts his pen down. Game's over. | |
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| Pagan's Crusade by Catherine Jinks. Copyright (c) 2004 by Catherine Jinks. Published by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge, MA. | |
