Pagan's Scribe (13 page)
The Archdeacon bows. ‘My lord, I am your most humble servant.’
‘And I’ll come too,’ the Bishop suddenly announces. He’s been perched on the edge of his seat, gnawing at the skin of his right thumb. ‘I’m sure the legate will find my presence reassuring.’
Even the Archdeacon rolls his eyes at that one. Lord Jordan grins, and the Viscount wriggles around in his chair.
‘Oh all right,’ he says, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. ‘I suppose you’d better come, or they’ll wonder what I’ve done to you. What about you, Jordan? Will you come?’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Then we’ll leave for Montpellier first thing tomorrow. When the gates open.’
‘Montpellier?’ the Archdeacon exclaims, in a startled voice. ‘Is that where they are?’
‘As far as I know, that’s where they are.’ Lord Raymond kicks moodily at a dog that’s sniffing around his feet. ‘They’re not wasting time, I can tell you.’
‘Then we should follow their example,’ the Archdeacon says. ‘I’ll be with you tomorrow, my lord. Do we meet at the Aude Gate?’
‘Yes. The Aude Gate, at sunrise.’
‘I’ll be there.’
And if he’s there, I’ll be there too. O Lord, I cry unto thee; make haste unto me; give ear unto my voice when I cry unto thee.
For out of the north there cometh up a nation against us, which shall make our land desolate, and none shall dwell therein.
T
here is poetry in this cavalcade – a great deal of poetry. What a vivid scene you could paint if you had Virgil’s skill: if you could describe the river of gleaming horses with their flowing tails and tossing heads; the rumble of their hoofs and the glint of their gilded trappings; the standards fluttering proudly above them, some as red as the blood of grapes, others as green as the fourth foundation of the Heavenly Jerusalem. How wonderful it would be to capture those colours for ever, in writing, and to resurrect the men who carry them, the knights and the squires, and the Bishop, and the Bishop’s chaplain, and all those lesser folk who ride with the baggage. Some two score men, I would say – perhaps even more – who come like the Seventh Angel of the Apocalypse, clothed with a cloud: only in this case it’s a cloud of dust, thick and white, thrown up by the passage of our horses.
If I were a poet, I would compare this swift procession to a storm, and the dust to a thundercloud, and the flash of polished steel to bolts of lightning. I would compare the Viscount to Odysseus, and the Bishop to Eurystheus (the most cowardly king in all history), and the Archdeacon . . .
To whom would I compare the Archdeacon?
He’s sitting there, lost in thought, and it’s obvious that his limbs are working without the guidance of his brain, which is busy with matters far more crucial than the management of his reins and his stirrups. I wonder what he’s thinking about? Not happy things, I’ll warrant you. He’s frowning, and his face seems overcast, and he’s chewing at his bottom lip like a dog worrying a rat. I suppose, if I were Virgil, I would compare him to Mercury, because he’s light on his feet, and to Phoebus Apollo, because he has the gift of rhetoric, and could easily argue his son back to life, just as Apollo did. But Apollo was radiant; he was as fair as the sun, and as beautiful as the day. The Archdeacon looks more like Pluto, black-robed and black-bearded. Except that Pluto would not have been so small . . .
Ah well. I’ll never be a poet, in any case. You don’t have to be a poet to write history. You just have to get your facts right.
‘Father?’
‘Hmmph?’ He blinks, and looks up. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Father, will you tell me about Lord Jordan?’
‘Lord Jordan?’ he says, making a face. ‘Lord Jordan is Roland’s brother. There’s not much else to tell.’
(Oh yes there is.) ‘But you mentioned fratricide . . .’
‘Sweet saints preserve us!’ He laughs, and shakes his head. ‘You never miss a word, do you? You’re as quiet as a mouse, but you soak it all up. Every single bit of it.’
‘Father –’
‘When I first met Jordan, Isidore, his father Lord Galhard was still alive. So was his brother Berengar. Berengar was the eldest, then came Jordan, and then Roland. Being the eldest, Berengar was supposed to succeed Lord Galhard.’ There’s a pause, as the Archdeacon swerves to avoid a skittish grey horse up ahead. He doesn’t speak again until we’re safely past. ‘Lord Galhard died of a wasting disease, about fifteen years ago,’ he continues. ‘When he died, Berengar became Lord of Bram. But three months later Berengar also perished, in rather mysterious circumstances. Jordan maintains that it was a hunting accident. I find that hard to believe.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Berengar was an extremely experienced hunter. It seems odd that he should have planted himself right in front of a wild boar and let it tear him to pieces. Very small pieces they were, too – or so I’ve heard. And no sign of his hunting sword.’
‘Then –’
‘I’m not saying that it
was
murder. I’m just saying that it
could
have been.’ The Archdeacon narrows his eyes, squinting into the middle distance. ‘And knowing Jordan, it probably was.’
God have mercy upon us. Could this really be true?
‘But Father –why hasn’t he been punished?’
‘Oh, it’s not a thing that anyone can prove,’ the Archdeacon replies, with a careless wave of his hand. ‘It’s just a suspicion I happen to entertain, because of certain things he’s said. And certain things he’s done. He’s a very dangerous man, is Jordan. Very dangerous, and very clever. That’s why I want you to keep away from him.’ Glancing at me. ‘Is that clear?’
‘But I don’t understand.’ This doesn’t make sense. ‘If Lord Jordan is so bad, then why is Lord Roland so good?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that Jordan is
all
bad . . .’ The Archdeacon’s voice fades, as he becomes lost in some distant memory. But it must trouble him, because he dismisses it with a shake of his head. ‘As far as I can tell, Roland takes after his mother. She was a noble, pious woman, and Roland was her favourite. She had a great deal of influence over him.’ Another pause. ‘As for the other two boys, they followed in their father’s footsteps.’
‘Lord Galhard’s footsteps, you mean?’
‘That’s right. Lord Galhard.’ The Archdeacon scowls: in clear, ringing tones he adds, ‘Lord Galhard was the most blackhearted butcher ever to soil the earth with his bloody crimes. May his soul be condemned, and may he spend eternity in the everlasting fires of Satan’s furnace.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Lord Jordan’s voice. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
By the blood of the Lamb! Where did
he
spring from? The Archdeacon nearly falls off his horse. He turns, and there’s Lord Jordan, coming up from behind. He’s riding the most magnificent black stallion, and wearing the most magnificent surcoat – red damask, lined with silk. He also wears an enormous sword and a glittering mail hauberk, and altogether looks like something unleashed by the breaking of the Seven Seals in the Book of Revelations.
Oh, but he’s a glorious sight. What a glorious, glorious sight! The earth shall quake before him, and the heavens shall tremble.
‘Discussing my family, Pagan?’ he says, in a genial sort of way. ‘Please do go on.’
‘My lord, I – I –’
‘It’s a fascinating subject, isn’t it? Have you told Isidore about the number of wives that Berengar managed to kill off? Or about the time my father tried to cut your tongue out?’ He lifts his eyes and raises his voice, addressing me over the Archdeacon’s head. ‘My father didn’t like Pagan’s choice of words, so he tried to cut his tongue out. Fortunately, I was able to prevent him from doing so.’
‘And I’ll always be grateful for that, my lord. Always,’ the Archdeacon mumbles, turning quite red. Whereupon Lord Jordan addresses me again.
‘I suppose you’ve been hearing all about Roland,’ he says. ‘About how brave and pious and chivalrous he is, and what a good singer he is, and how his piss turns to pure gold the moment it leaves his body.’ A sneer lifts one side of his mouth, displaying a full complement of small, pointed teeth. ‘Boring, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘My lord –!’
‘Oh, I’m
so
sorry, Pagan. God forbid that I should utter the slightest criticism of Saint Roland. I’ll say three “Our Fathers”, shall I? Or perhaps I should just nail myself to the nearest church door.’
The Archdeacon looks angry now. He’s sitting very straight in the saddle, and the sparks are practically shooting from his eyes.
‘I think that Isidore may have formed his own opinions about Roland, my lord,’ he says through his teeth. ‘I don’t think your views will affect them, based as they are on ill-will and prejudice.’
‘See what happens, Isidore? We get along quite well until we touch on the topic of Roland.’ Lord Jordan is riding with one hand on his hip: he looks so elegant and graceful, in those beautiful clothes. On that beautiful horse. ‘The secret is to steer clear of Roland, and talk about other people,’ he says. ‘Now this Abbot we’re going to meet – the one who seems to be running everything – what’s
he
like, for instance? Does anybody know him? I hear that he was down this way a couple of years ago.’
‘Yes, he was.’ The Archdeacon jumps at this opportunity to change the subject. ‘He came down here with the preaching mission. I met him several times.’
‘And what did you think?’
The Archdeacon makes a wry face. ‘Nothing very encouraging, my lord,’ he says. ‘Arnaud Amaury is a powerful man. He’s a cousin of the Viscount of Narbonne –’
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’
‘– and he was Abbot of Grandselve before he was appointed Abbot of Citeaux. Of course, Citeaux is one of the leading Cistercian monasteries, so Arnaud always has to have the last word.’ A sigh. ‘He tends to favour the fire-and–blood school of preaching.’
‘‘And the Lord will insert burning coals into your testicles, and roll them down into the Bottomless Pit’?’ Lord Jordan suggests, whereupon the Archdeacon giggles behind his hand.
‘Something like that,’ he agrees. ‘ ‘Repent, or thou shalt be smitten with the Boil and the Ear-worm.’’
‘And what about this papal legate?’ Lord Jordan raises an eyebrow. ‘Do we know anything about him?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Except that he’s called Milo.’
‘Like the tribune who killed Clodius, and was defended by Cicero.’ I can’t help saying it: they both look at me as if I’m a giant mushroom growing out of the saddle.
‘Ye-e-es,’ the Archdeacon finally remarks, and turns back to Lord Jordan. ‘We must pray that this Milo is a reasonable man, because I tell you now that we can’t expect any moderation from Arnaud Amaury. He’s as vain as Venus, that fellow. Can’t bear to be defeated in anything. His preaching mission was a resounding failure, so he comes back here with half the population of Europe, to kick a few heads in. He’s a pushy, puerile, self-centred bully.’
‘Well, of course he is,’ Lord Jordan rejoins. ‘He’s a cleric, isn’t he?’
Lord God of my salvation! What a terrible thing to say! I hope the Archdeacon doesn’t let him get away with
that.
But the Archdeacon just screws up his nose impatiently, as if he’s heard it all before.
‘So you’re going to start insulting me again –’
‘I simply want to point out that this is yet another example of what the Church so often produces. In fact I’ve developed a bit of a theory about it. I’ve been thinking that the
tonsures
might be to blame: they might be exposing the heads of young clerics to far too much sun. It’s addling their brains, you see.’
‘Ha ha ha.’
‘But I’m serious, Pagan! If God had meant us to wear tonsures, he would have made us bald from birth –’ Lord Jordan’s gaze has been wandering: suddenly he stops short, and bursts into a loud peal of laughter. ‘Oh, oh!’ he cries. ‘By the balls of Baal, will you look at that face? Have you ever seen anything so formidable?’ And he’s pointing at me.
He’s laughing at
me
!
How dare you! How dare you laugh! May you be delivered unto the famine and the pestilence, and may they bury you with the burial of an ass!
‘Don’t you approve of me, Isidore? No, don’t look away. Look me straight in the eye and tell me what you think.’ (He’s still laughing, the soulless murderer.) ‘Do you think I’m being too harsh on your Brothers in Christ?’
‘Leave him alone, Jordan.’
‘Or has Pagan been telling you tales, perhaps? Warning you about my vicious propensities?’
‘That’s
enough
, Jordan!’
‘Oh, what a pair. What a pair! If looks could kill . . .’ He’s grinning and gasping, and wiping his eyes. ‘God knows you’re well matched. I wish I had a couple of dogs like you. No one would ever get past them.’
‘Speaking of dogs –’ the Archdeacon begins angrily, but Lord Jordan doesn’t let him finish.
‘I know, I know, I’m a dog,’ he says. ‘A real boar-baiter.’
‘You’re a
wasp
!’ the Archdeacon splutters. ‘A hornet! Why don’t you go and bother someone else for a change?’
‘Because I enjoy your company.’ Lord Jordan has a devil’s smile: I can see that now. It’s sly and wolfish and full of malice, but when he turns it on the Archdeacon it’s full of something else, as well – something akin to sympathy. ‘You don’t know how much pleasure I get from bothering you, Pagan,’ he says. ‘It’s exactly the same pleasure as I get from pulling the wings off flies.’