Free Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Page B

Saint Martin’s tomorrow.’
    ‘Saint Martin’s? I thought –’
    ‘We’ll stop at Saint Martin’s first, and then Carcassonne. I never return to Carcassonne without visiting Roland.’ He slaps me on the back. ‘So you’ll be able to ask him all about the Templars and Saladin and swordplay and falling in love and everything else that interests you.’
    ‘I’m not interested in falling in love.’ (Thank you very much.) ‘I’ve taken orders.’
    ‘Ah. But orders never stopped me. Didn’t I tell you that Cathar women love priests?’ He flashes his jauntiest grin, and rises from the bed. ‘Come along, now, it’s time for dinner. We don’t want to miss any of Ermessende’s cooking. Her seasoned pork is the closest thing we have, down here, to the glory of the incorruptible God.’
    By the blood of the Lamb! Has this man no shame? That’s the most blasphemous thing I’ve ever heard.
    ‘Oh.’ He stops, suddenly, on his way out the door, and turns to address me. ‘By the way, Isidore, I thought I’d better remind you: that long, flexible thing under your nose, down there, is specially designed for smiling. So please make use of it when the Sisters serve you up the most delectable meal you’ll ever have the honour of shovelling into your mouth. Otherwise . . .’ He pauses. ‘Otherwise, I’m going to be very displeased.
    ‘And you don’t want to know what I’m like when I lose my temper.’

Chapter 9
16 July 1209
    ‘C heer up, Isidore. Look! We’re nearly there.’
    Praise God in his sanctuary. Let us go into the house of the Lord: our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Saint Martin’s.
    ‘I could do with a cup of spiced mead,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘They do a wonderful spiced mead in this abbey.’ He gazes down the road towards the big stone gate-house, with its yawning archway and crenellated towers. Beyond it, a jumble of shingled roofs rears up against the sunset. The walls are very high, and well maintained. ‘You’ll like it here,’ he adds. ‘It’s small and peaceful, and they have an excellent library.’
    Oh good. ‘Do they have Saint Augustine’s Confessions ?’
    The Archdeacon smiles. ‘I’d be most surprised if they didn’t,’ he says. ‘Poor old Isidore. I’m sorry I had to drag you away from your precious book. But I couldn’t wait around Prouille until you’d finished it.’
    If you hadn’t sent me to bed so early, last night, I probably would have finished it. I’m swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, when I get my teeth into a good book. But of course no one ever listens to me.
    ‘That looks like Beraldus,’ the Archdeacon suddenly remarks, and raises his hand. ‘ Oi ! Beraldus ! I think I’ll let him take our horses.’
    ‘Father Pagan!’ A monk emerges from the shadows of the gate-house. He has a hare lip and an odd, misshapen face, as if someone has cut it in half and then stuck it back together again, without quite aligning the two pieces. ‘Father Pagan! Deo gratias. Ave. ’
    ‘ Frater Beraldus. Felix sum et placet . . . ’
    ‘ Ave. Avete. ’ The monk turns to me. ‘ Ave , Frater. ’
    All this Latin. My brain’s turned to mush from so much jolting and bumping. I can’t think of the word for ‘honour’.
    ‘Come on, Isidore, you can get off now.’ The Archdeacon climbs down from his saddle, wincing slightly. He turns to Brother Beraldus. ‘ Mihi placeat ut meum caballum deduceres , Frater. ’
    Brother Beraldus nods, and obediently takes the Archdeacon’s horse. Ah! Ouch! My bones are as the dust of the wilderness; my liver is poured upon the earth.
    ‘Can you manage, Isidore?’ The Archdeacon sounds worried. ‘Do you need some help?’
    ‘No thank you.’ I can get down by myself. But he’s hovering there, near the stirrup, and he slips his arm around my waist. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Just lean on me. It isn’t far to the guest-house. You’ll be fine in a moment.’
    ‘ Fratres Deum adorant , Pater ,’ Brother Beraldus