Pagan's Scribe Read Online Free PDF Page B

glittering in the candlelight. Every surface seems to be enamelled or gilded or painted or carved, busy with colour, gleaming with richness. Only the floor is unadorned.
    I feel like the Queen of Sheba coming before the wealth of Solomon. There is no more spirit in me.
    ‘Who’s that?’ The colours shift as someone moves; it’s so hard to distinguish the people against the patterns. But there she is – I can see her now. An old, old woman, with a face like a sun-dried apple and a gown as scarlet as sin. ‘Who’s that?’ she squawks. ‘Is that you, Enguerrand?’
    ‘No, Madame, it is not,’ the Archdeacon replies. At the sound of his voice there’s a flurry of movement: heads turn, benches creak. I can count three faces, all of them female. The room is so abundant in candles – great bunches of them, made of beeswax – that every line, every hair, is clearly illuminated. The old woman is sitting on a kind of throne, with a back to it, as if she were a Bishop. She wears a rich veil, embroidered with gold, and many golden rings. The other woman is dressed simply, in a dark robe and veil; she has a humble, careworn face, like the virtuous woman of Solomon’s proverbs, who riseth while it is yet night and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her eyes are grey, just like those of the girl beside her – the girl who looks up, and looks away, and makes such a beautiful shape with her mouth; the girl who is as fair as a lily among thorns. Her skin is white, like the heavenly robes of the martyrs, but her hair is raven black through a net of woven silk.
    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,