Pagan's Scribe Read Free

most ready devotion and his deepest wish in Christ, I have been pursuing the good of the Faith in your territories, as I informed your paternity when I last spoke to you.’’ ’
    Secundum mandatum patris mei . . . Slow down, slow down!
    ‘New paragraph. “By divine grace I am well in myself, but my scribe Julien has been struck down by a grievous illness, just a few miles out of Pamiers. Beloved Father, without a scribe I am as a barren fig tree, for my eyes, which discern the world clearly at a distance, are crippled when presented with the forms of things close to my face.’’ ’ The Archdeacon pauses: there isn’t a sound to be heard except the scratching of my nib against the creamy parchment. ‘ “Therefore,’’ ’ he continues, ‘ “because my scribe lies ill in the village of Merioc, I have been obliged to secure the services of your loving son, Isidore . . .” Do you have another name, Isidore?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Orbus.’
    ‘Orbus?’ He sounds surprised. ‘Isidore the Orphan?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I see. That’s interesting. Well – “. . . where was I? Ah yes. the services of your loving son, Isidore Orbus, whom you sent there as parish clerk, through God’s inspiration. My own scribe, Julien, will remain in his place until you have chosen a substitute, and my venerable master, the Bishop Bernard, will make worthy satisfaction to you for your pains. May the angel of good counsel be with you, so that you understand what is right and act in accordance with it. Farewell.” Have you got all that?’
    Angelus consilii boni . . . vale . . . ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘Read it through to me, then.’
    ‘ Beato Odilo , patri apostolico . . . ’ (I can’t believe this. Is it really happening? O Lord, have you answered my prayer?) ‘. . . petebam salutem Fidei . . . ’ (But it won’t be easy, serving this little Archdeacon. Not only is he a profane, bossy, discourteous man – he’s a former Infidel, too! How can I bow my neck to his yoke? It will be very difficult.)‘. . . iuxta faciemmeam . . . ’(However, I’m in no position to pick and choose. As the old saying warns us: Selde cumet se betere – rarely does a better one come next.) ‘. . . servitia filii dilecti . . . ’ (After all, if I don’t take advantage of this God-given opportunity, I may never have another chance to get out of here.) ‘. . . secundum quod sit iustum. Vale. ’
    ‘Excellent.’ The Archdeacon nods, and peers at me with his crippled eyes. When he peers he doesn’t push his head forward, but draws it back. ‘Is there anything in that letter which you would prefer to remove?’
    ‘No, Father.’
    ‘Nothing?’
    ‘No, Father.’
    ‘Good. Then I’ll give it to the servant, and he can give it to your priest. I daresay someone will pass by soon, on their way to Pamiers.’ He takes the leather satchel, and stands up. ‘Can you ride a horse, Isidore?’
    ‘Um . . .’ That depends on your definition of the word ride. ‘I rode to this village, Father.’ (Although I spent more time on the ground than in the saddle.)
    ‘Then you shouldn’t have any difficulty,’ the Archdeacon declares. ‘Any fool can sit on a horse. Besides, this horse is so intelligent, you won’t need to do anything but sit.’ All at once he grins, and he has the grin of an urchin, wide and disrespectful, with one tooth missing. ‘A few falls won’t hurt you,’ he says, slapping me on the back. ‘Hurry up, we’d better get a move on.’
    ‘ Now? ’
    ‘Of course. I have to be in Fanjeaux before sunset.’
    By the blood of the Lamb, he doesn’t waste time, does he? Even his stride is quick and impatient, as he approaches Ernoul and shoves the letter into his grubby hand. ‘Here, take this. Give it to your priest when he returns. Tell him that Isidore is safe in my care.’ Seizing the reins from Ernoul, he looks around, and beckons to me. ‘Isidore! Come on! It’s time to go.’
    Yes indeed. It is time to