Pagan's Scribe
T
HE
P
AGAN
C
HRONICLES
‘Full of the richly-textured, high-smelling, highly individualistic atmosphere of the Middle Ages, Catherine Jinks’s Pagan series offers unforgettable characters in an extraordinary setting and time, presented in crisp, pungent prose.’
SOPHIE MASSON
‘Humour, romance, adventure, violence – who would have thought Medieval Jerusalem could be so much fun?’
LILI WILKINSON
‘The Pagan Chronicles are a kind ‘ of medieval version of Tin Tin, meticulously researched and told with a delightfully slapstick, cinematographic vigour.’
URSULA DUBOSARSKY
‘What a romp! Not since Don ‘ Quixote took up with Sancho Panza has a knight had a squire like Pagan Kidrouk.’
Voice of Youth Advocates
‘There have been few characters in recent historical fiction more vibrant than the street-smart, fast-talking protagonist of this series.’
School Library Journal
‘Rich, vivid storytelling, with a sturdy ‘ base in historical events, and undercurrents both comic and serious.’
Kirkus Reviews
(
STARRED REVIEW
)
‘Jinks dramatically evokes a historical ‘ time that was particularly dark and dirty æ Along with the drama and darkness, readers will find intensity and, yes, humor. Series fans may find other books set in the Middle Ages pallid after this one.’
AMERICAN LIBRARY ASSOCIATION
‘Pagan is a real, live boy who leaps off ‘ the page and compels you to listen to his story.’
KIRSTY MURRAY
‘Humour? Rage? Agony? Spiritual ‘ journeys? Murder? Moral turpitude? Twists both welcome and dismaying? This decidedly unique historical saga has it all.’
Kirkus Reviews
(
STARRED REVIEW
)
‘Brimming with wit and fascinating ‘ details of medieval history, with its vividly drawn characters æ this emotionally satisfying epic brings the Middle Ages to life.’
The Horn Book
C
ATHERINE JINKS is a scholar of medieval history and a prolific author for teenagers, children and adults. Her books have been published to wide acclaim in Australia and overseas and have won numerous awards. She loves reading, history, films, TV and gossip, and says she could write for eight hours straight every day if she had the chance. Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains of NSW with her husband and daughter.
T
HE
P
AGAN
C
HRONICLES
Pagan’s Crusade
(shortlisted CBCA and Victorian Premier’s Literary awards)
Pagan in Exile
Pagan’s Vows
(winner CBCA Book of the Year Award for older readers)
Pagan’s Scribe
(winner Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for children’s literature)
Pagan’s Daughter
(notable book CBCA Book of the Year Award for older readers)
Pagan’
Scribe
Catherine
JINKS
The author would like to thank John O. Ward for his assistance.
First published in 1996
This edition published in 2007
Copyright © Catherine Jinks, 1996
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The
Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander St
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web:
www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Jinks, Catherine, 1963–.
Pagan’s scribe.
For ages 12 and over.
ISBN 978 1 74175 234 2.
1. Crusades – Juvenile fiction. 2. Carcassone (France) – History – 13th century – Juvenile fiction. 3. France – History – Philip II Augustus, 1180–1223 – Juvenile fiction.
I. Title. (Series: Jinks, Catherine, 1963– Pagan chronicles; 4).
A823.3
Cover & Text Design by Zoë Sadokierski
Set in Celestia Antiqua 11.5/15pt by Midland Typesetters
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Margaret Connolly, for her endless support
Contents
H
ear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer.
Lord, I’m sitting here like a pelican in the wilderness. Like an owl in the desert, Lord. Is it truly your divine wish that I should spend the rest of my life in this miserable village? In this howling wasteland? Did you look at this dungheap and say: That’s where I’m going to send Isidore, so he can eat the bread of sorrow? Because that’s what I’ve been doing, Lord, ever since I arrived. I’ve been eating the bread of sorrow and licking the dust like a serpent.
Lord, it may have escaped your notice, but the nearest manuscript is a full day’s ride from here. A
full day’s ride.
Surely you must understand what it’s like for me, if I don’t have any books? It’s worse than not having any food or water. I can’t live without books, Lord, you must know that. And the people here are so stupid: their heads are as empty as pots. And just look at this church I’m sitting in! Have you ever seen such a horrible church? Have you ever seen such horrible paintings? Look at that painting on the apse: that one of the four-and-twenty elders, with their white raiment and their crowns of gold. Do they remind you of anything? Of four-and-twenty poached eggs, perhaps? And do you see the way Our Lord Jesus Christ seems to be sticking his finger up the nose of that angel? It’s blasphemous, Lord, it really is. Whoever painted it ought to be crucified.
Father, did you create Merioc just to punish me for my sins? Because if you did, it’s the perfect penance. I hate this village, and everyone in it. I hate the way they’re all married to their cousins. I hate the way they’re all named Bernard. I hate the gossip, and the lice, and the sticky, smelly cheese they produce here. I especially hate the shepherds’ bagpipes – have you heard those bagpipes, Lord? But of course you have. They’re loud enough to drown the Last Trump, so you must have heard them in heaven.
O Lord, I know I’m a sinner. I know I have a devil in me, but I’m trying very hard to get rid of it. Can’t you please punish me in some other way? If I don’t get out of here soon, Lord, I think I’ll go mad.
‘Hello?’ A man’s voice, echoing around the church like the sound of bells. ‘Hello? Is the priest here?’ Who can this be, marching onto consecrated soil as if he owns it? He stands there framed by the western door, dark against the light, and I can’t really see him from this distance. But he moves forward, and it’s obvious at once that he’s not from the village: no villager walks like that, so briskly, with such a firm tread. All the villagers ever do is amble, like cows. He’s peering into the dimness, and of course he sees me, because my white surplice gleams in the shadows like a wolf’s eyes.
‘Who’s that?’ he says. ‘Are you the priest?’
‘No, I’m the parish clerk –’
‘Where is the priest?’ He’s small and wiry, with thick black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He also has a tonsure. I can see it, now, on the crown of his head – that distinctive, circular, shaven patch of scalp.
So he’s a cleric, then. How interesting.
‘
Where is the priest
?’ he snaps. ‘Have you lost your tongue? I just asked you a question!’
