Father Dominic smiles. He takes both my hands, and presses them. ‘Welcome, my son,’ he murmurs. ‘It is a joy and a pleasure to welcome you here.’
‘F-father . . .’ I can’t even bow, because my back is too sore. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘Come inside and rest. Sister! Sister Curtolane! Sister Curtolane will take care of the horses.’
A woman appears, and another, and another. They’re dressed in grey and brown and black; they hover around us like bees around a hive, and follow us into the convent. One of them is standing just inside the door, with a basin of water and a towel. Praise ye the Lord, that water feels good! So cold, so fresh, so soothing on my face.
I think I must be sunburnt.
‘Please – won’t you sit down?’ Father Dominic steps aside, motioning with his hand. It’s very dim in here, after all that sunshine, but I can just make out some tables and benches, and rushes on the floor. Is this the refectory, then? It’s all very plain, although the drinking-cups are of good quality, finely glazed in rich colours. A plump little woman is arranging them on the largest table.
‘Why, it’s Ermessende!’ the Archdeacon cries. ‘Sister Ermessende, you’re a happy sight for a weary wanderer.’
She beams all over her round, red, surprised-looking face.
‘Father Pagan!’ she chirrups. ‘We’re so pleased to see you –’
‘And Sister Alazais.’ The Archdeacon grins at a solid woman with heavy brows. ‘You’re looking fit, Sister.’
‘I am,’ she says, with a slow smile. She has a mighty voice, the sort of voice that breaketh the cedars, and maketh the hinds to calve. ‘I am fit and strong.’
‘Well, that’s good news. I know that this whole place would fall apart without you. Isidore, come here! You must meet the Prioress. Sister Guilhelmine, this is my scribe, Isidore. He’s from Pamiers.’
All these faces – it’s so confusing – but this must be the Prioress. She’s rather tall, with beautiful white teeth and a very large . . . a very large . . . bosom . . .
But I mustn’t look at that.
‘Sit down, Father, you must be so tired.’ They fuss around, all rustling skirts and fluttering hands, and the Archdeacon seems to be enjoying himself: he’s grinning and joking and laughing in a most improper way, because you shouldn’t behave like that to women, not when you’re a priest. Suddenly he leans over and grabs my wrist and says: ‘Just wait till you taste the food here, Isidore, it’s marvellous. Simply marvellous. I always do very well here, because Dominic gives all his food to visitors. He lives on boiled nettles and bits of old shoe.’
Laughter from the women. ‘Oh no,’ Sister Ermessende protests. ‘Father Dominic doesn’t eat nettles –’
‘Only because you don’t serve them to him,’ the Archdeacon rejoins. ‘But I’m sure you could make even nettles taste delicious, Sister. You’re such a superb cook.’
She blushes and dimples, and the other women smile. I can’t believe this. It’s disgusting. A man of his age, behaving like a troubadour! He must be – oh, at least thirty. Probably even older. Why can’t he sit quietly, like Father Dominic, instead of chattering and winking and – well, let’s face it, frankly flirting with a group of holy women!
‘Ah!’ the Archdeacon exclaims, as the crowd parts to admit a girl with a very large dish in her hands. ‘And here’s Sister Gentiane with – now, what are those delicious-looking tidbits you’ve got for us?’
‘They’re stuffed cabbage leaves, Father. In olive oil.’ She has a soft little voice, and a face to match. Lord God of my salvation, what a face is this! So fair, so tender, with snow-white skin and golden hair. Her neck is like a tower of ivory; her eyes are like the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk and fitly set.
Preserve me, O God, for in thee do I put my trust.
‘Sister Gentiane, permit me to introduce my scribe, Isidore. Isidore, this is Sister Gentiane.’
Help. She’s smiling at me. Even her teeth are perfect.
‘Brother Isidore,’ she coos. ‘You have a beautiful name, Brother. Were you named after that revered scholar, Isidore of Seville?’
Help! Help me! Looking around, and that wretched little man is grinning away, amused, diverted – may he be poured out like milk and curdled like cheese.
‘Go on, Isidore, answer the lady.’
I can’t stop blushing. My voice is just a strangled squawk. I can’t – I can’t –
‘What’s that?’ He’s laughing, now; really laughing. ‘You’ll have to speak up, Isidore.’
‘I said leave me alone!’
‘Yes.’ It’s Father Dominic. ‘Yes, I think that’s all, Sisters. If you could leave us now, please: the Archdeacon and I have business to discuss.’
His tone is quiet but firm, and suddenly the women are gone. Every one of them. They’ve just faded out the door, soundlessly, like smoke in a strong wind. How obedient they are. How well they know their place.
As for the Archdeacon, he looks positively bereft.
‘This came from the Bishop,’ Father Dominic continues, producing a sealed letter from somewhere beneath his surplice. ‘It’s for you, Father.’
‘Hmmph.’ The Archdeacon grunts, and takes it, and tosses it at me. ‘There you are, Isidore,’ he says, as he reaches for one of the oily cabbage rolls. ‘See if you can decipher that.’
‘You – you want me to read it, Father?’
‘Unless you’d care to wipe your backside on it.’
Don’t be crude! There’s no need for such language. The letter is of vellum, which tears when I break the seal; the script seems to lurch and wobble like a drunkard.
‘It’s in the vernacular.’
‘Is it? Then it was probably written in haste.’ The Archdeacon is talking through a mouthful of cabbage. ‘Off you go, then.’
‘“Bernard Raymond de Roquefort, Bishop of Carcassonne –’’ ’
‘Yes, yes, you can skip the preliminaries.’
Skip the preliminaries. Very well. ‘ “My son, the news is bad. I am told that the Count of Toulouse, bowing to the might of those forces massed against him, has made humble submission to the Pope’s representative on the steps of the cathedral of Saint Gilles. I am told that he has joined the crusading army, which numbers twenty thousand knights and so many more villeins that their number cannot be counted. They say that William of Porcelet has also submitted, and that his two fortresses in Arles have already been demolished. It seems that the army has left Lyons, and has almost reached Montelimar. Oh my son, what times are these! God has given us like sheep appointed for meat, and has scattered us among the heathen. But the Lord is our defence, and the rock of our refuge.’’ ’
A snort from the Archdeacon. ‘Scared witless,’ he mutters, as Father Dominic sighs. ‘Go on, Isidore.’
‘‘All is not lost, however, for the Viscount our lord, greatly afflicted by the Count’s submission, has at last been enlightened and delivered unto our way of thinking. He has agreed to approach Arnaud Amaury, the Abbot of Citeaux, and other leaders of the crusading forces, to beg for clemency. My son, you must make haste to join him, for he requires the persuasive powers of your sweet-tongued rhetoric. He will not leave without you. Make haste, my son, or the plagues of the Apocalypse will be upon us.” ’
Dead silence. Father Dominic crosses himself.
Hear my voice, O God: preserve my life from fear of the enemy.
‘Well,’ the Archdeacon yawns, ‘it looks as if we won’t be going to Laurac this afternoon. We’ll have a rest, and leave for Carcassonne first thing tomorrow. If that’s all right by you, Brother?’
‘Of course. You’re welcome.’ Father Dominic frowns. ‘But don’t you want to go to Laurac? If the Viscount of Carcassonne is going to appeal to the Abbot of Citeaux for clemency, then perhaps the nobles of Laurac will want to follow his example. Isn’t that what you’re trying to persuade them to do? Isn’t that why you were sent on this mission in the first pl
ace? To make all these Cathar lords beg for mercy?’
The Archdeacon shakes his head.
‘It won’t make any difference,’ he declares. ‘They won’t stir themselves until the crusaders are mining their walls. They live in a world of their own around here.’
‘ ‘The blind that have eyes, and the deaf that have ears’,’ Father Dominic agrees, with a desolate look on his face. ‘It’s true. So true. They are blind to the teachings of God.’
‘No, no, just blind to the realities of international politics.’ The Archdeacon reaches for another cabbage roll. ‘Things are changing. It’s impossible to hide away any more. The lords of this country have no idea of the forces massing against them.’
‘Some would say that they were the forces of good,’ Father Dominic observes, quietly. But the Archdeacon laughs behind his hand.
‘Only those people who haven’t met Abbot Arnaud Amaury of Citeaux,’ he says, thrusting the roll into his mouth.
‘Surely you cannot doubt the Abbot’s spiritual zeal,’ Father Dominic objects, and the Archdeacon quickly swallows the food in his mouth. ‘No,’ he replies, ‘but I doubt the way it manifests itself. I’m not comfortable with zealots. They always end up with blood on their hands.’
‘The Abbot has already tried peaceful means, Father. He came here with the preaching mission, several years ago. You saw him yourself. He travelled these roads like a pilgrim, patiently exhorting the heretics to humble themselves before the glory of the True Church.’
‘He was here for four months, and he failed. So he goes whining to the Pope, and now he’s back with half the population of Europe behind him. Do you think that’s a reasonable response?’ The Archdeacon raises an eyebrow. ‘I think it’s the action of a man with a serious problem, don’t you?’
Father Dominic stares down at his hands, which are carefully arranged on the table-top. He has such a still, cool, impassive face. ‘Arnaud Amaury didn’t call this crusade, Father,’ he points out. ‘The Pope did, because his very own representative, Peter of Castelnau, was killed –’
‘Look.’ The Archdeacon hammers on his knee with a clenched fist. ‘All I’m saying is that there’s a perfectly simple solution to this entire business. If we had an equitable system of tithes, and a higher standard of parish priests, then the Cathars would lose at least half their support around here.’
‘But –’
‘You know it’s true, Dominic! God preserve us, I’m an archdeacon, I know what some of our priests are like. You might as well ordain a bunch of grape-pips.’ (Turning to me.) ‘I bet Isidore knows what I’m talking about. What was your priest like, Isidore? Was he a complete sepulchre-head?’
Don’t. Stop. This isn’t fair.
‘Well? Come on. You didn’t like him, did you? Why not?’
‘Because I don’t particularly like anyone.’
There. That’s shut him up. He blinks, and opens his eyes very wide.
‘Dear me,’ he says. ‘That’s a bit of a blow. You don’t like anyone, Isidore? Not even me? Not even the man who saved you from the insufferable torments of Merioc?’
‘Perhaps he’s tired.’ Thank God for Father Dominic. He lays a gentle hand on the Archdeacon’s arm. ‘Perhaps he needs a rest. Is there anything you’d like, Isidore? Anything to eat? Anything to drink? Perhaps you’d care to lie down for a while?’
Opening my mouth. Taking a deep breath. But the Archdeacon answers for me.
‘No,’ he says, ‘I’ll tell you what he’d like. He’d like a book, wouldn’t you, Isidore? A big, fat, juicy book.’ (Winking.) ‘He prefers books to people, don’t you, eh?’
To some people, little man. Especially to some people.
‘Only because books are better than people, Father.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes it is. Because they are masters who instruct without a rod. If you approach them, they are never asleep; if you are ignorant, they never laugh; if you make mistakes, they never chide. They give to all who ask of them, and never demand payment.’ (How sweet are their words unto my taste!) ‘All the glory of the world would be buried in oblivion, if God hadn’t provided us with the remedy of books.’
A long, long pause. The Archdeacon’s face has changed. Suddenly he’s very still.
‘Sweet saints preserve us,’ he says softly. ‘What a find you are.’
And he isn’t laughing.
Chapter 8
15 July 1209
‘Isidore!’
Oh, go away.
‘Isidore! Are you there?’
Leave me alone. Can’t you leave me alone? I’m busy.
‘Ah!’ He appears at the door, and stands there, grinning. (Why doesn’t he go and flirt with the nuns?) ‘So you found Dominic’s room, did you? I thought you would. Found yourself a book, too, I see.’ He strolls across to the window, and looks out at the gathering dusk. ‘What book is it?’
‘Saint Augustine’s Confessions.’
‘Really?’ He seems surprised. ‘But surely you must have read that before?’
‘No, Father.’
‘I’m astonished.’
‘Our copy at Pamiers was very old. I wasn’t allowed to touch it.’ As if I would have harmed Saint Augustine! Oh Saint Augustine, you are the spring whose waters fail not. You are a soul enriched with the manifold grace of God’s holy spirit.
‘So what do you think?’ The Archdeacon turns his head, leaning one elbow on the windowsill. ‘Do you like what you’ve read so far?’
‘Well of course!’ (Who wouldn’t?) ‘It’s – it’s –’
‘Magnificent.’
‘Yes! Yes, it is! It’s magnificent!’ So real. So vivid. I can almost smell the schoolroom. ‘The way he remembers everything! And he’s so wise. That bit where he talks about being scolded –’
‘It’s a long time since I read it, Isidore.’
‘But you must remember! It’s so true – so very true – where is it? Oh yes. ‘For we wanted not, O Lord, memory or capacity, whereof thy will gave enough of our age, but our sole delight was play, and for this we were punished by those who yet themselves were doing like. But older folks’ idleness is called “business”; that of boys, being really the same, is punished by these elders.’ Isn’t that exactly what happens?’
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.’
Pagan's Scribe Page 6
