Pagan's Scribe (7 page)
Noon.
Noon?
But that’s a lifetime away!
‘Come on, Isidore.’ He nudges his horse in the ribs, and the beast starts to pick its way carefully down the steep, dusty road, between rocks and roots and ditches. As soon as we leave the shadow of Fanjeaux’s walls, the sun hits my scalp like a hammer; it stabs at my eyes and sucks up my sweat. By the blood of the Lamb, how sore my legs are! All around us there are people working in the vineyards, and people carrying water, and people labouring towards the city gates beneath huge loads of firewood – but none of these people is worse off than I am.
‘We must stop at Prouille to see if my Bishop has written to me,’ the Archdeacon remarks, in a loud voice. He’s up ahead, sitting gracefully in the saddle, his backside rolling with a smooth, easy rhythm as his horse sets the pace. ‘My Bishop generally sends his letters to Prouille, if I’m in this part of the world: there’s a nunnery there, run by a very reliable Austin canon who gets around a bit. Dominic Guzman, he’s called. Originally came across the Pyrenees, to preach to the Cathars. On one of those missions I told you about.’ He glances back over his shoulder and grins. ‘Poor old Isidore. You’re not having much fun, are you?’
Fun? What’s fun? I survive, little man, I don’t have fun.
‘Never mind, you’ll enjoy it when we get there.’ As we reach level ground the road widens, and he pulls at the reins that have been dangling so loosely from his fingers, slowing his horse until I manage to catch up. ‘They have books at Prouille,’ he adds.
‘Books?’
‘Yes, I thought that might interest you.’ Another quick, sharp glance. ‘It’s not a big place – in fact some of the Sisters are still living in Fanjeaux, because the convent isn’t finished yet. But Dominic brought a fair number of books from Osma. Mostly theological texts, of course, and books of Christian thought: Jerome, Augustine, Ambrose. At least six of them.’
Books! How I long to feel the weight of a book in my hand. How I long to turn a page, and pass through the print as you’d pass through a door, into that world of wise and lofty spirits, of strange animals, of noble deeds and far-away cities. If only I could crawl into a book and stay there for the rest of my life.
‘. . . But you can’t help admiring him.’ The Archdeacon is still talking, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘Anyone else would have given up – everyone else
did
give up – but not Dominic. He stayed, and he kept preaching. He traipses from one smelly little village to another, living off scraps, patiently arguing with a bunch of bone-heads who wouldn’t know a syllogism if you slapped them across the face with it and stuffed it down their collective earholes.’ He laughs to himself. ‘Personally, I would have given up long ago.’
Yes, but then you’re not a holy person, are you? You have no humility. No restraint. You don’t preach to heretics; you share meals with them. How can you hope to understand the actions of a truly pious soul?
But I mustn’t be ungrateful. Don’t be ungrateful, Isidore. At least this man has some charity in his heart.
‘From Prouille we’ll move on to Laurac,’ he says, ‘where we’ll talk to Dame Blanche. She’s the Cathar who happens to run that town. Then, when we’ve completely failed to convince her of anything, we’ll visit my friend Roland, on our way back to Carcassonne. You’ll like Roland. He’s a wonderful man. Then we’ll return to the Bishop, and inform him that this whole trip was a complete waste of time (as I said it would be), because these people are as stubborn as mules, and even if the Archangel Gabriel, in all his ineffable glory, appeared with a chorus of cherubim –’
‘Blood-sucker!’
‘Devil’s priest!’
What? Who said that?
‘Go away!’
‘Go away, we don’t want you here!’
I don’t believe it. They’re peasants! Ordinary peasants, standing in a field of oats. How can they say such things? How can they utter such blasphemies?
‘Ignore them,’ the Archdeacon murmurs. ‘Just ignore them.’
‘Wine-swiller!’
‘Bed-louse!’
‘Look, it’s a priest! It’s a man who farts out both ends!’
Jeering laughter. Angry voices. A man with a scythe steps onto the road in front of us: he’s big and hairy, and built like the Tower of Babel.
‘Don’t stop,’ says the Archdeacon, quietly. He kicks his horse into a brisk trot, and sails past the scowling peasant with his nose in the air.
O Lord God, in thee do I put my trust: save me from all them that persecute me –
Thunk
! What’s that?
Thunk
! They’re throwing stones!
Thunk
! ‘Father Pagan –’
Help
! What’s happened? ‘
Father
!’ Stop, horse, stop – it was only a stone! Help, help, I don’t know what to do!
His hand, grabbing my reins. Pulling the horse’s head down. His soothing voice, firm but quiet. ‘Shhh. It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s all right, girl . . .’ The horse stops rearing, but its ears are still laid flat on its skull.
Howls of laughter from somewhere nearby.
‘Isidore? Isidore! Let go of her mane. You’re safe now.’ Why does he look so angry? It wasn’t my fault! Oh, I see. He’s not angry with me, he’s angry with them.
‘Who threw that stone?’ he cries. ‘Who did it? You –yes, you! Did
you
throw that stone?’
The man in question has a doughy, formless face like a bear pup (which, as everyone knows, is licked into shape by its mother at birth). He growls something between teeth as black as the tents of Kedar.
‘What? What did you say?’ The Archdeacon lashes out with a voice that could flay the skin off a bullock. ‘Speak up, maggot-bag, or don’t you have the courage? Would you prefer to wait until my back is turned, so you can throw stones at a defenceless child?’
What do you mean? I’m not a child!
‘Oh, what mighty warriors! What noble adversaries! Brave wolves, hunting a flightless dove – a new-born lamb – doubtless you would have done the same to Saint Stephen!’ (How vicious his tone is; he uses his tongue like a whip.) ‘But no, you’re not wolves, you’re dogs! Mangy dogs, snapping at our heels, preying on the weak and the gentle –’
‘
You
are the wolf?’ someone yells. ‘You take our lambs and grow fat on them, like all priests!’
‘Fat?
Fat?
Have you waddled home and weighed
yourself
lately, grease-bucket?’ The Archdeacon points at me. ‘Look at this boy! Look at his clothes! Is he fat? Is he rich? Is he a
priest
? Why don’t you people use your brains, for once, instead of behaving like a bunch of mindless brigands –’
Thunk
! A stone hits the ground in front of him.
Thunk
! Another one sails over his head, and bounces off the tree to his right.
‘Devil!’
‘Thief!’
The Lord God protect us! What are they doing? They’re coming closer, all eight of them – no, ten – no, look, there are more of them, with scythes and spades! Quick, Father, quick, we must flee before they –
‘Haah!’ His horse bounds forward. The sunlight flashes on the blade in his hand, a long, swinging blade that cuts through the air, lunging, twisting, as he charges straight into the knot of peasants. It breaks up instantly; the peasants run and shout; they scatter their tools and duck their heads and plunge into the cornfield, hiding like rats, with the Archdeacon in pursuit. I can’t – I don’t – by the blood of the Lamb of God –!
‘Father!’
But he’s slowing now – he’s turning – he’s coming back. Is he insane? Has he lost his mind? What lunacy is this?
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, in a loud, breathless voice. ‘I’ve scared them off.’ He brings his horse alongside me, and sheathes his sword. (A sword! On a priest! I didn’t even know it was there . . .) ‘They won’t come back, they’re a bunch of cowards. If I had been Roland, they would never have attacked us in the first place.’
‘How – how –’
‘Are you all right?’ He peers into my face. ‘You’re not scared, are you? They’re just rabble. Look, they’re halfway to Fanjeaux already.’
‘You have a sword!’
‘Oh yes. I have a sword.’ He kicks his horse into a trot; my own mount follows without the slightest encouragement. ‘You have to carry arms around here,’ he says. ‘The roads can be very dangerous.’
‘But you’re a priest!’
‘Being a priest is no guarantee of safety, Isidore. Not in this part of the world.’
That’s not what I mean. That’s not the point. A priest is a man of God, he doesn’t bear arms like a mercenary. Christ said: ‘Put up thy sword into the sheath.’ He didn’t say, ‘Cut off his other ear, Peter!’
‘You – you shouldn’t have to carry a sword.’ My voice sounds weak and thin. ‘You should have guards beside you, like the Bishops.’
‘Guards? Nonsense!’ He waves a hand. ‘If I had guards, the brigands would only assume that I had something worth stealing. Besides, I don’t need guards. I was a soldier, once, before I became a priest. I was trained as a squire by Lord Roland Roucy de Bram – the greatest knight in Christendom. I fought against the Turks in the Holy Land. Why should I need guards, to handle a few miserable peasants?’ He looks back at me, and laughs. ‘I can take care of myself, Isidore. I always have, and I always will.’
Conceited midget. Behold, he burns incense to vanity, and esteemeth brass as rotten wood. But just remember, Archdeacon: the Lord of Hosts shall be upon everyone that is proud and lofty, and he shall be humbled.
So don’t be surprised if one day, at some crucial moment, all your skills fail to deliver you from the worst threat you’ve ever faced.
W
hatever can have happened to Prouille? It seems to be falling to pieces. First the crumbling walls, then the ruins of Saint Martin’s chapel, and now this – this battered windmill, constructed on the remains of a fortified tower. They must have dismantled the tower to build the windmill, because they’ve used identical stones for both of them.
I wonder who’s responsible for allowing the place to collapse like this?
The foundations of the tower are big and square, and very thick. There’s a communal oven built nearby, but no one’s using it. A few dilapidated houses seem to be propping each other up; the sheep-pen in the village square is empty; the only activity is concentrated around the fountain, where a handful of old men and young women sit on the steps, talking.
They fall silent as we pass them.
‘See what Dominic’s done?’ The Archdeacon points to a low, bulky structure near the weatherworn church. It looks as if it’s been thrown together hurriedly, out of rubbish and remnants: bricks, stone, wood, even ancient-looking tiles. ‘Not bad, is it?’ he says. ‘They’re more or less finished, now – they just have to add another room, because of the number of people who want to join the convent. And they have full use of the church, of course, because the priest comes from Fanjeaux. Prouille isn’t a parish any longer. Aha!’ He raises a hand. ‘That looks like Sister Alazais.’
She’s carrying a bucket, whoever she is: probably heading for the fountain. But as soon as she sees us she stops, and darts back inside.
‘Glad tidings,’ the Archdeacon mutters. He drops to the ground as lightly as a petal, and stands there stretching: I can hear the crackle of his joints even from this distance. ‘Come on, Isidore, you can’t sit up there all day.’
By the blood of the Lamb, I’m going to have to get down. I’m going to have to move! Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness.
‘How do you feel?’ He’s looking up at me. ‘Want some help?’
Oh! Ah! My knees! My back! My bottom!
‘Come on, you can do it.’
Of course I can do it! I just – I can’t – ouch! Ah!
There.
‘There, see? Not a problem. We’ll make a horseman out of you yet.’ He laughs through his nose. ‘Out of what’s left of you, anyway.’
‘Father!’ Someone hails us from the door of the convent: a slim man in a white canon’s surplice, just like mine. He comes towards us with his hands outstretched. ‘Father Pagan . . . what a great joy . . .’
‘Dominic.’ The two men exchange a Kiss of Peace, with Father Dominic stooping to embrace the Archdeacon. His hair gleams red in the sunlight. Or perhaps it’s not red, exactly – more reddish. A reddish brown. He has a ruddy complexion and bad teeth and long fingers. He looks very tired.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘The Bishop has sent you a letter. Are you well? How was your journey?’
‘Not bad,’ the Archdeacon replies. ‘Could have been worse. We had some trouble this morning, though.’
‘Trouble?’ Father Dominic looks concerned. ‘Not brigands?’
‘No, no. Just a bunch of peasants and a couple of rocks. The sort of thing that’s always happening to you, Dominic.’ Laying a hand on my shoulder, the Archdeacon adds: ‘This is Isidore, my new scribe. He’s from Pamiers.’
Father Dominic smiles. He takes both my hands, and presses them. ‘Welcome, my son,’ he murmurs. ‘It is a joy and a pleasure to welcome you here.’
‘F-father . . .’ I can’t even bow, because my back is too sore. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘Come inside and rest.
Sister
!
Sister
Curtolane
! Sister Curtolane will take care of the horses.’