Pagan's Scribe (18 page)
‘Father Pagan!’
Who’s that? I know that voice. Everyone turns, everyone looks. There’s a small group of men standing in the shadows of the northern aisle, all in black, all tonsured. One of them is pale and squat, with a big head and no neck. Another is hugely fat, with offal-coloured eyes peering out from under a fringe of white hair. And the one beside him is –
‘Roland!’
The Archdeacon’s face lights up like a candle. He surges forward, arms outstretched, and meets Lord Roland at the bottom of the stairs that divide the nave from the choir.
‘You’ve come!’ he crows. ‘Already! Where did you spring from?’
‘We only just arrived . . .’
‘Like an angel into a lion’s den. What a relief!’
How happy they look. What pleasure they take in each other’s presence.
Oh such envy comes to me/Of those whose
happiness I see . . .
But I mustn’t sing that. That’s a troubadour’s song.
‘Anyway, you’ve come.’ The Archdeacon’s voice is low and intense, vibrating through the church like a bell. ‘I knew you would. You were wise to come.’
‘If I hadn’t,’ Lord Roland rejoins, with a little smile, ‘you would only have dragged me here.’
‘It isn’t safe outside the walls. Not even at Saint Martin’s.’
‘Pagan –’
‘You can sleep in my house. You can share my room. You can have Isidore’s bed – you don’t mind, do you, Isidore?’
‘Pagan, please. The Abbot . . .’
Yes, Father. What about Abbot Seguin? You’re being very discourteous, ignoring him like this. You’re being very discourteous to everyone. The Abbot’s face is like the Burden of Babylon, cruel both with wrath and fierce anger: as Lord Roland points at him, he folds his arms and says, ‘You advised us to come here, Father Pagan. Now where do you advise us to go?’
‘My lord – you’re most welcome –’
‘I’m feeling poorly, after that long ride. I need a drink. A soothing drink.’
‘And you shall have one.’ The Archdeacon touches his elbow. ‘I have arranged a room for you in the Bishop’s palace. A very comfortable room. I have also enlisted the services of Carcassonne’s best doctor, on your behalf.’
‘And what of my monks? Where will they be housed?’
‘There are guest-rooms in the Bishop’s palace, and spare beds in the canons’ dormitory. If you agree, my lord, we can divide them up like this . . .’
The Archdeacon plunges into a detailed description of the arrangements he’s made for eating, sleeping, studying, praying. He’s at his most sympathetic, his most agreeable. The Abbot listens with a grumpy expression on his face.
Lord Roland turns to me, and smiles. ‘It’s good to see you, Isidore,’ he says.
‘Thank you, my lord – I mean, thank you, Father. It’s good to see you, too.’
‘How are you feeling?’
How am I feeling? What a strange question. I’m feeling . . .
‘Anxious.’
‘But are you well?’
‘Yes, Father. I’m well.’
‘You look tired.’
‘Oh – that’s just because we’ve been riding so much. We rode through the night, three days ago.’
‘You’ve been busy, then.’
‘Yes.’ Glancing at the Archdeacon, who doesn’t look tired at all: he’s talking with his usual energy, waving his hands about, swaying back and forth, flashing his teeth and opening his eyes very wide. His face never seems to stop moving. ‘I
have
been busy, because Father Pagan’s been busy. The Bishop isn’t here, so Father Pagan is doing all his work.’
Lord Roland nods. His blank, blue gaze travels over the hovering canons, the carpenters, the sawdust, the piles of wood, the gaping hole. ‘So I see,’ he remarks.
‘We’re tearing down these stalls because Lord Raymond needs wood for the city’s defences.’
‘Father Pagan talks with Lord Raymond every day. They discuss defences, and food supplies, and all kinds of things. Father Pagan is a very good organiser. Yesterday he spoke to the communal council, and this morning he went to visit all the custodians of the city wells. There are twenty-two wells in this city.’
‘Is he getting enough sleep?’
What?
‘Is he getting enough sleep at night? He’s not working too late, is he?’
Working too late? I don’t know. He doesn’t look as if he needs more rest. And he’s always the one who wakes
me
up in the morning.
‘Try to make sure that he doesn’t work too hard,’ Lord Roland says, in a low voice. ‘I know it’s difficult, but he may listen to you. He doesn’t like it when I tell him to rest. He thinks I’m saying that he’s weak.’
‘But –’
‘And try to get him to eat properly. Can you do that, Isidore?’
But he’s an Archdeacon! How can I tell him to eat his dinner? How can I tell him to go to bed? This is ridiculous.
‘Father, I can’t – it’s not my place –’ (By the blood of the Lamb of God!) ‘If he won’t listen to you, Father, he won’t listen to me. I’m just his scribe, I’m not his lord.
You
are his lord, Father.’
Lord Roland puts a finger to his lips. He glances at the Archdeacon, and waits for a moment. But the Archdeacon hasn’t heard. He’s still talking to Abbot Seguin.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Lord Roland speaks very softly. ‘Perhaps he won’t listen to anyone. He’s a man of great confidence.’ Looking down his long nose. ‘What about you, Isidore? Will
you
be staying here much longer?’
What do you mean? Of course I’ll be staying here. Who said otherwise?
Unless . . .
‘He told you!’ (He must have.) ‘He told you he was going to leave me! When we were at Saint Martin’s, he must have said –’
‘Shh.’
‘I didn’t
want
to stay with the Bishop. I wanted to come back here!’
‘And you did.’ Quietly. Gently. ‘Which means that he must listen to you sometimes. Perhaps you have more influence than you think.’
‘No, I – no, it wasn’t that.’ (Oh, why did you have to raise the subject? This is so embarrassing.) ‘Your brother was the one who brought me. All the way from Montpellier.’
He straightens.
‘My brother?’ he says, his face expressionless.
‘Lord Jordan is here. In Carcassonne. He’s helping the Viscount.’
No response.
‘I don’t know where he’s living. I think he might be living in the castle.’ Why am I saying this? ‘He’s coming here soon, with some of the Viscount’s soldiers. To collect the wood. So perhaps you’ll see him then.’
Lord Roland stares, unblinking. He looks so much like his brother. Even the lines around his mouth are the same.
‘Yes,’ he says at last. ‘Perhaps I will.’
‘Isidore!’ It’s the Archdeacon. He breaks in joyfully, grabbing my arm, grabbing Lord Roland’s, drawing us close. The Abbot stands behind him, waiting. ‘Isidore, will you take Roland to my house? Show him where your bed is, and get Centule to make up another one. And check if there’s any food around.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I’m just going to take the Abbot to his room. Make sure he’s comfortable.’ A big, beaming smile. ‘Will you come this way, my lord? It isn’t far.’
He begins to usher Abbot Seguin down the steps into the nave, throwing us a wink over his shoulder. But he hasn’t gone more than a few steps when one of the canons calls to him.
‘Father! Wait!’
It’s an angry, bewildered cry. The Archdeacon stops, and swings around.
‘Father, you can’t just leave us. What are we supposed to be doing?’
‘Doing?’ He sounds astonished. ‘Why, keep working. I’ve told you what has to be done. You don’t need
me
here, surely?’
Oh, but they do, Father. They need you as they need a lamp, because the wise man’s eyes are in his head, but the fool walketh in darkness.
And these canons are fools. Manifestly, they are fools.
‘Sweet saints preserve us!’ The Archdeacon’s eyebrows snap together. He throws up his hands, and casts about him. ‘Isidore, will you take –’
‘Yes, Father. I will take Abbot Seguin to the Bishop’s palace.’
‘Bless you. Bless you, Isidore. I’ll be along in a moment.’
And he turns back to those hopeless, helpless, incompetent canons.
I
f I had a house, with my own furniture in it, I would have a chair just like that one: a noble chair with a carved base, and a high back, and a red cushion on its seat. And I would have a little footstool, just like that one, only mine would have a cushion on top of it – a cushion embroidered with gold. And I would have a bigger bed, with hangings (red hangings), and my chest would have gold on its lid. And as for my walls, I wouldn’t just have red stripes and red flowers painted on the plaster: I would have the life of Saint Augustine, showing him in the schoolroom; visiting Saint Ambrose; weeping under a fig tree . . .
‘All right.’ The Archdeacon raises his head from his hands. ‘This is what we’ll say. “Pagan, Archdeacon of Carcassonne, sends greetings and paternal love in Christ to Thibault, priest of Seyrac.’’ ’
Whoops! Where’s my quill?
Paganus
,
archidiaconus
Carcasonis . . .
‘ “Your complaint against the priest of Bram is one that I found difficult to understand. However, I have made enquiries, and discovered that your account was not as full and honest as it should have been.’’ ’
Causam tuam contra sacerdotem Bramiensem . . .
My fingers are getting stiff. How many more letters are we going to write today? The Archdeacon leans back in his chair: he puts his hands together and stares out the window, frowning, his gaze blank and preoccupied.
‘ “I have been informed that it is your custom to forbid burial, and due rites, until the relatives of the deceased have made satisfaction to you,’’ ’ he says at last. ‘ “Certainly the Church is always happy to receive gifts from members of its flock when they die, just as it has always received portions from them when they are alive. But to insist on payment is forbidden, as you should know. Naturally such behaviour on your part has caused anger and resentment among your parishioners. It does not surprise me that the priest of Bram has taken your place in their hearts, and that they are giving to him, on their deaths, those worldly goods which you believe are your due.’’ ’
Consuetudinem vestram licentiam sepeliendi negare . . .
‘Wait, Father, please! Not so fast.’
‘Sorry.’ He sighs. His chair creaks. (
Sed solutionem
postulare . . .
) ‘Ooooh,’ he groans, in a muffled voice. ‘These useless, venal, petty-minded priests. No wonder we’re in such a mess here.’
‘Shh!’
‘Sorry.’
On their deaths? When they die? When they die, perhaps.
Ubi pereunt . . .
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ the Archdeacon exclaims. He sounds quite pleased to be interrupted. But when the door swings open, he stiffens.
‘My lord,’ he mutters, warily.
‘Hello, Pagan.’ Lord Jordan looks pale and tired. He’s wearing a simple brown tunic and no sword-belt. He closes the door softly behind him. ‘Hello, Isidore. Working hard, I see.’
‘Is there anything special you want, my lord?’ the Archdeacon enquires. ‘Because I have a lot to do just now.’ He sits up straight as Lord Jordan wanders over to the bed and sits on it. ‘I have a great deal of correspondence to get through. What do you
want
, my lord?’
‘Oh, many things. Many, many things. As you probably know.’ Lord Jordan stretches his long legs out in front of him, and crosses his ankles. His tone is careless, but there’s no smile on his face, or in his eyes. ‘I have news,’ he says abruptly. ‘News from the Viscount. He sent me here to tell you, because – well, because he’s too disturbed to tell you himself.’
Oh no. What can this be?
The Archdeacon sits forward. ‘What’s happened?’ he says.
Lord Jordan sighs. He folds his arms, and stares down at the floor. All at once he looks much, much older.
‘It’s Béziers,’ he says. ‘Béziers has been taken. They took it three days ago, on the Feast of the Magdalene.’
No. Oh no.
‘Sweet saints . . .’ the Archdeacon whispers. ‘Already? So
fast
?’
‘It was a joke. A complete joke. Some idiot shopkeepers made some kind of a reconnaissance sortie through the gate overlooking the old bridge. You know the one? They started taunting a crew of French mercenaries who were camped down by the river. They waved flags, and shouted insults. They weren’t expecting anything: the mercenaries were sitting around, barefoot, in their shirts and breeches. But the mercenary captain – whoever he is, he must be damned good – gave the signal to attack, and they did. With a bunch of hand weapons. They forced the shopkeepers back through their gate, and got inside the walls.’
‘Sweet saints preserve us.’
‘Once that happened, it was finished. Bernard de Servian brought his garrison up to defend the ramparts, but the gates couldn’t be closed. All the noise had alerted the rest of the crusaders, and they just waded in. Took everyone by surprise. It was over in a few hours.’ Lord Jordan suddenly strikes the bed with his fist. ‘The fools, the fools, the God-damned fools! They could have held out for weeks, but it was over in a few hours!’
Oh Father. Oh Father, what will we do? He’s put his hand over his mouth, and he’s staring – staring at Lord Jordan.