Free Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks

can’t believe this is you,’ he remarks. ‘I can’t believe I’m listening to Isidore. When you’re talking about books, Isidore, it’s as if you’re another person.’ Pause. ‘A happier person.’
    Well of course I’m happier. What’s that got to do with anything? He crosses the floor, and sits down beside me on the bed: his breath smells of wine and garlic.
    ‘I don’t know if you realise this,’ he adds, in a low voice, ‘but you’ve got a terribly forbidding manner, for someone so young. Half the time you look like a fifty-year-old bishop. A fifty-year-old bishop with dyspepsia. You have to learn to be less icy. Less aloof. Especially with women.’
    Oh, please !
    ‘Yes, yes, I know what they say about women. But women are important, Isidore. Believe me. They have a lot of influence in this world.’ He waves a hand. ‘Why, just look at Dominic! He’s only able to stay here because he has the support of some wealthy women. Now, I know you’re probably frightened of them –’
    ‘I am not!’
    ‘Oh yes you are. Why shouldn’t you be? You’ve been brought up by celibates, and most celibates are terrified of women –’
    ‘Well at least they don’t flirt with them!’
    That’s stopped him. He draws back, startled, and lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t look too pleased.
    ‘Flirt with them? Who flirts with them? I hope you’re not referring to me , Isidore.’
    Then you hope in vain.
    ‘I don’t flirt , my friend. What you witnessed today was diplomacy. I was being diplomatic.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘It’s a skill that you’ll need to develop, if you want to get along in the world.’
    Oh, go away, will you? I’m reading. Why should I waste time talking to a bunch of women, when I can learn so much from Saint Augustine? Let’s see, now. Alypius . . . Nebridius . . . Ambrose . . .
    He’s staring again.
    ‘Why are you always staring? Don’t you know it’s impolite?’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ He looks away. ‘I know what it’s like to be stared at.’
    Yes, I’m sure you do. The way you carry on.
    ‘But in my defence, Isidore, you must remember that I can’t see very well – and that you rarely open your mouth. So if I want to know what you’re thinking, I can only do it by watching your face.’ He scratches his cheek, and smiles. ‘You’re very like Roland, in that respect. My friend Roland. He would never tell me what he was thinking, either.’ A bright, black, sidelong glance. ‘In fact you remind me of Roland in many ways. He has a long nose, too, though it’s not quite as beaky as yours. But he tends to look down it in just the same fashion – as if a slug had crawled onto his shoe.’
    What are you talking about? I don’t look like that, do I?
    ‘Of course, he’s not as educated as you are. In fact he can’t even read. Twenty years in a monastery, and he still can’t read. It makes you wonder . . .’
    ‘But I thought you said he was a knight? How can he be a knight, if he’s in a monastery?’
    The Archdeacon throws me another piercing look, as sharp as the tongue of a serpent. ‘So you remember,’ he says softly. ‘Yes, Roland was a knight. The greatest knight of all. He left his home when he was just nineteen years old, and went off to the Holy Land. He wanted to fight for God, and find salvation. That’s why he joined the knights of the Temple. He wanted to become a Monk of War – to protect Christians and fight unbelievers.’
    The knights of the Temple! But that means – that must mean –
    ‘Then you were a Templar!’ (I don’t believe it.) ‘You were his squire, so you must have been a Templar!’
    ‘Yes. I was a Templar squire. I fought beside him all through the siege of Jerusalem, and when the city surrendered, I was there when he offered to sacrifice himself for the sake of others.’ The Archdeacon stares off into space, his eyes misty. ‘He wouldn’t let the Order pay his ransom, because the same ransom would have freed fifty children. He