Pagan's Scribe (14 page)
The Archdeacon snorts. ‘Well, you’re not pulling the wings off
this
fly,’ he declares, and drums his heels on his horse’s flanks. ‘Come on, Isidore,’ he adds, as he surges forward. ‘I’ve got things to discuss with the Viscount. Important things. Can’t loll around here all day.’
Loll?
Loll?
If this is lolling, Father, I’d hate to see what you’d call a quick sprint.
Oh Lord, how tired I am. How very, very tired. My knees ache. My backside is numb. My spine feels as if it’s going to split down the middle. And we’ve only been riding a day!
How on earth am I going to last all the way to Montpellier?
‘M
y lords. Although I appreciate the limitations of my natural ability, I cannot deny that my experience as an orator has been considerable. And whatever benefit can be extracted from any or all of my qualifications, I feel in duty bound to place it at the disposal of Lord Raymond Roger Trencavel.’
A good beginning. Modest and dignified, yet with just the right touch of authority. How does he manage to sound so confident? He looks very small, standing out there in the middle of all that space: a tiny black figure on a vast expanse of red-and-yellow tiles, dwarfed by the graceful pillars holding up the chapter-house roof. And what a chapter-house! How rich the cathedral of Montpellier must be! Stained glass in the windows. Vivid paintings on the walls. Tier upon tier of stone seats, all packed with people. I’ve never seen anything so magnificent. So impressive.
So frightening.
‘My lords,’ the Archdeacon continues, pointing at Lord Raymond, ‘I have known this young man since he was a tender child, so young and innocent that he could not tell the good from the bad. I was present when his father’s death laid the burden of manhood prematurely upon him; when the childish playthings were struck from his hands, and replaced by the sword of temporal authority. And I pitied, from the bottom of my heart, this virtuous boy, ardent in his pursuit of God’s holy word, yet abandoned to the care of wicked counsellors, false friends whose ways were slippery ways in the darkness. I mourned as I witnessed the snares they laid for him, the lies they told him. I mourned, but I blamed him not – for who can blame a child for the actions of those in whose care God has placed him?’
Lord Raymond is staring at the floor. He’s all dressed up in his finest clothes, blue and gold and purple: beside him, the Bishop of Carcassonne looks rather like a reliquary, so studded with precious stones that it’s a wonder he can move around. And there’s Lord Jordan, resplendent in jade-green silk, as proudly impassive as a stone prophet on a church doorway. He catches my eye, and winks.
‘My lords,’ the Archdeacon declares, ‘it was Jesus Christ, our lord and king, who said that a son is not guilty of the sins of his father – and if he said it, then we must agree, and anyone who condemns this doctrine must be in error. My lords, the Viscount played Jonathan to his father’s Saul: for as Saul pursued David, so this man’s father pursued the good Catholics of Carcassonne. And just as Jonathan said to David: ‘Fear not, for the hand of Saul my father shall not find thee’, so this man, since he became a man, has made his house safe for the true children of God.’
A rumble of disagreement from the Abbot of Citeaux. He’s a fine, big man, somewhat heavy around the middle, but still quick and active: he has iron-grey hair and a red face, made even redder by the white Cistercian robe he wears. His hands are enormous.
‘Archdeacon,’ he growls, ‘I think you have been misled. Lord Raymond’s sympathy for heretics is well known, and widely discussed. His lands are a refuge for every kind of depraved doctrine.’
‘Yes, now that’s very true, Archdeacon.’ The legate Milo is smaller and softer than the Abbot: even his voice is softer. His skin is sallow, and there are great dark circles under his eyes. ‘We’ve received many reports back in Rome,’ he says. ‘And when the preaching mission was sent to Carcassonne, two years back –’
‘My lords, if you doubt me, go to his house!’ The Archdeacon throws out his hands in a forceful, urgent gesture. ‘Search the rooms, empty the pots, uncover the beds!’ he cries. ‘Seek out the sons of Baal – the vessels of Satan – the foul brood of the Seven-headed Beast! You will not find them. Never, since his coming of age, has this man shared a word, a hearth or a meal with a heretic; never was a true pilgrim, engaged in a holy voyage, ever maltreated or robbed by him, or attacked by his followers. As a man, this man has not sinned. Who amongst you would dare to accuse him and claim that, although he has not sinned, he must lose land, rent and dues?’
The Archdeacon’s voice is so strong, so compelling, that I wish I could see his face. But his movements are very expressive: every line of his body seems to emphasise the message he’s delivering. I wonder if those heartfelt gestures are simply part of his technique? I wonder if they’re the sort of thing that Cicero would have used?
‘Whether Lord Raymond is a heretic or not is of no concern to us,’ the Abbot announces. ‘What concerns us is his territory. Carcassonne is a pest-hole of heretics. And Pope Lucius, may he rest in peace, declared many years ago that all receivers and defenders of heretics shall be subjected to the same punishment as heretics.’
‘My lord, you are unjust!’ The Archdeacon’s voice is like a crack of thunder. ‘I call upon you to prove your claims against the Viscount!’
‘I’m sorry, Archdeacon, but this is not a court,’ Milo interrupts. (He sounds very mild and calm and reasonable.) ‘We don’t have to prove anything here. Our Holy Father is quite satisfied that Lord Raymond is a sinner.’
‘And if he is a sinner – for are we not all sinners? – if he is a sinner, then surely it is our Holy Father’s duty to forgive his sin?’ The Archdeacon clasps his hands together: he adopts a pleading tone. ‘Was not the prodigal son forgiven? Did not Christ command us to forgive our brother, not seven times, but seventy times seven?’
Good point. That’s a very good point. But the Abbot waves it aside.
‘All priests forgive sin, in the name of God,’ he says. ‘But that doesn’t prevent them from chastising a sinner. Penances must be exacted, Archdeacon.’
And that’s true, too. What can be said against that?
The Archdeacon takes a deep breath, and ploughs on.
‘My lords, I am a priest myself,’ he declares. ‘I too have imposed penances upon many sinners. But never, never have my penances involved war and bloodshed. Are we not the shepherds of our Lord’s flock? Are we not spiritual descendents of the Apostles? And did not John of Salisbury, in his great book
Policraticus
, remind us that ‘he who is greater is to diminish himself voluntarily, and is to claim for himself the duties of ministry in preference to others,
solely
according to the law of peace
, dissociated from power and conflict’?’
Oh yes. Oh yes, that’s so true. I can feel it in my heart, and I know it’s right. We are men of God, not men of war. How can anyone argue against such a holy truth?
The Abbot scowls terribly, and glares at the Archdeacon from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows.
‘Do you question our Holy Father?’ he growls. ‘We follow the Pope’s command, Father Pagan, in this as in all other things.’
But the Archdeacon has turned towards Milo. He lowers his voice, as if he wants only Milo to hear.
‘My lord,’ he says, ‘it seems to me that the Holy Father has been led astray by counsellors more concerned with their own worldly advancement than with the spiritual health of Christendom. The blessed Bernard of Clairvaux, in his
De consideratione
, gave good advice to Pope Eugenius when he said: ‘Tell me which seems to you the greater honour and greater power: to forgive sins or to divide estates? But there is no comparison. These base, worldly concerns have their own judges, the kings and princes of this world.’’ (A deep breath; a cough; a brief, quivering silence. The Archdeacon clenches his fists, and drives them into his chest by way of emphasis.) ‘My lord, Saint Peter himself – the Rock on which our Church was founded – thirsted for blood with fleshly desire, yet Christ bade him sheathe his sword. Should Peter’s successor unsheathe it?’
‘Archdeacon –’
‘Who is more sinful than the man who casts the ministry of peace into quarrels and torment? What is the point of such great savagery? Does it lead to life? No, for its end is destruction. Does it lead to glory? No, for the glory of the men who unleash it is lost in confusion. Does it lead to this end: that they may be ennobled in flesh and blood? No, for flesh and blood will not possess the Kingdom of God!’
By the blood of the Lamb, what a great speaker he is. What a great, great orator. I never knew – I can hardly believe – he seems transformed, so much taller and nobler, so passionate and wise . . . Can this be his true self? Is this what’s hidden beneath those crude jokes, that swaggering disrespect? Oh, if only he were always like this! If he were always like this, I would follow him as I would follow a lighted candle. I would follow him gladly, for he would lead me in the paths of righteousness.
‘My lords, it was Plato who told us that Nature is the will of God,’ he continues. ‘And what does Nature teach us? It teaches us that the lion – the king of the beasts – will always show great compassion, and spare the prostrate. Is it not therefore against God’s law to attack Lord Raymond, who prostrates himself before your mercy? More than that: Cicero himself reminds us that Nature holds together and supports the universe, all of whose parts are in harmony with one another. In this way are men united by Nature – but by reason of their sinfulness they quarrel, not realising that they are of one blood, and subject to the same protecting power. We are of one blood, my lords: should we slay our own brother, and spill our own blood?’
Surely this is the voice of God. Surely this is God’s voice, speaking through the Archdeacon’s mouth. He turns, briefly, and I can see his face: flushed, moist-eyed, the veins standing out on his temples. He raises his arms and pleads – begs – and his hands are shaking, and his cry is like the mourning of angels in heaven.
‘Oh my lords, my lords, remember the words of our Saviour Jesus Christ! Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. We should not judge but love one another, because the fruit of the Holy Spirit is love, and joy, and peace, and gentleness.’ (Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the name of the Lord!) ‘My brothers, I entreat you, let the peace of God rule in your souls. Raise your eyes to the light, and open your hearts to the Holy Spirit. For we shall all stand before the Judgement Seat, brothers, and when that day comes, only the righteous will eat of the tree of life. Only the righteous will enter the Heavenly Jerusalem.’
Yes! Oh yes! Oh Father, you walk in God’s statutes. You stand fast in the Lord. How could I ever have thought otherwise?
But the Abbot – the Abbot is still scowling. The Abbot is unmoved. How could he be so deaf? So blind? He turns to Lord Raymond and says: ‘Have you anything to add, my lord?’
The Viscount jumps to his feet. He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he mutters. He looks and sounds like a sulky adolescent.
‘What about you, my lord Bishop?’ It’s Milo who speaks. ‘Have you anything to say, in the Viscount’s defence?’
‘Oh – ah – yes, I – if I could just – um . . .’ The Bishop of Carcassonne struggles to rise, weighed down by jasper and amethysts and fold upon fold of heavy, embroidered silk. At last the Viscount has to help him, slipping a hand beneath his elbow and hauling him upright. There’s a snicker from somewhere in the crowd behind me.
‘My lord, I’m an old man,’ the Bishop whimpers. ‘I’ve done my best to guide my flock. But if I have failed, I can only throw myself on our Holy Father’s mercy. I will abide by the wish of our Holy Father.’
A snort from the Archdeacon. He’s looking very grim. Milo nods at the Bishop, smiling in an exhausted kind of way: beside him, the Abbot gives a satisfied grunt.
‘As the Holy Father’s representative, I am only too happy to welcome you to his side, my lord Bishop,’ Milo declares. ‘I embrace you as I embrace any of your household who feel the same way.’ He turns his weary gaze on the Archdeacon, adding: ‘Perhaps Father Pagan, now that he has discharged his duty to the Viscount with such skill and vigour, may decide that he has an even greater duty to our Holy Mother Church? Perhaps he will take up the all-powerful and excellent arms of obedience, to fight for the Lord Christ and his representative, Pope Innocent?’
They’re asking him to change sides! But he won’t, will he? Surely he won’t! I can’t see his face, only his small, straight back, as he squares his shoulders and puts his hands on his hips.
‘My lord,’ he says calmly, ‘in the words of Saint Erasmus, I would rather have my bowels ripped out of my belly and laid upon a fire.’
‘Are you sure of that? You’re setting your face against God, you know. You’re joining the forces of evil.’
The Archdeacon laughs. ‘My lord, a certain philosopher once said to his son, ‘Call him a liar who affirms that evil must be conquered with evil, for as a fire does not put out fire, so evil does not yield to evil.’ He raises his hand, and points an accusing finger straight at Milo. ‘The Viscount came to you in peace, to make his submission, but you withheld your forgiveness.
You
are the one setting your face against God, my lord. Not I.’