‘My lords, it was Plato who told us that Nature is the will of God,’ he continues. ‘And what does Nature teach us? It teaches us that the lion – the king of the beasts – will always show great compassion, and spare the prostrate. Is it not therefore against God’s law to attack Lord Raymond, who prostrates himself before your mercy? More than that: Cicero himself reminds us that Nature holds together and supports the universe, all of whose parts are in harmony with one another. In this way are men united by Nature – but by reason of their sinfulness they quarrel, not realising that they are of one blood, and subject to the same protecting power. We are of one blood, my lords: should we slay our own brother, and spill our own blood?’
Surely this is the voice of God. Surely this is God’s voice, speaking through the Archdeacon’s mouth. He turns, briefly, and I can see his face: flushed, moist-eyed, the veins standing out on his temples. He raises his arms and pleads – begs – and his hands are shaking, and his cry is like the mourning of angels in heaven.
‘Oh my lords, my lords, remember the words of our Saviour Jesus Christ! Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. We should not judge but love one another, because the fruit of the Holy Spirit is love, and joy, and peace, and gentleness.’ (Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the name of the Lord!) ‘My brothers, I entreat you, let the peace of God rule in your souls. Raise your eyes to the light, and open your hearts to the Holy Spirit. For we shall all stand before the Judgement Seat, brothers, and when that day comes, only the righteous will eat of the tree of life. Only the righteous will enter the Heavenly Jerusalem.’
Yes! Oh yes! Oh Father, you walk in God’s statutes. You stand fast in the Lord. How could I ever have thought otherwise?
But the Abbot – the Abbot is still scowling. The Abbot is unmoved. How could he be so deaf? So blind? He turns to Lord Raymond and says: ‘Have you anything to add, my lord?’
The Viscount jumps to his feet. He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he mutters. He looks and sounds like a sulky adolescent.
‘What about you, my lord Bishop?’ It’s Milo who speaks. ‘Have you anything to say, in the Viscount’s defence?’
‘Oh – ah – yes, I – if I could just – um . . .’ The Bishop of Carcassonne struggles to rise, weighed down by jasper and amethysts and fold upon fold of heavy, embroidered silk. At last the Viscount has to help him, slipping a hand beneath his elbow and hauling him upright. There’s a snicker from somewhere in the crowd behind me.
‘My lord, I’m an old man,’ the Bishop whimpers. ‘I’ve done my best to guide my flock. But if I have failed, I can only throw myself on our Holy Father’s mercy. I will abide by the wish of our Holy Father.’
A snort from the Archdeacon. He’s looking very grim. Milo nods at the Bishop, smiling in an exhausted kind of way: beside him, the Abbot gives a satisfied grunt.
‘As the Holy Father’s representative, I am only too happy to welcome you to his side, my lord Bishop,’ Milo declares. ‘I embrace you as I embrace any of your household who feel the same way.’ He turns his weary gaze on the Archdeacon, adding: ‘Perhaps Father Pagan, now that he has discharged his duty to the Viscount with such skill and vigour, may decide that he has an even greater duty to our Holy Mother Church? Perhaps he will take up the all-powerful and excellent arms of obedience, to fight for the Lord Christ and his representative, Pope Innocent?’
They’re asking him to change sides! But he won’t, will he? Surely he won’t! I can’t see his face, only his small, straight back, as he squares his shoulders and puts his hands on his hips.
‘My lord,’ he says calmly, ‘in the words of Saint Erasmus, I would rather have my bowels ripped out of my belly and laid upon a fire.’
‘Are you sure of that? You’re setting your face against God, you know. You’re joining the forces of evil.’
The Archdeacon laughs. ‘My lord, a certain philosopher once said to his son, ‘Call him a liar who affirms that evil must be conquered with evil, for as a fire does not put out fire, so evil does not yield to evil.’ He raises his hand, and points an accusing finger straight at Milo. ‘The Viscount came to you in peace, to make his submission, but you withheld your forgiveness. You are the one setting your face against God, my lord. Not I.’
He turns on his heel, and it’s like a signal: suddenly everyone’s rising, everyone’s talking, everyone’s making for the door. I can hear the Viscount’s yell, high above the babble, as he shakes his fist at Milo. ‘God curse you!’ he shouts. ‘You’ll suffer for this, you hypocrite! You bloodsucker!’ What’s happening? Is that all? Are we going now? So many people, squeezing past, smelling of sweat and garlic and rose-oil; people treading on my heels and breathing in my face and pushing me against the wall. Where’s the Archdeacon? I must speak to the Archdeacon!
‘Isidore.’ He’s here at last; he takes my hand, ‘Come on, Isidore,’ he says, in hoarse and weary tones. ‘Let’s get out of this place. It’s making me ill.’
And he forces a path through the crush of jabbering people.
Chapter 15
20 July 1209
‘Father –’
‘Over here, Isidore.’
‘Father, wait – please . . .’ I want to tell you. I have to tell you. You’re a great, great speaker: the greatest I’ve ever heard. You’re a modern-day Cicero. ‘Father, what you just said – to the Abbot –’
‘Was a waste of time.’
‘But it was true! All of it!’
‘Well I’m glad somebody thought so.’ His voice is crisp and sarcastic. ‘This way, Isidore, we have things to discuss.’
I don’t even know where we are. All these flaring torches and milling people; endless rows of carved columns; looming shadows and murky stairs. Are we in a cloister, perhaps? He drags me into a doorway, out of the noise and the bustle: I can feel the sweat on his hands.
‘Listen carefully,’ he says, ‘because we haven’t much time.’
‘Father –’
‘Don’t interrupt me, Isidore!’
But I have to tell you. You’re a great man. I have to tell you that.
‘The thing is, I brought you to Montpellier for a reason.’ He’s speaking very quickly. ‘I would have left you in Carcas–sonne, only I feared the worst. Things are going to get bad there, very bad. That’s why I think you should stay here with the Bishop.’
What?
‘He’s joined the crusaders. I thought he would. Well, you can’t really blame him: he’s an old man, after all –’
‘But I don’t want to stay with the Bishop!’
‘Isidore. Listen to me.’ He squeezes my wrist. ‘You don’t know what it’s going to be like. Sieges are nasty things. They’re no place for a boy like you. You’re not strong. You’ll be much better off in Montpellier, with the Bishop.’
‘But he’s a coward!’
‘Hush –’
‘And anyway, he won’t want me! No one wants me!’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ (His sternest voice.) ‘I’m sorry. I know he’s not an ideal master, but he’s the only person I know around here. And he’s bound to find someone who needs you.’
No. No. This can’t be happening. Oh Lord, why casteth thou off my soul? Why hidest thou thy face from me?
‘Besides,’ the Archdeacon continues, ‘I’m on the wrong side of the fence now. You don’t want to become an enemy of the Church, Isidore. This crusade has the Pope’s approval.’
‘Then why aren’t you joining it?’
A pause. I can barely see his face in the dimness: just the glitter of an eye, and the gleam of his glossy hair.
‘I suppose there are lots of reasons,’ he says at last. ‘Languedoc is my home. It took me in, and gave me a position. All my friends are in Languedoc.’ Another brief silence. ‘Anyway,’ he adds, ‘I couldn’t fight for any cause that had the Abbot of Citeaux at its head. No matter how respectable it might be.’
‘Well Languedoc is my home too, you know! And I think the Abbot stinks!’
A sudden snort. I can feel him heaving and shaking: shaking with laughter? ‘God, Isidore.’ (Gasp. Choke.) ‘What a find you are.’
‘Please. Please don’t leave me. Please.’
‘But how can I take you? You’ll never make it back to Béziers. We’ll be riding through the night, if we’re going to get there before the crusaders do. Riding hard, so we can warn the people to prepare.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘You’ll be all right, truly. I’ve coped with the Bishop for ten years: he’s no trouble. Just stay here, and I’ll go and have a word with him. I won’t be long.’
No! Wait! But he vanishes – vanishes like a puff of smoke. What am I going to do? I can’t stay with that Bishop. He’ll hate me! He’ll hate me the way everyone hates me except . . . except . . .
The Archdeacon.
I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to think.
Everything’s so confused, but there must be something – there must be someone. Someone who can help. Someone I know. Lord Roland? If Lord Roland were here, he would help me. He was pleased that I’d joined the Archdeacon. He said I was a pearl of great price. Oh, why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he here, instead of his brother?
Lord Jordan. Would he help? No, not him, he’s a murderer. But his squire, Guichard – maybe if I rode with Guichard . . .
The crowds are thinning. They seem to be moving off towards that big door, beneath the painting of Saint Peter’s martyrdom. Didn’t we come through that door, when we first arrived? I think we did. I think that’s the way to the horses. And there’s the Viscount, waving his arms, pushing people through, urgent, impatient – are they leaving for Béziers already?
I’ve got to move.
Hoisting up my skirts, so I can run after them. Run, Isidore, run! Under the archway, into a crowded corridor. Thrusting past the big, heavy knights; squirming between their chattering varlets. They’re all talking at the tops of their voices, booming away, their angry curses bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. (Such a smell of sweat and leather!) But I can’t see Guichard – I can’t see Lord Jordan. Spilling into a gigantic courtyard, where the horses are already waiting, saddled up, ready to go. Tossing heads and clattering hoofs and waving torches. Where’s Guichard? Where is he?
Ah.
There he is. Over there, near that fountain. Holding two horses, gazing off into the distance, looking thoroughly bored. Whenever I see him he looks like that. Isn’t he interested in anything?
‘Guichard!’
He glances around, spots me, grimaces. But he doesn’t say a word.
‘Guichard, I need your help.’
Grunt.
‘Please, Guichard, I – I don’t want to stay here. The Archdeacon wants me to stay here with his Bishop. Can I ride with you instead?’
He blinks.
‘With me?’ he says, in a most ungracious voice.
‘Please, Guichard. I don’t want to stay with the Bishop. He’s a coward. He’s an old man. Please?’
Guichard hawks and spits. The spittle just misses my surplice.
‘You’ll have to ask his majesty,’ comes the reply. ‘I don’t make that kind of decision.’
‘But –’
‘Here he is now. Do you want to ask him?’
‘Ask me what?’
Oh God, it’s Lord Jordan. He looks like an oak tree, in all that green: torchlight sparkles on his rings and buckles and brooches.
I have to get out of here.
‘Nothing, my lord, I – it’s nothing.’
‘He wants to ride with me.’
‘He does?’ A blank, blue stare. ‘Haven’t you got your own mount, Isidore? A very nice chestnut, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, my lord.’
‘He says the Archdeacon wants him to stay here.’ (Oh shut up, will you?) ‘He says that the Bishop’s a coward.’
That’s it. I’m leaving. Ouch! Let go! Let go of my collar!
‘Wait a moment, Isidore.’ Lord Jordan pulls me back. ‘What’s all this about? What’s Pagan done? He’s not abandoning you, surely?’
‘He – he wants me to stay with the Bishop.’
‘Ah.’ The grip relaxes. (I can breathe again.) ‘So that’s it.’
‘I don’t . . .’ (Cough, cough.) ‘I don’t want to stay, my lord.’
‘With the Bishop? I don’t blame you. He always brings me out in boils.’
‘Can I ride with Guichard? Please? I – I won’t be any trouble.’
Guichard snorts. His master gazes down that long, aristocratic nose, which is slightly reddened by sunburn.
‘If it’s the Bishop’s breath that’s worrying you, I can always introduce you to someone else in Milo’s army,’ he says. ‘The Courtenays are here – they’re cousins of the Count of Toulouse. I’ve always found them to be reasonably chivalrous, despite their odd political alignments. If I asked, they’d probably make room for one more.’
‘My lord, I don’t want to join the crusaders. I don’t believe in what they’re doing.’
‘Then ask the Bishop to send you somewhere else. There’s a fair number of churches in this city. Bound to be a place for someone with your skills – especially someone with a Bishop’s recommendation.’
No! No, that’s not what I want! By the blood of the Lamb – by the blood of the blessed martyrs – ‘My lord, I don’t want to stay here! I want to go back to the south!’
‘Why?’
Why? Because . . . because . . .
‘Why not wait until the fighting’s over?’ His face is completely expressionless. ‘It won’t be pretty, I can tell you.’
‘My lord – my lord –’
‘What?’
You don’t understand! You don’t know what it’s like! How could I ever explain – there’s only one person – it’s like being cast adrift, all over again, with no one to help you . . .
‘My lord, I want to stay with the Archdeacon.’
He smiles. It’s a slow, subtle, indulgent smile, and it makes him look quite different.
‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ he murmurs. ‘I can understand that. Let’s see, now. What can we do?’ He strokes his moustache, thinking deeply. His gaze flicks from horse to horse; from my face to Guichard’s, and back again.
‘You’ll never last as far as Béziers on your own,’ he says. ‘It’ll kill you, a ride like that. You’d better double up.’
‘Not on my nag,’ Guichard remarks – and Lord Jordan turns on him with a look of the most profound and deadly menace.
‘Did I ask for your comments, Guichard?’
‘No, my lord.’ A mere crack of sound. ‘Sorry, my lord.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ (By the blood of the Lamb! He’s like a bear lying in wait. Like a lion in secret places.) ‘Now where was I, before I was so boorishly interrupted? Oh yes. It would be better, Isidore, if you were to ride with me. You don’t look as if you carry much weight, and Michelet, here, is as strong as a bull. My saddlebags can go with the rest of the luggage.’
‘But –’
‘We’ll put you in one of Guichard’s outfits. You’re about the same size. If Pagan happens to see you, just keep your head down. I’ll say that you’re Guichard, and that you’re drunk.’ He turns back to Guichard. ‘Get out your brown tunic. And that blue cape with the hood. Take them –’ He pauses, his eyes searching the courtyard. ‘Take them over there, behind that pillar. If Pagan comes, he won’t see you in the shadows.’ (Flapping his hand at me.) ‘Go on, Isidore.’
Yes. Yes, I’m going. Your wish is my command. Which pillar? This one? It’s part of a portico, marching along the side of a two-storeyed building: it’s painted with weatherworn stripes of different colours, but in this light the colours are only shades of grey. I can see everything from here: I can see the Viscount, and Lord Jordan, and I can see Guichard, scampering across the cobbles with a bundle wedged under his arm.
‘Here!
’ he gasps. ‘Put these on!’ And suddenly there are clothes everywhere, draped over my shoulders, dangling from my outstretched hands, slipping to the ground. They smell ferocious.
Guichard ducks down behind me.
‘What’s wrong? Why are you –?’
‘He’s coming!’
Help! You mean the Archdeacon? Yes, there he is! Small and dark and agitated, standing on tiptoe as he cranes his neck to scan the courtyard. He sees Lord Jordan, and waves.
‘Jordan!’ he cries, beating a path through the crowds. Lord Jordan just stands there, stroking his stallion’s fine, glossy chest: it’s hard to tell what’s happening, because there are so many people, and the torches dance and flicker. But the Archdeacon finally emerges from a press of bodies. He grabs Lord Jordan’s arm; his loud, urgent, breathless voice rises above the other voices, like a sparrow upon a housetop.
‘Isidore!’ he exclaims. ‘Have you seen Isidore?’
‘Why, yes –’
‘Where? Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lord Jordan’s rumbling drawl is very difficult to hear from this distance. ‘Maybe . . .’ (Mumble, mumble.) ‘. . . with the Bishop.’
‘The Bishop?’
(Mumble, mumble.) ‘stay with the Bishop. He came to say goodbye . . .’
‘Goodbye?’ The Archdeacon lets go of Lord Jordan’s arm. ‘But he didn’t say goodbye to me.’
‘I think he was angry with you.’
The Archdeacon sags. His shoulders slump. His head droops. ‘He’s always angry with me. Why is he always angry with me? I do my best.’
‘Ssst!’ It’s Guichard. He’s tugging at my skirts. ‘Hurry up, will you? Can’t you see they’re going?’
Going? Who’s going? You mean the Viscount? Where is the Viscount? By the blood of the Lamb, he’s disappeared – they’re all disappearing. They’re moving off towards the gates, a confused jumble of mounted men, cursing and yelling and jostling for position.
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