Pagan's Scribe (3 page)
‘Excellent.’ The Archdeacon nods, and peers at me with his crippled eyes. When he peers he doesn’t push his head forward, but draws it back. ‘Is there anything in that letter which you would prefer to remove?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Good. Then I’ll give it to the servant, and he can give it to your priest. I daresay someone will pass by soon, on their way to Pamiers.’ He takes the leather satchel, and stands up. ‘Can you ride a horse, Isidore?’
‘Um . . .’ That depends on your definition of the word
ride.
‘I rode to this village, Father.’ (Although I spent more time on the ground than in the saddle.)
‘Then you shouldn’t have any difficulty,’ the Archdeacon declares. ‘Any fool can sit on a horse. Besides, this horse is so intelligent, you won’t need to do anything but sit.’ All at once he grins, and he has the grin of an urchin, wide and disrespectful, with one tooth missing. ‘A few falls won’t hurt you,’ he says, slapping me on the back. ‘Hurry up, we’d better get a move on.’
‘
Now?
’
‘Of course. I have to be in Fanjeaux before sunset.’
By the blood of the Lamb, he doesn’t waste time, does he? Even his stride is quick and impatient, as he approaches Ernoul and shoves the letter into his grubby hand. ‘Here, take this. Give it to your priest when he returns. Tell him that Isidore is safe in my care.’ Seizing the reins from Ernoul, he looks around, and beckons to me. ‘Isidore! Come on! It’s time to go.’
Yes indeed. It
is
time to go. But where in the world am I going?
Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed.
Please don’t lose sight of your humblest servant.
O
Lord, what a marvellous work is this country. How vast are its spaces; how lofty its skies. Look at the way the golden fields alternate so beautifully with those patches of rich green forest, in a pattern which yields both refreshment to the eye and varied gifts of produce to the zealous labourer. O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.
‘Would you like a drink, Isidore?’
The Archdeacon is holding a wineskin. He rides so easily, so smoothly, rising and falling with the swing of his horse’s gait, his left hand hanging free. What skills he must possess, to sit like that. How difficult it is not to slide all over the saddle. And what an astounding mystery presents itself, when you get up onto a horse! For how can something look so narrow from a distance, when in fact it’s so incredibly wide? The measure thereof is longer than the earth, and broader than the sea; the measure thereof is higher than the vaults of heaven.
‘Isidore? I’m offering you a drink – do you want one?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Father.’ I don’t want to reach for that wineskin, or I might fall off. It’s so hard keeping my balance, way up here.
‘You must think I’m very unsympathetic, treating my scribe like that,’ the Archdeacon observes, quite suddenly, as if he’s been giving the matter some thought. ‘The fact is, my scribe Godric was a wonderful man, and we got on well until he died. Then I was given Julien. Julien was bearable just as long as he was comfortable. But he didn’t like travelling, and as soon as we set off he started to moan and sulk and carry on. It was driving me insane.’ His voice shudders with the impact of each step, as his horse picks its way around the pot-holes; peering across at me, he adds: ‘
You
don’t look like a moaner. In fact you don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen before. What’s a person like you doing in these parts?’
A person like me? What are you saying? There’s nothing wrong with me, nothing at all.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well look at your hair, for a start. It’s so red it’s like wine. And look at your skin: it’s as white as snowflakes. That’s northern skin. Northern hair. Where were you born?’
Curse you, little man, curse you and all your increase. May you be smitten with blasting and mildew, and may you bring forth emerods in your secret parts.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says. ‘Can’t you tell me? Don’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? What happened?’
By the blood of the Lamb, can’t you leave me be? Do I ask about
your
parents? Do I pry into
your
secrets?
‘Listen, Isidore, I’m not going to laugh. I don’t even know who my father was – he raped my mother, and she gave me away when I was born. So I’m not in a position to feel superior.’ He’s staring at me again: I can feel that bright, black gaze boring into my left cheek. ‘Are you a bastard too?’ he enquires.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But your parents are dead?’
‘Yes they are.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were killed by brigands.’ (Why do you want to know this? What will it profit you?) ‘They were pilgrims, returning home from Compostela. They were with some other pilgrims. But the brigands killed them all, and stole their possessions. I was found among the bodies.’
There’s a long pause, filled only by the buzz of flies, the creak of leather, the thud of hoofbeats. When the Archdeacon speaks, at last, his voice is very gentle.
‘That’s a sad story,’ he murmurs. ‘How old were you then?’
‘I was twelve months old.’
‘And you don’t know who your parents were? Where they came from?’
‘No, Father. The brigands left nothing. Not even their clothes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
No you’re not. How can you be? They weren’t
your
parents.
The Archdeacon thinks for a moment, his eyes on the road in front of us: it’s a terrible road, covered with rocks and gullies, and I feel like a locust being tossed on the wind.
‘So the Church took you in, and looked after you?’ he says.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And I suppose you went to the cathedral school, at Pamiers? It has quite a good reputation.’ He steers his horse around a particularly big hole, before continuing. ‘I gather you’re still an acolyte, since you’re only fifteen. Did you like it, living with the cathedral canons?’
Did I
like
it? What’s that got to do with anything? Why can’t you leave me alone? Why can’t you ignore me, the way everyone else does?
‘Isidore?
Isidore
! I just asked you a question, boy. Did you like living at Pamiers?’
‘I liked the books.’
‘But not the people?’
This is excruciating. I don’t have to answer. I
refuse
to answer. I’m not in confession.
‘Because I can’t help wondering what you were doing in Merioc,’ he continues quietly. ‘With your level of education, you’re wasted on a village like that. You should be at university, or at least working where your skills can be properly employed. Why aren’t you?’
Because I have a devil in me, that’s why. Because I have a devil that would make your hair stand up, and your sweat turn to ice on your brow.
‘Isidore!’ He shakes the wineskin at me. ‘By God, but you make people work! Why aren’t you at university?’
‘Because universities are expensive.’
‘And your superiors weren’t interested in helping you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Will you please leave me
alone
? If you think I’m going to tell you my secret, little man, then you’re wrong, wrong, wrong. My face is harder than flint, and my tongue is bound with bars of iron.
‘Why won’t they help you, Isidore?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you? How strange. But maybe you just sat there, looking like that – it’s enough to scare anyone.’
Like what? What do you mean? He’s smiling a little, as he raises the wineskin to his mouth. One sip and he’s finished: he hangs the wineskin on his saddle, and wipes his mouth with his free hand. How I wish I’d had the courage to take that wineskin. It’s been such a long afternoon, and the sun is so hot . . . though not quite as hot as it was, of course. Everything is dusty and parched, and the birds are all silent, and the leaves rattle like coins in a pot, when the wind blows.
Far away, across the fields, golden hills gleam like the brass mountain of Zechariah.
‘Well, now.’ The Archdeacon yawns, and stretches until his joints crack. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you what I’m doing, rushing around the countryside like this. Do you know anything about heresy, Isidore?’
Of course I do. I’m an educated person. ‘It comes from the Greek word
haeresis
, meaning ‘choice’, because each heretic decides by his own will whatever he wants to teach or believe, against the authority of God and the apostles.’
‘Hmm.’ Once again, the Archdeacon smiles. ‘I see you’ve been reading the
Etymologies.
Is there anything else you can tell me about heretics?’
‘They gather in cellars and fornicate, and when the babies are born they cut them to pieces and throw the pieces on the fire, and then they mix the ashes with the baby’s blood, and drink it.’
This time he seems lost for words. I must have stunned him with my knowledge. At last he says: ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’
‘I didn’t hear it, I read it.’
‘Where?’
‘In Guibert of Nogent’s
Monodiae.
’
‘I see.’ He smooths his beard with one hand, and cocks his head like a bird. ‘That’s a very old tale you’ve read, Isidore. It comes from the ancients, via Michael Psellus. It was written about various ancient heresies, but it doesn’t apply to the modern ones. If you want a more correct account of what today’s heretics do and believe, you should read someone like Alan of Lille. He’s a little more balanced.’
‘But it was
written.
About the modern heretics.’ (Do you think I’m stupid?) ‘It was written in a book.’
‘Just because it’s written, Isidore, doesn’t mean it’s right. In the
Discipline clericalis
, Pedro Alfonso warned us: ‘Read everything you find, but do not believe everything you read.’ You should remember that.’
‘But how do you know it’s not right? How
can
you know?’
‘Because I know heretics.’ He drags his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. ‘At least, I know the heretics around here. They’re called Cathars, and they don’t eat babies. They’re perfectly normal people – which is why they’re so hard to distinguish from everyone else.’
‘But how can they be normal? They are children of Satan!’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. They’re not entirely bad, Isidore.’
‘ “A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can an evil tree bring forth good fruit.” Christ said that.’
‘And Saint Augustine said that heretics are needed, just as we need the darkness to see the light.’
He did? ‘Where?’
‘In his treatise
De vera religione liber unus.
You should read it. It’s very good.’
How can I read it, when I don’t even have it? I’ve never had enough books, not ever. How can I argue, when I have no books? It’s all right for you: you can argue better, because you’ve read more.
‘In any case, whatever else the Cathars might be, they’re certainly a problem,’ the Archdeacon sighs. ‘They’re all over the place, and they have a lot of power. For the last few years I’ve been involved in various preaching missions, sent to this country to convert the Cathars back to the True Faith, but none of these missions was very successful. In fact one of the mission leaders was killed, last year. He was a papal legate called Peter of Castelnau.’
‘Did the heretics kill him?’
The Archdeacon hesitates. ‘We don’t know,’ he says finally. ‘We don’t know who killed him. But the Pope wasn’t very pleased. He’s called on the King of France to send an army down here, to chastise the lords of this land for protecting heretics. Lords like the Count of Toulouse and the Viscount of Carcassonne.’
‘An army?’ Oh no. ‘Coming here?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nowhere near us yet.’ He reaches out and plucks a switch from a tree he’s passing: the flies scatter as he waves it across his horse’s flanks. ‘A muster date was set for Saint John’s Day, at Lyons, but these things never get started on time.’
An army! An army of lords, coming here! But there are priests here – good, faithful priests. And monks, and nuns. Surely there must be some other way of converting the heretics? Why should the Pope send men with swords?
‘Anyway, my Bishop is getting a little worried,’ the Archdeacon explains, with an irreverent, sarcastic note in his voice. ‘He’s sent me on a mission to speak to the Cathar nobility, like the lady you’re going to meet tonight, in Fanjeaux. He thinks that if I persuade them to band together and go to the Pope to make their submission, then the army will be stopped.’
But of course! Of course it will! What a brilliant idea!
‘Needless to say, it isn’t working. I’ve just been to see the Count of Foix, at Pamiers, and he laughed in my face.’ The Archdeacon is speaking so quietly that it’s hard to hear him. He’s gazing across a field of millet, towards the huddle of stone houses beyond. ‘Without the Count’s support, none of the other lords will even consider such a proposal. Well, why should they?’
‘Because of the army!’ (Isn’t it obvious?) ‘Because of the Holy Father!’