Pagan's Scribe Page 7

  The knights of the Temple! But that means – that must mean –

  ‘Then you were a Templar!’ (I don’t believe it.) ‘You were his squire, so you must have been a Templar!’

  ‘Yes. I was a Templar squire. I fought beside him all through the siege of Jerusalem, and when the city surrendered, I was there when he offered to sacrifice himself for the sake of others.’ The Archdeacon stares off into space, his eyes misty. ‘He wouldn’t let the Order pay his ransom, because the same ransom would have freed fifty children. He said that it was better for fifty children to go free, than one knight.’

  By the blood of the Lamb. What nobility! ‘Did he escape, then?’

  ‘No, no. I begged Saladin to spare him, and my petition was granted.’ A taunting smile creeps across his face. ‘Didn’t I tell you that Saladin was a great man?’

  ‘But what happened then? Why did Lord Roland become a monk? Why did he leave the Templars?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all a bit complicated . . .’

  ‘Tell me!’

  The Archdeacon’s smile widens into a broad and gratified grin. ‘You really want to know, don’t you?’ he says. ‘What a strange boy you are.’

  ‘You haven’t finished the story!’

  ‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘Of course. I understand. It’s the story you want, isn’t it? Well now . . .’ He covers his eyes with his hand, and thinks for a moment. ‘After Jerusalem fell, we took a ship to Marseilles, and rode back to Roland’s birthplace. His father was the Lord of Bram. Do you know Bram? It’s north of here, about a day’s ride from Carcassonne. We were going to persuade his father to join the Crusade against Saladin.’ A short, sharp snort. ‘That was in the old days, when crusades were really crusades. Not glorified territorial disputes.’

  The Crusade! Of course! I’ve read about the Crusade. I’ve read about King Richard.

  ‘Did you meet King Richard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘King Richard the Lionheart. Didn’t he lead the Third Crusade?’

  ‘Oh. Him.’ The Archdeacon sniffs, and waves the subject aside. ‘I don’t know much about him, because in the end we didn’t join the Crusade. When we reached Bram, Roland’s family were involved in a nasty little feud with their neighbours, the lords of Montferrand. One of the people involved – do you remember that Cathar priest I was telling you about? The one called Esclaramonde? Well she lived near Bram, and Roland fell in love with her –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she was a heretic!’

  ‘She was a very good woman, Isidore.’ He looks at me, and his eyes gleam in the lamplight. ‘All she wanted was peace. She was very small and young and pretty, with long black hair right down to her ankles.’

  ‘And Lord Roland? What does Lord Roland look like?’

  ‘Oh, Roland looks like a saint. He’s tall and strong, and his eyes are as blue as the sky, and his hair – well, it’s grey now, but it used to be the colour of gold. Pure gold. He’s as beautiful as a stained-glass window.’

  So his beauty surpasseth all men. How wonderful. It sounds just like a poem.

  ‘And did he marry the pretty girl?’

  ‘No,’ the Archdeacon sighs. ‘No, I’m afraid something terrible happened. You see, Roland brought Esclaramonde to Bram, to protect her from the lords of Montferrand. One morning, just before dawn, the Montferrands attacked Bram, and Esclaramonde was killed.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Poor Lord Roland. ‘Couldn’t he save her?’

  ‘He wasn’t anywhere near her. She ran in front of the Montferrands’ horses, to try to stop them, but they went right over her. Trampled her to death.’ The Archdeacon drops his gaze to the floor, and adds in a low voice: ‘I remember her hair, spread all over the ground. It was lovely hair.’

  ‘But what did Lord Roland do?’

  ‘He threw his sword away. He threw it away, and he entered the Abbey of Saint Martin. I went with him, but I didn’t stay very long. They sent me off to Carcassonne, to study at the cathedral school.’ He laughs, as if at some private joke. ‘But that’s another story,’ he concludes.

  So Lord Roland cast off his sword. He cast off his sword for love, and dedicated his heart to God’s service. What a right eous soul. What a magnificent story. The golden knight and the dark-haired maiden.

  ‘How I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Meet who?’

  ‘Why, Lord Roland.’ (Who else?) ‘He must be a great hero.’

  ‘But you are going to meet him.’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re visiting Saint Martin’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Saint Martin’s? I thought –’

  ‘We’ll stop at Saint Martin’s first, and then Carcassonne. I never return to Carcassonne without visiting Roland.’ He slaps me on the back. ‘So you’ll be able to ask him all about the Templars and Saladin and swordplay and falling in love and everything else that interests you.’

  ‘I’m not interested in falling in love.’ (Thank you very much.) ‘I’ve taken orders.’

  ‘Ah. But orders never stopped me. Didn’t I tell you that Cathar women love priests?’ He flashes his jauntiest grin, and rises from the bed. ‘Come along, now, it’s time for dinner. We don’t want to miss any of Ermessende’s cooking. Her seasoned pork is the closest thing we have, down here, to the glory of the incorruptible God.’

  By the blood of the Lamb! Has this man no shame? That’s the most blasphemous thing I’ve ever heard.

  ‘Oh.’ He stops, suddenly, on his way out the door, and turns to address me. ‘By the way, Isidore, I thought I’d better remind you: that long, flexible thing under your nose, down there, is specially designed for smiling. So please make use of it when the Sisters serve you up the most delectable meal you’ll ever have the honour of shovelling into your mouth. Otherwise . . .’ He pauses. ‘Otherwise, I’m going to be very displeased.

  ‘And you don’t want to know what I’m like when I lose my temper.’

  Chapter 9

  16 July 1209

  ‘Cheer up, Isidore. Look! We’re nearly there.’

  Praise God in his sanctuary. Let us go into the house of the Lord: our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Saint Martin’s.

  ‘I could do with a cup of spiced mead,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘They do a wonderful spiced mead in this abbey.’ He gazes down the road towards the big stone gate-house, with its yawning archway and crenellated towers. Beyond it, a jumble of shingled roofs rears up against the sunset. The walls are very high, and well maintained. ‘You’ll like it here,’ he adds. ‘It’s small and peaceful, and they have an excellent library.’

  Oh good. ‘Do they have Saint Augustine’s Confessions?’

  The Archdeacon smiles. ‘I’d be most surprised if they didn’t,’ he says. ‘Poor old Isidore. I’m sorry I had to drag you away from your precious book. But I couldn’t wait around Prouille until you’d finished it.’

  If you hadn’t sent me to bed so early, last night, I probably would have finished it. I’m swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, when I get my teeth into a good book. But of course no one ever listens to me.

  ‘That looks like Beraldus,’ the Archdeacon suddenly remarks, and raises his hand. ‘Oi! Beraldus! I think I’ll let him take our horses.’

  ‘Father Pagan!’ A monk emerges from the shadows of the gate-house. He has a hare lip and an odd, misshapen face, as if someone has cut it in half and then stuck it back together again, without quite aligning the two pieces. ‘Father Pagan! Deo gratias. Ave.’

  ‘Frater Beraldus. Felix sum et placet . . .’

  ‘Ave. Avete.’ The monk turns to me. ‘Ave, Frater.’

  All this Latin. My brain’s turned to mush from so much jolting and bumping. I can’t think of the word for ‘honour’.

  ‘Come on, Isidore, you can get off now.’ The Archdeacon climbs down from his saddle, wincing slightly. He turns to Brother Beraldus. ‘Mihi placeat ut meum caballum deduceres, Frater.’

  Brother Beraldus
nods, and obediently takes the Archdeacon’s horse. Ah! Ouch! My bones are as the dust of the wilderness; my liver is poured upon the earth.

  ‘Can you manage, Isidore?’ The Archdeacon sounds worried. ‘Do you need some help?’

  ‘No thank you.’ I can get down by myself. But he’s hovering there, near the stirrup, and he slips his arm around my waist. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Just lean on me. It isn’t far to the guest-house. You’ll be fine in a moment.’

  ‘Fratres Deum adorant, Pater,’ Brother Beraldus announces. Oh, of course. All the monks will be at Vespers.

  The Archdeacon waves his hand. ‘It’s of no consequence. I don’t need any assistance, Brother.’

  ‘Sed –’

  ‘Thank you, Brother, I know my way.’

  Poor Brother Beraldus. Doesn’t even get to finish his sentence. As for the Archdeacon, he shoots through the gates like an eagle that hasteth to eat. What’s the rush? Are we late for an appointment? (It’s so hard to keep up, when your knees aren’t functioning properly.) Beyond the gate-house stands the church, large and simple, with three carved pillars on either side of its western door. The cloisters are built against its southern flank: they’re a mismatched collection of stone walls, wooden shutters and smoking chimneys. The only entrance seems to be that one, way over there.

  The Archdeacon heads straight for it.

  ‘This is where we’ll stay,’ he says, pushing me across the threshold. ‘It’s the abbey guest-house. Woof! Something smells a bit ripe. Those rushes need changing.’

  I can hardly see a thing. Will we be sleeping in here? There seems to be a table, and a hallway off to the right. The floor is strewn with soggy rushes.

  ‘This is where I lost my front tooth,’ the Archdeacon observes. ‘It was knocked out in a fight, twenty-odd years ago.’ He sniffs, and pokes at the rushes with the toe of his boot. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was still here, somewhere. They obviously haven’t swept this place out since the turn of the century.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can walk by myself now.’

  ‘Good.’ He lets me go. ‘I wonder where they keep the candles. There was a storage chest, the last time I was here . . .’

  ‘Is this where we’ll be sleeping?’

  ‘Oh no. This is the common room. There are bedrooms down the hall. Ouch!’ (A crack.) ‘God curse it!’

  ‘Are you all right, Father?’

  ‘I hit my hand on the – Oh, damn this. I’m not sitting around in this belly of hell waiting for the Abbot to show up. Come on, Isidore.’ And suddenly there’s light – more light – as he flings open another door. I can see his silhouette, dark against the brightness of the cloister-garth. ‘We’ll go and wait by the southern exit,’ he says. ‘They’ll be finishing Vespers soon, and that’s the best place to catch them when they leave the church.’

  The words are barely out of his mouth before the bells start to ring. They’re so loud that I can feel their vibrations through the paving-stones. ‘There!’ he says. ‘What did I tell you?’ And he scurries across the cloister-garth, which is very well designed, with a covered walkway built all around it. There are seats, and flowers, and five big book-presses, off to the left. Book-presses! O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.

  ‘Here they come,’ says the Archdeacon, pointing at a modest little door in the southern wall of the church. A monk emerges, robed in black, his cowl pulled over his face and his hands concealed in his sleeves. Another monk follows, and another, and another. They move in single file along the eastern walkway. One of them is limping.

  ‘They’ll be going to the refectory, for a drink,’ the Archdeacon murmurs. His breath tickles my ear. ‘It’s a Silent Time, now, but we don’t have to worry about that. We’re guests.’ Suddenly he stiffens: he’s looking at a tall, thin monk with stooped shoulders, who has to duck as he passes through the door. Could that be Lord Roland? I can’t see his face.

  ‘Roland!’

  The Archdeacon’s voice echoes like a thunderclap. Every head turns. Every foot falters. The tall monk stops abruptly, frozen in mid-step.

  ‘Pagan . . .?’ he gasps.

  So it is Lord Roland.

  The Archdeacon is laughing. He bounds across the cobbles and flings himself at Lord Roland – actually flings himself, like a dog or a ball – and Lord Roland catches him, and hugs him, and kisses him, and they’re both laughing now, laughing like fools, causing such a disturbance. What a ridiculous display. What undignified behaviour. If I had a friend I wouldn’t carry on like that, no matter how long it was since I’d seen him. That sort of thing is just – it’s just killing the rich and fruitful harvest of reason with the barren thorns of passion.

  ‘Pagan! I don’t believe it –’

  ‘How are you? Are you well?’

  ‘I’m well. I’m very well.’

  ‘All the better for seeing me, eh?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘It’s been far too long. I’ve been incredibly busy.’

  ‘Pagan . . .’

  So much for Lord Roland. So much for the greatest knight in Christendom. Why, he’s just an old man! A skinny old man with grey hair and sunken cheeks and lines under his eyes. Oh, why are things never, ever as good as you imagine them to be?

  ‘Pagan!’ A tiny monk hobbles over: a monk so small that he barely reaches my elbow. He has a squashed face and a stump instead of a right hand. ‘Pagan,’ he says. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘Hello, Gaubert.’ (More hugging.) ‘Where’s Durand? Durand, you old dog! Give us a smile.’ The Archdeacon throws his arms around a fat, balding monk with a face like a bowl of oatmeal. ‘How’s your back? Still playing up?’

  ‘Pagan, you look wonderful. Wonderful.’

  ‘God, Durand, your eyes must be as bad as your back. I’m a complete mess. Bones and teeth. You’ve no idea what kind of a week I’ve had . . .’

  Look at them all, clustering around. Why do they love him so much? He’s noisy, he’s conceited, he’s disrespectful – and of course he doesn’t even bother to introduce me. Why should he bother to introduce me? I’m nothing. No one. I barely exist.

  ‘Father Pagan.’ Ah! But here’s someone who doesn’t look so happy. A stunted, middle-aged monk with an oversized head, a wrinkled brow, and pale, peering eyes. There’s a heavy gold ring on one of his fingers.

  The Abbot, perhaps?

  ‘My lord,’ says the Archdeacon, bowing. So it is the Abbot. Everyone falls silent; Lord Roland steps back a pace; the Abbot frowns, and sniffs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘What are you doing in here, Father Pagan?’ he enquires fretfully. ‘You’re disturbing the Peace of the Cloister.’

  ‘Am I?’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Oh well. Bear with me, my lord. You know what your Rule says: “Let them bear most patiently with each other’s infirmities, whether of body or manner.” Chapter seventy-two, I believe.’

  ‘You should have waited in the guest-house. I would have come to you.’ The Abbot flaps his hand at the other monks, in a gesture that looks like dismissal. Sure enough, they begin to move away. Even Durand. Even the dwarf.

  But before Lord Roland can follow them, the Archdeacon grabs his wrist.

  ‘I’d like Roland to stay,’ he says. ‘We have a lot to tell each other.’

  ‘I’m afraid Brother Roland was on his way to the infirmary.’ The Abbot sniffs again. He coughs a weak little cough. ‘My catarrh has to be treated. I’m going to need another poultice, Brother. Will you prepare one for me, please?’

  ‘Wait. Just a moment.’ The Archdeacon lifts his hand. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t we all go to the infirmary? Then you can have your poultice, and I can talk to Roland.’

  But the Abbot smiles a wintry smile.

  ‘The infirmary?’ he says. ‘Oh no, Father. There’s a sick monk in there. A feverish monk. I never set foot in the infirmary. It’s not safe. My constitution isn’t
strong, as you know.’

  The Archdeacon folds his arms. He cocks his head. There’s an unpleasant sort of glitter in his eyes.

  ‘Roland hasn’t come to any harm,’ he says, in a steely voice. ‘Brother Roland is as strong as an ox. Nothing affects him. That’s why he’s our Infirmarian.’

  ‘Really? Is that so? And I thought it had something to do with his skill.’

  ‘Oh, he’s skilful enough, I suppose. Although that oil you gave me, Brother – it doesn’t seem to be working at all. I told you I should have been bled. If in doubt, bleed. That’s my philosophy . . .’

  It’s so strange, how the face can speak without words. Just as heavenly vials full of odours are the prayers of the saints, so the shifting of shadows is the language of a man’s countenance. I can look at the Archdeacon’s forehead, and his jaw, and the corners of his eyes, and I can see at once that he’s angry – very angry. His face speaks silently, like a book. What a clever creation it is! What a miracle of craftsmanship! I will praise thee, O Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works, and –

  Wait. Wait a moment. What’s that smell?

  ‘Isidore?’

  It’s the Archdeacon. His eyes are so big – his voice sounds so faint –

  ‘Isidore? What’s the matter?’

  No. Oh no.

  Help me!

  Chapter 10

  16 July 1209

  I can smell something strange. What is it? Some kind of herb, filling the air like incense . . . and another smell, too. The smell of clean linen. A good, safe, peaceful smell.

  Wait a moment. What am I doing, lying in bed? I don’t remember – I can’t seem to –

  Oh God. Oh God, it happened again. It came again!

  ‘Isidore?’

  That’s not the Archdeacon. Who is it? Where am I? A small room, lit by two lamps resting on shelves set into the wall. Another bed, a saddlebag, a stool . . .

  Lord Roland.

  ‘Isidore?’ He’s sitting there with his hands in his lap. Just sitting there. ‘How are you feeling?’ he murmurs.

  How am I feeling? How am I feeling? I am in distress, Lord Roland, that’s how I’m feeling. My bowels are troubled and my heart is turned within me.