Pagan's Scribe (22 page)
‘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.
G
od, 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!’
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.