Pagan's Scribe (21 page)
‘Not a soul,’ Lord Jordan replies, as his gaze slips away from his brother, towards the approaching Archdeacon. ‘Ah! There you are. I was wondering where you’d got to. Care to join me for a sip of wine?’
But the Archdeacon doesn’t seem to hear. ‘What happened?’ he demands, fixing his red-rimmed eyes on Lord Jordan. ‘Is the Viscount safe?’
‘Of course he is. I was looking after him myself.’
‘Did we lose any knights?’
‘About half a score.’
‘
What?
’
‘We weren’t playing hot cockles, Pagan. It was a very hard fight.’
‘But you were outnumbered?’
‘Dramatically.’
‘And now they’re burning Saint Vincent?’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Where’s Guichard?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Lord Jordan glances around at the turmoil. ‘Off hiding his plunder, I suspect.’
‘What plunder?’
‘Well, you know what it’s like in a house-to-house, Pagan. Always time to check under pillows. And a dead crusader doesn’t need his rings any more.’
Robbing the dead? Oh no. How disgusting. A small hiss from Lord Roland, who obviously doesn’t approve. His brother lifts an eyebrow.
‘You’d prefer our
enemies
to have the spoils?’ he says. ‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘If our men had spent more time fighting, instead of pillaging, we might have saved Saint Vincent,’ Lord Roland replies. But his brother simply sneers.
‘Half our men only fight because of the plunder they get from it,’ he says. ‘Grow up, Roland. You’re not in a monastery now.’
‘What about casualties on their side?’ The Archdeacon sounds impatient; he wants more news. ‘Anyone we know? Anyone who’ll make a difference?’
‘Oh, I think they’ll
all
be missed, Pagan. Wasn’t it Jesus who said: “Even the very hairs of your head are all numbered”?’
‘Damn it, you know what I mean! Did you kill any knights?’
‘Not personally.’
‘Did anyone?’
‘You’d better ask Guichard. He always keeps track of knights’ corpses. Better pickings on a knight.’
‘My
lord–
’
‘Pagan, I can’t tell you. I saw a few go down, but I’m fairly sure that we lost more than they did.’
Oh no. O God, thou hast cast us off, thou hast been displeased; O turn thyself to us again.
The Archdeacon stamps his foot, and hammers his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
‘Damn it!’ he cries. ‘Damn it, if only – I can’t just stand by and watch. Perhaps I could help. I’ve got a sword. I know how to use it. So does Roland.’
Lord Jordan bursts out laughing.
‘
You?
’ he exclaims, and the Archdeacon scowls ferociously.
‘I was a squire, once. Roland was a knight.
A great
knight.’
‘Pagan, that was twenty years ago. A pair of old cloister cockroaches like you two . . . believe me, you’d do more harm than good.’
‘We’re both younger than
you
are, my lord!’
‘And with age comes experience. I’d feel a lot safer if you stayed away from sharp weapons, my child. You might hurt yourself – or others.’
How insulting Lord Jordan can be, with his contemptuous smile and his patronising drawl. The Archdeacon is red with anger. But when he opens his mouth to express himself, Lord Roland interrupts.
‘God has given each of us our duties,’ he says. ‘Your duties are with the people of this diocese, Pagan. Mine are with the sick. We must exert ourselves where we are most useful. Besides,’ he adds, ‘I took an oath that I would never again wield a sword. How can I break that oath?’
He’s staring at the Archdeacon, who appears to be calming down. I hope he’s calming down. I don’t like it when he’s angry. There’s a pale powdering of ash on his black hair and his black woollen shoulders. There’s blood on his hands and his face, and it makes him look different, somehow – not just dirty and dishevelled, but wild. Uncivilised.
Heathen.
‘Father?’
He blinks, and seems to notice me for the first time.
‘Why don’t you wash your hands, Father?’
‘My hands?’ he says. Around us the bailey is filling up fast, as people pour through the gates: weary combatants, ministering monks, townsfolk desperate for news. Here and there wounded men are borne past by their friends and family, some leaning on arms and sticks, some reclining on makeshift stretchers. In the distance, towards the south, cathedral bells start to ring.
‘I have water here, Father. You can wash the blood off your hands.’
‘Wash your hands, Pagan.’ It’s Lord Roland speaking. ‘Wash your hands, and attend to your duties. There’s enough work here for all of us.’
The Archdeacon frowns. He looks at his hands; he looks at Lord Roland; he looks at me. Finally he steps forward, and dips his hands into my basin.
‘Very well, then. If it will make you happy,’ he says.
Under a film of ash, the water turns a deeper shade of pink.
H
ow cool it is in here. Perhaps that’s why so many people have come to church. Hundreds and hundreds of people, packed into the nave like piglets at a sow’s teats, crushed against the walls and spilling out of doorways. I can see vast ripples of movement as they cross themselves. I can hear babies whimpering and old men spitting. I can smell garlic and bad breath and unwashed bodies.
If one more person tries to get in, I’m sure the whole building will collapse.
‘
Propitius esto
,
exaudi nos
,
Domine
,’ the Archdeacon intones. ‘
Ab omni malo . . .
’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
‘
Ab omni peccato . . .’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
All the canons sound tired and apathetic as they chant the responses. Beside me one of them sighs, and shifts his feet, and grimaces. I don’t think he likes having to stand throughout the entire service.
‘
Ab ira tua . . .’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
‘
Ab insidiis diaboli . . .’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
The Archdeacon looks very noble in his rich vestments. The back of his chasuble is embroidered with golden-winged cherubim, and the Four Evangelists, and Christ the Universal Creator. His alb is of the finest silk. Even his slippers are testaments to the Living God, each bearing a cross of gold on a field of blue.
He’s concentrating very hard, his face solemn and devout, his voice clear and strong.
‘
A peste
,
fame et bello . . .’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
‘
A morte perpetua . . .’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
Boom!
A distant noise. The floor shakes. What is it? Everyone exchanges looks; some of the canons begin to mutter.
‘What was that?’
‘God help us!’
‘The walls!’
‘
Per mysterium sanctae incarnationis tuae
,’ the Archdeacon continues, firmly. He’s glaring at some of the louder canons, but they ignore him; they’re too busy asking questions. It’s Lord Roland who chants the response, his tranquil voice rising over the squeaks and whispers.
‘Libera nos, Domine,’ he sings, and the Archdeacon smiles at him gratefully.
‘
Per adventum tuum . . .
’
‘Libera nos, Domine.’
Boom! Another violent noise, like a clap of thunder. What is it? Is it the wall? Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord. A babble of voices fills the church: high, fearful voices. But the Archdeacon doesn’t look scared. He looks pensive. He glances at Lord Roland, whose face is completely expressionless.
Somewhere in the crowd, a woman shrieks.
Oh God. Oh God, what’s happening? It’s like a signal – like an alarm. There’s a roar of voices. Some of the canons fall to their knees. The Archdeacon scowls, and moves forward: he descends the three steps from the high altar, passes through the choir, and reaches the stairs to the nave. Below him stretches a sea of milling heads.
‘
Silence
!’ he bawls. ‘You are in a house of God! Be silent at once!’
‘She’s a heretic!’ somebody cries. ‘She shouldn’t even be in here!’
‘That’s not true!’ (A female voice.) ‘I’m a good Catholic!’
‘We should throw her to the crusaders! We should throw them
all
to the crusaders! If it wasn’t for them, we’d be safe!’
‘
Silence
!’ The Archdeacon stamps his foot. ‘Let go of that woman! Let
go
of her!’
Woman? What woman? Oh – I see. There, beside that pillar: someone’s got her by the hair. She’s fat and flushed and sweaty, and her veil’s come off.
The Archdeacon turns. Behind him the deacons and acolytes are gathering, too scared (and too curious) to remain by the altar. Some hold candles; one is clutching a hand-bell. The Archdeacon snatches it from him, and rings it as loudly as he can.
‘Quiet!’ he bellows. ‘
Be quiet
!’
People falter. The din subsides. Even the canons stop talking.
And the bell is muffled, as the Archdeacon seizes its clapper.
‘Brothers and sisters! What madness is this?’ he exclaims. ‘We are allies, united against a common enemy! We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves!’
Angry muttering from somewhere to the left. A man’s voice says: ‘Our enemies are the enemies of God. The
Cathars
are our enemies, not the crusaders.’
‘Oh really?’ the Archdeacon sneers. ‘Perhaps the good Catholics of Béziers should have pointed that out, before they were slaughtered like dogs in their own cathedral.’ He lifts a hand, and points. ‘Your enemy is outside the walls, my friends. Your enemy will make no distinction between you. To them you are all sheep to be shorn, whether or not you are fellow believers.’
He takes a deep breath, and raises his voice. ‘My friends,’ he continues, ‘there is an old, old saying: “Only when brothers fall out is the sword driven home.” Dissension will
always
lead to defeat. It is a sign of weakness. The mightiest of Nature’s creatures, the wolves and the lions, turn their ferocity only against beasts of other kinds. My friends, would you sin against your fellow citizens? Saint Augustine himself has told us that war between allies is a great crime. The Preacher has told us: “Woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.” Be wise, and stand united.’
I wish I could see his face. Once again, I’m in the worst possible position: all I can see is the back of his head, and the heels of his shoes, and Christ the Universal Creator hanging from his shoulders. I wonder what he’s thinking? I wonder if he’s afraid? He looks very lonely, standing out there in front of that huge crowd.
But the crowd has fallen silent. The crowd has yielded, drinking down the honey of his rhetoric. What a mighty gift! When I am old, I shall say: In my youth I saw the Archdeacon of Carcassonne tame a thousand raging souls with words as sweet as the bread of angels.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘Let us bow our heads in prayer. Let us pray for strength, and wisdom, and –’
‘The Bourg has fallen!’ A breathless cry, faint but clear, from outside the church. ‘They’ve taken the Bourg!’ What’s that? They’ve taken the
Bourg
?
‘They’ve taken the Bourg!’ (Other voices, picking up the refrain.) ‘The Bourg has fallen! The Bourg is lost!’ A terrible groan, mounting towards the vaulted roof. Oh God. Oh God, be merciful unto us.
The Archdeacon turns his head, and looks at Lord Roland: it’s as if he’s reassuring himself.
Lord Roland simply nods. (I wonder what that means?)
‘Brothers and sisters!’ the Archdeacon shouts, swinging back to face his audience. ‘Brothers and sisters, do not despair!’
‘The Bourg is lost! The Bourg has fallen!’
‘The Bourg is
nothing
! We are well rid of it!’ The Archdeacon lifts his arms. ‘Do you think that the Viscount would have surrendered it so easily, if he hadn’t wanted to? The Bourg was a parasite – a flimsy pile of sticks and stones, draining us of our strength! Every soldier manning the Bourg garrison was weakening the garrison of Carcassonne! What a pointless exercise, to strengthen the garrison of an indefensible suburb at the expense of its mother city! What foolishness! What suicidal tactics! No, my friends, this is news we should be
pleased
to hear!’
Is it? Is it really? Everyone’s exchanging puzzled glances: everyone except Lord Roland, who’s staring at the floor. The Archdeacon presses on.
‘My friends, the Bourg is only a suburb,’ he declares. ‘It is not defended by the invincible walls of Carcassonne. Come, call to mind the great name of this city, your fathers’ valour and your own. Remember that Carcassonne withstood even the mighty Charlemagne: for five long years he besieged it, and could he break it? No! Are you going to betray your courageous ancestors? Are you going to offer yourselves up to the weapons of the enemy – offer up your homes, your children, your fathers’ graves? Of course not! In courage you are your enemy’s equal: in necessity, which is the last and chiefest weapon, you are better than they.’
That last phrase sounded familiar. That sounded like something I’ve heard before. The Archdeacon takes a step forward, leaning over the heads of the crowd as if in supplication.