Pagan's Scribe

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘My commiserations,’ he replies hoarsely, and tucks the lump back into his cheek.

  What a rude fellow.

  ‘That’s what I like about Guichard,’ Lord Jordan says, watching his squire slouch away with the horses. ‘We both have exactly the same feelings about his father.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The Archdeacon doesn’t sound impressed. He turns and begins to walk up the road, muffling another sneeze against his wrist. There are shreds of white wool clinging to the skirts of his robe.

  ‘I also like Guichard because he knows how to keep his mouth shut,’ Lord Jordan continues, striding along beside the Archdeacon. ‘Anseric was incapable of realising that his comments were of absolutely no interest or value to anyone. It’s a common fault. What’s the matter, Pagan? Are you sick?’

  ‘It’s the wool.’

  ‘Ah. The wool.’ Lord Jordan glances around. ‘And what about you, Isidore? How do you like working for Pagan?’

  ‘You leave Isidore alone!’ the Archdeacon snaps. ‘What are you doing in Carcassonne, anyway? Why aren’t you in Bram? Don’t you normally ride around pestering your neighbours at this time of year?’

  Lord Jordan laughs. ‘Oh, my son takes care of all that,’ he says. ‘My son has a natural talent for pestering our neighbours. I prefer the fleshpots of Carcassonne, myself.’

  ‘Did the Viscount summon you?’

  ‘The Viscount never summons me, Pagan.’ Lord Jordan’s voice is very calm and pleasant. ‘He requests the pleasure of my company, at my own convenience. I’ve always found him a perspicacious young man. We get along quite well.’

  How odd they look, from behind: the Archdeacon, so small and black, his movements as quick and sharp as a bird’s; Lord Jordan, so tall and colourful in his blue cape and his crimson robe, all heavy and loose, and taking one step for every two of the Archdeacon’s. He’s like a peacock next to the Archdeacon’s swallow.

  ‘I hear about you everywhere, Pagan. You seem to be omnipresent.’

  ‘I get around.’

  ‘Not to Bram, though. Why don’t you ever visit Bram? Anyone would think you were avoiding me.’

  ‘I saw Roland yesterday. He seems well.’

  ‘Roland? Oh, Roland. Still alive, is he?’

  ‘Yes he is. Why? Have you been trying to kill him?’

  ‘My dear Pagan, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Bit of a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Fratricide?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It would be a dull old world if we had to confine ourselves to killing our relatives. No, I prefer to describe my hobby as wholesale carnage. Much more interesting.’

  ‘Ha ha ha.’

  The road has widened, and there’s a new smell in the air: the smell of freshly baked bread. Lord God of my salvation, does that smell good! And there are the ovens – over there beneath that roof, with heaps of fuel and sacks of corn, and clusters of people carrying wicker baskets.

  Ahead, through thick clouds of woodsmoke, you can see a fortress rising against the sky.

  ‘Don’t dawdle, Isidore.’ The Archdeacon has stopped: he’s waiting for me, up ahead. ‘You’ll get lost if you do.’

  ‘He’s hungry,’ Lord Jordan observes. ‘He wants some bread. Don’t you feed him?’

  ‘Of course I feed him!’

  ‘He looks half-starved.’

  ‘Will you mind your own business?’

  ‘What a temper he has.’ Lord Jordan places a hand on my shoulder. ‘How do you cope with it, Isidore? Is he as rude to you as he is to me?’

  ‘Leave the poor child alone.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think, would you, that he used to be a lowly squire? Someone who cleaned the shoes, and shovelled the shit? He would never have dared talk to me like this, when he was young.’

  Ouch! The Archdeacon grabs my arm – pulls me away – but Lord Jordan follows us, still talking.

  ‘. . . He hardly opened his mouth, most of the time, but of course he didn’t approve of me. It was written all over him, whenever I tried to be friendly. I blame Roland, myself – we were never on good terms . . .’

  The Archdeacon quickens his pace, and I can see the castle more clearly now: a stack of towers and roofs and ramparts and huge, greyish walls, like a city within a city. How rich the Viscount must be, to have built such a fortress! He must have heaped up silver as the dust, and fine gold as the mire of the streets.

  ‘. . . It’s not a very charitable attitude, for a man of God, but I don’t hold it against him,’ Lord Jordan is saying. ‘After all, he’s an Arab by birth. You can’t expect an Arab to be a model Christian, can you?’

  ‘Just ignore him,’ the Archdeacon mutters, through his teeth. ‘Don’t pay any attention. He always does this. He’s trying to make me cross.’

  ‘Why?’

  But the Archdeacon doesn’t answer. He just marches on, fuming, towards the massive grey bulk of the Viscount’s castle.

  Chapter 12

  17 July 1209

  The ceiling is lost in smoke. The walls are smoke-blackened, huge stone walls that seem to stretch on for ever, disappearing into the grey haze above. The air tastes of smoke – smoke and tallow – and it’s cold in here, as cold as the shadow of death, although the sun is blazing outside. People drift about like disembodied spirits, hard to see in the smoky darkness: there are men with swords, men wearing chain mail, men slumped on benches and leaning against the walls. I can hear their armour clinking. I can hear the wind whistling.

  What a strange place this fortress is. What a huge, chilly, frightening place. Behold, they meet with darkness in the daytime, and grope in the noonday as in the night.

  ‘Sounds as if your Bishop’s here,’ Lord Jordan mutters. ‘I seem to recognise that squeak of his.’

  There’s an argument going on: voices are raised down the other end of this enormous room. But it’s impossible to see what’s happening through all the smoke – just a faint blur of movement, and an orange flicker that could be a fire. Yes, it is a fire. An old-fashioned fire on a raised stone platform, with no hole cut in the ceiling above it. And beyond the fire a dais, covered in tables and benches and the odd carved chair. Who are all these people? Which one is the Viscount?

  ‘Pagan!’

  Oh no. Surely that isn’t the Viscount? He’s just an old man – an old man with a few straggling grey hairs on his chin, and even fewer on his head. He rises and steps forward, holding out his hand.

  ‘Pagan,’ he repeats, in a quavering voice.

  The Archdeacon stoops to kiss his ring.

  ‘My lord Bernard,’ he says.

  Help! It’s the Bishop! It’s the Bishop of Carcassonne, and he’s looking straight at me!

  ‘This is Isidore,’ the Archdeacon informs him. ‘Isidore is my new scribe.’

  ‘What happened to –?’

  ‘Julien was ill. I had to leave him in a village near Pamiers.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Don’t worry, my lord. I’ve sorted it all out.’

  The Bishop’s hand smells of onions. His ring is sticky. I can feel him shaking like a leaf in the wind.

  ‘Did you bring anyone else?’ he demands, looking at the Archdeacon. He keeps screwing up his eyes in sudden, nervous blinks: his scalp is covered with scaly red sores, and his cheeks droop like the wattles of a chicken. ‘Did you have any success with the Cathars?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘My lord, I did warn you –’

  ‘But didn’t you tell them? Didn’t they understand?’

  The whole room has fallen silent: everyone seems to be waiting for the Archdeacon’s response. All these big, bearded men, with their swords and their scars and their golden jewellery – all of them sit and stare at the Archdeacon, who fixes his gaze on the smallest among them, a young man dressed in royal purple.

  ‘My lord,’ the Archdeacon announces, ‘I fear that the lords of the south have so much confidence in your abilities that they disregarded my warning
s. They don’t believe that any army, no matter how large, will ever have the strength to get past Carcassonne. Or past you, my lord.’

  By the blood of the Lamb! Could that be the Viscount of Carcassonne and Béziers? Could that be Lord Raymond Roger Trencavel? I never realised that he was so young. His skin is smooth and unscarred, his face round and full, like a child’s. When he leans forward a lock of raven-black hair falls across his brow.

  ‘Did you hear about the Count of Toulouse?’ he says to the Archdeacon. His voice is hard and strong and abrupt. ‘Did you hear what they did to him?’

  ‘My lord, I was told that he made submission –’

  ‘They stripped him to the waist, and put a cord around his neck and a candle in his hand, and they made him admit to all his faults. And then the papal legate marched him into church, beating him with a bundle of birch twigs.’ The Viscount narrows his long, dark eyes. ‘They’d have to kill me, before I’d do a thing like that,’ he says. ‘Kill me and feed me to the dogs.’

  ‘My lord, Christ sacrificed himself to save mankind –’ the Bishop bleats, but he’s interrupted by a yelp of laughter from Lord Jordan.

  ‘What a perfect analogy!’ he grins. ‘So persuasive, too –’

  ‘Shut up,’ the Archdeacon hisses, before addressing the Viscount. ‘My lord, you must do as you think fit. The Count has chosen to join the invaders. You, on the other hand, do not choose to join them. So the conditions they set may be quite different.’

  ‘They’d better be,’ Lord Raymond remarks, whereupon the Bishop begins to moan and fret.

  ‘If only you’d made peace with the Count of Toulouse in January,’ he complains. ‘If only you’d abandoned your quarrels and joined him, when he asked you to, then the Pope might have backed off –’

  ‘When I want your opinion, my lord, I’ll ask for it!’ the Viscount snaps. He turns to Lord Jordan. ‘Thanks for coming, Jordan. I need all the help I can get. Have you heard about this other army that’s heading our way?’

  Lord Jordan looks surprised. ‘Other army?’ he says.

  ‘The news just reached me this morning. There’s another band of crusaders coming down from Agen, in the north-west. The counts of Auvergne and Turenne, Ratier de Castelnau, Bertrand de Cardaillac –’

  ‘You mean they’re coming through Quercy?’ the Archdeacon interrupts, and Lord Raymond nods.

  ‘That’s right. Last I heard, they’d taken Puylaroque. God knows where they are now.’

  There’s a glum pause. The Archdeacon mutters something under his breath. The Bishop crosses himself.

  Lord Jordan smiles. ‘This crusade is certainly a popular outing,’ he observes. ‘Must be, to get Ratier de Castelnau off his big fat backside.’

  ‘Oh, it’s popular,’ the Viscount says, in a morose voice. ‘You should hear who’s in Arnaud’s baggage train. The Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Saint-Pol, the Count of Nevers, the Count of Auxerre –’

  ‘I wonder if there’s anyone left up north?’ Lord Jordan muses. ‘We could probably walk right in and take over. Perhaps that’s what we should do. Vacate our own castles and occupy theirs.’

  ‘This is no time for jests, my lord!’ the Bishop wails. ‘This is serious!’

  ‘Yes, for God’s sake, Jordan!’ The Viscount glares at him. ‘I asked you here because I need advice. Good advice.’

  ‘Then I advise you to opt for the birch twigs,’ Lord Jordan says, in his slow, sardonic drawl. ‘A few birch twigs won’t do any permanent damage. Not like a lance in the guts.’

  ‘My lord.’ It’s the Archdeacon. His tone is compelling: it attracts every eye. ‘My lord, go to the crusaders. Go to the Abbot of Citeaux, and the papal legate, and present your case. You’ve nothing to lose, and you may find that they’ll listen.’

  ‘Yes, but what should I tell them?’

  ‘Tell them . . .’ The Archdeacon hesitates, one finger pressed to his forehead. He seems to be marshalling his thoughts. ‘Tell them that you’re very young,’ he says at last. ‘Tell them that you were only nine years old when you succeeded your father, and that you should not be held responsible for things done during your minority. You were under age when the Bishop of Albi was imprisoned – you cannot be blamed for the burning of that unfortunate abbey, or its desecration. Tell them that you are a good Catholic –’

  ‘Which I am!’

  ‘Which you are, and that you have never ceased to be a good Catholic, and that it was your father’s choice to appoint heretics as your tutors, not your own. Assure them that it is your dearest wish to repress the Cathar forces which have infected your lands, and that you had nothing to do with the brief expulsion of the Bishop of Carcassonne, two years ago –’

  A muffled snort from Lord Jordan. The Archdeacon fixes him with a threatening gaze, and continues.

  ‘Tell them that you have made every effort to stamp out the foul taint of heresy,’ he says, ‘but that your youth and inexperience have so far worked against you –’

  ‘Youth and inexperience!’ the Viscount protests. (He doesn’t sound too pleased.) ‘What kind of talk is that?’

  ‘My lord, it’s an example of the technique known in rhetoric as insinuatio – the disparagement of ourselves or our client in order to win the goodwill of the judge.’

  ‘But it’s a load of garbage –’

  ‘Of course it is.’ The Archdeacon inclines his head. ‘But as Boethius so wisely reminds us in De topicis differentiis, the truth or falsity of an argument makes no difference, if only it has the appearance of truth.’

  No one knows what to say to that. They all just sit there, looking at each other, defeated by the Archdeacon’s learning. How well educated he is. How vigorously he presents his arguments.

  How I wish I could get my hands on a copy of that book he mentioned.

  ‘Well,’ Lord Raymond finally remarks, ‘I think it would be best if you told them all that, Archdeacon. I don’t think I could remember everything you just said.’

  The Archdeacon bows. ‘My lord, I am your most humble servant.’

  ‘And I’ll come too,’ the Bishop suddenly announces. He’s been perched on the edge of his seat, gnawing at the skin of his right thumb. ‘I’m sure the legate will find my presence reassuring.’

  Even the Archdeacon rolls his eyes at that one. Lord Jordan grins, and the Viscount wriggles around in his chair.

  ‘Oh all right,’ he says, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. ‘I suppose you’d better come, or they’ll wonder what I’ve done to you. What about you, Jordan? Will you come?’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave for Montpellier first thing tomorrow. When the gates open.’

  ‘Montpellier?’ the Archdeacon exclaims, in a startled voice. ‘Is that where they are?’

  ‘As far as I know, that’s where they are.’ Lord Raymond kicks moodily at a dog that’s sniffing around his feet. ‘They’re not wasting time, I can tell you.’

  ‘Then we should follow their example,’ the Archdeacon says. ‘I’ll be with you tomorrow, my lord. Do we meet at the Aude Gate?’

  ‘Yes. The Aude Gate, at sunrise.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  And if he’s there, I’ll be there too. O Lord, I cry unto thee; make haste unto me; give ear unto my voice when I cry unto thee.

  For out of the north there cometh up a nation against us, which shall make our land desolate, and none shall dwell therein.

  Chapter 13

  18 July 1209

  There is poetry in this cavalcade – a great deal of poetry. What a vivid scene you could paint if you had Virgil’s skill: if you could describe the river of gleaming horses with their flowing tails and tossing heads; the rumble of their hoofs and the glint of their gilded trappings; the standards fluttering proudly above them, some as red as the blood of grapes, others as green as the fourth foundation of the Heavenly Jerusalem. How wonderful it would be to capture those colours for ever, in writing, and to resurrect the men who carry th
em, the knights and the squires, and the Bishop, and the Bishop’s chaplain, and all those lesser folk who ride with the baggage. Some two score men, I would say – perhaps even more – who come like the Seventh Angel of the Apocalypse, clothed with a cloud: only in this case it’s a cloud of dust, thick and white, thrown up by the passage of our horses.

  If I were a poet, I would compare this swift procession to a storm, and the dust to a thundercloud, and the flash of polished steel to bolts of lightning. I would compare the Viscount to Odysseus, and the Bishop to Eurystheus (the most cowardly king in all history), and the Archdeacon . . .

  To whom would I compare the Archdeacon?

  He’s sitting there, lost in thought, and it’s obvious that his limbs are working without the guidance of his brain, which is busy with matters far more crucial than the management of his reins and his stirrups. I wonder what he’s thinking about? Not happy things, I’ll warrant you. He’s frowning, and his face seems overcast, and he’s chewing at his bottom lip like a dog worrying a rat. I suppose, if I were Virgil, I would compare him to Mercury, because he’s light on his feet, and to Phoebus Apollo, because he has the gift of rhetoric, and could easily argue his son back to life, just as Apollo did. But Apollo was radiant; he was as fair as the sun, and as beautiful as the day. The Archdeacon looks more like Pluto, black-robed and black-bearded. Except that Pluto would not have been so small . . .

  Ah well. I’ll never be a poet, in any case. You don’t have to be a poet to write history. You just have to get your facts right.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Hmmph?’ He blinks, and looks up. ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Father, will you tell me about Lord Jordan?’

  ‘Lord Jordan?’ he says, making a face. ‘Lord Jordan is Roland’s brother. There’s not much else to tell.’

  (Oh yes there is.) ‘But you mentioned fratricide . . .’

  ‘Sweet saints preserve us!’ He laughs, and shakes his head. ‘You never miss a word, do you? You’re as quiet as a mouse, but you soak it all up. Every single bit of it.’

  ‘Father –’

  ‘When I first met Jordan, Isidore, his father Lord Galhard was still alive. So was his brother Berengar. Berengar was the eldest, then came Jordan, and then Roland. Being the eldest, Berengar was supposed to succeed Lord Galhard.’ There’s a pause, as the Archdeacon swerves to avoid a skittish grey horse up ahead. He doesn’t speak again until we’re safely past. ‘Lord Galhard died of a wasting disease, about fifteen years ago,’ he continues. ‘When he died, Berengar became Lord of Bram. But three months later Berengar also perished, in rather mysterious circumstances. Jordan maintains that it was a hunting accident. I find that hard to believe.’