Pagan's Scribe Page 18

  ‘Now, I have to go and find the custodian of this well, because it’s not being guarded properly.’ He glances at the men still clustered around it, little groups of men who seem to be exchanging war stories. Lord Roland is standing among them: he nods as he catches the Archdeacon’s eye. ‘So can you go home, Isidore, and wait for me? Because I won’t be long.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And if you don’t want to sleep, you can get a book out of my book-chest. You know where the keys are.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘No military histories, mind. Something nice and uplifting. The Letters of Saint Jerome, perhaps. Only be careful with that book, because it doesn’t belong to me.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Father, don’t be angry with Lord Jordan. It was my fault that he got out of bed. He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t.’

  The Archdeacon blinks. An enormous grin spreads across his face, from ear to ear; his teeth gleam in the lamplight.

  ‘Do you think Lord Jordan’s scared of me?’ he says.

  ‘I – I don’t know –’

  ‘God, Isidore. What a find you are.’ Slapping my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I promise that if anyone’s going to give Jordan a kick up the backside, it certainly won’t be me.’

  And he walks away, laughing.

  Chapter 25

  11 August 1209

  ‘Isaw them myself,’ Centule insists, wiping the sweat from his nose. ‘A whole family, lined up there on the street: mother, father, and six children. All dead – pop, pop, pop. Just like that.’ He begins to knead the dough again. ‘I said to my friend, Amiel, “It’s the fever,” I said. “You watch. I know the fever when I see it.’’ ’

  Oh Lord. ‘Maybe they ate something. Something poisoned.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe. But I’ve got a hunch.’ He sprinkles more flour onto his dough. ‘I can always smell the fever. I can smell it in the air.’

  Can you? All I can smell is excrement. This whole city stinks of latrines. ‘Where did they bury them?’

  ‘Bury them! No room to bury them. They’ll probably throw them over the wall.’

  ‘But they can’t do that!’

  ‘Well, maybe not. Maybe not.’ He’s sweating into the bread dough: his hands are big and cracked and dirty. No wonder there are always black spots in our bread (not to mention wiry brown hairs and bits of greyish fingernail). But I suppose we should be glad that we’re eating bread at all. So many people in this town are going hungry.

  ‘I’ve heard tell,’ Centule continues, in mournful tones, ‘of sieges where the people in the city ended up eating their own dead.’

  ‘Oh, Centule.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Some things are hard to believe.’

  Suddenly there’s a knock at the door: a knock and a rattle, as the person outside tries to open it. But Centule has put the bar up, for some reason (to stop people from stealing his bread dough?), and it’s impossible to get in.

  ‘Come on!’ Lord Jordan’s voice. ‘What are you playing at? Is anybody home?’

  Whoops! Mustn’t keep Lord Jordan waiting. ‘One moment, my lord.’ This bar’s so heavy . . . there. That’s done it. He looks pale and tense, and pushes past as if I didn’t exist.

  Wait!

  ‘My lord!’

  He pauses, halfway to the bedroom.

  ‘Please don’t disturb him, my lord –’

  ‘He’s in there?’

  ‘Yes, but – wait! He’s asleep!’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘He sleeps when he can.’

  ‘Then he can sleep later. I’ve got some news.’

  News? What news? It’s dark in the bedroom, because the shutters are closed, but there’s enough light to make out the Archdeacon’s huddled shape. He’s still fully dressed, boots and all; he must have come in here, thrown himself on the bed, and gone straight to sleep.

  Why didn’t he call me? I would have pulled his boots off for him.

  ‘Pagan!’

  ‘Nngrr . . .’

  ‘Wake up!’ Lord Jordan pokes him in the ribs. ‘It’s the King! Do you hear me? The King has come!’

  The King? What king?

  ‘Wha . . . ?’ The Archdeacon rolls over, bleary-eyed. Grimacing. ‘Jordan?’

  ‘Get up, for God’s sake! It’s King Pedro! He’s arrived!’

  King Pedro? You mean – King Pedro of Aragon?

  The Archdeacon sits up, rubbing his hand over his face. ‘King Pedro?’ he says.

  ‘They spotted his colours from the wall. There must be at least a hundred knights with him. He’s in the crusaders’ camp right now, but he’s bound to head this way soon – if they’ll let him.’

  ‘They’ll have to.’ The Archdeacon is blinking, and smoothing down his ruffled hair. ‘They can’t afford a fight with the King of Aragon.’ (So it is the King of Aragon!) ‘Does Lord Raymond know?’

  ‘He thinks they might want to treaty. He’s calling for you.’

  ‘In the castle?’

  ‘Hurry up!’

  King Pedro of Aragon. A real live king, and he’s coming here. Oh, if only I could see him!

  ‘Father . . .’

  ‘What?’ He’s dragging a comb through his hair, as Lord Jordan hovers impatiently on the threshold. ‘It’s all right, Isidore, you don’t have to come.’

  ‘Oh, but can’t I just –? I won’t get in the way.’

  ‘You mean you want to come?’

  ‘I’ve never seen a king before.’

  ‘Well . . .’ He glances at Lord Jordan. ‘Oh, all right. Who knows? There may be letters to dictate.’

  ‘Shall I bring your satchel, then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, just get a move on.’

  I’m moving, I’m moving! Where’s his satchel? Under the bed. Lord Jordan has already vanished: he must have grown sick of waiting. The Archdeacon has to hoist up his skirts and run – out the door, through the kitchen, into the square.

  Hold on, Father, wait for me!

  ‘Father – Father –’

  ‘What?’ (He’s panting.) ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why has the King of Aragon come here?’

  ‘Because Lord Raymond is his vassal.’

  ‘Is he going to help Lord Raymond? Is that why he’s come?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll tell the crusaders to go away!’

  A shout of laughter from Lord Jordan, who’s striding along up ahead. ‘With one hundred knights behind him? It’ll take more than that, boy.’

  ‘Still, it’s a good sign.’ The Archdeacon quickens his pace. ‘It shows that he’s worried.’

  ‘The King? Of course he’s worried! Wouldn’t you be worried, having a French army stomping around on your doorstep?’ Lord Jordan looks around, sneering, as the Archdeacon struggles to keep up. ‘Pedro’s not worried about us, my friend. He’s worried about Aragon.’

  ‘Oh, surely not. Milo wouldn’t take his army across the Pyrenees.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, no. But what about Arnaud Amaury? That bastard’s crazy enough to do anything.’

  The Archdeacon falls silent. Around us the air is thick and humid; people lounge in gutters and doorways, sluggish, sweaty, scratching their mosquito bites and moaning about the heat. Even the children just sit and stare, as the flies crawl over their runny noses.

  I feel as if everyone’s looking at me.

  ‘Didn’t you say you’d met him?’ Lord Jordan remarks, glancing at the Archdeacon. Around us, the castle barbican is clogged with people, all the way up to the moat. Many of them look ill – they lie dull-eyed, clutching their pitiful possessions, not making a sound when Lord Jordan kicks their feet aside. ‘King Pedro, I mean.’

  ‘I’ve seen him. I haven’t met him,’ the Archdeacon rejoins. ‘He called on the Viscount, once. I saw him ride through town.’

  ‘I met his sister w
hen I was in Toulouse.’

  ‘Oh yes. A great lady.’

  ‘They say the Count leads her a hell of a dance.’

  The Count? Oh, of course. The King of Aragon’s sister is married to the Count of Toulouse. I forgot about that.

  What’s going on over there, by the gate-tower?

  ‘Something tells me the King has arrived,’ Lord Jordan observes, and begins to run. His footsteps make a hollow noise as he crosses the wooden bridge. The guards don’t even bother to challenge him.

  ‘Curse it!’ The Archdeacon grabs my arm. Pounding after Lord Jordan, over the bridge, through the gate, into the great courtyard. There are horses in the courtyard – four horses, with gilt on their saddles and stirrups, and fine cloth draped over them like cloaks. Several men are clustered around them.

  ‘Well?’ Lord Jordan stops, abruptly. He’s breathing very hard. ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘No, I – no, I don’t think so.’ The Archdeacon squints across the wide expanse of gravel. (How can it look so white, when so much blood has been spilt here?) ‘No, King Pedro has hair the colour of chestnuts.’

  ‘Then he must be inside. Come on.’

  Past the horses. Up the stairs. Plunging into the chilly dimness of the great hall. This would be a perfect room, in summer, if it wasn’t so smoky.

  Though the fire does seem to be out, for a change.

  ‘Which one?’ Lord Jordan murmurs, and the Archdeacon strains to pick out familiar features through the gloom. I can see Lord Raymond, standing on the dais, wearing a jewelled sword-belt. And there’s the Lord of Pennautier, and the Lord of Vintron, and – yes! That must be him. That must be him. It’s hard to see the colour of his hair, in this light, but only a king would wear such a magnificent surcoat.

  ‘That’s him.’ The Archdeacon points. ‘The slight one, next to the knight in red.’

  You mean him? But his clothes are so plain! Suddenly the Viscount catches sight of Lord Jordan: he jerks his head, and the King stops talking, and turns to look at us. He’s of medium height, with a long, bony face, a broken nose, and greenish eyes that droop at the corners. They make him look weary and sad.

  ‘Um . . . this is Lord Jordan Roucy de Bram,’ the Viscount declares, as Lord Jordan drops to one knee. ‘And this is our Archdeacon, Father Pagan. He’s provided me with much loyal and able support.’

  The Archdeacon bows very low. I suppose I’d better bow, too. Or should I? Perhaps I’d better just pretend I’m not here.

  ‘What do you think of the situation, Lord Jordan?’ The King’s voice is quite deep, for a man with such a narrow chest. ‘Do you see any reason to hope?’

  Lord Jordan raises his eyebrows.

  ‘My liege, there is always room for hope,’ he says at last, cautiously. But the King frowns.

  ‘Not in this case. This is pointless. I don’t need to be told how bad things are in Carcassonne – I can see it for myself. You’re choking to death in here. People are dying. They’re dying of hunger, and thirst.’

  A long pause. The Viscount is staring at the floor: he looks so young, so very young, to have such a terrible weight on his shoulders. The King studies him for a moment, before reaching out to squeeze his arm.

  ‘You have your father’s courage,’ he says quietly. ‘I remember my own father telling me that when your father came to him, thirty years ago, and offered his allegiance, my father was happier than he’d ever been in his life. He said to me: ‘That young man has caused me more trouble than all the other lords of Languedoc put together.’ He was a great warrior, your father.’

  The Viscount nods, and blinks, and swallows. He looks as if he’s going to cry.

  ‘But your father was also a man of political wisdom,’ the King continues. ‘He knew that fighting wasn’t always the answer – that sometimes it was better to lose a little, than to lose all. That’s why I would urge you to parley with the crusaders. They are in a position of strength, and it would shatter my heart if your father’s inheritance, which he nourished and guarded so fiercely, were to be divided like a dead hart between these dogs of France.’

  The Viscount clears his throat. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but they’re not – how can we – ?’ He glances at the Archdeacon, who instantly comes to his rescue.

  ‘My liege, these dogs, as you call them, are like dogs indeed. Mad dogs. They appear to have abandoned all reason, all mercy, all human motives. Surely you’ve heard what they did to Béziers?’

  The King grunts. ‘Repulsive,’ he agrees, but in sombre, unfriendly tones. His cool gaze rests on the Archdeacon for the space of five heartbeats: the Archdeacon straightens, and flushes, and sticks out his chin. Finally the King turns back to Lord Raymond. ‘What happened at Béziers was a warning,’ he says. ‘They were trying to frighten you. Consider what happened between there and Carcassonne: many towns surrendered without fighting, and the crusaders were lenient. Forget Béziers. Parley now, while you are still in a position of advantage. While your people are still strong enough to resist.’ He releases the Viscount’s arm, and taps his own breastbone. ‘I will parley for you,’ he offers. ‘I will plead on your behalf; for I love you like a son, my lord – I love you just as my father loved your father. I would do anything to keep you here, in your father’s house.’

  ‘And keep the King of France off his doorstep,’ the Archdeacon mutters, in a voice so low that I can barely hear it. The Viscount doesn’t hear it. He looks up and says: ‘Lord, you may do as you please with this town and all within it, for we are your men, as we were for the King your father.’ He sounds very despondent.

  The King smiles, and embraces him.

  ‘Your honour is my honour,’ he declares. ‘I shall go at once, and return before sunset. By sunset this city will be free of its stinking shackles.’ He motions to his attendant knights, who immediately head for the door. ‘Gird yourself with hope,’ he adds, ‘and pray to God in his mercy. Tell Father Pagan to pray for deliverance.’ Another cold, measuring glance at the Archdeacon. ‘Prayer is the best contribution he can make to our cause.’

  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.

  Chapter 26

  11 August 1209

  How 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 . . .’