Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Page A

laughing now, laughing like fools, causing such a disturbance. What a ridiculous display. What undignified behaviour. If I had a friend I wouldn’t carry on like that, no matter how long it was since I’d seen him. That sort of thing is just – it’s just killing the rich and fruitful harvest of reason with the barren thorns of passion.
    ‘Pagan! I don’t believe it –’
    ‘How are you? Are you well?’
    ‘I’m well. I’m very well.’
    ‘All the better for seeing me, eh?’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    ‘It’s been far too long. I’ve been incredibly busy.’
    ‘Pagan . . .’
    So much for Lord Roland. So much for the greatest knight in Christendom. Why, he’s just an old man! A skinny old man with grey hair and sunken cheeks and lines under his eyes. Oh, why are things never, ever as good as you imagine them to be?
    ‘Pagan!’ A tiny monk hobbles over: a monk so small that he barely reaches my elbow. He has a squashed face and a stump instead of a right hand. ‘Pagan,’ he says. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
    ‘Hello, Gaubert.’ (More hugging.) ‘Where’s Durand? Durand, you old dog! Give us a smile.’ The Archdeacon throws his arms around a fat, balding monk with a face like a bowl of oatmeal. ‘How’s your back? Still playing up?’
    ‘Pagan, you look wonderful. Wonderful.’
    ‘God, Durand, your eyes must be as bad as your back. I’m a complete mess. Bones and teeth. You’ve no idea what kind of a week I’ve had . . .’
    Look at them all, clustering around. Why do they love him so much? He’s noisy, he’s conceited, he’s disrespectful – and of course he doesn’t even bother to introduce me. Why should he bother to introduce me? I’m nothing. No one. I barely exist.
    ‘Father Pagan.’ Ah! But here’s someone who doesn’t look so happy. A stunted, middle-aged monk with an oversized head, a wrinkled brow, and pale, peering eyes. There’s a heavy gold ring on one of his fingers.
    The Abbot, perhaps?
    ‘My lord,’ says the Archdeacon, bowing. So it is the Abbot. Everyone falls silent; Lord Roland steps back a pace; the Abbot frowns, and sniffs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
    ‘What are you doing in here, Father Pagan?’ he enquires fretfully. ‘You’re disturbing the Peace of the Cloister.’
    ‘Am I?’ The Archdeacon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Oh well. Bear with me, my lord. You know what your Rule says: “Let them bear most patiently with each other’s infirmities, whether of body or manner.” Chapter seventy-two, I believe.’
    ‘You should have waited in the guest-house. I would have come to you.’ The Abbot flaps his hand at the other monks, in a gesture that looks like dismissal. Sure enough, they begin to move away. Even Durand. Even the dwarf.
    But before Lord Roland can follow them, the Archdeacon grabs his wrist.
    ‘I’d like Roland to stay,’ he says. ‘We have a lot to tell each other.’
    ‘I’m afraid Brother Roland was on his way to the infirmary.’ The Abbot sniffs again. He coughs a weak little cough. ‘My catarrh has to be treated. I’m going to need another poultice, Brother. Will you prepare one for me, please?’
    ‘Wait. Just a moment.’ The Archdeacon lifts his hand. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t we all go to the infirmary? Then you can have your poultice, and I can talk to Roland.’
    But the Abbot smiles a wintry smile.
    ‘The infirmary?’ he says. ‘Oh no, Father. There’s a sick monk in there. A feverish monk. I never set foot in the infirmary. It’s not safe. My constitution isn’t strong, as you know.’
    The Archdeacon folds his arms. He cocks his head. There’s an unpleasant sort of glitter in his eyes.
    ‘ Roland hasn’t come to any harm,’ he says, in a steely voice. ‘Brother Roland is as strong as an ox. Nothing affects him. That’s why he’s our Infirmarian.’
    ‘Really? Is that so? And I thought it had something to do with his skill.’
    ‘Oh, he’s skilful enough, I suppose. Although that oil you gave me,