Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks Page A

feelings about his father.’
    ‘Hmm.’ The Archdeacon doesn’t sound impressed. He turns and begins to walk up the road, muffling another sneeze against his wrist. There are shreds of white wool clinging to the skirts of his robe.
    ‘I also like Guichard because he knows how to keep his mouth shut,’ Lord Jordan continues, striding along beside the Archdeacon. ‘Anseric was incapable of realising that his comments were of absolutely no interest or value to anyone. It’s a common fault. What’s the matter, Pagan? Are you sick?’
    ‘It’s the wool.’
    ‘Ah. The wool.’ Lord Jordan glances around. ‘And what about you, Isidore? How do you like working for Pagan?’
    ‘You leave Isidore alone!’ the Archdeacon snaps. ‘What are you doing in Carcassonne, anyway? Why aren’t you in Bram? Don’t you normally ride around pestering your neighbours at this time of year?’
    Lord Jordan laughs. ‘Oh, my son takes care of all that,’ he says. ‘My son has a natural talent for pestering our neighbours. I prefer the fleshpots of Carcassonne, myself.’
    ‘Did the Viscount summon you?’
    ‘The Viscount never summons me, Pagan.’ Lord Jordan’s voice is very calm and pleasant. ‘He requests the pleasure of my company, at my own convenience. I’ve always found him a perspicacious young man. We get along quite well.’
    How odd they look, from behind: the Archdeacon, so small and black, his movements as quick and sharp as a bird’s; Lord Jordan, so tall and colourful in his blue cape and his crimson robe, all heavy and loose, and taking one step for every two of the Archdeacon’s. He’s like a peacock next to the Archdeacon’s swallow.
    ‘I hear about you everywhere, Pagan. You seem to be omnipresent.’
    ‘I get around.’
    ‘Not to Bram, though. Why don’t you ever visit Bram? Anyone would think you were avoiding me.’
    ‘I saw Roland yesterday. He seems well.’
    ‘Roland? Oh, Roland. Still alive, is he?’
    ‘Yes he is. Why? Have you been trying to kill him?’
    ‘My dear Pagan, what are you talking about?’
    ‘Bit of a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Fratricide?’
    ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It would be a dull old world if we had to confine ourselves to killing our relatives. No, I prefer to describe my hobby as wholesale carnage. Much more interesting.’
    ‘Ha ha ha.’
    The road has widened, and there’s a new smell in the air: the smell of freshly baked bread. Lord God of my salvation, does that smell good! And there are the ovens – over there beneath that roof, with heaps of fuel and sacks of corn, and clusters of people carrying wicker baskets.
    Ahead, through thick clouds of woodsmoke, you can see a fortress rising against the sky.
    ‘Don’t dawdle, Isidore.’ The Archdeacon has stopped: he’s waiting for me, up ahead. ‘You’ll get lost if you do.’
    ‘He’s hungry,’ Lord Jordan observes. ‘He wants some bread. Don’t you feed him?’
    ‘Of course I feed him!’
    ‘He looks half-starved.’
    ‘Will you mind your own business ?’
    ‘What a temper he has.’ Lord Jordan places a hand on my shoulder. ‘How do you cope with it, Isidore? Is he as rude to you as he is to me?’
    ‘Leave the poor child alone.’
    ‘You wouldn’t think, would you, that he used to be a lowly squire? Someone who cleaned the shoes, and shovelled the shit? He would never have dared talk to me like this, when he was young.’
    Ouch! The Archdeacon grabs my arm – pulls me away – but Lord Jordan follows us, still talking.
    ‘. . . He hardly opened his mouth, most of the time, but of course he didn’t approve of me. It was written all over him, whenever I tried to be friendly. I blame Roland, myself – we were never on good terms . . .’
    The Archdeacon quickens his pace, and I can see the castle more clearly now: a stack of towers and roofs and ramparts and huge, greyish walls, like a city within a city. How rich the Viscount must be, to have built such a fortress! He must have heaped