Pagan's Scribe (26 page)
That’s true. He wouldn’t. ‘Then it’s good news!’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then tell me!
Please
tell me!’
‘Not if you’re going to get excited.’
‘I’m not. I won’t. It will calm me down.’
‘Oh will it?’
‘Yes it will. Because otherwise I’ll just keep wondering and wondering.’
He smiles. ‘Sometimes you sound so much like Pagan,’ he says. ‘If I tell you, will you promise to come up to the battlements?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
What? But –
‘I’ll tell you when we get up there.’
Oh, very clever. Highly amusing. He hands me my boots, and heads for the door. Wait! Don’t rush! I don’t have the strength to rush.
These boots smell like rotten fish.
‘Wait! Hold on –’
‘I’m waiting.’
There. Done. He’s holding open the door. ‘You can lean on me, if you want,’ he says.
‘It’s all right.’
‘Where’s Centule?’
‘I don’t know.’ The kitchen’s deserted. ‘Fetching water?’
‘As long as he’s locked all the food up . . .’
It’s sunny outside. It’s always sunny outside. If only it would rain! There’s a baby crying somewhere – crying and crying and crying – and somebody’s sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Smoke rises from the refugees’ shanties huddled in the shadow of the city wall. A dead body has been left on the road, wrapped in a blanket; I can smell it from here.
‘We’ll go via the tower of Saint-Nazaire,’ Lord Roland remarks. ‘The guards there know me now.’
‘Father?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do I really sound like Father Pagan?’
‘Sometimes.’ His eyes are screwed up against the afternoon glare. ‘You sound like him when he was your age.’
‘What was he like, when he was my age?’
‘Oh . . .’ A pause. ‘Not much different from the way he is now. A little quieter, perhaps. Less confident.’ He smiles, as if at some distant memory. ‘Cheekier.’
‘Do you think he’s a great man?’
‘A great man?’ Lord Roland seems to ponder, as he strides along with his hands in his sleeves and his gaze on the battlements. ‘Yes,’ he says at last. ‘Yes, I do.’ He looks down his long nose at me. ‘Do you?’
‘Oh yes.’ How can I explain? Of course he’s not a devout person. He’s not a saint or anything, he’s just . . . ‘He’s the most learned man I’ve ever met, but it’s not just books. It’s life, as well.’ (He has such depth of knowledge.) ‘I wouldn’t say he was a model priest, though. I wouldn’t say that.’
‘No.’ Lord Roland smiles again. ‘No, I don’t think anyone could say that.’
And here’s the tower. Its entrance is a little hole punched high in the wall, reached by a ladder and guarded by a man whose face is like the seven plagues of Egypt. ‘Can you manage that ladder?’ Lord Roland enquires.
‘I think so.’
‘Wait here.’ He begins to climb, rather stiffly, and the man at the top of the ladder watches without a change of expression. They begin to talk before Lord Roland has even reached him, but it’s hard to hear what they’re saying. At last Lord Roland turns, and beckons.
‘Come on!’ he says.
And up we go: one step, two steps, three steps. The rungs are worn smooth, polished by the passing of so many feet. They’re slippery and dangerous. Take it slowly, Isidore. (My knees are beginning to tremble.) The soldier spits, and it sails past my left ear.
‘Stop that!’ Lord Roland’s stern voice. He leans down, extending a hand. ‘Grab hold of me,’ he says. ‘That’s right. There.’
Done it. Hooray! This room is so dark that I can barely see him: he takes my elbow and guides me towards the stairs, circular stairs leading up to the parapet. Their treads are slippery, too – greasy with lamp-oil. ‘Be careful,’ he mutters. ‘Watch your step.’ Why don’t they clean up around here? The light’s growing stronger and . . . yes! At long last.
What a wonderful breeze. So fresh and pure.
‘Breathe it in,’ Lord Roland instructs. ‘It will clear your head.’ He sets off along the parapet, heading east: soldiers on guard duty stare at us both, some grinning, some scowling, some blank-faced, like cows. They look small and mean and dirty against the soaring, glowing background of spreading fields and blazing skies.
And there are the crusaders. So many of them! A great ring of tents and fires, horses, mules, carts, flags, garbage. Just like a town with no houses. All the vineyards are gone, pulled up for fuel. Every blade of grass has been trodden into the dirt.
‘Father?’
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s happening? At the castle?’
‘Oh.’ He stops, and looks around. ‘Of course. Forgive me. It was a message from the Count of Nevers.’
‘Who?’
‘One of the crusading lords. He wants to speak to the Viscount.’
‘Why?’
‘To discuss terms, I presume.’
‘To parley?’
‘Yes.’
‘To parley! That’s good news, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps.’
He’s engulfed by the shadow of another tower, and passes straight through it to the next stretch of parapet. More sun, more soldiers. He’s taller than most of them, and broader in the shoulders: he keeps glancing at the crusaders’ camp, as if it’s troubling him.
‘Father?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Is that what’s happening now? Is the Viscount parleying with the Count of Nevers?’
‘No.’ He shades his eyes with his hand, as he peers out over the battlements. ‘The Count wants Lord Raymond to go to
him.
Lord Raymond doesn’t know if that’s wise. I believe he’s seeking advice from his counsellors.’
‘Father Pagan, you mean?’
‘He’s one of them.’
‘And your brother?’
A grunt. I shouldn’t have said that: he doesn’t like talking about Lord Jordan. He’s swallowed up by another tower – disappearing into the darkness – and there’s an angry exclamation. What? What’s happening? I can’t see . . .
‘Are you trying to break our necks?’ he barks, as someone scrambles around on the floor. Who is it? Did Lord Roland fall over him? A hand on my arm, and suddenly we’re in the light again: the light and the breeze. Lord Roland is muttering to himself. ‘Asleep on duty . . . bad sign . . . foolishness . . .’ But all at once he falls silent. He slows. He stares.
‘What is it, Father?’
No reply. It’s those crusaders; they’re still bothering him, for some reason. His face is set like a rock. Glancing along the wall, he releases my arm. ‘Stay here,’ he says. Up near the next tower there’s a big man with a sword: when Lord Roland approaches him, and speaks to him, he frowns and shrugs and begins to argue. Lots of pointing and waving. What on earth is going on?
‘There!’ Someone yells from behind me – a bare-chested man whose subsequent words are lost on the wind. Flurries of movement, up and down the walls. Lord Roland is running. What . . .?
‘Run!’ he cries. ‘Run, Isidore, run!’
Run? Where? Why? What are you –
Wh-oo-oo-oom-CRASH
!
‘Down! Get down!’ His weight – falling – help! Flat on my belly, and he’s on my back. He’s shielding my head with his arms.
Wh-oo-oo-oom-CRASH
! The foundations shudder.
‘What is it? What
is
it?’
‘Mangonels.’
‘What?’
‘Siege machines! Keep your head down!’
Oh God. Oh God, have mercy upon us. ‘But you said they wanted to parley!’
‘It’s insane –’
‘Oh God. Oh God.’
People running past. People shouting. Lord Roland’s breath on my tonsure. ‘We’ve got to move,’ he gasps. ‘They’re clearing a space for the ladders.’
‘O-God-thou-art-my-God-early-will-I-seek-thee –’
Wh-oo-oo-oom-CRASH
! Something patters down like hail. Clouds of dust – I can’t breathe – a chorus of shouts from somewhere in the distance. Somewhere . . . below?
‘Crawl!
Crawl
!’ Lord Roland, pushing me from behind. I can’t! I can’t crawl! Leave me alone!
Ouch
!
‘Don’t hit me!’
‘Then move! Crawl! They’re coming!’
‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’
‘To the tower! We’ve got to get to the tower!’
The tower. It’s just ahead. We’ve got to get to the tower. My heart: my heart’s so loud I thought it was drums.
Wh-oo-oo-oom . . .
(he pushes my head down) . . .
CRASH
!
Screaming. Someone screaming. Christ on high.
‘Don’t stop!’ Lord Roland, shouting in my ear. ‘Keep moving!’
But the man’s there. He’s right there, lying with his arms spread, and his head all . . . still pumping . . . sprays of . . .
I’m going to be sick.
‘Don’t look!’ Lord Roland’s voice. What’s he doing? He reaches out and grabs the sword – the discarded sword. It’s spattered with blood. Chunks of rock everywhere, splintered rock, and a hole in the defences where they’ve knocked down a merlon. How are we going to get past that? Something whizzing overhead, clinking on rock . . .
An arrow.
‘Where are the crossbowmen?’ Lord Roland hisses. ‘Where is everyone? You! Sergeant! Cover that gap! This is insane. They must be insane.’ He grabs my collar with his free hand. ‘Quick!
Quick
!’
Rubble underfoot. What’s that noise? Someone rearing over the battlements, blade flashing, hair flying, mouth open, screeching like a pig. A cross on his chest. No. It can’t be.
No.
Lord Roland surges forward, his sword raised.
Chunk
! Down it comes. The man falls to his knees, still screeching.
Chunk
! He’s dying. Lord Roland is killing him. This can’t be true.
‘Yaagh!’
Another. Another and another, swarming through the gap, and Lord Roland turns, and meets them, and wields his sword.
Chunk
!
Clang
! What’s happening? I can’t see – that shield’s in the way. But it falls; it hits the ground with a thud. Someone staggers, bent double, groaning. Someone in blue.
‘Isidore! The tower, quick, run!’
Run. Run! Bodies pushing past – men with crossbows. Our men. A tide of them, pouring out of the tower. The tower! I’m almost there! Get out of my way, let me through! O God be not far from me. A bit further . . . a bit further . . . done it!
‘Who’s that?’ A shout from the dimness. ‘Hold fast!’
‘Don’t . . . oh d-don’t, please . . .’
‘What the hell –?’
‘I want to go home! Let me go home!’
‘It’s a priest.’
‘It’s a boy.’
‘Let him through! Let him pass!’
Crowds on the stairway. Armour scraping on stone. My foot slips, but someone catches me. ‘Watch it, son.’ I’ve got to get out. I can’t breathe. Where’s Lord Roland?
‘Don’t stop . . .’ His hoarse voice, behind and above me. ‘Keep going.’
He’s there! He’s safe! Bless the Lord O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art very great: thou art clothed with honour and majesty.
‘Father –’
‘
Don’t stop
.’
I’m not stopping. I can’t stop. These stairs aren’t wide enough to stop on. Hallelujah! At last! The light and the space – the street – the air. Frightened people milling about. What’s wrong with Lord Roland?
‘Father?’
He’s bowed and staggering. His face is white. His hand is pressed to his stomach.
Blood. There’s blood. His black robe is gleaming with it.
‘You’re – you’re not hurt?’
‘I am hurt.’
‘Oh God . . .’
He reaches out. ‘Help me. Help me back home.’
He’s so heavy. He can hardly walk. He’s breathing in short little gasps, and the blood patters down onto the dust as he passes.
‘Is it bad?’
‘Shh.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Father.’
‘It’s all right.’
Faces everywhere. What are they staring at? Which way is it to the cathedral? Shouts from the walls, but I can’t look back. There’s blood on my surplice.
‘Wait.’ He stops. He sounds surprised, but not worried.
He seems to sag at the knees.
‘Father?’
Something’s wrong. He stares at me with wide, blue, startled eyes. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ he says, and pitches forward onto his face.
‘Father!’ Oh God! ‘Father!
Father
!’ This is a nightmare. This can’t be true. ‘Wake up! Father!’ He can’t be. No, it’s not possible. God – you can’t do this. Not to him. His eyes are open, but –
‘
No
!
NO
!’
Please don’t die. Oh please, don’t do this – you can’t – you can’t leave us. You mustn’t. You
can’t.
‘Father . . . Jesus God . . .’
There’s blood running out of his mouth.
Y
ep, he’s dead all right.’ The man nudges Lord Roland’s limp foot with his toe. He’s a dyer, a ‘sturdy, balding man with dye on his hands and inflamed mosquito bites all over his face. ‘Was it one of those rocks?’
‘It was – we were up there.’
‘On the wall?’ He looks around. ‘What were you doing up there?’
‘I don’t know.’ Woe is me. Why died I not from the womb? Dust and ashes – I am dust and ashes. ‘We were walking. Just walking along . . .’
‘Bad luck.’ He’s still peering up at the battlements. ‘Seems to have settled down, though. No more rocks, and no more noise.’
‘What happened?’ Another man, quite young, with a thick mop of dark brown hair and a pale, unhealthy complexion. ‘Did they kill a monk?’