Pagan's Scribe (17 page)

I hope he’s not angry. That would be awful. But he wasn’t angry last night . . . at least, I don’t think he was. I don’t seem to remember much about last night, except that the Archdeacon brought me some milk and dumplings. He wouldn’t have done that if he was angry, would he? Oh, if only his horse was strong enough to support us both! It’s impossible to talk to him from way up here, behind Lord Jordan. Because I know he doesn’t trust Lord Jordan. And I know that he must be angry – of course he must – but is he
very
angry, or just a little bit cross? I wish I could tell. I wish he would say something.

‘As soon as I get back, I’m going to light a candle,’ Lord Jordan observes. ‘I’m going to light a candle to the patron saint of horses – whoever that might be.’

‘Saint Hippolytus.’

‘Thank you, Isidore. I’m going to light a candle to Saint Hippolytus, in gratitude for the strength of my beautiful Michelet.’ He strokes his horse’s neck. ‘I really wondered if this would be his last ride, but he’s borne it like a rock. Like a rock in a storm.’

Still not a word from the Archdeacon. He’s peering ahead, at the towering walls of Carcassonne, as we advance into their long, cool shadow. Jagged battlements rear up against the sunset; smoke rises from a thousand kitchen fires. A shepherd by the roadside stops and stares, dazzled by the procession of flags and swords and horses, which is loose and straggling, now, strung out along the road for quite some distance. And of course I’m stuck right at the very end, because Michelet is overloaded. I can’t even see the Viscount from back here: only Guichard’s hunched shoulders, jolting along in front of us, and the bald-headed Jew who’s riding in front of him.

Guichard. He said something to me yesterday. Something about Lord Jordan being a Ganymede. I wonder what he meant by that? Ganymede was Zeus’s cup-bearer in Olympus, but I don’t see what he’s got to do with Lord Jordan. Unless it’s a vulgarism? Perhaps ‘Ganymede’ is another word for ‘drunkard’. That could be it. The way you’d say ‘he’s an Achilles’ when you want to say ‘he’s very brave’.

I’ll have to refer it to the Archdeacon.

‘God, but I could do with a drink,’ Lord Jordan mutters. ‘A drink and a sleep and a good, solid meal.’ He yawns until his jaw cracks. ‘What about you, Pagan? Care to empty a cask this evening? It’s been a long time since we did that.’

‘I’m busy,’ the Archdeacon replies. Praise be to God! He actually spoke! But he doesn’t sound too cheerful. Lord Jordan makes an impatient noise.

‘Busy?’ he says. ‘Doing what?’

The Archdeacon turns his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his beard untrimmed. He squints at Lord Jordan as if he can’t believe his ears. ‘Doing what has to be done,’ he says. ‘There’s an army heading this way, my lord. There will be refugees soon. They’ll want food and beds and clothing. All these things will have to be found.’

‘Is that your job?’

‘Of course it is! I’m the Bishop’s deputy. And the Bishop isn’t with us any more.’

‘Ah. Of course he isn’t.’ Lord Jordan’s voice becomes smoother and slower, the way it always does when he’s amused. I can’t see his face, but I’m sure he’s smiling. ‘What a fine chance this is for you, Pagan,’ he says. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me before. Will you be moving into the Bishop’s palace?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Oh, but you should, you really should. Think of the cellars there. Think of the kitchens. Think of all your faithful friends –’

‘I’ve got far more important things to think about!’ the Archdeacon snaps. And suddenly, here’s the gate – the Aude Gate – and we’re surrounded by hordes of people. Where did they come from? What are they doing here? All kinds of people, men and women, pushing and shouting and snatching at our feet, tugging at our clothes, straining to catch our attention. The noise is thunderous.

‘My lord! My lord, what news?’

‘Are they coming?’

‘God help us!’

So many voices, wailing like dragons and mourning like owls. So many faces, as desolate as the waters of Nimrim. Lord Jordan kicks off a clinging hand and urges his mount forward: he’s cursing to himself, under his breath.

‘Friends, have courage!’ It’s the Archdeacon. He sounds tired and hoarse, but authoritative. ‘The northerners are far away. Béziers stands between them and this city. Your Viscount is a brave warrior, with many valorous subjects. Be calm, and return to your homes.’

A surge of noise: questions and pleas and protests. Oh, why don’t they listen to him? He frowns, and tries again.

‘Return to your homes!’ he cries. ‘Are you men and women, or feeble children? Arm yourselves with hope, and strength, and trust in God, for the Scriptures tell us that the just man, fearless as a lion, shall be without dread.’ He points, suddenly, and his words cut the air like a knife. ‘Take that woman away!’ he orders. ‘She’ll miscarry, if you keep pushing her about like that! Haven’t you people any
sense
?’

Ah! That’s done it. They shrink back like naughty children, scolded into silence. Are they frightened, or are they shocked? Perhaps they’re comforted. It’s always comforting to see that there’s someone in charge – someone who can make decisions, and show the way.

Besides which, the Archdeacon looks so much taller, in the saddle.

‘Go on!’ he exclaims, flapping his hand. ‘Go home!’ It sounds as if he’s talking to a pack of dogs, or a flock of chickens. Around us, the mob begins to break up. People begin to move away, and the noise subsides a little – just enough to allow one man, a stunted fellow with the sharp, ravaged face of someone who has ploughed wickedness and reaped iniquity, to ask a very difficult question.

‘Where’s the Bishop?’ he enquires. ‘Where is Bernard Raymond de Roquefort?’

There’s a pause. Heads turn; people hesitate. But the Archdeacon doesn’t flinch.

‘I think we can safely assume,’ he rejoins, ‘that the Bishop is where he usually is: lying in bed with a poultice on his chest and his hands in a bowl of rosewater.’ As the crowd laughs he jerks his head at Lord Jordan, who digs in his spurs, and all at once we’re moving. Down the street, under the portcullis, past the first cluster of houses and into the first side street. It smells of somebody’s dinner.

‘Pagan! Wait!’ Lord Jordan reins in. ‘Are you going to Saint-Nazaire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m going to the castle. Which means that I’m on the wrong road.’ He twists around to look at me, breaking my grip on his sword-belt. ‘Off you get, Isidore. This is as far as I’m taking you.’

Oh! Does that mean – ?

‘Go on, boy! What do you want me to do, build you a staircase?’

‘Yes, my lord – I mean, no, my lord . . .’ Help! I can’t reach the stirrup. He’s got his foot in the stirrup. How am I supposed to get down?

‘In God’s name!’ he snaps. He’s gripping my arm, and pulling me off, and I’m sliding – ouch! Help! My arm! Let go! My feet!

I can’t walk. I can’t stand!

‘That child is a menace. He shouldn’t be allowed to travel.’ (Lord Jordan’s voice, floating down from the heights.) ‘I’ve never met anyone with so little horsemanship – or such poor bladder control. How on earth do you put up with him?’

‘Same way I put up with you.’ The Archdeacon dismounts clumsily, staggering as his feet touch the road. ‘Grit my teeth and pray to Jesus. Come on, Isidore. You can ride my horse the rest of the way.’

What? Oh no. That’s
your
horse.

‘It’s all right, Father. I can walk.’

‘No you can’t.’

‘Yes I can.’

‘Isidore, will you
get on that horse
?’

‘But I can walk! Look! I’m on my feet now!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can hardly stand.’

‘Well neither can you! You’re just as tired as I am!’

‘Yes, but I’m an archdeacon. So shut up and do as I say.’

Laughter. Who’s laughing? It’s Lord Jordan, doubled up in the saddle. The Archdeacon turns on him, furiously.

‘Go away!’ he cries. ‘Get out of here!’

‘I’m going, I’m going.’

‘This is all your fault! If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t be in this condition!’

‘Ah. But if it wasn’t for
you
, he wouldn’t even have come.’ Lord Jordan tugs at the reins, bringing his horse’s head around. ‘See you tomorrow, Pagan. And try to get some rest. Believe me, you need it.’

Smoothly, skilfully, he turns his huge stallion in the narrow street, retracing his steps until he disappears around a corner. The Archdeacon stands there, watching him go. Oh God, he’s so angry. Look at his colour. Look at the way he’s breathing. In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust.

‘Father?’

He grunts, but doesn’t look around.

‘I’m sorry, Father.’ (Please don’t cast me off.) ‘I am your humble servant. I owe you my obedience. You are my master in all things. I – I’m very sorry.’

He’s squinting up into my face. He’s shaking his head, and sighing.

‘What am I going to do with you?’

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Come here.’ He reaches out. What’s he up to? Glory to God, is this the Kiss of Peace? No, it’s just – I can’t – I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know where to put my hands.

He pats my back, his chin on my shoulder.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, and releases me. ‘I’m not cross. I probably would have done the same thing myself, to get away from that Bishop. But it’s the last time, Isidore. I don’t want you disobeying me
ever again.
Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Good. Now get up on that horse.’

‘But – ’

‘
Isidore
!’

‘Yes, Father. As you wish, Father.’

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.

Chapter 18
24 July 1209

T
he most terrible noise: a screeching, rending, groaning noise, like the cry of a dying basilisk. It seems to go on and on and –
crash
! The very foundations of the cathedral shudder, as half a dozen stalls collapse onto the floor of the choir.

A great cloud of dust catches everyone by the throat.

‘Good!’ the Archdeacon exclaims, over a storm of coughing. ‘That’s all for the best. Now just take it easy, because I don’t want any wood split. Use your tools, not your hands. And you can stack it over there, in that corner.’ He jumps down from the pulpit, pouncing on the nearest tangle of wood like a lion pouncing on a lamb. His head and shoulders are covered in sawdust. ‘Come on!’ he cries. ‘Hop to it!’

Slowly, reluctantly, the canons begin to move again. They pick their way through the planks, clicking their tongues and shaking their heads, as the carpenters apply themselves with goodwill and vigour. They swing their axes, they wrench apart joinery, they reduce everything to neat lengths of board, like theologians reducing the world’s manifold complexities to an orderly series of declarations.

I wonder why the Archdeacon seems to be enjoying this so much?

‘Isidore!’ He thrusts a fragment of carved oak at me. ‘Put this with the rest, will you?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Burchard! Don’t just stand there. Why aren’t you helping?’

He’s not helping, Father, because he doesn’t
want
to help. I don’t think he understands why the cathedral choir–157stalls have to be dismantled. Neither do I – not really – but then I’ve never faced the prospect of a siege before. You have, though: you’ve been in one. That’s why these petty-minded canons should do as you say, instead of whining and muttering and making things difficult. What good are stalls, if the rest of the church has been burned to the ground? What victory can there be, without suffering and sacrifice? How stupid they are, these canons. The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright, but the mouth of fools poureth out foolishness.

‘Come on, Guibert! Come on, Cornelius!’ The Archdeacon waves a hand at the Chancellor and the Sub–deacon, who are whispering together at the far end of the nave. ‘We need all the help we can get, if we’re going to have this finished before Mass begins.’

‘Mass!’ someone protests. ‘How can we have Mass, if we have no stalls?’ The Archdeacon turns, sharply, but the speaker has fallen silent. All the canons are avoiding each other’s gaze; they’re looking down at their feet, or up at the vaults; they’re dusting off their sleeves and plucking splinters out of their knuckles.

The Archdeacon wipes his hands on his skirts.

‘There were no stalls at the Holy Supper,’ he says, frowning. ‘Are you all too proud to stand, brethren? We’re doing this for the good of the city. The city must be protected.’

‘Our prayers will protect the city much better than our stalls,’ somebody says, and there’s a murmur of agreement. O ye fools! The Archdeacon takes a deep breath, and puts his hands on his hips.

‘I
told
you why we need to do this!’ he exclaims. ‘Don’t you understand? The Viscount wants to build galleries along the battlements, so he can protect the base of our walls from enemy sappers. Sweet saints preserve us, haven’t you people read Sallust? Haven’t you read his account of the siege of Zama? I thought you were educated men!’

Sallust? The siege of Zama? Yet another book I have to read. The canons shift uncomfortably: some of them look ashamed, some annoyed, some completely blank, as if they don’t know what to think. Around them, the carpenters and acolytes are cheerfully carrying off great loads of lumber, their souls as peaceful as watered gardens. Why should they be unhappy? Most of the acolytes are my age – they’ve no particular affection for the stalls they’ve had to sit in, day after day, through the summer heat and the winter cold. I think they’re quite pleased to tear the things down.