Pagan's Scribe (20 page)

‘They’re doing a good job here,’ the Archdeacon says, admiringly. He pauses to examine the nearest joist, and gives it a satisfied pat before moving on. (I wonder if that joist used to be a choir-stall?) Two men in helmets stare as we pass: they’re carrying a ladder between them, and they move aside to give us more room.

All these preparations. Should we be making it so obvious? In
The History of Rome
, the inhabitants of Casilinum all hid and were silent, so that when the Carthaginians arrived they thought that the town was deserted. And when they came up to the gate, to force it open, the people of Casilinum suddenly burst out, and cut their enemies to pieces.

Of course, those particular Carthaginians were only an advance party. But shouldn’t we be following Casilinum’s example? Shouldn’t we be taking the crusaders by surprise?

‘If you have to read books, Isidore, I don’t want you reading Livy,’ the Archdeacon suddenly remarks. ‘I’m going to lock that book away, and give you something else. Horace’s
Odes
, perhaps. Something light and frothy, about the gods of Olympus. No history or politics.’

Olympus. That’s it. I knew I had a question to ask him.

‘Father?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s a Ganymede?’

He stops in his tracks. His mouth falls open.

‘A
what
?’ he says.

‘A Ganymede. What does it mean, when you call someone a Ganymede?’

He’s gone all red. He seems lost for words. Why doesn’t he answer? Why is he looking away?

‘Does it mean that you’re a drunkard? Is that what it means?’

‘No, I . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘No,’ he says again. ‘No, it means something else. Urn . . . let’s see, now. How shall I put it?’ He gazes around at the drifts of smoke; at the afternoon sky; at the roofs of Carcassonne. ‘Do you know Leviticus, chapter eighteen? Do you know where it says ‘thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is an abomination’?’

By the Lamb of God! It can’t be – it’s not possible –

‘Do you know what that means, Isidore? That verse?’

A
sodomite
?! Lord
Jordan
?

‘It means men fornicating with other men. Lusting after other men.’ He’s staring at the ground, and running his fingers through his hair. ‘And . . . um . . . well, as you know, Zeus was so taken with Ganymede, who was a beautiful young boy, that he carried him off. The way the Romans abducted the Sabine women. And that’s why certain men – especially younger, more effeminate men – are often called Ganymedes. They’re also called hyenas, because hyenas change sex from year to year. And mules, of course. Mules being eunuchs.’

It can’t be true. Lord Jordan? But Lord Jordan is
married.
He has a wife and a son. He’s a warrior. No, I must have misheard. I was so sleepy, I must have misheard. Either that or Guichard was lying.

‘Isidore?’ It’s the Archdeacon. He’s squinting at me. ‘Has someone called you a Ganymede?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Has someone called
me
a Ganymede?’

‘Oh no, Father!’

‘Then who’s the Ganymede?’

‘No one.’ (I can’t tell him, it’s too embarrassing.) ‘No one, Father, I just heard somebody say it. On the street. I didn’t understand.’

‘Mmm.’

He doesn’t seem to believe me. I can feel the hot blood rising in my face. What an ugly, squalid subject – can’t we leave it alone? I don’t want to talk about this.

‘What direction will they be coming from, Father? The crusaders, I mean. Which road will they take?’

‘You know, you mustn’t fret about this kind of thing.’ He’s still staring at me. ‘Even Ganymedes are God’s creatures, and they’re generally pretty harmless. I’ve met one or two, in my time, so I know what I’m, talking about. But if you’re worried – if there’s someone threatening you –’

‘No, no!’ (God, can’t you leave it
alone
?
)
‘I don’t know any sodomites! I’ve never even met one!’

‘Well, you can’t be sure of that,’ he says, with a little half-smile. ‘Sodomites tend to look just like ordinary people.’

‘They do?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But . . . I thought that sodomy was like a disease. I thought that it turned men into women.’

‘Not exactly –’

‘Don’t sodomites look like girls? Don’t they lose their beards, and grow their hair long, and speak in high voices?’

‘Not all of them, no.’

‘Then how can we know who they are?’

‘Isidore, don’t
worry
about it. They’re not going to hurt you.’

‘But what about the Cities of the Plain? God overthrew them with fire and brimstone, for harbouring sodomites!’

‘If we’re going to be overthrown, Isidore, it’s much more likely to be the crusaders who do it. Now
calm down.
Sweet saints preserve us, I’ve never met such a worrier.’ He takes my elbow, and points. ‘To answer your question, the crusaders will be coming from the north-west. That direction.’

‘Do sodomites get married?’

‘What?’

‘Do sodomites get married and have children?’

‘
Isidore –
’

‘I just want to know!’

‘Why?’ He shakes my arm. ‘What is this? Mmm? Have you been reading something? You’d better tell me.’

Should I? Should I tell him? If it’s all a lie – if Guichard has been lying – what will I look like, passing on such tales? Lord Jordan will despise me. The Archdeacon will laugh at me. There’s already a twinkle in his eye as he stands there, peering up into my face.

The bells are ringing for Nones: we’ll have to go back soon.

‘Father –’

‘Shh!’ He lifts his hand. He turns his head. Somebody’s shouting: it’s the watchman stationed on top of the tower. He’s pointing and jabbering and waving down the wall, and the other guards spill out of their guardrooms, hoisting themselves onto the embrasures, shielding their eyes from the sun.

What is it? What’s happening?

‘I can’t see!’ The Archdeacon’s shoving me from behind. ‘What is it, Isidore? What are they pointing at?’

‘I don’t know –’

‘
Look
, damn you!’

I’m looking, I’m looking! Plumes of smoke from the Bourg: beyond them, flat yellow fields and green forest. Mountains in the distance. Wheeling birds.

A glint, like water. No, it can’t be water – that’s the river, over that way. It’s a kind of flash, like sun on glass. Or like sun on – sun on –

Steel?

‘It’s them!’ There’s a soldier nearby: he’s dancing up and down with excitement. ‘They’ve come, they’re coming! Sound the alarm! Ring the bells! Summon Lord Raymond!’

‘Father –’

‘Yes. Yes, I know.’ The Archdeacon sounds breathless, but confident. He reaches up, and pats my shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Isidore. We’re going to be all right.’

Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God: defend me from those who rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from the bloody men.

Unto thee, O my strength, will I sing – for God is my defence, and the God of my mercy.

Chapter 21
2 August 1209

C
haos in the bailey: men limping, men laughing, men collapsed on the ground. Wild-eyed horses tossing their heads. Faces plastered with sweat and soot. A dense cloud of smoke – thick, grey smoke – scattering ash all over the blood-soaked earth.

They must be torching Saint Vincent.

‘God. God. God. God. God.’ A man to our right, gasping as he lies there, his quilted corselet dark with blood. Yellow face. Blue lips. Glazed eyes. Curled up like a baby, shivering in the hot sun.

O God of my praise. O God of my praise.

‘What do you think?’ the Archdeacon murmurs. Lord Roland falls to one knee: he feels for a pulse, and his hand comes away drenched in blood. Even as he peels back the first layer of soggy linen, the man falls silent. His eyes are open, but empty. Lord Roland shakes his head.

‘It’s too late,’ he says, and crosses himself. The Archdeacon instantly kneels beside him, tracing a cross in the air. ‘
Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris
,
et Filii
,
et Spiritu
Sancti . . .

’ For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts: as the one dieth, so dieth the other. Have mercy on us, O Lord.

‘Come, Isidore,’ Lord Roland says, rising. ‘Father Pagan will join us shortly.’ How can he be so calm? He rinses his blood-caked hand in the basin I’ve been given to carry, and dries it on the skirts of his robe – so serene, so deliberate, while around him people cough and curse and wail, and clutch their wounds, and nurse their weapons, and cry out for water. It’s so hot out here. So terribly, terribly hot.

‘Give us a drink,’ somebody croaks. He’s tugging at Lord Roland’s skirts, slumped against the wall of the bailey. ‘Give us a drink, will you?’ He’s wearing a mail hauberk, and there’s something wrong with his left knee . . .

Oh God. The knee. I think I’m going to throw up.

‘Here.’ Lord Roland uncorks his water-bottle, placing it to the man’s cracked lips. He holds the man’s head, and doesn’t spill a drop. His hand is perfectly steady.

But I mustn’t look. I can’t look. There are flies, crawling all over that knee. White bone – something dangling –

Closing my eyes, very tight.

‘We lost Saint Vincent,’ the wounded man mumbles. ‘They took Saint Vincent.’

‘I know,’ Lord Roland replies softly.

‘But they paid the price. They paid the price in their own blood.’

‘Of course they did.’

‘Lord Raymond isn’t to blame. He’s a good fighter. He fought like a lion. But you can’t defend a place without walls.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘And now we’re cut off from the river – ouch!’

‘Shh . . .’

Opening my eyes, cautiously: Lord Roland is flapping the flies away. He reaches into his bag, and draws out a clean square of linen. He turns his head.

‘Isidore?’ he says, in his deep, slow voice. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Then look at the sky, and say a prayer. Say a prayer for the wounded.’

A prayer for the wounded? But I don’t know any, do I? The sky is angry with smoke and sparks: there’s no comfort in the heavens today. My basin shudders as Lord Roland dips his linen into the water. Perhaps Psalm 20 – perhaps that will do?

‘The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee. Send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion.’

‘Ow! Good Christ!’

‘We will set up thy banners . . . um . . . he will hear him from his holy heaven . . .’

‘Save me, Jesus, save me!’

‘Some trust in chariots, and some in horses, but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.’

‘Isidore?’

It’s Lord Jordan. I’d know that voice anywhere. Look around, and there he is: huge, filthy, encased in chain mail. He’s even wearing mail shoes. Mail shoes, mail leggings, mail hauberk, and a big steel helmet tucked under his arm. His surcoat is spattered with blood; his face is smeared with it.

‘Where’s Pagan?’ he says in a hoarse voice – and suddenly stops. He’s caught sight of his brother. He’s staring at his brother, who’s dabbing at the wounded man’s knee, intent, absorbed, cleaning out the dirt and splinters.

The man groans; his teeth are clenched.

‘Is that you, Jordan?’ Lord Roland speaks calmly, his gaze never leaving the wound in front of him.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Is the Viscount hurt?’

‘Not as far as I can tell.’ Lord Jordan seems fascinated by his brother’s profile. He stares and stares. ‘Don’t you eat, in that abbey? You’re just a nose on a stick.’

‘As a matter of fact, I eat very well.’

‘Then you must be feeding worms, my friend. Or are you following in the old man’s footsteps?’

‘I’m not ill, if that’s what you mean.’ Once again Lord Roland fishes around in his bag. He produces a small leather pouch tied with a drawstring. When he opens it, the smell is enough to make your eyes water. He scoops out a dab of greenish paste, and smears it over the bloody wound. That done, he begins to bind the wound tightly with more clean linen.

‘You must go to bed,’ he declares, as his patient groans and hisses. ‘Go to bed, drink plenty of water, eat as much as you can before the fever sets in. I’ll visit you – where do you live?’

‘Right here.’ (Gasping.) ‘In the castle. I’m part of the garrison.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Gerard.’

‘I’ll visit you, Gerard. I’ll bring you something for the pain.’ Lord Roland begins to rise, but the man reaches out, grabs his robe. ‘Wait!’ he yelps. ‘Who are you? You haven’t told me who you are!’

‘I’m Roland. Brother Roland.’

‘God bless you, Father. God bless you.’

Lord Jordan sniffs. Even through all this noise, I can hear him. When his brother stands, they’re almost nose to nose – Lord Jordan is just half a hand taller.

They study each other’s expressionless faces.

‘Is that blood your own?’ Lord Roland finally asks.

‘Is it ever?’

‘You look tired.’

‘A brilliant diagnosis.’

‘Is there anyone you’d like me to help?’