Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online

flesh. I – I –’ I can’t explain. I can’t bear it. Covering my face with one hand, because I don’t want him to see.
    ‘This is the reason, isn’t it? The reason why you were in that village. The reason why no one would send you to university.’ He sounds so calm. So sympathetic. ‘They were frightened of you, weren’t they?’
    Frightened? I don’t know. Perhaps they were frightened. Perhaps they were simply disgusted. The other secondaries used to imitate me, when the Bishop wasn’t looking. It was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
    ‘You certainly frightened Dame Cavears,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘She thinks you’re possessed. It took a lot of careful negotiating before she would allow us to sleep in this room tonight. You’ve made things rather difficult, I’m afraid.’ He takes the empty goblet from my hand. ‘Tell me about your devil, Isidore.’
    My devil? Why? He’s holding the lamp on his knee, and it throws strange shadows across his face; there’s a long, jagged scar on his arm, and another across his shoulder. In fact there are scars all over him – on his forehead, on his chest, on his hand. They look very white against his dark skin.
    ‘Do you remember what happens?’ he enquires. ‘Do you remember anything else, besides the smell?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’
    ‘Have you ever tried to get rid of this thing?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘With fasting.’ (Let me think.) ‘With medicines . . .’
    ‘What medicines?’
    ‘Holy water. Hellebore. Mugwort and mandrake and wolf’s flesh –’
    ‘Exorcism?’
    ‘Oh yes. Three times. ‘Therefore accursed devil, hear thy doom and give honour to the Lord Jesus Christ that thou depart with thy works from this servant –’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Well . . . they beat me.’ (I’ll never forget that. Never.) ‘They tied me down and beat me.’
    The Archdeacon closes his eyes for a moment. He leans down to put my goblet on the floor, and wraps his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. The silence is profound: I can’t hear anything, not a single chirp or rustle. Everyone must be asleep.
    I wonder how late it is.
    ‘There was a man I knew at university, in Montpellier,’ the Archdeacon says. ‘He suffered from the same kind of attacks as you do. He was a good man, and very learned: he’d read more books than anyone else of my acquaintance. What’s more, he used to say that his devil wasn’t a devil at all, but a kind of fever. He told me that he’d filled his head with so much information that his mind would grow hot, and boil over like a kettle.’ Pause. ‘I must say I’m inclined to agree with him.’
    A fever? Truly? But what about the smell?
    ‘I’ve never believed in fasting for young people,’ the Archdeacon adds. ‘I think it’s like blood-letting: good when you’re strong, bad when you’re not so strong. In my opinion, Isidore, you should stop fasting. You should eat more, and sleep more, and get plenty of fresh air and exercise.’ He grins at me and screws up his nose. ‘I can just imagine what kind of life you’ve been leading, shut away with a smelly tallow lamp, hunched over a book, stuffing your head with Virgil and Cicero and Cassiodorus –’
    ‘There weren’t any books at Merioc.’
    ‘And how long were you at Merioc?’
    ‘Um . . .’ It seemed like a thousand years. ‘About three weeks.’
    ‘Well, that’s not very long, is it? No, it seems to me that you’ve got a fever, from reading too much. After all, when people have a fever, don’t they often lose their wits? Don’t they often forget where they are, and thrash about, and lose their power to communicate? Hmm?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘Good.’ He rises. ‘Then you should keep cool, and drink lots of water, and eats lots of balm and lettuce – cold, moist foods – and make sure that you get enough sleep. In fact I’ll leave you to sleep right now, because you’ve got a big day tomorrow. A big day and a long