Pagan's Scribe (11 page)
‘The Abbot thinks you’re possessed,’ he announces. ‘Well, what can you expect from such a bog-brained heap of pig’s offal? That man is so stupid it’s an insult. He’s like something you’d scrape off the sole of your shoe. My God, I’ve eaten
limpets
with more sense than that moron!’
‘Pagan –’
‘You know something, Isidore?’ The Archdeacon fixes me with a hard, intent look. ‘I used to wonder why you were such an angry person. But now I think I understand.’
What do you mean? Angry? I’m not angry. At least – well – suppose I can be a trifle bitter, sometimes . . .
‘Sweet saints preserve us! I’d be pretty angry too, if I was always getting dumped in dark corners by donkeys like that so-called Abbot. What a cess-head. What a scum-bucket –’
‘Pagan, calm down.’
‘I just don’t know how you put up with him!’ The Archdeacon whirls around to face Lord Roland. ‘When I
think
of Abbot Anselm – when I compare him to this maggot-bag – I mean, it’s a joke, isn’t it? A joke!’
‘Abbot Anselm is dead,’ Lord Roland replies, in a gentle voice.
‘And he must be turning in his grave, to see what old Snot-nose has done to his precious abbey. I mean to say, no servants in the sacristy? No communicating in the latrines? And as for the money he must be spending on those relics –’
‘Pagan.’ Lord Roland places a hand on the Archdeacon’s shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t let these things worry you.’
‘But it’s
obscene
!’
‘Please, Pagan –’
‘And what I want to know is, where were
you
when he was elected?’ The Archdeacon prods Lord Roland’s chest with one finger. ‘Hmm? Why aren’t
you
the Abbot? That’s what I want to know.’
Lord Roland smiles. ‘I couldn’t be an abbot,’ he says. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘Why? You were acting Commander of the Temple, weren’t you? In Jerusalem? If you ask me, you’re
over
–qualified.’
‘Pagan.’ Lord Roland is shaking his head. ‘I can’t even read. How can I be an abbot when I can’t read?’
That’s a good point. That’s a very good point. You can’t be an abbot if you can’t read.
The Archdeacon looks cross: he throws himself onto his bed and begins to drag off his riding boots. ‘Well,’ he growls, ‘I can’t see, and I’m an archdeacon. All you need is a scribe, to do your reading for you. Anyway, you couldn’t possibly be any worse than Abbot Seguin. Do you know what he was talking about, when I left? Ear-worms. He thinks he’s got an ear-worm. He wants to pour some goat’s urine down his ear, to kill it.’
Lord Roland sighs deeply. When he speaks, he sounds exhausted.
‘It’s a partial loss of hearing,’ he says. ‘Probably caused by a build-up of wax. I don’t know who told him about these ear-worms. I find it hard to believe that they even exist – at least not in this part of the world.’
‘Well, if they’re going to exist anywhere, they’ll exist inside Seguin’s head,’ the Archdeacon observes, divesting himself of his black mantle. ‘There’s enough empty space in there to accommodate the entire population of Byzantium, let alone a humble ear-worm.’
‘I’d better go and see what he’s up to.’ Lord Roland runs a hand through his thinning hair. ‘He needs olive oil, not goat’s urine. I keep telling him that, but he won’t believe me.’
‘Don’t go,’ the Archdeacon says. ‘Let him stick whatever he wants down his ear. His head is full of goat’s piss, anyway – you can tell by the way it keeps coming out of his mouth. What harm can a little more do?’
‘Goodnight, Pagan.’ Lord Roland gently touches the Archdeacon’s head. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow, before you leave. Goodnight, Isidore.’ He takes my hand, and holds it for a while. His grip feels warm; the warmth seems to spread, creeping up my arm to my shoulder. ‘Sleep well,’ he murmurs. ‘If you need anything, just wake me.’
And he slips out the door, padding on silent feet like a cat. What an admirable person. Quiet, but with such a strong and peaceful presence.
The room feels bigger without him: bigger and colder.
‘There! What did I tell you?’ The Archdeacon is carefully folding his robe. He places it in an open chest, and begins to peel off his stockings. ‘Isn’t Roland a saint? I’ve never met anyone as good as he is – not ever. He’s one of a kind, that man.’
‘Father?’
‘Yes?’
‘Tomorrow . . .’ I can’t even say it. He looks up, squinting.
‘What?’ he says.
Oh, can’t you tell? Don’t you understand?
‘Father, you told me . . . if I had a fit . . .’ (Must I spell it out?) ‘Father, are you going to send me back to Merioc?’
Pause. He rolls his stockings together and sticks them under his pillow. He appears to be thinking.
‘No I’m not,’ he says at last. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Isidore, but I can’t send you back to Merioc. It would be a crime.’ He snuggles down into bed, disappearing under the blanket. ‘So go to sleep, and don’t worry.’
Oh thank you. Thank you, thank you! What can I say? You walk in the Lord’s statutes, Father. You’re like a green olive tree in the house of God.
‘And you’d better be ready to go at sunrise,’ the Archdeacon adds, in a sleepy voice. ‘Because mark my words, they’ll be chucking us out when they empty the chamber-pots. Just you wait. They won’t give us time to shake the dew off the lily.’
Shake the dew off the lily? What’s that supposed to mean?
W
hat incredible walls! They’re like a great cliff, or a crown of stone encircling the top of the hill, with every tower a mighty jewel set in the diadem. Twenty-six jewels, all flying the Viscount’s flag. The Narbonnese Gate is flanked by two of them, looming above us: two massive buttressed towers pierced by arrow-slits, placed there to guard the open mouth of the gateway. And what a busy gateway! As a fountain casteth out her waters, so the gateway of Carcassonne casteth out people – crowds of people, clogging the thoroughfare: beggars and soldiers and people with laden mules, babies crying, hawkers yelling, someone protesting because he can’t get in. He’s arguing with an official-looking fellow in dark green (a toll– collector, perhaps?), who takes one look at the Archdeacon and promptly waves him through.
Through the cavernous opening. Past the armed men. Beneath the jagged teeth of the portcullis.
Into the city.
‘We’ll go straight to the Viscount,’ the Archdeacon remarks. ‘See what he’s got to say. Are you all right there, Isidore?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘It’s just a short distance.’
Praise ye the Lord! Can this be the work of man, this city? It’s so big – so handsome – much bigger than Pamiers. Fine, large houses, with many windows; ditches quite empty of beggars and corpses; flapping pennants of richly dyed cloth hung out to dry above the narrow streets. Everywhere the rumble of wheelbarrows, heaped with produce. Well-dressed people laugh and shout, and hurry along with their baskets and tools, picking their way between little heaps of horse manure. A man squeezes past us carrying a live chicken, trussed and slung over his shoulder.
So many people. So much noise. And the smells! They’re making me dizzy.
‘We’d better get down,’ says the Archdeacon, raising his voice above the howl of a nearby infant. ‘It’ll be safer, I think.’ He dismounts carefully, clinging to his horse as if he’s scared of being washed away by the river of people. And now it’s my turn. How will I do this? There’s so little space, and that woman won’t move . . . Come on, woman, you’re in the way. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?
‘That’s it. That’s good.’ The Archdeacon nods as my feet hit the ground. ‘Just keep close and follow me.’
‘Is it always so crowded?’
‘On this street, yes. It’s the main route from one side of Carcassonne to the other. But there are other ways.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the castle. Come on.’
Easy to say; not so easy to do. How difficult it is to keep out of the dung and the spittle when you’re trying to avoid oncoming traffic. Dodging stray children. Falling over stray animals. Getting clouted with a bucket of water (ouch!) as somebody slips on a puddle of grease. And now my horse is nervous: it keeps tossing its head, and jibbing. A horrible smell, like smoked urine. Olive pips sliding underfoot. A house with carved shutters.
Slow down, Father, I don’t want to lose you.
‘Archdeacon!’ Someone is waving at us over the seething heads: someone dressed in red and blue and yellow. The Archdeacon looks around, and lifts his hand.
‘Master Bardelin,’ he replies, without much enthusiasm.
‘A word in your ear, Father?’
‘Tomorrow, my friend. I have business with the Viscount. This way, Isidore.’
This way, Isidore. Down a side street, and we’re out of the dyers’ quarter. It’s weavers here: I can tell by all the bits of carded wool blowing around. It smells better, too – though not
much
better. Fewer people, but a lot more garbage.
‘Father Pagan.’ A woman beams at us from a doorstep. She bobs her head as the Archdeacon turns. ‘God’s blessings on you, Father.’
‘And on you, my dear.’
Giggles from somewhere behind her. The Archdeacon doesn’t stop to chat: just salutes her, and presses on. He seems to have a great many friends. Does
everyone
know him?
‘Does everyone know you, in Carcassonne?’
‘Not everyone. This isn’t my quarter.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘South.’ He waves his hand. ‘Near the cathedral.’
‘Do you have your own house?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Is it nice?’
‘You’ll see.’ He smiles at me over his shoulder. ‘I’ll take you there after we’ve visited the Viscount.’ Suddenly he sneezes, very loudly, five times in a row. ‘I usually don’t come through here,’ he says, mopping his face. ‘All this wool . . . it bothers me.’
‘Pagan!’
The Archdeacon jumps like a mouse that’s been trapped in a corn-bin. He turns, looking back towards the cross street behind us: there’s a man stepping out of the shadows, a grey-haired man, magnificently dressed. A lord, perhaps? He has gold on his sword-belt; gold on his fingers; gold on the brooch that’s holding his cape across his chest. Even his tunic is embroidered with gold.
He looks familiar, somehow.
‘Pagan,’ he says, in a low, lazy drawl. ‘What a wonderful surprise. I thought you were off wooing heretics – at least that’s what your Bishop told me.’
‘I was.’
‘And now you’ve had enough?’
‘I was summoned.’
‘Ah.’
What a very tall man he is. Tall and heavy. And there’s something about his face – his long nose – his blue eyes –
Oh, of course! Of course. He could be Lord Roland’s twin. Except that Lord Roland’s face is thinner, and he doesn’t have a beard.
‘Who’s this?’ Lord Roland’s twin looks down his nose at me. ‘What happened to Julien?’
‘Julien was ill,’ the Archdeacon replies. ‘I had to leave him.’
‘And this?’
The Archdeacon hesitates. He seems oddly subdued: I’ve never seen him like this before. So abrupt. So wary.
‘This is Isidore,’ he says at last. ‘Isidore, make your bow to Lord Jordan Roucy de Bram. He is Roland’s elder brother.’
I knew it! I knew he had to be something like that. How fine he looks in those beautiful garments. How well he carries himself, for a man so full of days.
‘That’s an impressive head of hair you’ve got, Isidore,’ he says amiably. ‘Hot enough to start a fire. Where did you pick that up?’
‘Isidore’s parents were foreigners,’ the Archdeacon rejoins, before I can even open my mouth. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, my lord, I’ve been summoned by the Viscount. He wants to speak with me urgently.’
‘Does he? How fortunate. It just so happens that I’m heading that way myself. We can walk together.’ Lord Jordan swings around, and lets loose an ear-splitting whistle. ‘
Guichard
!
Move it
! Sniffing after skirts again, I’ll warrant you.
Guichard
! He can take your horses.’
Guichard saunters into the sunlight, a young man with a long neck and cheeks pitted with scars. He has lank hair and wet green eyes, and he’s chewing something.
‘Guichard is my squire,’ Lord Jordan remarks, looking down at the Archdeacon. ‘I don’t think you’ve met him. He’s the youngest son of Aimery-Olivier de Saissac.’
‘What happened to Anseric?’
‘Oh, Anseric. We didn’t suit.’ Lord Jordan smiles, displaying teeth like claws. ‘Guichard, you can take the Archdeacon’s horses back to his place. It’s right next to Saint-Nazaire – the house with the painted cross above the window. I’ll meet you there later.’
Guichard doesn’t say anything. He simply plucks the reins from my hand and approaches the Archdeacon, who gives him a big, bright, sympathetic smile. ‘I know your father, Guichard,’ he says, whereupon Guichard removes a half-chewed lump of vegetable matter from his mouth.
‘My commiserations,’ he replies hoarsely, and tucks the lump back into his cheek.
What a rude fellow.
‘That’s what I like about Guichard,’ Lord Jordan says, watching his squire slouch away with the horses. ‘We both have exactly the same feelings about his father.’
‘Hmm.’ The Archdeacon doesn’t sound impressed. He turns and begins to walk up the road, muffling another sneeze against his wrist. There are shreds of white wool clinging to the skirts of his robe.