Pagan's Scribe

by Catherine Jinks

  Hurry, hurry! Everyone’s hurrying. Armed men, pouring past from every direction: men with swords, men with crossbows, men with shields and maces and spears. Where are they going? Up to the wall? People everywhere – half-dressed people hanging out of windows, frightened people shouting questions. The crowds get thicker and thicker.

  ‘Father, what’s happened?’ An elderly man grabs the Archdeacon’s sleeve. ‘Are they coming?’

  ‘Go back to bed, Master Aimery.’

  ‘They’re not coming?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ The Archdeacon pushes on, burrowing through the closely packed bodies, using his feet and elbows to clear a path. Behind me, Lord Roland mutters apologies to the Archdeacon’s victims: angry men with crushed toes and bruised ribs. A high voice rings across the milling heads. ‘Clear a way! Clear a way!’ Suddenly there’s space, and air, and bloody spectres stumbling out of the shadows.

  Panting, staring, trembling men. Some supporting others. Some dazed, stupefied, their drawn swords still clutched in their hands.

  The remnants of the Castellar garrison.

  Have mercy upon us, O Lord; have mercy upon us. Give us help from trouble, for vain is the help of man.

  ‘Jordan!’

  No, it can’t be. That staggering figure – staggering like a newborn calf – his arm wrapped in something . . . a cloak? Red with blood, heavy with blood, leaning against a wall –

  ‘Jordan!’ The Archdeacon reaches him first. ‘Is it your arm? Show me!’

  Lord Jordan opens his eyes, and looks down, and smiles. Even his teeth are red.

  ‘Pagan . . .’ he croaks.

  ‘What happened? Is it bad? Show me, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I’ve lost a couple of fingers,’ Lord Jordan remarks. ‘But the other fellow lost more. Lost his head.’

  Lost his head?

  ‘Quick! Roland! We’ll take him back to my place –’

  ‘I took his head off with an axe. He looked pretty surprised, I can tell you.’ A horrible laugh. ‘I would have brought the head back with me, if I’d had two hands. Cured it like bacon. Sold it to a leech.’

  ‘My lord? Just put your arm around Roland.’ The Archdeacon is panting under Lord Jordan’s weight. ‘I can’t hold you up alone, my lord, you’re too heavy.’

  ‘They killed Guichard.’ Lord Jordan blurts it out. ‘They sliced him open, like a pig.’

  Oh my God.

  ‘Tripping over his own guts. He didn’t even notice, at first. Too busy trying to get out with his plunder.’ Lord Jordan’s bloody grin is like the gates of hell. ‘Just looked down. “What’s this?” he said. I couldn’t even – I was trying –’ Suddenly he begins to sob. Tearing sobs. Standing there with his mouth open and the tears running down his cheeks.

  No. Oh no.

  ‘Jordan.’ (Lord Roland’s soft voice.) ‘Come with me. Lean on me. Come along.’

  ‘. . . looked up . . . couldn’t help . . .’

  ‘I’ll give you something to ease the pain.’

  ‘No. Not you.’ Lord Jordan turns his head. ‘Pagan.’

  ‘I’ll be coming too, my lord. Don’t fret – I’m right here. Isidore? Look at me. It’s all right. Are you listening? It’s all right.

  ’ This is terrible. I can’t stand this.

  ‘You’ve got to be strong. You’ve got to be strong, Isidore.’ Oh Father.

  ‘Now I want you to run home, and tell Centule that we’re coming. Tell him to make up another bed, in my room. Tell him to put my pillow on it, the feather pillow, and to heat up some water. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Are you all right, now?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Good boy. Off you go, now. And be careful.’

  Yes, Father. Oh yes, Father. I will run the way of thy commandments.

  Whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even do it for thee.

  Chapter 24

  10 August 1209

  What’s happening? Is it time to get up? But it’s as black as sackcloth outside. And that smell . . . surely that’s not woodsmoke? It doesn’t smell like a kitchen fire to me.

  Footsteps, hurrying past the window. A distant shout. More footsteps.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘He’s not here.’ Lord Jordan’s voice, from out of the gloom. ‘They’ve both gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ What do you mean? There’s a lamp by his pillow: I can see his face in the flickering light. I can see big drops of sweat sliding down his forehead. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Gone to see the show.’ He licks his dry lips. ‘I didn’t feel up to it myself.’

  ‘What show? What’s happened?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I’m an invalid.’

  ‘But – but –’ (He didn’t wake me up! He just left me here!) ‘Why didn’t he wake me? Why didn’t he tell me?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought you needed your rest.’

  ‘But he woke Lord Roland!’

  ‘Well of course he did.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Isidore, let me tell you something.’ A hoarse, feverish croak. ‘My damned brother will always come first with Pagan. Always, always, always. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’ He rolls his head around, flapping a feeble hand across his face. ‘Hell and damnation!’ he snaps. ‘Curse these mos quitoes, why don’t they go and bother someone else for a change? As if I haven’t lost enough blood already!’

  What do you mean, there’s nothing I can do about it? Why should I want to do anything about it? Of course Lord Roland comes first: that’s his rightful place. He’s a great man, and he’s Father Pagan’s own lord. I don’t understand what you mean.

  Unless . . .

  Oh no.

  You’re not jealous?

  ‘I feel as if I’m lying in a swamp,’ Lord Jordan complains. ‘Maybe I’ll move to Roland’s bed, and wait for this one to dry out.’ A snort of laughter. ‘If they’re so worried about the water supply around here, they should come and wring out my palliasse. There must be enough sweat in this thing to fill all the wells in the city.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You . . .’ (Come on, Isidore, out with it.) ‘You really like Father Pagan, don’t you?’

  He turns his head. He squints at me.

  ‘Don’t you?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Pause.

  ‘But what?’

  Gulp. It’s that voice – the voice he used on Guichard. What am I doing? I must be out of my mind. He’s going to blow upon me the fire of his wrath, and I shall be melted in the midst thereof!

  ‘N-nothing.’

  ‘Been listening to gossip, Isidore? Been sniffing around in dirty corners?’

  ‘No –’

  ‘I thought better of you, my friend. I thought you were above such things.’

  ‘I am! I mean – I didn’t – I know it’s not true. I know you’d never – never –’

  ‘Never what?’

  Oh God. How can I say it? ‘Never defile yourself with the concupiscence of Onan.’

  He bursts out laughing. ‘Do what?’ he chokes. ‘Christ, but you’ve got a way with words, Isidore, I’ll say that for you.’

  Wait. What’s that? A cheer. A roar. Something’s happened. Something’s happened, and I can’t even see! I can’t see a thing from this window, because the church is in the way!

  ‘Isidore! Isidore! Come back here!’

  ‘My lord, I can’t just sit around waiting! What if there’s a breach?’

  ‘What if there is? Do you think you’ll be able to help, with no clothes on?’

  Oh.

  ‘In God’s name, get dressed.’ He pushes himself up, using his good arm, and swings his feet to the floor. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No!’ (You can’t!) ‘You’re still sick!’

  ‘If I let you go alone, Isidore, Pagan will skin me alive,’ he says, smiling crookedly. ‘And if I stay here any longer, the
re won’t be anything left of me to skin. The mosquitoes will have finished me off.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘Besides, I need you to protect me.’ (This time it’s more of a sneer than a smile.) ‘Now that I can’t protect myself.’

  The lamp. We should take the lamp. Where’s my surplice? Ah, there it is. Poof! It smells so awful – I wish there was enough water to wash it in. Lord Jordan groans, and mutters something under his breath.

  ‘Help me with these boots, Isidore.’

  Boots? Oh yes. You need two hands for boots. His legs are thin and pale and hairy, and covered in ancient . . . teeth marks?

  ‘What – what happened to your –?’

  ‘Dogs. Just dogs. Hurry up, will you?’

  Dogs? It looks as if they’ve been savaged by a pack of wolves. He staggers when he tries to stand, staggers and blinks and gropes for the wall. ‘Get out of my way,’ he says.

  ‘But –’

  ‘If I need your help, I’ll ask for it. Now get out of my way.’

  Very well, then, I won’t lend you an arm. He wobbles to the door, and drags it open: the logs on the kitchen fire are still burning, but Centule is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Servant gone,’ he gasps. ‘Wonder why?’ His knees seem to give a little, every time he puts his foot down. The front door is standing slightly ajar; beyond it, shadowy figures scamper about, squeaking like rats. Smoke everywhere. Torches in the distance. ‘Stay close,’ he says, and nudges my shoulder.

  I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Show us thy mercy, O Lord, and grant us thy salvation.

  ‘Bertrand!’ (Lord Jordan, raising his good hand.) ‘Bertrand? Over here!’

  Bertrand? Who’s Bertrand? A man with a torch stops in his tracks. His hair is so white that it seems to glow in the dimness; his face is black with soot. ‘My lord?’ he says, grinning. ‘You’re on your feet, then!’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We did it, my lord! We burned the bastards out!’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The Viscount, my lord! By God, there’s a man. Led the whole thing himself.’

  ‘Led what himself?’

  ‘The raid, my lord! Those fools withdrew for the night. Can you believe it?’

  ‘From Castellar?’

  ‘Yes! Left a holding garrison! Lord Raymond takes one look: ‘They’re not getting Castellar,’ he says. Sneaks out the Aude Gate – catches the garrison by surprise – wipes out every one of them. Burns the whole suburb! Not a stick left!’

  ‘But he got back safely?’

  ‘Oh yes, my lord. No trouble.’ Suddenly the man whoops; he’s caught sight of a friend. ‘Isoard!’ he cries. ‘What a fight, eh? What a fight!’ They start to punch each other, laughing merrily. ‘That’ll teach them! That’ll teach them to mess with us!’

  How very strange.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned,’ Lord Jordan remarks. He sounds surprised. ‘Who would have thought?’

  ‘Thought what, my lord? I don’t understand. Is it a victory?’

  ‘No-o-o. No, I wouldn’t call it a victory.’ He’s peering across the moonlit square, towards the southern ramparts. ‘But it’s not a bad move.’

  ‘Have we retaken Castellar?’

  ‘No, Isidore. We’ve simply made sure that there’s nothing left to take.’

  Oh.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find the Viscount.’ He stumbles forward, hissing as another joyful, sooty soldier brushes past him, jarring his injured hand. ‘Watch it, you fool!’ He’s heading westwards, away from Castellar.

  I suppose Lord Raymond must have returned via the Aude Gate.

  ‘Are you there, Isidore? Don’t lose me.’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Lose you? How can I lose you? You’re as slow as a snail. Step by step, from everlasting to everlasting. This trip is like the name of the Lord God Almighty – it shall be continued as long as the sun.

  Or shall it? All of a sudden he stops, and inclines his head. ‘Wait a moment,’ he says. ‘Listen to that. I recognise that voice.’

  So do I. That’s the Archdeacon’s voice. High and angry, somewhere off to the right. Down that street over there, with the smithy on the corner.

  Torchlight glinting on helmets and chain mail and rows and rows of fierce, gnashing teeth.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lord Jordan puts out a hand, steadying himself on the smithy wall. ‘Isn’t that the well of Saint-Nazaire? Looks like another rationing fight.’

  ‘Over water, you mean?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But where’s Father Pagan?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Lord Jordan studies the turbulent crowd of heavily armed soldiers. ‘If you ask me, that lot are just back from Castellar. Probably think they deserve an extra ration, for their trouble.’

  ‘Look! Look, there he is!’

  I can see him over the steel-capped heads: he must have climbed up onto something. The well, perhaps? Somebody waves a torch in his face and he flinches, beating it back with his arm. There’s a scuffle going on, but I can’t make out what’s happening. Shouts and thumps and surging bodies. The clink of chain mail.

  ‘We’ve got to help him!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Can’t you – can’t you just –’ Oh no. Of course he can’t. His sword-arm is still in a sling. He looks down his nose at me, and lifts his lip in an utterly mirthless smile.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he says. ‘Bite off their kneecaps?’

  Twee-ee-ee-eet!

  By the blood of the Lamb! Who did that? Was that the Archdeacon? I didn’t know he could whistle like that!

  Everyone is shocked into silence.

  ‘All right!’ he yells. ‘Have you finished now? Have you thoroughly impressed each other, poncing about flexing your muscles? Because I’m not impressed, I can tell you! And neither are those ladies there!’

  He points up at a first-floor window, where a couple of women are hanging over the window-sill, watching. One of them quickly ducks back inside.

  ‘Who else needs to prove he’s a man? Hmm? Who else is feeling small because he didn’t kill anyone in Castellar?’

  An angry rumble of voices. Someone shakes a threatening fist. ‘Say that again! Just say that again!’

  ‘Why? Didn’t you understand me the first time?’

  ‘You dare to insult – you cowardly priest – I ought to punch your head in –’

  ‘Oh really? And what’s that going to prove? That you can wipe the floor with a midget in long skirts?’ The Archdeacon pauses as a ripple of laughter passes through the crowd. ‘If you want to impress the rest of us, my friends, you’ll do it by showing how strong you are. Only strong men can do without water. Extra water is for children and invalids, not for valiant men at arms.’

  Murmurs of agreement. But not everyone is convinced.

  ‘That’s all very well for you to say!’ (A high, harsh, nasal whimper.) ‘You haven’t been lighting fires! You haven’t been running and fighting!’

  ‘Is that you, Renaud Galimard?’ Suddenly Lord Jordan speaks. He’s drawling through his nose, but somehow he manages to make himself heard. ‘I’m surprised to hear that you’ve been running and fighting,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you do that since you chased that whore of yours down the Street of the Saints.’

  This time it’s a great yelp of laughter, drowning Renaud’s protests. The Archdeacon peers in our direction, dazzled by the light of the torches, which dip and sway as the crowd turns to stare at us.

  ‘I’m looking for the Viscount,’ Lord Jordan continues. ‘Can anyone tell me where he is?’

  Utter confusion. Scores of voices, all talking at once. Some of the men peel off from the crowd, hurrying over to speak to Lord Jordan. (‘I’ll take you, my lord.’ ‘It was a romp, my lord.’ ‘My lord, you should have seen us!’) He stoops quickly, and puts his mouth to my ear.

  ‘Tell Pagan I’m meeting the Viscount,�
�� he mutters. ‘Tell him he can save his sermon for Christmas.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sorry, Isidore. I’m not hanging around here to be scolded.’

  What? Wait! Where are you going? A shove from behind – men pouring past – and all at once I’m facing the Archdeacon.

  ‘You wretched boy!’

  ‘Father –’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? What does Jordan think he’s – my lord! My lord!’

  ‘He’s gone to see the Viscount, Father.’

  ‘But he should be in bed! You should be in bed! What are you doing, dragging him around like this? Can’t you see he’s a sick man? As for you – in God’s name, Isidore, this is no place for you! Can’t I leave you alone for one single moment?’

  By the blood of the Lamb of God. ‘You didn’t tell me I had to stay in bed . . .’

  ‘That’s because you were asleep!’

  ‘Then you should have woken me up! I didn’t know what was happening! I didn’t know where you were!’

  ‘Isidore, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times –’

  ‘You should have woken me! You should have! There could have been a breach! You could have been killed! How would you like to sit in a dark room waiting and waiting, with people screaming outside and no one there to tell you what was going on?’

  ‘Shh. Calm down.’

  ‘Then don’t shout at me! It’s not my fault! I get scared, don’t you understand? I get scared!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Just calm down.’ He’s holding my arms – squeezing my arms. ‘I’m here now; you’re perfectly safe; there’s no need to get upset. All right?’

  ‘Just don’t leave me! You’re always leaving me!’

  ‘Well, I won’t do it again, I promise.’

  ‘That’s what everyone . . . I mean . . .’ Oh, it’s no use. How can you possibly understand? They always go away, all of them. Only the books stay. Only the books are always there, and they’re always the same.

  ‘Isidore? Listen to me.’ He speaks slowly and clearly, squinting over the flame of my lamp. ‘I’m not going to abandon you, Isidore. I’ll never do that. So you don’t have to worry about where I am, because I’ll always come back for you. All right? That’s a promise.’

  Promises, promises. How many promises have been made to me? A promise is like a broken tooth. A promise is like a foot out of joint. Unreliable.