Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online Page A

journey.’
    ‘Back to Merioc?’
    There. I’ve said it. He catches his breath and looks away, and I know – I know what he’s thinking – I know what it means, that expression, that uneasy silence. Oh, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, why does this always happen? Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?
    ‘I can’t risk having you fall, Isidore.’ He sounds helpless. ‘You must see that. You might hurt yourself badly, falling from a horse. You might kill yourself.’
    So what? I don’t care. My soul is weary of life. I eat ashes like bread, and mingle my drink with weeping. What is my strength, that I should hope? What is my end, that I should prolong my existence?
    ‘Isidore . . .’ He’s squinting at me through thick black eyelashes. ‘Try to understand, will you? I travel around a lot. I’m always visiting towns. Abbeys. Villages. That’s what I do. I take care of the Bishop’s business throughout his diocese. How can I take you along, when you’re not even . . . when you can’t . . . oh God.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. He turns away, and turns back again. He spreads his hands. ‘If only you could warn me before it happened –’
    ‘But I can!’ (I’m not going back to Merioc. Not now.) ‘There’s the smell of burning. I just told you.’
    He sits down. ‘You mean –’
    ‘When I smell the fire, I’ll warn you, and then you can help me.’
    ‘But what if I’m not there?’
    ‘You won’t be at Merioc, either.’ Oh, please. Please, Father, don’t send me back. Nothing could be worse than Merioc, nothing could, not even you and your vulgar, impious, irritating jokes.
    ‘Are you sure?’ He sounds very stern. ‘Are you sure about this?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’ Shame on you, Isidore – your molten image is falsehood. Forgive me for lying, O Lord, but I’m desperate, you know I am. The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit who can bear?
    ‘Very well,’ the Archdeacon sighs. ‘I’ll give you another chance. I’ll let you stay with me.’
    Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the name of the Lord! Praise him, O ye servants of –
    ‘But I’m warning you, Isidore, this is the one and only time.’ He wags his finger. ‘If you fall off your horse, then it’s back to Merioc. Understand?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘And kindly see if you can produce the occasional smile, will you? It’ll make things so much more pleasant.’ He stands up, hitching his blanket back onto his shoulders. ‘I’m going to bed now, so I’ll leave the lamp right here. If you want anything . . .’ He pauses; cocks his head; eyes my face. ‘If you want anything, you can get it yourself,’ he concludes, and disappears into the shadows.
    I waited patiently for the Lord, and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock.
    Blessed is the man that maketh the Lord his trust.

Chapter 6
15 July 1209
    T he pain! Lord Jesus, the pain! Every joint is groaning. Every muscle throbs.
    ‘Is it bad?’ the Archdeacon enquires. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll get better. The second day is always the worst.’
    Yes, yes, I know. The second day is always the worst. Good fortune deceives, but bad fortune enlightens. The greatest joy is ushered in by the greatest pain.
    I’ve heard them all, and they don’t help me one little bit.
    ‘Anyway, it’s not very far,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘Look, see that? That’s Prouille, over there. That’s our destination.’ He points across the hazy expanse of fields and forest, towards the silhouette of distant mountains. There are five roads, converging on the very hill beneath us, and the sparkle of a river in the distance. ‘See that hummock, near the river? See that little speck on top of it? Well, that speck is a windmill. And the windmill belongs to Prouille. We’ll be there before noon.’
    Noon. Noon? But that’s a lifetime