Pagan's Scribe (25 page)
By the blood of the Lamb, what a slap in the face! The Archdeacon turns red, but says nothing: everyone watches in complete silence as the King departs. As soon as he’s out the door, Lord Jordan grins and says: ‘I don’t think King Pedro approves of you, Pagan. Perhaps he thinks that priests have no place in secular affairs.’ A muffled snort. ‘Perhaps that explains why he’s developed such a peculiar dislike of Milo’s mob. Clerics in corselets. Most unattractive.’
‘In God’s name, Jordan!’ The Viscount’s voice is harsh. Stricken. Filled with the most profound despair and anger. ‘Must you joke about
everything
? Can’t you see how serious this is? This could be the
end
of
Carcassonne
!’
Let thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us.
H
ow can I rest? How can I
possibly
rest? Oh, this is stupid; I can’t even read, let alone rest. My eyes just slide off the page. And the bell – that’s the end of Vespers! I can’t believe it’s been so long. How long does it take, to parley? Is it a good sign or a bad sign, when it takes so long?
Perhaps I should tidy up a bit. Perhaps I should straighten the Archdeacon’s bedclothes. Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll make myself useful. Push his riding boots under the bed. Smooth out his blanket. Shake out his pillow.
Wait. What’s that? The front door . . . is that him?
‘Hello, Centule.’ A muffled voice. Lord Roland’s voice. ‘Is supper ready?’
Centule begins to speak. Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare tell him! They both jump when I burst into the kitchen. ‘Father! You’ll never guess!’
‘Why, Isidore –’
‘It’s the King, Father! The King of Aragon!’
‘Calm down.’ (He looks so thin and tired.) ‘Where’s Pagan?’
‘He’s with the Viscount. They’re waiting in the castle, for the King to return. The King has gone to parley with the crusaders!’
‘King Pedro?’
‘Yes! He came here, and he told Lord Raymond to parley, and Lord Raymond said he would, because we’re all the King’s men, and the King said he loved him like a son –’
‘Wait a moment. How do you know all this?’
‘Because I was there, Father! I saw everything! Only then Father Pagan sent me away.’ (Damn him.) ‘He said I was looking sick, and I should go home and rest, but how can I rest? How can I possibly rest?’
Lord Roland grunts. He stares at me with those wide, blue, expressionless eyes, and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘If Pagan wants you to rest, Isidore, then you should rest,’ he says.
‘But–’
‘Come along.’ (Steering me into the bedroom.) ‘We can talk just as well if you’re lying down.’
‘But I can’t!’
‘Why not? Are you like an elephant, with no joints at the knees? Will you never be able to rise again?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘In you get.’
‘But you don’t understand! I’m too – I can’t – if I lie down, I can’t breathe.’
‘What?’ He frowns again, and probes my wrist. ‘Isidore, what’s the matter? You must calm yourself, or you’ll have an attack.’
‘How can I be calm? I’m worried! Aren’t
you
worried?’
‘I’ll give you some valerian.’
‘Father, why do you think it’s taking so long? Why haven’t we heard anything?’
‘Here.’ He takes a clean rag from his medical pouch, and dips it into the water-bucket. ‘Put this on your forehead. You’re a terrible colour.’
‘But what do you think the terms will be? Will they make us pay a ransom?’ Ah! That rag feels nice and cool. ‘What about the people who don’t have any money?’ (People like me, for instance.) ‘What about the heretics?’
‘Shh.’ His hand is on my tonsure: it’s heavy and warm. ‘Don’t say anything, just breathe. In and out, very slowly.’
‘But –’
‘
Isidore.
’ Gulp. Is that him? He sounds so different – so cold and ominous. He sounds like his brother.
‘Just breathe,’ he says. ‘In. Out. In. Out . . .’
A noise. The door. It’s Father Pagan.
He slouches into the room, dragging his feet, his dark face even darker than usual. ‘Isidore,’ he says dully. ‘What’s wrong? Have you had a fit?’
‘Father. Did they –’
‘He’s all right,’ Lord Roland interrupts. ‘He’s just a little nervous.’
By the blood of the Lamb! Look at the way he’s moving! Look at the way he casts himself onto his bed! ‘Father, what happened? Is the King back? What did he say?’
‘He said goodbye.’ The Archdeacon doesn’t move: he just lies there, staring at the ceiling. ‘Goodbye and good luck.’
‘But –’
‘Didn’t I say it was hopeless? Didn’t I say they were mad dogs?’
‘What were the terms?’ Lord Roland speaks clearly and quietly. ‘Unconditional surrender?’
‘Almost. They said the Viscount could leave, with eleven of his men. The rest of us would have to take what comes.’
Oh God.
‘Even the King saw it was hopeless.’ The Archdeacon utters a sour little laugh. ‘When they told him the terms, he said ‘That will happen when an ass flies in the sky’, and turned on his heel. I would have farted in their faces.’
A long, long pause. I don’t believe it. This can’t be true.
‘Then we fight on?’ Lord Roland says at last.
‘On and on and on.’ The Archdeacon rolls over, and buries his face in his blanket. ‘Jesus, Roland, I’m so tired. I’m so
tired.
’
‘Then you should sleep more. We should all sleep more.’
‘My head hurts.’
‘I’ll give you something.’
This is crazy. They’re both so calm. Don’t they understand? We’re going to be
killed
! We’re going to stay in here until we’re half dead of thirst, and then the crusaders will come and – and –
‘Isidore?’ Lord Roland. ‘It’s all right, Isidore.’
All right?
All right
?
‘You mustn’t worry.’ He leans down, his hand still on my head. ‘We won’t let anything happen to you.’
‘No, you won’t! Because you’ll both be dead and buried!’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Isidore.’ The Archdeacon sounds cross. He sits up, and rubs his face. ‘Come over here.’ (Patting the bed beside him.) ‘I’m going to explain something.’
You mean you’re going to lie about something. I’ve got eyes, Father Pagan. I’ve got ears. I know what’s going on.
‘Listen.’ He puts an arm around my shoulders. It feels frail and insubstantial – not like Lord Roland’s hand. His fingers are very small and brown and thin. ‘You’re obviously letting that imagination of yours run away with you,’ he says. ‘And you’re doing that because you’ve had no experience of war. Now I’m going to tell you what I believe is going to happen, and I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m telling you this because it’s really what I think. And I know what I’m talking about because I’ve had a lot of experience. All right?’
There’s a scar on his face. I’ve never noticed it before. It’s not big and jagged, like the one on his forehead; it’s small and neat, and it’s sitting back near his left ear.
‘Isidore! I’m talking to you!’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘All right.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Now what you saw today was not the end of the world. It was simply a bluff. Think of what happens when you go to the market: when the man selling shoes offers you a price, do you pay him that price? Of course not! And he doesn’t expect you to pay it, either. At least, he’s hoping you might, but he’s quite happy to come down. Well, it’s the same with a parley. These terms are simply the first set of terms, to test us out. They want to see if we’d be mad enough to accept them.’
Is that true? Is that really true? It
sounds
like the truth, but then Father Pagan makes everything sound like the truth. What was it he said to the Viscount? ‘The truth or falsity of an argument makes no difference, if only it has the appearance of truth.’ Father Pagan is trained to persuade.
‘If that’s so, Father . . .’
‘It
is
so.’
‘Then why has the King left? Why hasn’t he stayed to negotiate the next set of terms?’
His eyes are screwed up into such a squint that I can’t see into them. I can’t tell from his expression whether he’s lying or not. But his smile is real: it flashes through his beard like the sun emerging from behind a cloud.
‘Don’t you believe me, Isidore?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps you’d believe what I’m telling you if you read it in a book.’
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m not laughing.’ His teeth disappear back into his beard, but the smile remains in his voice. ‘The fact is, no king is going to sit around in this stinking place for the next three weeks. Not if he doesn’t have to. I certainly wouldn’t, if I were the King of Aragon.’
‘Then you think he’s going to come back?’
‘Who knows? He might. But kings are notoriously busy people.’
I suppose so. I suppose that’s true.
‘Isidore.’ The Archdeacon still sounds amused. ‘Don’t you think, if we were in mortal danger, that I’d be a bit frightened myself? Hmm? Don’t you think I’d be running around in a panic?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ He seems genuinely surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re brave. You’re always brave. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known.’ (Wait. That’s not right.) ‘Except for Lord Jordan. He’s brave, too. (Not that it means much, for someone like me to say it.) ‘Of course, I haven’t met many people.’
A crack of laughter, right in my ear. ‘God, Isidore, what a find you are.’ He squeezes me with his arm, as if I were a friend. As if I were Lord Roland. ‘You’re the one who’s brave,’ he says. ‘You’re the one who chose to come. You could have stayed in Montpellier.’ Another sympathetic laugh. ‘Perhaps you
would
have stayed, if you’d known what it was going to be like.’
‘Perhaps.’ I don’t know. I don’t think so. Even now I don’t think so. ‘But what would I have done, if I’d stayed?’
‘Read books?’
Read books? How could I have read books? My eyes would have been turned to Carcassonne, from morning till night. ‘Maybe there wouldn’t have been any books. Maybe things would have been worse there. “For who knoweth what is good for man in this life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow?” ’
‘Fair enough.’ The Archdeacon slaps me on the back, and rises. ‘I can tell you one thing that’s good for man, though, and that’s his supper. I’m starving. Are you starving?’ He laughs again, through his nose. ‘Or perhaps that’s an unfortunate choice of words, in the circumstances.’
You see? He’s so
brave.
Who else would laugh in the face of famine?
L
ook at that cockroach scurrying across the floor. It seems so full of energy. Do cockroaches drink, or do they just eat? But there’s not much left to eat, either. I wouldn’t have expected to see cockroaches thriving, in a town where the people are hoarding every crumb.
It’s not fair. Why can’t I rush about like that cockroach?
‘Isidore.’ Lord Roland is standing on the threshold. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you feel?’
Grunt. How do you think I feel? My own clothes abhor me.
‘Are you feeling any better?’
‘No.’
He crosses the room on noiseless feet, and opens up the shutters. ‘Let me look at you,’ he says. ‘Can you sit up?’
I suppose so. If you insist. The cockroach has disappeared, and so has everyone else. Where are they all?
‘Where’s Father Pagan?’
‘He’s at the castle.’
‘Where’s Lord Jordan?’
‘He’s at the castle, too.’
‘Why? Has something happened?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Lord Roland presses his hand to my forehead. ‘You’re still very hot.’
Of course I’m hot! Everyone’s hot! ‘I think I can get up now.’
‘Do you?’
‘I think I’ll go to the castle.’
But he shakes his head. ‘Pagan told me to take you for a walk along the battlements,’ he says quietly.
Pardon?
‘He thinks you need some fresh air.’ A sigh. ‘I have to agree with him. The air in this city is very unhealthy. It’s full of poisonous vapours.’
‘But what’s happening at the castle?’
‘Nothing that need worry you.’
‘But –’
‘Isidore.’ He’s feeling for my pulse. ‘If it was bad news, do you think Pagan would let us go up on the battlements?’