Pagan's Scribe

  An arrow.

  ‘Where are the crossbowmen?’ Lord Roland hisses. ‘Where is everyone? You! Sergeant! Cover that gap! This is insane. They must be insane.’ He grabs my collar with his free hand. ‘Quick! Quick!’

  Rubble underfoot. What’s that noise? Someone rearing over the battlements, blade flashing, hair flying, mouth open, screeching like a pig. A cross on his chest. No. It can’t be.

  No.

  Lord Roland surges forward, his sword raised. Chunk! Down it comes. The man falls to his knees, still screeching. Chunk! He’s dying. Lord Roland is killing him. This can’t be true.

  ‘Yaagh!’

  Another. Another and another, swarming through the gap, and Lord Roland turns, and meets them, and wields his sword. Chunk! Clang! What’s happening? I can’t see – that shield’s in the way. But it falls; it hits the ground with a thud. Someone staggers, bent double, groaning. Someone in blue.

  ‘Isidore! The tower, quick, run!’

  Run. Run! Bodies pushing past – men with crossbows. Our men. A tide of them, pouring out of the tower. The tower! I’m almost there! Get out of my way, let me through! O God be not far from me. A bit further . . . a bit further . . . done it!

  ‘Who’s that?’ A shout from the dimness. ‘Hold fast!’

  ‘Don’t . . . oh d-don’t, please . . .’

  ‘What the hell –?’

  ‘I want to go home! Let me go home!’

  ‘It’s a priest.’

  ‘It’s a boy.’

  ‘Let him through! Let him pass!’

  Crowds on the stairway. Armour scraping on stone. My foot slips, but someone catches me. ‘Watch it, son.’ I’ve got to get out. I can’t breathe. Where’s Lord Roland?

  ‘Don’t stop . . .’ His hoarse voice, behind and above me. ‘Keep going.’

  He’s there! He’s safe! Bless the Lord O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art very great: thou art clothed with honour and majesty.

  ‘Father –’

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  I’m not stopping. I can’t stop. These stairs aren’t wide enough to stop on. Hallelujah! At last! The light and the space – the street – the air. Frightened people milling about. What’s wrong with Lord Roland?

  ‘Father?’

  He’s bowed and staggering. His face is white. His hand is pressed to his stomach.

  Blood. There’s blood. His black robe is gleaming with it.

  ‘You’re – you’re not hurt?’

  ‘I am hurt.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  He reaches out. ‘Help me. Help me back home.’

  He’s so heavy. He can hardly walk. He’s breathing in short little gasps, and the blood patters down onto the dust as he passes.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Shh.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Father.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  Faces everywhere. What are they staring at? Which way is it to the cathedral? Shouts from the walls, but I can’t look back. There’s blood on my surplice.

  ‘Wait.’ He stops. He sounds surprised, but not worried.

  He seems to sag at the knees.

  ‘Father?’

  Something’s wrong. He stares at me with wide, blue, startled eyes. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ he says, and pitches forward onto his face.

  ‘Father!’ Oh God! ‘Father! Father!’ This is a nightmare. This can’t be true. ‘Wake up! Father!’ He can’t be. No, it’s not possible. God – you can’t do this. Not to him. His eyes are open, but –

  ‘No! NO!’

  Please don’t die. Oh please, don’t do this – you can’t – you can’t leave us. You mustn’t. You can’t.

  ‘Father . . . Jesus God . . .’

  There’s blood running out of his mouth.

  Chapter 28

  19 August 1209

  Yep, he’s dead all right.’ The man nudges Lord Roland’s limp foot with his toe. He’s a dyer, a ‘sturdy, balding man with dye on his hands and inflamed mosquito bites all over his face. ‘Was it one of those rocks?’

  ‘It was – we were up there.’

  ‘On the wall?’ He looks around. ‘What were you doing up there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Woe is me. Why died I not from the womb? Dust and ashes – I am dust and ashes. ‘We were walking. Just walking along . . .’

  ‘Bad luck.’ He’s still peering up at the battlements. ‘Seems to have settled down, though. No more rocks, and no more noise.’

  ‘What happened?’ Another man, quite young, with a thick mop of dark brown hair and a pale, unhealthy complexion. ‘Did they kill a monk?’

  ‘Yep. He’s dead.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I tell you, Gaucher, they’d kill their own mothers without blinking an eye.’

  ‘Please – please –’ What am I going to do? I have to think. Oh God, I can’t believe this.

  ‘Do you want some help?’ the older man enquires. ‘We can take him somewhere, if you want.’

  Yes, we have to take him somewhere. But where? Back home? Back to his bed, and wait for the Archdeacon? Sit by the bed and wait and . . .

  No. I have to tell him.

  ‘To the castle.’ For I will declare mine iniquity; I will be sorry for my sin. ‘Can you take him to the castle?’

  ‘The castle?’ Both men exchange glances. ‘Is that where he lived?’

  ‘He – his friend is there. His brother is there. His brother is the Lord of Bram.’

  A reverent kind of noise from the man called Gaucher. His companion looks down at Lord Roland with dawning respect.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Then we’d better take him to his brother. You take the head, Gauch, and I’ll take the feet.’

  God have mercy. Save me from the scourge of all sorrows. Save me from a shattered and bleeding soul. Let this cup pass from me, O Lord, I can’t bear it, the way his head lolls, the way his hand falls, it’s too pitiful, it’s too terrible, how could you do this? How could you do this?

  ‘Oof!’ The young man staggers a little. ‘He’s a big fellow, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’ll go first.’

  ‘It’s a shame, you know. God will punish them for this.’

  ‘Right. Lead on, Father.’

  Father? I’m not a Father. I’m nothing. I’m dung upon the face of the earth. I have destroyed a man beloved of God, and Father Pagan’s going to kill me. He’s going to hate me and he’s going to kill me. God! I didn’t even say the words of absolution. He died like a dog, with his sins on his soul. Why was I even born? I can’t do anything right . . .

  ‘Father?’ It’s the older man: he sounds uneasy. ‘Don’t cry, Father. He’s a monk. He’ll be in heaven now. He’ll be with God.’

  ‘Isn’t this where we turn?’ Gaucher says. ‘Don’t we turn left here?’

  ‘Yes we do. This way, Father.’

  People staring. People crossing themselves. ‘What happened?’ somebody shouts.

  ‘Killed on the wall,’ the dyer rejoins. ‘Killed by the crusaders.’

  ‘Did they get through?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘There were rocks! I heard rocks!’

  ‘It’s finished. We pushed ’em back. Let us pass.’

  He died saving me. He died like a hero. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for him. I’d be dead with my throat cut, and they’d have thrown me off the wall, and the crows would have . . . would have . . .

  ‘Odo!’ Gaucher’s voice. ‘Hold on, wait. He’s sick.’

  ‘Poor little man. I’m not surprised.’

  My breath is corrupt, my days are extinct, the graves are ready for me.

  ‘You just let it out, son. No point trying to keep it down.’

  My life is spent with grief. My life is spent with grief.

  ‘There’s nothing worse,’ Gaucher remarks thoughtfully, ‘than throwing up on an empty stomach.’

  I am feeble and sore broken, and my life is spent with grief.

  ‘Finis
hed?’ Odo says. ‘That’s the way. Better wipe your mouth, because we’re almost there. Can you get past the sentinels?’

  The sentinels? I don’t know. Surely they’d recognise Lord Roland? Surely they’ve seen me enough, these past few weeks? The barbican opens out in front of us, a sea of shacks and dungheaps, with goats and children fossicking for scraps. One of the children sees the blood – the limp body – the bouncing head – and begins to cry.

  ‘What happened to him, Master?’ A little boy with black curls and a sharp, inquisitive face. ‘Did the crossers get him?’

  ‘Out of the way.’

  ‘Was it the crossers? Did he get hit by a stone?’

  ‘You’ll get hit by a stone, son, if you don’t behave yourself.’

  A swarm of children, trailing after us like flies. Why are they doing this? Aren’t they frightened? Only when we reach the castle gate do they falter, repelled by the massive stony walls and the flinty eyes of the sentinels.

  ‘What’s this?’ The tallest guard has a broken nose, and teeth as white as the Seven Angels. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was killed. On the wall.’

  ‘Did those bastards do this?’

  ‘Please. Please let me through. I have to tell his brother.’

  ‘By my faith.’ The guard shakes his head in anger and disgust. ‘They say they’re crusaders, and they kill a man of God. I hope they sweat in hell for it.’ He crosses himself, and waves us through. ‘My sympathies to Lord Jordan,’ he says.

  Lord Jordan? Will Lord Jordan mind? I doubt it. But Father Pagan – God. I don’t know if I can do this.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Odo pants, as we emerge from the shadow of the gate-house.

  ‘There.’

  ‘The great hall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ says Gaucher. ‘My arms are getting tired.’

  ‘No offence meant,’ Odo adds. ‘But he’s pretty heavy.’

  Heavy. How can a man be so heavy, when he’s so thin? Is the weight in his bones? A couple of stablehands stare at us across the courtyard, but there’s no one on the stairs. I suppose the rest of them are in the great hall: they generally are. Perhaps I’d better not . . .

  ‘Can you just wait here, please?’ (I don’t know how to address them. Are they servants? Men of property?) ‘I’ll be back very soon.’

  ‘Can we put him down?’

  ‘Oh yes. Thank you.’

  Sixteen stairs. Sixteen stairs up to the door of the great hall. I feel as if I’m going to faint. My throat is burning. What will he do to me? Will he send me away? The smell of smoke, the coolness, the dimness. I can’t see a thing. Is he in here?

  ‘Isidore?’

  That’s Lord Jordan’s voice. Where is he? Is that him? A shadow, advancing over the rushes. A glint of gold; a gleam of leather. Suddenly his face appears, and his gaze drops to my knees. ‘What happened?’ he says. His tone is hard and urgent. ‘Are you wounded?’

  Wounded? Oh. The blood.

  ‘N-no . . .’

  ‘Where’s Pagan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He went to find you, when we heard the bombardment. He went to see if you were still at his house, or if you’d left for the wall. I would have gone myself, if it wasn’t for this . . .’ He fingers his bandaged hand. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks softly. ‘Were you caught?’

  ‘Forgive me. Forgive me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come – look –’

  Out into the sunshine. You can see he’s dead, even from this distance. It’s the way he’s lying, all twisted and bent. It’s his open mouth and his half-open eyes.

  Lord Jordan freezes. He swallows.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.’

  More tears; I can’t see where I’m going. Fumbling my way down the stairs, following Lord Jordan, who’s found the use of his limbs again. He reaches the bottom and stops: Odo and Gaucher bow nervously.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘My lord.’

  He doesn’t seem to hear them. He’s staring down at his brother, his face completely blank.

  ‘My lord, we were stuck on the battlements. We were trying to get to a tower, but there were men coming over the wall. He killed at least one – I don’t know what happened –’

  ‘Were they driven off?’

  ‘P-pardon?’

  ‘The crusaders! Were they beaten back?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I think so.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He’s frowning. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why attack, when you’re trying to arrange a parley? Unless . . . well, it could have been a warning. Either that, or somebody’s bungled. Somebody didn’t tell the right hand what the left hand was doing. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘Listen to me.’ He presses my shoulder. ‘We can’t let Pagan see this. If he sees this, he’s finished. And we can’t afford to lose him now because the Viscount needs him. The Viscount wants to parley, and they’ve told him he can bring nine men along. He wants Pagan to be one of them.’

  ‘You mean –’

  ‘Most of the wells are dry. We’ve got to parley. But if Pagan sees this . . .’ (A jerk of the head.) ‘He’ll be no good to anyone.’

  ‘But how can we hide – ?’ This is crazy. ‘Father Pagan would never leave, not without knowing what’s happened to his lord. Father Roland was his lord!’

  ‘We’ll say he’s looking after the wounded. We’ll tell a lie. The Viscount will be leaving soon – Pagan won’t have time to check.’ He looks down at me, frowning. ‘You’ll have to change your clothes before he sees you. Change your clothes and wash your face.’

  ‘My lord –’

  ‘But where shall we hide Roland? That’s the question. Can’t take him back to Pagan’s place.’ He ponders, stroking his moustache. ‘Not the chapel: there might be prayers before we go. Not the cellars – too many rats.’

  By the blood of the Lamb of God! ‘My lord –’

  ‘In fact we’d better stay out of the main building altogether. Stables? Too risky. Barracks? Too crowded. Ah!’ He narrows his eyes. ‘That’s it. The gate-house. Nice and private. You!’ he barks, gesturing at Odo. ‘Both of you! Pick him up and follow me.’

  The two men scramble to do his bidding. I can’t believe this. This isn’t right. As Lord Roland is lifted, his arms flop loose, trailing on the ground; Lord Jordan bends over and takes both the bloody hands in his. He places them on his brother’s chest, one on top of the other, and stands there for a moment, studying the lifeless face that looks so much like his own.

  ‘Poor old Piglet,’ he says softly, before closing his brother’s eyes. There’s a brief, solemn pause. Odo and Gaucher look embarrassed; Lord Jordan turns on his heel. ‘Come!’ he snaps, and heads for the gate-house.

  ‘My lord.’ Wait. Wait for me. ‘My lord, if you do this, Father Pagan will hate you. He’ll never forgive you, never.’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘But it’s wrong, my lord! To lie to him about something like this . . .’

  ‘We’re going to need him, Isidore. We’re going to need all the help we can get.’ Suddenly he stops. He catches his breath, and winces. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he chokes.

  Someone’s coming through the gateway: someone small and wiry and dressed in black. As he steps into the sunlight his gaze alights on Lord Roland.

  ‘Pagan.’ Lord Jordan moves forward, his arms outstretched. ‘Pagan, listen to me –’

  But Father Pagan doesn’t listen.

  He just falls.

  ‘Father!’ (Oh God, no!) ‘He’s dead!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ Lord Jordan reaches him first. Turns him over. ‘He’s fainted. Damn! His head.’

  There’s blood on his brow, where it hit the gravel. He looks so small. Oh Father – oh Father –

  ‘Well that’s the end of that,’ Lord Jordan remarks, in a toneless voice. But his hand trembles as he lifts the thick black hair away f
rom the wound. As he strokes the bearded cheek, so gently, so fondly, so – so –

  By the blood of the Lamb of God. It’s true. It must be true. Look at his face! Guichard was right. He was right!

  ‘Come on.’ Lord Jordan gathers up the small, inert figure, and rises to his feet. ‘We’ll forget about the gate-house. We’ll take them home.’

  Home. Yes. We’ll take them both home.

  Chapter 29

  19 August 1209

  How long has it been? How many tears can one person shed? That patch of sunlight has moved all the way from the bed to the chair, and he still hasn’t stopped. First the whispering, then the yelling, then the pounding – pounding on the bloody chest: ‘How could you do this to me?’ – and now the groans and the tears, on and on and on, his face buried in Lord Roland’s neck, his voice muffled, his whole body racked with violent convulsions. Bare, bloody patches on his scalp, where he actually tore out his hair: it’s floating about on the floor now, like feathers. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. I’ve never seen anyone throw back his head and howl at the ceiling.

  I’ve never seen such pain.

  Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts. I didn’t realise . . . how could I fathom such depths? He must have loved him as his mother and father. He must have loved him as his own soul. How could I know that? How could you do this? Look at what you’ve done – look at how you’ve hurt him. That’s Father Pagan, lying there. That’s what you’ve reduced him to, that damp huddle, that broken, noisy, demented – that creature. Look at him! You’ve got to bring him back. You can’t let him stay like this.

  ‘Father?’

  He doesn’t hear me. He’s deaf and blind; as deaf and blind as his dearest friend. He only has ears for one voice – eyes for one face – and he keeps pleading and pleading: ‘Talk to me. Say something.’ But Lord Roland will never say anything, ever again.

  I wish Lord Jordan, would come. Haven’t they finished their parley? Lord Jordan’s voice might do it. His face might do it. His face is so similar, his eyes are identical . . . Why doesn’t he come? He said he would. He said he’d come as soon as he got back. Surely he must be back by now?

  A fly buzzes through the window. It’s so hot. We’ll have to bury him soon, or – or – But how are we going to do that? Father Pagan will want a proper funeral. It’s too difficult. I can’t think.