Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Page B

Brother – it doesn’t seem to be working at all. I told you I should have been bled. If in doubt, bleed. That’s my philosophy . . .’
    It’s so strange, how the face can speak without words. Just as heavenly vials full of odours are the prayers of the saints, so the shifting of shadows is the language of a man’s countenance. I can look at the Archdeacon’s forehead, and his jaw, and the corners of his eyes, and I can see at once that he’s angry – very angry. His face speaks silently, like a book. What a clever creation it is! What a miracle of craftsmanship! I will praise thee, O Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works, and –
    Wait. Wait a moment. What’s that smell?
    ‘Isidore?’
    It’s the Archdeacon. His eyes are so big – his voice sounds so faint –
    ‘Isidore? What’s the matter?’
    No. Oh no.
    Help me !

Chapter 10
16 July 1209
    I can smell something strange. What is it? Some kind of herb, filling the air like incense . . . and another smell, too. The smell of clean linen. A good, safe, peaceful smell.
    Wait a moment. What am I doing, lying in bed? I don’t remember – I can’t seem to –
    Oh God. Oh God, it happened again. It came again !
    ‘Isidore?’
    That’s not the Archdeacon. Who is it? Where am I? A small room, lit by two lamps resting on shelves set into the wall. Another bed, a saddlebag, a stool . . .
    Lord Roland.
    ‘Isidore?’ He’s sitting there with his hands in his lap. Just sitting there. ‘How are you feeling?’ he murmurs.
    How am I feeling? How am I feeling ? I am in distress, Lord Roland, that’s how I’m feeling. My bowels are troubled and my heart is turned within me.
    ‘You chipped a tooth when you fell,’ he remarks, in his deep, quiet voice. ‘You seem to have bruised your head quite badly. But by God’s grace you haven’t broken anything.’
    God’s grace! That’s a good one. Oh, how long wilt thou forget me, Lord? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
    ‘I’ve put you in the guest-house,’ he continues. ‘I thought you’d sleep better here than you would in the infirmary. Brother Bernard is feverish, and makes a lot of noise at night.’ He seems so calm. So tranquil. ‘Pagan will be here soon. Right now he’s with the Abbot.’
    Oh God. The Archdeacon. He was there, and he saw me. I’ve thrown away my only chance. I’ve ruined everything ! O my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not.
    ‘Would you like something to eat, Isidore?’ Lord Roland rises, and comes over to the bed. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
    Go away. Don’t look at me. You don’t want to look at me. Now that you’ve seen my devil – my accursed, ugly devil – I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls; my flesh is clothed with worms, and clods of dust.
    ‘What’s the matter? Are you in pain?’ he asks. But I can’t talk, or I’ll cry. And I mustn’t cry, not in front of him.
    Not in front of anyone.
    He’s hovering there, gazing down his long, straight nose (the Archdeacon was right: it is a long nose), his face solemn and craggy, his eyelids sagging under the weight of some everlasting fatigue. He says: ‘I’m glad you’re with Pagan.’
    What?
    ‘I’m glad that you decided to join him. He doesn’t respect many people, but he respects you.’
    ‘ Me? ’ It comes out as a croak. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Lord Roland nods, and chases a fly from my blanket.
    ‘Oh yes. He’s spoken about you with some admiration.’
    That’s not true. That can’t be true. You’re making it up.
    ‘He says you’re like a pearl of great price. Like a treasure hid in the field. He says that you’re like the lost sheep found in the wilderness, and that he rejoiceth more in that one sheep than in the ninety and nine which went not astray.’
    He – he does?
    ‘It’s because you’re so clever,’ Lord Roland adds, returning to his seat. He doesn’t move like a monk: he moves with a kind of