Pagan's Scribe (10 page)

I can hardly see a thing. Will we be sleeping in here? There seems to be a table, and a hallway off to the right. The floor is strewn with soggy rushes.

‘This is where I lost my front tooth,’ the Archdeacon observes. ‘It was knocked out in a fight, twenty-odd years ago.’ He sniffs, and pokes at the rushes with the toe of his boot. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was still here, somewhere. They obviously haven’t swept this place out since the turn of the century.’

‘Father?’

‘Yes?’

‘I can walk by myself now.’

‘Good.’ He lets me go. ‘I wonder where they keep the candles. There was a storage chest, the last time I was here . . .’

‘Is this where we’ll be sleeping?’

‘Oh no. This is the common room. There are bedrooms down the hall. Ouch!’ (A crack.) ‘God curse it!’

‘Are you all right, Father?’

‘I hit my hand on the – Oh, damn this. I’m not sitting around in this belly of hell waiting for the Abbot to show up. Come on, Isidore.’ And suddenly there’s light – more light – as he flings open another door. I can see his silhouette, dark against the brightness of the cloister-garth. ‘We’ll go and wait by the southern exit,’ he says. ‘They’ll be finishing Vespers soon, and that’s the best place to catch them when they leave the church.’

The words are barely out of his mouth before the bells start to ring. They’re so loud that I can feel their vibrations through the paving-stones. ‘There!’ he says. ‘What did I tell you?’ And he scurries across the cloister-garth, which is very well designed, with a covered walkway built all around it. There are seats, and flowers, and five big book-presses, off to the left. Book-presses! O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.

‘Here they come,’ says the Archdeacon, pointing at a modest little door in the southern wall of the church. A monk emerges, robed in black, his cowl pulled over his face and his hands concealed in his sleeves. Another monk follows, and another, and another. They move in single file along the eastern walkway. One of them is limping.

‘They’ll be going to the refectory, for a drink,’ the Archdeacon murmurs. His breath tickles my ear. ‘It’s a Silent Time, now, but we don’t have to worry about that. We’re guests.’ Suddenly he stiffens: he’s looking at a tall, thin monk with stooped shoulders, who has to duck as he passes through the door. Could that be Lord Roland? I can’t see his face.

‘Roland!’

The Archdeacon’s voice echoes like a thunderclap. Every head turns. Every foot falters. The tall monk stops abruptly, frozen in mid-step.

‘Pagan . . .?’ he gasps.

So it
is
Lord Roland.

The Archdeacon is laughing. He bounds across the cobbles and flings himself at Lord Roland – actually flings himself, like a dog or a ball – and Lord Roland catches him, and hugs him, and kisses him, and they’re both laughing now, laughing like fools, causing such a disturbance. What a ridiculous display. What undignified behaviour. If I had a friend I wouldn’t carry on like that, no matter how long it was since I’d seen him. That sort of thing is just – it’s just killing the rich and fruitful harvest of reason with the barren thorns of passion.

‘Pagan! I don’t believe it –’

‘How are you? Are you well?’

‘I’m well. I’m very well.’

‘All the better for seeing me, eh?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘It’s been far too long. I’ve been
incredibly
busy.’

‘Pagan . . .’

So much for Lord Roland. So much for the greatest knight in Christendom. Why, he’s just an old man! A skinny old man with grey hair and sunken cheeks and lines under his eyes. Oh, why are things never, ever as good as you imagine them to be?

‘Pagan!’ A tiny monk hobbles over: a monk so small that he barely reaches my elbow. He has a squashed face and a stump instead of a right hand. ‘Pagan,’ he says. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘Hello, Gaubert.’ (More hugging.) ‘Where’s Durand? Durand, you old dog! Give us a smile.’ The Archdeacon throws his arms around a fat, balding monk with a face like a bowl of oatmeal. ‘How’s your back? Still playing up?’

‘Pagan, you look wonderful. Wonderful.’

‘God, Durand, your eyes must be as bad as your back. I’m a complete mess. Bones and teeth. You’ve no
idea
what kind of a week I’ve had . . .’

Look at them all, clustering around. Why do they love him so much? He’s noisy, he’s conceited, he’s disrespectful – and of course he doesn’t even bother to introduce me. Why should he bother to introduce me? I’m nothing. No one. I barely exist.

‘Father Pagan.’ Ah! But here’s someone who doesn’t look so happy. A stunted, middle-aged monk with an oversized head, a wrinkled brow, and pale, peering eyes. There’s a heavy gold ring on one of his fingers.

The Abbot, perhaps?

‘My lord,’ says the Archdeacon, bowing. So it
is
the Abbot. Everyone falls silent; Lord Roland steps back a pace; the Abbot frowns, and sniffs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

‘What are you doing in here, Father Pagan?’ he enquires fretfully. ‘You’re disturbing the Peace of the Cloister.’

‘Am I?’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Oh well. Bear with me, my lord. You know what your Rule says: “Let them bear most patiently with each other’s infirmities, whether of body or manner.” Chapter seventy-two, I believe.’

‘You should have waited in the guest-house. I would have come to you.’ The Abbot flaps his hand at the other monks, in a gesture that looks like dismissal. Sure enough, they begin to move away. Even Durand. Even the dwarf.

But before Lord Roland can follow them, the Archdeacon grabs his wrist.

‘I’d like Roland to stay,’ he says. ‘We have a lot to tell each other.’

‘I’m afraid Brother Roland was on his way to the infirmary.’ The Abbot sniffs again. He coughs a weak little cough. ‘My catarrh has to be treated. I’m going to need another poultice, Brother. Will you prepare one for me, please?’

‘Wait. Just a moment.’ The Archdeacon lifts his hand. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t we
all
go to the infirmary? Then you can have your poultice, and I can talk to Roland.’

But the Abbot smiles a wintry smile.

‘The infirmary?’ he says. ‘Oh no, Father. There’s a sick monk in there. A feverish monk. I never set foot in the infirmary. It’s not safe. My constitution isn’t strong, as you know.’

The Archdeacon folds his arms. He cocks his head. There’s an unpleasant sort of glitter in his eyes.

‘
Roland
hasn’t come to any harm,’ he says, in a steely voice. ‘Brother Roland is as strong as an ox. Nothing affects him. That’s why he’s our Infirmarian.’

‘Really? Is that so? And I thought it had something to do with his skill.’

‘Oh, he’s skilful enough, I suppose. Although that oil you gave me, Brother – it doesn’t seem to be working at all. I told you I should have been bled. If in doubt, bleed. That’s my philosophy . . .’

It’s so strange, how the face can speak without words. Just as heavenly vials full of odours are the prayers of the saints, so the shifting of shadows is the language of a man’s countenance. I can look at the Archdeacon’s forehead, and his jaw, and the corners of his eyes, and I can see at once that he’s angry – very angry. His face speaks silently, like a book. What a clever creation it is! What a miracle of craftsmanship! I will praise thee, O Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works, and –

Wait. Wait a moment. What’s that smell?

‘Isidore?’

It’s the Archdeacon. His eyes are so big – his voice sounds so faint –

‘Isidore? What’s the matter?’

No. Oh no.

Help me
!

Chapter 10
16 July 1209

I
can smell something strange. What is it? Some kind of herb, filling the air like incense . . . and another smell, too. The smell of clean linen. A good, safe, peaceful smell.

Wait a moment. What am I doing, lying in bed? I don’t remember – I can’t seem to –

Oh God. Oh God, it happened again. It came
again
!

‘Isidore?’

That’s not the Archdeacon. Who is it? Where am I? A small room, lit by two lamps resting on shelves set into the wall. Another bed, a saddlebag, a stool . . .

Lord Roland.

‘Isidore?’ He’s sitting there with his hands in his lap. Just sitting there. ‘How are you feeling?’ he murmurs.

How am I feeling? How am I
feeling
? I am in distress, Lord Roland, that’s how I’m feeling. My bowels are troubled and my heart is turned within me.

‘You chipped a tooth when you fell,’ he remarks, in his deep, quiet voice. ‘You seem to have bruised your head quite badly. But by God’s grace you haven’t broken anything.’

God’s grace! That’s a good one. Oh, how long wilt thou forget me, Lord? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

‘I’ve put you in the guest-house,’ he continues. ‘I thought you’d sleep better here than you would in the infirmary. Brother Bernard is feverish, and makes a lot of noise at night.’ He seems so calm. So tranquil. ‘Pagan will be here soon. Right now he’s with the Abbot.’

Oh God. The Archdeacon. He was there, and he saw me. I’ve thrown away my only chance. I’ve ruined
everything
! O my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not.

‘Would you like something to eat, Isidore?’ Lord Roland rises, and comes over to the bed. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

Go away. Don’t look at me. You don’t want to look at me. Now that you’ve seen my devil – my accursed, ugly devil – I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls; my flesh is clothed with worms, and clods of dust.

‘What’s the matter? Are you in pain?’ he asks. But I can’t talk, or I’ll cry. And I mustn’t cry, not in front of him.

Not in front of anyone.

He’s hovering there, gazing down his long, straight nose (the Archdeacon was right: it
is
a long nose), his face solemn and craggy, his eyelids sagging under the weight of some everlasting fatigue. He says: ‘I’m glad you’re with Pagan.’

What?

‘I’m glad that you decided to join him. He doesn’t respect many people, but he respects you.’

‘
Me?
’ It comes out as a croak. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Lord Roland nods, and chases a fly from my blanket.

‘Oh yes. He’s spoken about you with some admiration.’

That’s not true. That can’t be true. You’re making it up.

‘He says you’re like a pearl of great price. Like a treasure hid in the field. He says that you’re like the lost sheep found in the wilderness, and that he rejoiceth more in that one sheep than in the ninety and nine which went not astray.’

He – he does?

‘It’s because you’re so clever,’ Lord Roland adds, returning to his seat. He doesn’t move like a monk: he moves with a kind of controlled vigour, every action neat and forceful. ‘Pagan is clever, too. Much cleverer than most of us. That’s why he won’t listen to advice. But he might listen to you, if you were to warn him against doing foolish things.’

What do you mean? ‘What foolish things?’

‘Well . . . riding around by himself, without an armed escort. It’s the height of foolishness in this country.’ Lord Roland sighs. ‘There are so many brigands. So many angry heretics.’

‘But Father Pagan says that he can handle brigands. He says that he was trained to use a sword.’

Lord Roland shakes his head, smiling slightly.

‘That was a long time ago,’ he says. ‘A very long time ago.’

Suddenly there’s a crash from somewhere nearby. The sound of footsteps, heavy and rapid. The thud of a boot hitting our door.

It flies open; the lamps flicker; the Archdeacon is standing there, with his hands on his hips.

He marches into the room and kicks one of the stools – kicks it so hard that it bounces off the wall near my palliasse.

‘
Christ in a cream cheese sauce
!’ he shouts.

Lord Roland stands up. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, nothing. Not a thing.’

‘Pagan –’

‘You know what I need? I need a drop of fermented grape juice.’ The Archdeacon begins to fish around in his saddlebag; he pulls out his half-empty wineskin and almost drains it in one huge gulp. ‘Ah!’ he gasps. ‘That’s better.’ He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. ‘There’s a remedy for every complaint, isn’t there, Roland?’

‘What complaint? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave at dawn,’ the Archdeacon says. He’s almost breathless with rage. ‘I’ve just heard from the Abbot that twelve more fortresses have surrendered to the crusaders. Including Rochemaure and Roussillon. So perhaps it’s all for the best. Can’t hang around here wasting time, I suppose. Especially when your Abbot makes me want to bash my own brains out with an iron-tipped shovel.’

‘You’re leaving? Tomorrow?’ Lord Roland sounds surprised. The Archdeacon glances at him, glances at me . . .

And all at once it’s perfectly obvious.

‘It’s the Abbot, isn’t it?’ My voice is dry and cracked, like a discarded lizard skin. Oh, why do ye persecute me? ‘He wants me to leave. He doesn’t want me to stay here.’

The Archdeacon stares; he drives his left fist into the palm of his right hand; he paces to the door and back again. At last he finds the words he’s been looking for.