Pagan's Scribe (5 page)
Good dogs. Nice dogs.
‘Useless bunch of ill-mannered pus-bags,’ the Archdeacon mutters. Undaunted by the hostile atmosphere, he raises his voice to address a man in a leather cap, who’s slouching on a doorstep with his arms folded. ‘You there! Fellow! If you’re not busy, you can take our horses.’
‘Where to?’ A frightening voice, like a thunderclap, but the Archdeacon doesn’t flinch.
‘Why,’ he says, winningly, ‘to the stables, of course. I am a guest of Dame Cavears.’
The man grunts. He comes forward and snatches the reins from the Archdeacon – who takes a very deep breath, holds it for an instant, and slowly lets it out again.
‘Come, Isidore,’ he murmurs. ‘I think we’d better announce ourselves.’
I can hear a baby crying. I can see a ruined tower, all gaping holes and piles of rubble. There’s a discarded shoe lying in the dust near my foot, and a goat nibbling at a cabbage-stalk. But there’s no music, no dancing, no silken flags. And that smell – it smells more like salted herring than roast peacock.
Oh Lord, am I to be disappointed once again? Why are things never as good as the poets and philosophers tell us they are? Is it because I’m unworthy to drink of the river of thy pleasures?
Or am I simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time?
‘Come, Isidore.’
It’s the Archdeacon; he’s heading for the keep. How can he move so swiftly, after all that riding? When he reaches the stairs he bounds up them two at a time, like a young goat, and waits for me at the top with his foot tapping.
The door of the keep is disappointingly small, with no carvings or pillars to ornament it.
‘Now don’t worry if Dame Cavears teases you a bit,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘She’s an old lady, and she’s practically blind, so you have to be tolerant. Just stand up straight and take it like a man. That’s what I do.’ He grins at me, and winks. ‘Don’t fret yourself, boy. Remember what I said? The women in this country love priests.’ He gives me a push.
‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘In you go. I’m right behind you.’
B
ehold the house of Hezekiah, full of precious things. Behold the merchandise of fallen Babylon: the gold and the silver, the silk and the linen, the vessels of ivory and brass. Painted chests, as blue as sapphires and as red as rubies; tablecloths heavy with embroidered flowers; tapestry hangings like the pages of some great illuminated manuscript, glittering in the candlelight. Every surface seems to be enamelled or gilded or painted or carved, busy with colour, gleaming with richness. Only the floor is unadorned.
I feel like the Queen of Sheba coming before the wealth of Solomon. There is no more spirit in me.
‘Who’s that?’ The colours shift as someone moves; it’s so hard to distinguish the people against the patterns. But there she is – I can see her now. An old, old woman, with a face like a sun-dried apple and a gown as scarlet as sin. ‘Who’s that?’ she squawks. ‘Is that you, Enguerrand?’
‘No, Madame, it is not,’ the Archdeacon replies. At the sound of his voice there’s a flurry of movement: heads turn, benches creak. I can count three faces, all of them female. The room is so abundant in candles – great bunches of them, made of beeswax – that every line, every hair, is clearly illuminated. The old woman is sitting on a kind of throne, with a back to it, as if she were a Bishop. She wears a rich veil, embroidered with gold, and many golden rings. The other woman is dressed simply, in a dark robe and veil; she has a humble, careworn face, like the virtuous woman of Solomon’s proverbs, who riseth while it is yet night and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her eyes are grey, just like those of the girl beside her – the girl who looks up, and looks away, and makes such a beautiful shape with her mouth; the girl who is as fair as a lily among thorns. Her skin is white, like the heavenly robes of the martyrs, but her hair is raven black through a net of woven silk.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.
‘Why, it’s Pagan!’ the old woman cries. ‘It’s little Pagan! I’d recognise that voice anywhere.’
‘Madame.’ The Archdeacon bows. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Come here – sit down – look, Guilhelme, it’s Father Pagan!’
Guilhelme nods. The girl beside her glowers. What a pity that such a beautiful face should be marred by such a sulky expression.
‘You’re just like a bird,’ the old woman cackles. ‘He’s just like a bird, isn’t he, Guilhelme? Flitting in and out, surprising everyone.’
‘If I’m a bird, Dame Cavears, then I’m a golden oriole to your fruit trees,’ the Archdeacon smiles.
‘Oh, will you listen to him? Off he goes, the little devil! Sit down, Father, I’ve been pining for a good joke. Guilhelme here doesn’t know any. Have you met Guilhelme de Tonneins? Oh, of course you have. And this is her daughter, Aude.’
Guilhelme de Tonneins! Isn’t she the arch-heretic? The Evil Priestess? Lord God protect us! The Archdeacon smiles and nods, calmly, as if this nest of serpents is a field of flowers. Suddenly the old woman grabs him and points at me.
‘Who’s that?’ she demands.
‘That’s my scribe,’ he says. ‘Isidore, this is the Dame de Fanjeaux.’
‘What’s wrong with his head? Is he bleeding?’
‘No, Sister, that’s just his hair.’ The Evil Priestess sounds amused. (How could I ever have thought her humble?) ‘He has red hair.’
‘Red hair? Show me. Come here, Isidore. Come on! Over here.’ Her hands are so old and fat and unsteady – she has hairs on her face like a man, and little black eyes like a rat’s. ‘Come closer, or I can’t see you. No, down here! By the Virgin’s milk, Father, there’s no end to him.’
‘Yes, he is rather tall.’
In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; deliver me in thy righteousness. Her fumbling hands reach for my head; they drag it down and down until I’m almost in her lap – until I can feel her breath on my tonsure.
I can’t believe this is happening.
‘What a beautiful colour, Guilhelme,’ she croaks. ‘It’s like autumn leaves, don’t you think? What a pity you’re not a girl, young man – you’d break hearts, with that hair.’ She laughs a wheezy laugh. ‘But I don’t suppose I need to tell you that, eh? You must have broken a score of hearts already.’
‘Look, Mama.’ It’s Aude’s voice: I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her voice, young and high and spiteful. ‘Look, he’s blushing. He’s as red as his hair.’
‘Don’t you tease him, young lady,’ the old woman retorts. ‘You’ve no cause to feel superior. It’s disgraceful, a young girl like you, living like a nun. And such a pretty girl, too. Don’t you think she’s pretty, Isidore?’
What are you saying? Leave me alone! When I pull back she laughs and laughs, rocking from side to side, showing her slimy, toothless gums. And the Archdeacon – the Archdeacon is grinning too, they’re all grinning, every one of them except Aude. Aude is scowling.
‘What
he
thinks is of no interest to me,’ she says, and the old woman waves a hand at her.
‘Go and tell Pons that we want some food, my dear. I’m sure these poor lads must be hungry. Off you go, now.’ She watches Aude rise and stalk off. ‘That girl should be married,’ she declares, in a loud voice. ‘If she doesn’t marry soon, she’ll curdle.’
The Evil Priestess shakes her head. ‘You know that’s out of the question, Sister,’ she sighs, and the old woman turns to the Archdeacon.
‘Our Good Men don’t believe in marriage,’ she explains, taking his arm. ‘They say it’s a sin.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, it might be a sin for some, but not for a girl like Aude.’ The old woman wags a finger at her heretical friend. ‘What that girl needs is a man. A man and a baby.’
‘But she doesn’t
want
a baby.’ The Evil Priestess sounds tired. ‘She believes very strongly in the teachings of the faith. She believes that having a child is condemning another soul to hell. Sometimes I think she blames me for having borne her – though I did it long before I embraced the Truth.’
By the blood of the Lamb! This is heresy, pure and simple. But the Archdeacon doesn’t even cross himself. He just removes his arm from the old woman’s grip, and sits on a stool near her feet.
‘You know, Madame, I didn’t come here simply to pay my respects,’ he says. ‘I came here to warn you.’
‘Warn me? About what?’
‘About the coming of the northern knights.’ He speaks quite casually, as he sits there arranging the skirts of his robe – yet this is a crucial point in the conversation. ‘Have you heard about the army which is gathering up north?’
‘The army? Oh yes, I heard about that from Aimery de Montreal. He dropped in last week, and gave me a beautiful casket. Guilhelme, where’s that casket? I want to show it to Father Pagan –’
‘Madame, did he tell you what this army is going to do? It’s going to invade Languedoc.’
‘You mean it’s going to
try
to invade Languedoc.’ The old woman waves her hand. ‘You mustn’t worry about the northerners, Father, they’ll never get past Carcassonne. Why, you know what the walls there are like. The Devil himself couldn’t scale them.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Ah! Is that Aude? And here’s Pons, with the food. What’s that you’ve got there, Pons? Not onions, I hope, you know they make me fart.’
What a monstrous woman. As greedy as a pig, as lascivious as a goat, and as shrill as a manticora. Truly she walks in the streets of Babylon, and wallows in the mire thereof.
‘I can smell beans,’ she complains. ‘Why did you bring me beans, Pons? You know they’re as bad as onions. Oh I see, the apples are for me, are they? Did you put honey on them? Good boy.’ Pons is covered in flea-bites: you can hardly see his face for spots. He’s carrying a big, steaming dish full of beans and bacon. Aude has the bread and the stewed apples. ‘Just put them down there, on that bench. Would you like some beans, Father?’
‘I certainly would.’
‘Give him some bread, Aude, that’s a good girl. I hope these apples aren’t too hot.’ The old woman begins to push great handfuls of sweet, sloppy fruit into her mouth. The juice runs down her chin and drips onto her bosom. She licks her fingers with a long blue tongue. ‘Go on, Isidore, tuck in. That bread tastes better with beans.’
No, thank you.
‘Here.’ The Evil Priestess hands me the dish. ‘Take some.’ Not from you, I won’t.
‘Aren’t you hungry? You should eat more. You’re much too thin. Isn’t he thin, Father?’ When the old woman speaks, she sends bits of apple spraying across the room in all directions. ‘He’s as thin as a needle.’
‘What’s wrong, Isidore?’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you like beans?’
‘Of course he does. Everyone likes beans. Go on, my dear, I ordered them for everyone.’
‘No, thank you.’ (Just leave me alone.)
‘But why not?’ The old woman is beginning to sound plaintive. ‘What do you think I’m trying to do, poison you? What’s the matter with the boy, Father?’
‘Just try some, Isidore, you’re being rude.’
I’m
being rude? That’s a joke! What about
her
?
‘Beans are bad for clerics, Father.’
‘What?’ He frowns at me. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Pythagoras said that wits are dulled by beans. Varro said that bishops shouldn’t eat them.’
‘But you’re not a bishop!’ the old woman cries. And suddenly Aude speaks, in drawling, sarcastic tones.
‘Perhaps he’s on a fast,’ she says.
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, girl, what kind of sins would
he
have to fast for? He’s barely out of the egg.’ The old woman snorts, and wipes her mouth with the corner of her sleeve. ‘There’s only one sin he could have committed, and that’s coming out of his mother’s womb backwards.’
‘Perhaps he forgot to make a sign of the cross, when he stepped in a cowpat,’ Aude says, slyly. ‘Perhaps he ate too much roast pork, and burped when the priest was saying grace.’
‘No, no, I know what he did. He looked down one day when he was pissing, and he saw what was there!’
Yes, that’s right. Laugh away, old woman. You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face when the crusaders come. Then your joy will soon be ceased, and your dance will be turned to mourning.
‘He’s a good boy, Madame,’ the Archdeacon says mildly. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be laughed at.’
‘Why, of course he’s a good boy! It’s written all over him. That’s why his sin must be so very, very small.’ The old woman leans forward. ‘Go on, my dear, tell us why you’re fasting. What was your sin? Was it a wink? A fart? A roll on the dungheap?’
‘Whatever my sins are, they’re not as bad as yours!’ (Shouting.) ‘You’re all heretics, and you’re going to burn in hell!’
Dead silence. The old woman sucks in her bottom lip. The Archdeacon covers his eyes with his hand. Aude scowls ferociously.
‘Why do you say that, Isidore?’ It’s the Evil Priestess. Her voice is quiet. Calm. Amiable. ‘Why do you say we’re heretics?’
‘Because you are! Because you believe that marriage is a sin!’
‘But how do you know that it
isn’t
a sin?’ She’s talking as if I were a child. ‘How do you know that this earth isn’t Satan’s realm, and that giving birth to a child isn’t condemning a heavenly soul to a hellish imprisonment?’