Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.
‘Why, it’s Pagan!’ the old woman cries. ‘It’s little Pagan! I’d recognise that voice anywhere.’
‘Madame.’ The Archdeacon bows. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Come here – sit down – look, Guilhelme, it’s Father Pagan!’
Guilhelme nods. The girl beside her glowers. What a pity that such a beautiful face should be marred by such a sulky expression.
‘You’re just like a bird,’ the old woman cackles. ‘He’s just like a bird, isn’t he, Guilhelme? Flitting in and out, surprising everyone.’
‘If I’m a bird, Dame Cavears, then I’m a golden oriole to your fruit trees,’ the Archdeacon smiles.
‘Oh, will you listen to him? Off he goes, the little devil! Sit down, Father, I’ve been pining for a good joke. Guilhelme here doesn’t know any. Have you met Guilhelme de Tonneins? Oh, of course you have. And this is her daughter, Aude.’
Guilhelme de Tonneins! Isn’t she the arch-heretic? The Evil Priestess? Lord God protect us! The Archdeacon smiles and nods, calmly, as if this nest of serpents is a field of flowers. Suddenly the old woman grabs him and points at me.
‘Who’s that?’ she demands.
‘That’s my scribe,’ he says. ‘Isidore, this is the Dame de Fanjeaux.’
‘What’s wrong with his head? Is he bleeding?’
‘No, Sister, that’s just his hair.’ The Evil Priestess sounds amused. (How could I ever have thought her humble?) ‘He has red hair.’
‘Red hair? Show me. Come here, Isidore. Come on! Over here.’ Her hands are so old and fat and unsteady – she has hairs on her face like a man, and little black eyes like a rat’s. ‘Come closer, or I can’t see you. No, down here! By the Virgin’s milk, Father, there’s no end to him.’
‘Yes, he is rather tall.’
In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; deliver me in thy righteousness. Her fumbling hands reach for my head; they drag it down and down until I’m almost in her lap – until I can feel her breath on my tonsure.
I can’t believe this is happening.
‘What a beautiful colour, Guilhelme,’ she croaks. ‘It’s like autumn leaves, don’t you think? What a pity you’re not a girl, young man – you’d break hearts, with that hair.’ She laughs a wheezy laugh. ‘But I don’t suppose I need to tell you that, eh? You must have broken a score of hearts already.’
‘Look, Mama.’ It’s Aude’s voice: I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her voice, young and high and spiteful. ‘Look, he’s blushing. He’s as red as his hair.’
‘Don’t you tease him, young lady,’ the old woman retorts. ‘You’ve no cause to feel superior. It’s disgraceful, a young girl like you, living like a nun. And such a pretty girl, too. Don’t you think she’s pretty, Isidore?’
What are you saying? Leave me alone! When I pull back she laughs and laughs, rocking from side to side, showing her slimy, toothless gums. And the Archdeacon – the Archdeacon is grinning too, they’re all grinning, every one of them except Aude. Aude is scowling.
‘What he thinks is of no interest to me,’ she says, and the old woman waves a hand at her.
‘Go and tell Pons that we want some food, my dear. I’m sure these poor lads must be hungry. Off you go, now.’ She watches Aude rise and stalk off. ‘That girl should be married,’ she declares, in a loud voice. ‘If she doesn’t marry soon, she’ll curdle.’
The Evil Priestess shakes her head. ‘You know that’s out of the question, Sister,’ she sighs, and the old woman turns to the Archdeacon.
‘Our Good Men don’t believe in marriage,’ she explains, taking his arm. ‘They say it’s a sin.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, it might be a sin for some, but not for a girl like Aude.’ The old woman wags a finger at her heretical friend. ‘What that girl needs is a man. A man and a baby.’
‘But she doesn’t want a baby.’ The Evil Priestess sounds tired. ‘She believes very strongly in the teachings of the faith. She believes that having a child is condemning another soul to hell. Sometimes I think she blames me for having borne her – though I did it long before I embraced the Truth.’
By the blood of the Lamb! This is heresy, pure and simple. But the Archdeacon doesn’t even cross himself. He just removes his arm from the old woman’s grip, and sits on a stool near her feet.
‘You know, Madame, I didn’t come here simply to pay my respects,’ he says. ‘I came here to warn you.’
‘Warn me? About what?’
‘About the coming of the northern knights.’ He speaks quite casually, as he sits there arranging the skirts of his robe – yet this is a crucial point in the conversation. ‘Have you heard about the army which is gathering up north?’
‘The army? Oh yes, I heard about that from Aimery de Montreal. He dropped in last week, and gave me a beautiful casket. Guilhelme, where’s that casket? I want to show it to Father Pagan –’
‘Madame, did he tell you what this army is going to do? It’s going to invade Languedoc.’
‘You mean it’s going to try to invade Languedoc.’ The old woman waves her hand. ‘You mustn’t worry about the northerners, Father, they’ll never get past Carcassonne. Why, you know what the walls there are like. The Devil himself couldn’t scale them.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Ah! Is that Aude? And here’s Pons, with the food. What’s that you’ve got there, Pons? Not onions, I hope, you know they make me fart.’
What a monstrous woman. As greedy as a pig, as lascivious as a goat, and as shrill as a manticora. Truly she walks in the streets of Babylon, and wallows in the mire thereof.
‘I can smell beans,’ she complains. ‘Why did you bring me beans, Pons? You know they’re as bad as onions. Oh I see, the apples are for me, are they? Did you put honey on them? Good boy.’ Pons is covered in flea-bites: you can hardly see his face for spots. He’s carrying a big, steaming dish full of beans and bacon. Aude has the bread and the stewed apples. ‘Just put them down there, on that bench. Would you like some beans, Father?’
‘I certainly would.’
‘Give him some bread, Aude, that’s a good girl. I hope these apples aren’t too hot.’ The old woman begins to push great handfuls of sweet, sloppy fruit into her mouth. The juice runs down her chin and drips onto her bosom. She licks her fingers with a long blue tongue. ‘Go on, Isidore, tuck in. That bread tastes better with beans.’
No, thank you.
‘Here.’ The Evil Priestess hands me the dish. ‘Take some.’ Not from you, I won’t.
‘Aren’t you hungry? You should eat more. You’re much too thin. Isn’t he thin, Father?’ When the old woman speaks, she sends bits of apple spraying across the room in all directions. ‘He’s as thin as a needle.’
‘What’s wrong, Isidore?’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you like beans?’
‘Of course he does. Everyone likes beans. Go on, my dear, I ordered them for everyone.’
‘No, thank you.’ (Just leave me alone.)
‘But why not?’ The old woman is beginning to sound plaintive. ‘What do you think I’m trying to do, poison you? What’s the matter with the boy, Father?’
‘Just try some, Isidore, you’re being rude.’
I’m being rude? That’s a joke! What about her?
‘Beans are bad for clerics, Father.’
‘What?’ He frowns at me. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Pythagoras said that wits are dulled by beans. Varro said that bishops shouldn’t eat them.’
‘But you’re not a bishop!’ the old woman cries. And suddenly Aude speaks, in drawling, sarcastic tones.
‘Perhaps he’s on a fast,’ she says.
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, girl, what kind of sins would he have to fast for? He’s barely out of the egg.’ The old woman snorts, and wipes her mouth with the corner of her sleeve. ‘There’s only one sin he could have committed, and that??
?s coming out of his mother’s womb backwards.’
‘Perhaps he forgot to make a sign of the cross, when he stepped in a cowpat,’ Aude says, slyly. ‘Perhaps he ate too much roast pork, and burped when the priest was saying grace.’
‘No, no, I know what he did. He looked down one day when he was pissing, and he saw what was there!’
Yes, that’s right. Laugh away, old woman. You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face when the crusaders come. Then your joy will soon be ceased, and your dance will be turned to mourning.
‘He’s a good boy, Madame,’ the Archdeacon says mildly. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be laughed at.’
‘Why, of course he’s a good boy! It’s written all over him. That’s why his sin must be so very, very small.’ The old woman leans forward. ‘Go on, my dear, tell us why you’re fasting. What was your sin? Was it a wink? A fart? A roll on the dungheap?’
‘Whatever my sins are, they’re not as bad as yours!’ (Shouting.) ‘You’re all heretics, and you’re going to burn in hell!’
Dead silence. The old woman sucks in her bottom lip. The Archdeacon covers his eyes with his hand. Aude scowls ferociously.
‘Why do you say that, Isidore?’ It’s the Evil Priestess. Her voice is quiet. Calm. Amiable. ‘Why do you say we’re heretics?’
‘Because you are! Because you believe that marriage is a sin!’
‘But how do you know that it isn’t a sin?’ She’s talking as if I were a child. ‘How do you know that this earth isn’t Satan’s realm, and that giving birth to a child isn’t condemning a heavenly soul to a hellish imprisonment?’
‘Because it’s ridiculous!’
‘Why?’
‘Lady Guilhelme –’ the Archdeacon begins. But she lifts a hand, and continues.
‘Why is it ridiculous, Isidore? Tell me.’
‘Because – because –’ (Oh, what’s the answer?) ‘Because in the gospel of Saint John it says “the world was made by Him”. And it’s talking about God, not the Devil.’ (So there.)
‘But what if it’s referring to our souls, which are God’s, and not to our bodies?’ she objects. ‘Remember what Jesus says later, in the same gospel? ‘The prince of this world cometh, and hath nothing in me.’ Satan is the prince of this world.’
‘So?’ (You stupid woman.) ‘That doesn’t mean that Satan is our God and creator. When the scriptures say “the king of the gentiles lords it over them”, does it mean that the king is their God and creator? Of course it doesn’t.’
‘But Christ said “my kingdom is not of this world”
’ Yes he did, didn’t he? But I know that he didn’t mean – I know that he really meant – um – oh –
‘Isidore,’ the Archdeacon says.
No! Wait, I’ve got it! ‘He didn’t mean that his kingdom wasn’t over this world. He meant that it wasn’t from this world. He meant that this world didn’t give him his power.’
‘Then,’ she replies, ‘why did he say to the crowd: “Ye are of your father the Devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do”?’
Why did he? I’ve got to think. But I can’t think . . . there’s something wrong . . . a strange smell . . .
Of burning.
‘Isidore?’ The Archdeacon’s voice. ‘Isidore? What is it?’
Oh no. No! The Devil!
Help!
Chapter 5
14 July 1209
My face hurts.
It’s dark.
Where am I?
That’s a ceiling, up there, but it’s not Father Fulbert’s ceiling. It’s too high, and there are no hams. No hams, no pots, no garlic. No swallows’ nests, either. And what’s this underneath me? A pillow? Am I in bed?
Oh God. Of course.
My devil.
It came, and I must have hurt myself – I must have – I didn’t – O God, why hast thou cast me off for ever?
‘Isidore?’
That’s the Archdeacon’s voice. Where is he? It’s so dark, and this room seems so big . . . no, wait, there he is. Holding a lamp, his shadow looming behind him. He leans over the bed.
‘Isidore?’
He reaches out; touches my hand. His skin gleams in the lamplight, because he’s not wearing anything on his arms or his chest, although there’s a blanket draped over his shoulders.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he says.
Go away. Please. I don’t want to talk.
‘Was it because you wanted to leave Merioc? Is that why?’ He sits down: there must be a stool right there, beside my pillow. ‘You should have told me, Isidore. You could have fallen off your horse during one of these fits. You could have killed yourself.’
Killed myself? Who cares? The truth is, I should have died at birth. Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said: there is a man child conceived.
‘How often does it happen?’
The walls of this room are painted, but the paint is very old, and blackened by smoke. There are holes and scratches scored deep in the plaster.
‘Isidore? Look at me. How often does this happen?’
How often? Too often. Even in the dimness I can see he’s frowning, but he doesn’t seem annoyed.
‘Once a month?’ he says. ‘Once a week?’
I can only nod.
‘Once a week? You mean it happens once a week?’
‘Sometimes more.’ My voice cracks; it’s raw and ragged. I need a drink.
‘I’m thirsty . . .’
‘I’ll get you something.’
He disappears, and I can hear his footsteps fading with the light. But he’s back in an instant.
‘Here,’ he says. He has a fine glass goblet in his hand. ‘Can you hold it yourself?’
I’m not a cripple, Father. Of course I can hold it. The glass feels warm, because the wine has been mulled – and there are herbs in it, too, which leave a bitter taste. But at least it’s wet.
He’s peering at me with those big dark eyes.
‘Is this the reason you’re fasting?’ he says, very softly.
Well, of course it is. Can’t you tell? Didn’t you see? I’ve heard that I even foam at the mouth, like a mad dog. And that I twitch and growl and piss and kick and lose everything – everything – like a monster. A monster.
‘What did they tell you, Isidore? About these fits?’
‘They told me it was a devil.’
‘Taking possession of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you believe that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
Why? Why? Because of the smell, that’s why. Only the Bottomless Pit could smell so infernal.
‘It’s the smell.’ Gasping. ‘It always comes . . . just before . . .’
‘What smell?’
‘The smell of burning. Burning 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 r
emember 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 –’