Pagan's Scribe (9 page)
He laughs. ‘Isidore, I don’t believe you’ve ever played a game in your life.’
‘And isn’t it amazing the way Bishop Ambrose used to read? Without making a sound? ‘His eye glided over the pages, and his heart searched out the sense, but his voice and tongue were at rest.’ How could you do that? It doesn’t seem possible.’
He’s shaking his head at me; he’s smiling and stroking his beard. What is it? What did I say? What’s so funny?
‘I can’t believe this is you,’ he remarks. ‘I can’t believe I’m listening to Isidore. When you’re talking about books, Isidore, it’s as if you’re another person.’ Pause. ‘A happier person.’
Well of course I’m happier. What’s that got to do with anything? He crosses the floor, and sits down beside me on the bed: his breath smells of wine and garlic.
‘I don’t know if you realise this,’ he adds, in a low voice, ‘but you’ve got a terribly forbidding manner, for someone so young. Half the time you look like a fifty-year-old bishop. A fifty-year-old bishop with dyspepsia. You have to learn to be less icy. Less aloof. Especially with women.’
Oh,
please
!
‘Yes, yes, I know what they say about women. But women are important, Isidore. Believe me. They have a lot of influence in this world.’ He waves a hand. ‘Why, just look at Dominic! He’s only able to stay here because he has the support of some wealthy women. Now, I know you’re probably frightened of them –’
‘I am not!’
‘Oh yes you are. Why shouldn’t you be? You’ve been brought up by celibates, and most celibates are terrified of women –’
‘Well at least they don’t flirt with them!’
That’s stopped him. He draws back, startled, and lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t look too pleased.
‘Flirt with them? Who flirts with them? I hope you’re not referring to
me
, Isidore.’
Then you hope in vain.
‘I don’t
flirt
, my friend. What you witnessed today was diplomacy. I was being diplomatic.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘It’s a skill that
you’ll
need to develop, if you want to get along in the world.’
Oh, go away, will you? I’m reading. Why should I waste time talking to a bunch of women, when I can learn so much from Saint Augustine? Let’s see, now. Alypius . . . Nebridius . . . Ambrose . . .
He’s staring again.
‘Why are you always staring? Don’t you know it’s impolite?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looks away. ‘I know what it’s like to be stared at.’
Yes, I’m sure you do. The way you carry on.
‘But in my defence, Isidore, you must remember that I can’t see very well – and that you rarely open your mouth. So if I want to know what you’re thinking, I can only do it by watching your face.’ He scratches his cheek, and smiles. ‘You’re very like Roland, in that respect. My friend Roland. He would never tell me what he was thinking, either.’ A bright, black, sidelong glance. ‘In fact you remind me of Roland in many ways. He has a long nose, too, though it’s not quite as beaky as yours. But he tends to look down it in just the same fashion – as if a slug had crawled onto his shoe.’
What are you talking about? I don’t look like that, do I?
‘Of course, he’s not as educated as you are. In fact he can’t even read. Twenty years in a monastery, and he still can’t read. It makes you wonder . . .’
‘But I thought you said he was a knight? How can he be a knight, if he’s in a monastery?’
The Archdeacon throws me another piercing look, as sharp as the tongue of a serpent. ‘So you remember,’ he says softly. ‘Yes, Roland was a knight. The greatest knight of all. He left his home when he was just nineteen years old, and went off to the Holy Land. He wanted to fight for God, and find salvation. That’s why he joined the knights of the Temple. He wanted to become a Monk of War – to protect Christians and fight unbelievers.’
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.’
‘C
heer 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.’
