Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks

salutes her, and presses on. He seems to have a great many friends. Does everyone know him?
    ‘Does everyone know you, in Carcassonne?’
    ‘Not everyone. This isn’t my quarter.’
    ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘South.’ He waves his hand. ‘Near the cathedral.’
    ‘Do you have your own house?’
    ‘I do, yes.’
    ‘Is it nice?’
    ‘You’ll see.’ He smiles at me over his shoulder. ‘I’ll take you there after we’ve visited the Viscount.’ Suddenly he sneezes, very loudly, five times in a row. ‘I usually don’t come through here,’ he says, mopping his face. ‘All this wool . . . it bothers me.’
    ‘Pagan!’
    The Archdeacon jumps like a mouse that’s been trapped in a corn-bin. He turns, looking back towards the cross street behind us: there’s a man stepping out of the shadows, a grey-haired man, magnificently dressed. A lord, perhaps? He has gold on his sword-belt; gold on his fingers; gold on the brooch that’s holding his cape across his chest. Even his tunic is embroidered with gold.
    He looks familiar, somehow.
    ‘Pagan,’ he says, in a low, lazy drawl. ‘What a wonderful surprise. I thought you were off wooing heretics – at least that’s what your Bishop told me.’
    ‘I was.’
    ‘And now you’ve had enough?’
    ‘I was summoned.’
    ‘Ah.’
    What a very tall man he is. Tall and heavy. And there’s something about his face – his long nose – his blue eyes –
    Oh, of course! Of course. He could be Lord Roland’s twin. Except that Lord Roland’s face is thinner, and he doesn’t have a beard.
    ‘Who’s this?’ Lord Roland’s twin looks down his nose at me. ‘What happened to Julien?’
    ‘Julien was ill,’ the Archdeacon replies. ‘I had to leave him.’
    ‘And this?’
    The Archdeacon hesitates. He seems oddly subdued: I’ve never seen him like this before. So abrupt. So wary.
    ‘This is Isidore,’ he says at last. ‘Isidore, make your bow to Lord Jordan Roucy de Bram. He is Roland’s elder brother.’
    I knew it! I knew he had to be something like that. How fine he looks in those beautiful garments. How well he carries himself, for a man so full of days.
    ‘That’s an impressive head of hair you’ve got, Isidore,’ he says amiably. ‘Hot enough to start a fire. Where did you pick that up?’
    ‘Isidore’s parents were foreigners,’ the Archdeacon rejoins, before I can even open my mouth. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, my lord, I’ve been summoned by the Viscount. He wants to speak with me urgently.’
    ‘Does he? How fortunate. It just so happens that I’m heading that way myself. We can walk together.’ Lord Jordan swings around, and lets loose an ear-splitting whistle. ‘ Guichard ! Move it ! Sniffing after skirts again, I’ll warrant you. Guichard ! He can take your horses.’
    Guichard saunters into the sunlight, a young man with a long neck and cheeks pitted with scars. He has lank hair and wet green eyes, and he’s chewing something.
    ‘Guichard is my squire,’ Lord Jordan remarks, looking down at the Archdeacon. ‘I don’t think you’ve met him. He’s the youngest son of Aimery-Olivier de Saissac.’
    ‘What happened to Anseric?’
    ‘Oh, Anseric. We didn’t suit.’ Lord Jordan smiles, displaying teeth like claws. ‘Guichard, you can take the Archdeacon’s horses back to his place. It’s right next to Saint-Nazaire – the house with the painted cross above the window. I’ll meet you there later.’
    Guichard doesn’t say anything. He simply plucks the reins from my hand and approaches the Archdeacon, who gives him a big, bright, sympathetic smile. ‘I know your father, Guichard,’ he says, whereupon Guichard removes a half-chewed lump of vegetable matter from his mouth.
    ‘My commiserations,’ he replies hoarsely, and tucks the lump back into his cheek.
    What a rude fellow.
    ‘That’s what I like about Guichard,’ Lord Jordan says, watching his squire slouch away with the horses. ‘We both have exactly the same