Ah! That’s done it. They shrink back like naughty children, scolded into silence. Are they frightened, or are they shocked? Perhaps they’re comforted. It’s always comforting to see that there’s someone in charge – someone who can make decisions, and show the way.
Besides which, the Archdeacon looks so much taller, in the saddle.
‘Go on!’ he exclaims, flapping his hand. ‘Go home!’ It sounds as if he’s talking to a pack of dogs, or a flock of chickens. Around us, the mob begins to break up. People begin to move away, and the noise subsides a little – just enough to allow one man, a stunted fellow with the sharp, ravaged face of someone who has ploughed wickedness and reaped iniquity, to ask a very difficult question.
‘Where’s the Bishop?’ he enquires. ‘Where is Bernard Raymond de Roquefort?’
There’s a pause. Heads turn; people hesitate. But the Archdeacon doesn’t flinch.
‘I think we can safely assume,’ he rejoins, ‘that the Bishop is where he usually is: lying in bed with a poultice on his chest and his hands in a bowl of rosewater.’ As the crowd laughs he jerks his head at Lord Jordan, who digs in his spurs, and all at once we’re moving. Down the street, under the portcullis, past the first cluster of houses and into the first side street. It smells of somebody’s dinner.
‘Pagan! Wait!’ Lord Jordan reins in. ‘Are you going to Saint-Nazaire?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m going to the castle. Which means that I’m on the wrong road.’ He twists around to look at me, breaking my grip on his sword-belt. ‘Off you get, Isidore. This is as far as I’m taking you.’
Oh! Does that mean – ?
‘Go on, boy! What do you want me to do, build you a staircase?’
‘Yes, my lord – I mean, no, my lord . . .’ Help! I can’t reach the stirrup. He’s got his foot in the stirrup. How am I supposed to get down?
‘In God’s name!’ he snaps. He’s gripping my arm, and pulling me off, and I’m sliding – ouch! Help! My arm! Let go! My feet!
I can’t walk. I can’t stand!
‘That child is a menace. He shouldn’t be allowed to travel.’ (Lord Jordan’s voice, floating down from the heights.) ‘I’ve never met anyone with so little horsemanship – or such poor bladder control. How on earth do you put up with him?’
‘Same way I put up with you.’ The Archdeacon dismounts clumsily, staggering as his feet touch the road. ‘Grit my teeth and pray to Jesus. Come on, Isidore. You can ride my horse the rest of the way.’
What? Oh no. That’s your horse.
‘It’s all right, Father. I can walk.’
‘No you can’t.’
‘Yes I can.’
‘Isidore, will you get on that horse?’
‘But I can walk! Look! I’m on my feet now!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can hardly stand.’
‘Well neither can you! You’re just as tired as I am!’
‘Yes, but I’m an archdeacon. So shut up and do as I say.’
Laughter. Who’s laughing? It’s Lord Jordan, doubled up in the saddle. The Archdeacon turns on him, furiously.
‘Go away!’ he cries. ‘Get out of here!’
‘I’m going, I’m going.’
‘This is all your fault! If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t be in this condition!’
‘Ah. But if it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t even have come.’ Lord Jordan tugs at the reins, bringing his horse’s head around. ‘See you tomorrow, Pagan. And try to get some rest. Believe me, you need it.’
Smoothly, skilfully, he turns his huge stallion in the narrow street, retracing his steps until he disappears around a corner. The Archdeacon stands there, watching him go. Oh God, he’s so angry. Look at his colour. Look at the way he’s breathing. In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust.
‘Father?’
He grunts, but doesn’t look around.
‘I’m sorry, Father.’ (Please don’t cast me off.) ‘I am your humble servant. I owe you my obedience. You are my master in all things. I – I’m very sorry.’
He’s squinting up into my face. He’s shaking his head, and sighing.
‘What am I going to do with you?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Come here.’ He reaches out. What’s he up to? Glory to God, is this the Kiss of Peace? No, it’s just – I can’t – I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know where to put my hands.
He pats my back, his chin on my shoulder.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, and releases me. ‘I’m not cross. I probably would have done the same thing myself, to get away from that Bishop. But it’s the last time, Isidore. I don’t want you disobeying me ever again. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Good. Now get up on that horse.’
‘But – ’
‘Isidore!’
‘Yes, Father. As you wish, Father.’
Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.
Chapter 18
24 July 1209
The most terrible noise: a screeching, rending, groaning noise, like the cry of a dying basilisk. It seems to go on and on and – crash! The very foundations of the cathedral shudder, as half a dozen stalls collapse onto the floor of the choir.
A great cloud of dust catches everyone by the throat.
‘Good!’ the Archdeacon exclaims, over a storm of coughing. ‘That’s all for the best. Now just take it easy, because I don’t want any wood split. Use your tools, not your hands. And you can stack it over there, in that corner.’ He jumps down from the pulpit, pouncing on the nearest tangle of wood like a lion pouncing on a lamb. His head and shoulders are covered in sawdust. ‘Come on!’ he cries. ‘Hop to it!’
Slowly, reluctantly, the canons begin to move again. They pick their way through the planks, clicking their tongues and shaking their heads, as the carpenters apply themselves with goodwill and vigour. They swing their axes, they wrench apart joinery, they reduce everything to neat lengths of board, like theologians reducing the world’s manifold complexities to an orderly series of declarations.
I wonder why the Archdeacon seems to be enjoying this so much?
‘Isidore!’ He thrusts a fragment of carved oak at me. ‘Put this with the rest, will you?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Burchard! Don’t just stand there. Why aren’t you helping?’
He’s not helping, Father, because he doesn’t want to help. I don’t think he understands why the cathedral choir–157stalls have to be dismantled. Neither do I – not really – but then I’ve never faced the prospect of a siege before. You have, though: you’ve been in one. That’s why these petty-minded canons should do as you say, instead of whining and muttering and making things difficult. What good are stalls, if the rest of the church has been burned to the ground? What victory can there be, without suffering and sacrifice? How stupid they are, these canons. The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright, but the mouth of fools poureth out foolishness.
‘Come on, Guibert! Come on, Cornelius!’ The Archdeacon waves a hand at the Chancellor and the Sub–deacon, who are whispering together at the far end of the nave. ‘We need all the help we can get, if we’re going to have this finished before Mass begins.’
‘Mass!’ someone protests. ‘How can we have Mass, if we have no stalls?’ The Archdeacon turns, sharply, but the speaker has fallen silent. All the canons are avoiding each other’s gaze; they’re looking down at their feet, or up at the vaults; they’re dusting off their sleeves and plucking splinters out of their knuckles.
The Archdeacon wipes his hands on his skirts.
‘There were no stalls at the Holy Supper,’ he says, frowning. ‘Are you all too proud to stand, brethren? We’re doing this for the good of the city. The city must be protected.’
‘Our prayers will protect the city much better than our stalls,’ somebody says, and there’s a murmur of agreement. O ye fools! The Archdeacon takes a deep breath, and puts
his hands on his hips.
‘I told you why we need to do this!’ he exclaims. ‘Don’t you understand? The Viscount wants to build galleries along the battlements, so he can protect the base of our walls from enemy sappers. Sweet saints preserve us, haven’t you people read Sallust? Haven’t you read his account of the siege of Zama? I thought you were educated men!’
Sallust? The siege of Zama? Yet another book I have to read. The canons shift uncomfortably: some of them look ashamed, some annoyed, some completely blank, as if they don’t know what to think. Around them, the carpenters and acolytes are cheerfully carrying off great loads of lumber, their souls as peaceful as watered gardens. Why should they be unhappy? Most of the acolytes are my age – they’ve no particular affection for the stalls they’ve had to sit in, day after day, through the summer heat and the winter cold. I think they’re quite pleased to tear the things down.
‘Father Pagan!’
Who’s that? I know that voice. Everyone turns, everyone looks. There’s a small group of men standing in the shadows of the northern aisle, all in black, all tonsured. One of them is pale and squat, with a big head and no neck. Another is hugely fat, with offal-coloured eyes peering out from under a fringe of white hair. And the one beside him is –
‘Roland!’
The Archdeacon’s face lights up like a candle. He surges forward, arms outstretched, and meets Lord Roland at the bottom of the stairs that divide the nave from the choir.
‘You’ve come!’ he crows. ‘Already! Where did you spring from?’
‘We only just arrived . . .’
‘Like an angel into a lion’s den. What a relief!’
How happy they look. What pleasure they take in each other’s presence. Oh such envy comes to me/Of those whose happiness I see . . .
But I mustn’t sing that. That’s a troubadour’s song.
‘Anyway, you’ve come.’ The Archdeacon’s voice is low and intense, vibrating through the church like a bell. ‘I knew you would. You were wise to come.’
‘If I hadn’t,’ Lord Roland rejoins, with a little smile, ‘you would only have dragged me here.’
‘It isn’t safe outside the walls. Not even at Saint Martin’s.’
‘Pagan –’
‘You can sleep in my house. You can share my room. You can have Isidore’s bed – you don’t mind, do you, Isidore?’
‘Pagan, please. The Abbot . . .’
Yes, Father. What about Abbot Seguin? You’re being very discourteous, ignoring him like this. You’re being very discourteous to everyone. The Abbot’s face is like the Burden of Babylon, cruel both with wrath and fierce anger: as Lord Roland points at him, he folds his arms and says, ‘You advised us to come here, Father Pagan. Now where do you advise us to go?’
‘My lord – you’re most welcome –’
‘I’m feeling poorly, after that long ride. I need a drink. A soothing drink.’
‘And you shall have one.’ The Archdeacon touches his elbow. ‘I have arranged a room for you in the Bishop’s palace. A very comfortable room. I have also enlisted the services of Carcassonne’s best doctor, on your behalf.’
‘And what of my monks? Where will they be housed?’
‘There are guest-rooms in the Bishop’s palace, and spare beds in the canons’ dormitory. If you agree, my lord, we can divide them up like this . . .’
The Archdeacon plunges into a detailed description of the arrangements he’s made for eating, sleeping, studying, praying. He’s at his most sympathetic, his most agreeable. The Abbot listens with a grumpy expression on his face.
Lord Roland turns to me, and smiles. ‘It’s good to see you, Isidore,’ he says.
‘Thank you, my lord – I mean, thank you, Father. It’s good to see you, too.’
‘How are you feeling?’
How am I feeling? What a strange question. I’m feeling . . .
‘Anxious.’
‘But are you well?’
‘Yes, Father. I’m well.’
‘You look tired.’
‘Oh – that’s just because we’ve been riding so much. We rode through the night, three days ago.’
‘You’ve been busy, then.’
‘Yes.’ Glancing at the Archdeacon, who doesn’t look tired at all: he’s talking with his usual energy, waving his hands about, swaying back and forth, flashing his teeth and opening his eyes very wide. His face never seems to stop moving. ‘I have been busy, because Father Pagan’s been busy. The Bishop isn’t here, so Father Pagan is doing all his work.’
Lord Roland nods. His blank, blue gaze travels over the hovering canons, the carpenters, the sawdust, the piles of wood, the gaping hole. ‘So I see,’ he remarks.
‘We’re tearing down these stalls because Lord Raymond needs wood for the city’s defences.’
‘Father Pagan talks with Lord Raymond every day. They discuss defences, and food supplies, and all kinds of things. Father Pagan is a very good organiser. Yesterday he spoke to the communal council, and this morning he went to visit all the custodians of the city wells. There are twenty-two wells in this city.’
‘Is he getting enough sleep?’
What?
‘Is he getting enough sleep at night? He’s not working too late, is he?’
Working too late? I don’t know. He doesn’t look as if he needs more rest. And he’s always the one who wakes me up in the morning.
‘Try to make sure that he doesn’t work too hard,’ Lord Roland says, in a low voice. ‘I know it’s difficult, but he may listen to you. He doesn’t like it when I tell him to rest. He thinks I’m saying that he’s weak.’
‘But –’
‘And try to get him to eat properly. Can you do that, Isidore?’
But he’s an Archdeacon! How can I tell him to eat his dinner? How can I tell him to go to bed? This is ridiculous.
‘Father, I can’t – it’s not my place –’ (By the blood of the Lamb of God!) ‘If he won’t listen to you, Father, he won’t listen to me. I’m just his scribe, I’m not his lord. You are his lord, Father.’
Lord Roland puts a finger to his lips. He glances at the Archdeacon, and waits for a moment. But the Archdeacon hasn’t heard. He’s still talking to Abbot Seguin.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Lord Roland speaks very softly. ‘Perhaps he won’t listen to anyone. He’s a man of great confidence.’ Looking down his long nose. ‘What about you, Isidore? Will you be staying here much longer?’
What do you mean? Of course I’ll be staying here. Who said otherwise?
Unless . . .
‘He told you!’ (He must have.) ‘He told you he was going to leave me! When we were at Saint Martin’s, he must have said –’
‘Shh.’
‘I didn’t want to stay with the Bishop. I wanted to come back here!’
‘And you did.’ Quietly. Gently. ‘Which means that he must listen to you sometimes. Perhaps you have more influence than you think.’
‘No, I – no, it wasn’t that.’ (Oh, why did you have to raise the subject? This is so embarrassing.) ‘Your brother was the one who brought me. All the way from Montpellier.’
He straightens.
‘My brother?’ he says, his face expressionless.
‘Lord Jordan is here. In Carcassonne. He’s helping the Viscount.’
No response.
‘I don’t know where he’s living. I think he might be living in the castle.’ Why am I saying this? ‘He’s coming here soon, with some of the Viscount’s soldiers. To collect the wood. So perhaps you’ll see him then.’
Lord Roland stares, unblinking. He looks so much like his brother. Even the lines around his mouth are the same.
‘Yes,’ he says at last. ‘Perhaps I will.’
‘Isidore!’ It’s the Archdeacon. He breaks in joyfully, grabbing my arm, grabbing Lord Roland’s, drawing us close. The Abbot stands behind him, waiting. ‘Isidore, will you take Roland to my house? Show him where your bed is, and get Centule to make up another
one. And check if there’s any food around.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I’m just going to take the Abbot to his room. Make sure he’s comfortable.’ A big, beaming smile. ‘Will you come this way, my lord? It isn’t far.’
He begins to usher Abbot Seguin down the steps into the nave, throwing us a wink over his shoulder. But he hasn’t gone more than a few steps when one of the canons calls to him.
‘Father! Wait!’
It’s an angry, bewildered cry. The Archdeacon stops, and swings around.
‘Father, you can’t just leave us. What are we supposed to be doing?’
‘Doing?’ He sounds astonished. ‘Why, keep working. I’ve told you what has to be done. You don’t need me here, surely?’
Oh, but they do, Father. They need you as they need a lamp, because the wise man’s eyes are in his head, but the fool walketh in darkness.
And these canons are fools. Manifestly, they are fools.
‘Sweet saints preserve us!’ The Archdeacon’s eyebrows snap together. He throws up his hands, and casts about him. ‘Isidore, will you take –’
‘Yes, Father. I will take Abbot Seguin to the Bishop’s palace.’
‘Bless you. Bless you, Isidore. I’ll be along in a moment.’
And he turns back to those hopeless, helpless, incompetent canons.
Chapter 19
25 July 1209
If I had a house, with my own furniture in it, I would have a chair just like that one: a noble chair with a carved base, and a high back, and a red cushion on its seat. And I would have a little footstool, just like that one, only mine would have a cushion on top of it – a cushion embroidered with gold. And I would have a bigger bed, with hangings (red hangings), and my chest would have gold on its lid. And as for my walls, I wouldn’t just have red stripes and red flowers painted on the plaster: I would have the life of Saint Augustine, showing him in the schoolroom; visiting Saint Ambrose; weeping under a fig tree . . .
‘All right.’ The Archdeacon raises his head from his hands. ‘This is what we’ll say. “Pagan, Archdeacon of Carcassonne, sends greetings and paternal love in Christ to Thibault, priest of Seyrac.’’ ’
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