Pagan's Scribe

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘I have water here, Father. You can wash the blood off your hands.’

  ‘Wash your hands, Pagan.’ It’s Lord Roland speaking. ‘Wash your hands, and attend to your duties. There’s enough work here for all of us.’

  The Archdeacon frowns. He looks at his hands; he looks at Lord Roland; he looks at me. Finally he steps forward, and dips his hands into my basin.

  ‘Very well, then. If it will make you happy,’ he says.

  Under a film of ash, the water turns a deeper shade of pink.

  Chapter 22

  3 August 1209

  How cool it is in here. Perhaps that’s why so many people have come to church. Hundreds and hundreds of people, packed into the nave like piglets at a sow’s teats, crushed against the walls and spilling out of doorways. I can see vast ripples of movement as they cross themselves. I can hear babies whimpering and old men spitting. I can smell garlic and bad breath and unwashed bodies.

  If one more person tries to get in, I’m sure the whole building will collapse.

  ‘Propitius esto, exaudi nos, Domine,’ the Archdeacon intones. ‘Ab omni malo . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  ‘Ab omni peccato . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  All the canons sound tired and apathetic as they chant the responses. Beside me one of them sighs, and shifts his feet, and grimaces. I don’t think he likes having to stand throughout the entire service.

  ‘Ab ira tua . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  ‘Ab insidiis diaboli . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  The Archdeacon looks very noble in his rich vestments. The back of his chasuble is embroidered with golden-winged cherubim, and the Four Evangelists, and Christ the Universal Creator. His alb is of the finest silk. Even his slippers are testaments to the Living God, each bearing a cross of gold on a field of blue.

  He’s concentrating very hard, his face solemn and devout, his voice clear and strong.

  ‘A peste, fame et bello . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  ‘A morte perpetua . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  Boom!

  A distant noise. The floor shakes. What is it? Everyone exchanges looks; some of the canons begin to mutter.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘God help us!’

  ‘The walls!’

  ‘Per mysterium sanctae incarnationis tuae,’ the Archdeacon continues, firmly. He’s glaring at some of the louder canons, but they ignore him; they’re too busy asking questions. It’s Lord Roland who chants the response, his tranquil voice rising over the squeaks and whispers.

  ‘Libera nos, Domine,’ he sings, and the Archdeacon smiles at him gratefully.

  ‘Per adventum tuum . . .’

  ‘Libera nos, Domine.’

  Boom! Another violent noise, like a clap of thunder. What is it? Is it the wall? Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord. A babble of voices fills the church: high, fearful voices. But the Archdeacon doesn’t look scared. He looks pensive. He glances at Lord Roland, whose face is completely expressionless.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a woman shrieks.

  Oh God. Oh God, what’s happening? It’s like a signal – like an alarm. There’s a roar of voices. Some of the canons fall to their knees. The Archdeacon scowls, and moves forward: he descends the three steps from the high altar, passes through the choir, and reaches the stairs to the nave. Below him stretches a sea of milling heads.

  ‘Silence!’ he bawls. ‘You are in a house of God! Be silent at once!’

  ‘She’s a heretic!’ somebody cries. ‘She shouldn’t even be in here!’

  ‘That’s not true!’ (A female voice.) ‘I’m a good Catholic!’

  ‘We should throw her to the crusaders! We should throw them all to the crusaders! If it wasn’t for them, we’d be safe!’

  ‘Silence!’ The Archdeacon stamps his foot. ‘Let go of that woman! Let go of her!’

  Woman? What woman? Oh – I see. There, beside that pillar: someone’s got her by the hair. She’s fat and flushed and sweaty, and her veil’s come off.

  The Archdeacon turns. Behind him the deacons and acolytes are gathering, too scared (and too curious) to remain by the altar. Some hold candles; one is clutching a hand-bell. The Archdeacon snatches it from him, and rings it as loudly as he can.

  ‘Quiet!’ he bellows. ‘Be quiet!’

  People falter. The din subsides. Even the canons stop talking.

  And the bell is muffled, as the Archdeacon seizes its clapper.

  ‘Brothers and sisters! What madness is this?’ he exclaims. ‘We are allies, united against a common enemy! We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves!’

  Angry muttering from somewhere to the left. A man’s voice says: ‘Our enemies are the enemies of God. The Cathars are our enemies, not the crusaders.’

  ‘Oh really?’ the Archdeacon sneers. ‘Perhaps the good Catholics of Béziers should have pointed that out, before they were slaughtered like dogs in their own cathedral.’ He lifts a hand, and points. ‘Your enemy is outside the walls, my friends. Your enemy will make no distinction between you. To them you are all sheep to be shorn, whether or not you are fellow believers.’

  He takes a deep breath, and raises his voice. ‘My friends,’ he continues, ‘there is an old, old saying: “Only when brothers fall out is the sword driven home.” Dissension will always lead to defeat. It is a sign of weakness. The mightiest of Nature’s creatures, the wolves and the lions, turn their ferocity only against beasts of other kinds. My friends, would you sin against your fellow citizens? Saint Augustine himself has told us that war between allies is a great crime. The Preacher has told us: “Woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.” Be wise, and stand united.’

  I wish I could see his face. Once again, I’m in the worst possible position: all I can see is the back of his head, and the heels of his shoes, and Christ the Universal Creator hanging from his shoulders. I wonder what he’s thinking? I wonder if he’s afraid? He looks very lonely, standing out there in front of that huge crowd.

  But the crowd has fallen silent. The crowd has yielded, drinking down the honey of his rhetoric. What a mighty gift! When I am old, I shall say: In my youth I saw the Archdeacon of Carcassonne tame a thousand raging souls with words as sweet as the bread of angels.

  ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Let us bow our heads in prayer. Let us pray for strength, and wisdom, and –’

  ‘The Bourg has fallen!’ A breathless cry, faint but clear, from outside the church. ‘They’ve taken the Bourg!’ What’s that? They’ve taken the Bourg?

  ‘They’ve taken the Bourg!’ (Other voices, picking up the refrain.) ‘The Bourg has fallen! The Bourg is lost!’ A terrible groan, mounting towards the vaulted roof. Oh God. Oh God, be merciful unto us.

  The Archdeacon turns his head, and looks at Lord Roland: it’s as if he’s reassuring himself.

  Lord Roland simply nods. (I wonder what that means?)

  ‘Brothers and sisters!’ the Archdeacon shouts, swinging back to face his audience. ‘Brothers and sisters, do not despair!’

  ‘The Bourg is lost! The Bourg has fallen!’

  ‘The Bourg is nothing! We are well rid of it!’ The Archdeacon lifts his arms. ‘Do you think that the Viscount would have surrendered it so easily, if he hadn’t wanted to? The Bourg was a parasite – a flimsy pile of sticks and stones, draining us of our strength! Every soldier manning the Bourg garrison was weakening the garrison of Carcassonne! What a pointless exercise, to strengthen the garrison of an indefensible suburb at the expense of its mother city! What foolishness! What suicidal tactics! No, my friends, this is news we should be pleased to hear!’

  Is it? Is it really? Everyone’s exchanging puzzled glances: everyone except Lord Roland, who’s staring at the floor. The Archdeacon presses on.

  ‘My friends, the Bourg is only a sub
urb,’ he declares. ‘It is not defended by the invincible walls of Carcassonne. Come, call to mind the great name of this city, your fathers’ valour and your own. Remember that Carcassonne withstood even the mighty Charlemagne: for five long years he besieged it, and could he break it? No! Are you going to betray your courageous ancestors? Are you going to offer yourselves up to the weapons of the enemy – offer up your homes, your children, your fathers’ graves? Of course not! In courage you are your enemy’s equal: in necessity, which is the last and chiefest weapon, you are better than they.’

  That last phrase sounded familiar. That sounded like something I’ve heard before. The Archdeacon takes a step forward, leaning over the heads of the crowd as if in supplication.

  ‘My friends,’ he cries, ‘would you abandon this beautiful city, which nurtured you, and protected you, and gave you everything necessary for life? Would you see her fair walls shattered, and her streets ravaged, and her wells poisoned? Because you will, if you succumb to base fear, and the counsels of cowardice. To fear your opponents is to grant them the victory they seek. The Scriptures tell us: As for the fearful, their lot shall lie in a lake of fire and brimstone. Fear not, my friends, and be victorious!’

  A cheer from somewhere down the back. Another from a little old man near the door. ‘They’ll not be getting my shop!’ he howls. ‘I’ll kill every one of them before they set foot in it!’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’ his neighbour demands. ‘Fart on them?’ Whereupon the whole church erupts into laughter.

  ‘That’s right!’ the Archdeacon urges. ‘Laugh, all of you! Laugh out loud, and let the enemy hear you laughing! Laugh in their faces, and their hearts will be faint within them. For how can they hurt an opponent who laughs at their puny efforts?’ He pauses, and adds: ‘Not to mention their puny genitals.’

  More laughter. The Archdeacon turns and mouths something at the Precentor, who nods and begins to sing.

  ‘Omnes sancti et Sanctae Dei

  Intercedite pro nobis . . .

  ’ Oh! That’s clever. That’s very clever. A good, rousing canticle, calling on the saints for help. Other voices begin to join in, as the Archdeacon flaps his hands at us. Sing! Sing!

  ‘Sancte Michael, ora pro nobis

  Sancte Gabriel, ora pro nobis . . .

  ’ Now all the canons are singing, and the chorus is like a benediction: glorious, dramatic, full of hope and courage. The Archdeacon moves back towards the high altar, passing so close that I can see the sweat trickling down his cheeks, and the tremor in his limbs. Suddenly he looks exhausted, drained; he stumbles on the hem of his chasuble, and Lord Roland puts out a hand to steady him.

  ‘Omnes sancti angeli et archangeli, orate pro nobis . . .

  ’ All the sainted angels and archangels, pray for us.

  Chapter 23

  8 August 1209

  God, I’m hot. I’m so hot. How can a person sleep when it’s this hot? How can Father Pagan sleep? Snoring away, over there by the door. Doesn’t he mind the heat? Doesn’t he notice the mosquitoes? These mosquitoes are driving me mad. And the tansy leaves aren’t working, either. They might work for Lord Roland, but not for me. I suppose my skin is too tempting – too thin and white.

  Oh, I can’t stand this. I can’t stand the heat and the flies and the smells – the smells! Everything seems to smell of corruption; of sewage and corpses and unwashed bodies. And where are all these mosquitoes coming from? That’s what I can’t understand. The wells are almost empty, they say, so where are the mosquitoes breeding? In the river?

  That’s the bell for the Prime service. Sunrise already, and I’ve hardly slept a wink. I’m like Job, full of tossings to and fro until the dawning of the day. I should have gone with Lord Roland, when he got up for Nocturnes. At least I would have been doing something useful, instead of lying around in a pool of sweat. And the church is probably cooler than this room is, although . . . ugh, it’s all too early. Much, much too early. I wonder how the monks endure it, getting up in the middle of the night? I know I wouldn’t last long, if I had to keep those hours. Thank heavens I’m an acolyte. I wouldn’t be a novice for anything.

  Boo-oo-oom!

  Sweet Jesus.

  ‘Wha –?’ The Archdeacon’s voice. He sits straight up in bed. ‘What’s happened? Isidore?’

  ‘Oh Father – oh Father –’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ God preserve us. ‘A huge noise . . .’

  ‘Christ.’ He scrambles to his feet, and gropes around for his drawers in the dimness. ‘I hope it’s not Castellar.’

  Castellar! The very last suburb! They’ve tried so hard to take Castellar: first the scaling ladders three days ago, then the siege engines yesterday. What else can they possibly do?

  ‘It could be a mine,’ the Archdeacon mutters. ‘Jordan said there were sappers at the Castellar wall yesterday, under a wheeled hut. We burned the hut with blazing arrows, but we may have been too late. They may have had time to mine the wall.’

  Mine the wall? Is that the same as undermining the wall? I remember reading about undermining in Livy: I remember reading that the Romans dug a tunnel under the walls of Ambracia. ‘You mean they’ve dug themselves a path into Castellar? You mean they’re coming in under the walls?’

  ‘Oh no.’ He’s pulling on his boots. ‘They don’t dig a tunnel to get in. They dig it so that there’s nothing supporting the wall over the tunnel but planks of wood. Then they burn the wood –’

  ‘And the wall collapses!’

  ‘Exactly.’ His head emerges from the collar of his robe; he smooths his tousled hair. ‘I hope Jordan’s all right. He joined the Castellar garrison yesterday. I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Wait! Father! Wait for me!’

  He stops at the door. ‘You’re not coming,’ he says.

  ‘But you can’t leave me here!’

  ‘Isidore –’

  ‘If you don’t take me, I’ll go by myself!’

  He stamps his foot. ‘Christ in a cream cheese sauce!’ he exclaims. ‘Why are you doing this? Anyone would think I wasn’t coming back!’

  ‘My boots – I have to put on my boots –’

  ‘Well hurry up then. I can’t wait around all day.’

  There! Done it. He grunts as I stand, and throws open the door: the kitchen fire is just a pile of glowing ashes; cockroaches flee in every direction.

  ‘Father!’ It’s Centule, standing there as naked as Adam before the Fall. He’s clutching one of his precious cheeses. ‘What’s happening, Father?’

  ‘I don’t know. Go back to bed.’

  ‘Are they coming?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  The Archdeacon turns to face his whimpering servant. ‘Because I’m not a fool!’ he snaps. ‘Now go back to bed – or at least put some clothes on. Come on, Isidore.’

  Out of the kitchen, into the square. Pounding footsteps. Raised voices. The dark mass of the cathedral, with people spilling from its southern entrance. Most of them seem to be monks: they stare and cluster and point at the nearest fortification, the tower of Saint-Nazaire, a great, four-sided tower simply crawling with people.

  ‘Roland!’ The Archdeacon raises a hand. ‘Roland! Over here!’

  Lord Roland looks around, and sees us. He strides across the square with the long, firm strides of a military man. He’s frowning a little.

  ‘What is it?’ the Archdeacon demands. ‘Is it Castellar?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Have they made a breach?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We have to get up there.’ The Archdeacon lifts his gaze to the tower of Saint-Nazaire, to the gesticulating men strung out along the walls on either side of it. ‘We have to see what’s going on.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll be given access.’

  ‘Where’s the Viscount? Have you seen the Viscount? Dammit, I have to get up there!’

/>   He shoots across the filthy cobbles, weaving his way between makeshift huts erected by the refugees. In one of them a baby is crying: its mother is trying to offer comfort in a high, hysterical voice. Panic-stricken people are rushing around, bundling up their valuables and heading for the church. They brush past a naked child – a toddler – who stands wailing in a puddle of her own urine.

  Lord Roland stops. He reaches down and picks the child up, settling her onto his hip with the ease of a wet-nurse. ‘Where’s your mama?’ he says. ‘Where’s your papa?’ But the child can’t talk.

  ‘Roland!’ It’s the Archdeacon: he’s over by the tower, waving his hands. ‘What are you doing?’ he yells. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Is this your baby?’ Lord Roland enquires, stooping to look into one of the shelters. A garbled response, and he moves on to the next one. ‘Is this your baby?’

  ‘Maa!’ The child begins to wriggle; an old woman emerges, with her arms outstretched. Surely she can’t be the mother? Lord Roland murmurs something, and surrenders the child. He smiles at me as he straightens. ‘I’m told that you’re an orphan, Isidore.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have my sympathies. I only wish that I could have restored you to your mother as easily as I just restored that child to hers. Every day, at sunrise and sunset, I thank God in his mercy that I knew my mother for sixteen years. Sixteen years of my life. It is the greatest gift that can ever be bestowed.’ He looks across to the tower of Saint-Nazaire, but the Archdeacon is already on his way back. (Don’t tell me they wouldn’t let him through!) ‘Hmm,’ Lord Roland remarks, in a quiet voice. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What are you doing? Why didn’t you come?’ The Archdeacon is breathless from running. ‘We’re not allowed up there. We have to go to the Aude Gate.’

  ‘The Aude Gate?’

  ‘That’s where the garrison will be coming in. The Castellar garrison. They’re retreating right now.’

  ‘Jordan –’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Including Jordan. Come on, hurry!’