Pagan's Scribe Read Free Page A

go. But where in the world am I going?
    Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed.
    Please don’t lose sight of your humblest servant.

Chapter 2
14 July 1209
    O Lord, what a marvellous work is this country. How vast are its spaces; how lofty its skies. Look at the way the golden fields alternate so beautifully with those patches of rich green forest, in a pattern which yields both refreshment to the eye and varied gifts of produce to the zealous labourer. O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.
    ‘Would you like a drink, Isidore?’
    The Archdeacon is holding a wineskin. He rides so easily, so smoothly, rising and falling with the swing of his horse’s gait, his left hand hanging free. What skills he must possess, to sit like that. How difficult it is not to slide all over the saddle. And what an astounding mystery presents itself, when you get up onto a horse! For how can something look so narrow from a distance, when in fact it’s so incredibly wide? The measure thereof is longer than the earth, and broader than the sea; the measure thereof is higher than the vaults of heaven.
    ‘Isidore? I’m offering you a drink – do you want one?’
    ‘No, Father.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’ I don’t want to reach for that wineskin, or I might fall off. It’s so hard keeping my balance, way up here.
    ‘You must think I’m very unsympathetic, treating my scribe like that,’ the Archdeacon observes, quite suddenly, as if he’s been giving the matter some thought. ‘The fact is, my scribe Godric was a wonderful man, and we got on well until he died. Then I was given Julien. Julien was bearable just as long as he was comfortable. But he didn’t like travelling, and as soon as we set off he started to moan and sulk and carry on. It was driving me insane.’ His voice shudders with the impact of each step, as his horse picks its way around the pot-holes; peering across at me, he adds: ‘ You don’t look like a moaner. In fact you don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen before. What’s a person like you doing in these parts?’
    A person like me? What are you saying? There’s nothing wrong with me, nothing at all.
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Well look at your hair, for a start. It’s so red it’s like wine. And look at your skin: it’s as white as snowflakes. That’s northern skin. Northern hair. Where were you born?’
    Curse you, little man, curse you and all your increase. May you be smitten with blasting and mildew, and may you bring forth emerods in your secret parts.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he says. ‘Can’t you tell me? Don’t you know?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not? What happened?’
    By the blood of the Lamb, can’t you leave me be? Do I ask about your parents? Do I pry into your secrets?
    ‘Listen, Isidore, I’m not going to laugh. I don’t even know who my father was – he raped my mother, and she gave me away when I was born. So I’m not in a position to feel superior.’ He’s staring at me again: I can feel that bright, black gaze boring into my left cheek. ‘Are you a bastard too?’ he enquires.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘But your parents are dead?’
    ‘Yes they are.’
    ‘What happened to them?’
    ‘They were killed by brigands.’ (Why do you want to know this? What will it profit you?) ‘They were pilgrims, returning home from Compostela. They were with some other pilgrims. But the brigands killed them all, and stole their possessions. I was found among the bodies.’
    There’s a long pause, filled only by the buzz of flies, the creak of leather, the thud of hoofbeats. When the Archdeacon speaks, at last, his voice is very gentle.
    ‘That’s a sad story,’ he murmurs. ‘How old were you then?’
    ‘I was twelve months old.’
    ‘And you don’t know who your parents were? Where they came from?’
    ‘No, Father. The