Pagan's Vows (13 page)

It’s all right, Father, don’t look at me like that. I’m here to collect Boethius. Pausing to bow, on my way to the kitchen. Feeling his eyes on my back as I cross the threshold.

Rostand the cook is chopping up carrots.

‘Yes?’ he mutters, peering through the steam. ‘What do you want?’

‘I left my book.’

‘Your what?’

‘I was here before. With the novices.’ (Remember? That huddle of pasty mutes, left in one corner to watch the beans 116 soak while Clement was in chapter with the rest of the monks? You must remember. One of them was so excited, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.) ‘I put my book behind that hand-screen, so it wouldn’t get splashed. But I forgot it.’

Pointing at the folded hand-screen propped up against the northern wall. Rostand grunts, and returns to his vegetables. He looks rather like a peeled vegetable himself: moist, sticky, with raw features that seem to have been hacked out of his face with a blunt kitchen knife. His big hairy paws are covered in flour.

‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Go and get it. But don’t you touch those chestnuts, or I’ll skin you alive.’

Don’t worry. It’s not the chestnuts I’m after. Slipping past his sweat-soaked back, kicking my way through the vegetable peelings. Lingering by the fireplace, where something is simmering over a pile of red-hot embers. Soup, is it? Smells like dirty socks.

And there, on the hearthstone – a piece of charcoal, long and straight and perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.

‘What’s this in here?’ (Stooping, as if to sniff at the pungent fumes. Down – down – got it!) ‘Is it for supper?’ ‘Leave that stuff alone. That belongs to Father Elias.’

‘It smells like somebody died.’

‘
You’ll
be dead if you don’t get out.’ Waving his knife at me. ‘Go on! Hop it! Before I call Father Clement.’

All right, all right, you don’t have to shout. Boethius is still lurking where I left him, behind the hand-screen. Doesn’t seem to have suffered any ill-effects. Pick him up; dust him off; head for the door. The outside door. Let’s hope that Rostand doesn’t ask me where I’m going.

But he’s much too busy with his carrots to worry about anything else.

Out into the pale watery light. An overcast day, all damp wind and puddles. Here comes the hard bit. Can I make it to Saurimunda’s hole without attracting attention? I can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being watched. From the almonry, or the infirmary, or the orchard . . .

Well, it’s no good trying to stay hidden. There’s nothing to hide behind. I’ll just have to pretend I’ve got Clement’s permission to be here. Back straight. Head up. Sauntering along without a care in the world. Who, me? Making trouble? Never. Father Clement told me to go for a little walk. Just to clear my head. I’ve been studying very hard, you know.

Past the pig-sty. Through a strawberry patch. Skirting empty furrows, where the carrots used to be. Somebody’s left a basket out in the rain. (There’s going to be trouble, when Montazin finds out.) The sound of pigs grunting.

Come on, Pagan, nearly there.

Now, where’s this hole, exactly? I don’t want to spend too much time wandering up and down looking for it. There were bushes, I remember. Spiky bushes. And we went up a slight hill

Over here, perhaps?

This looks promising. Yes! Look here! Footprints in the mud. My footprints, or Saurimunda’s? And here’s the pile of rubble, all grassy and overgown. This is perfect. If I duck behind this bush, no one will see me from the abbey.

Squatting down, with my back to the wall; opening Boethius. Last page . . . last page . . . here it is. All blank and smooth. Now, where’s that charcoal?

Lady Beatrice.
(Ugh! How I hate writing with charcoal.)
The coin yo hay been gived is not of yor own. It belong to S Martin.
Tak no more coin
,
or the abbott will beer of yor sinne and the sinne
of your cosin Montasin. Be Ware.

Hmm. I’m not quite sure about some of that spelling. Maybe I should have done it in Latin. But what if she can’t read Latin?

What if she can’t even read?

Never mind. She’s bound to have a chaplain who can read it for her. A chaplain or a notary, or an educated friend. Now, the next problem is tearing this page out. If only it wasn’t such tough vellum. (I don’t want to smudge the charcoal.) Let’s see if I can do it gently. Gently . . . gently . . .

R-r-r-i-i-ip!

Oh Lord. I knew that would happen. Most of the ‘Ware’ gone. Still, it could be worse. I’ll just squeeze it in again down the bottom. That’s it.
Be Ware.
Perfect.

Folding the vellum carefully, so that it doesn’t smudge. Placing it between two stones. Please God, don’t let it rain before Saurimunda comes. Standing up, slowly, with my arms full of Boethius. No one seems to be around . . . oh yes . . . there’s someone. It looks like Roquefire, emerging from the kitchen. Off to feed the pigs. Should I move now, or should I wait? Move, probably. While he’s emptying his buckets. Head for the presbytery door: it’s always open in the daytime, and there’s never anyone in church, at this hour. Except for Bernard the White.

Strolling casually across a stretch of grass and gravel. Feeling very exposed. If only I could run! But that would be a mistake. No one runs in a monastery. Running is the surest way of attracting attention. I just have to be calm and 119 relaxed. And humble. Remember you’re a monk, Pagan. Remember the twelfth step of humility: ‘Always let him, with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground, bethink himself of his sins and imagine that he is arraigned before the Dread Judgement of God’. Either that, or the Dread Judgement of Father Clement. If Clement ever finds out what I’ve done to the back of this book, he’ll slice me into very small pieces and nail every piece to the dormitory wall.

Over the threshold; into the church. Nearly there, now. Shuffling past the sacristy, the abbot’s chair, the altar. (Stop; bow; genuflect.) Turn left, and through the cloister door. Gerard’s working at the book-presses: he gives me a suspicious glance. Go boil your bladder, Gerard. A low buzz of voices from the gathering of monks by the latrines. What’s happened now? Something pretty exciting, by the look of it. Maybe Sicard’s got rid of that wart at long last. Or perhaps Bernard Magnus is constipated. I can’t wait to find out.

Plunging into the dimness of the corridor and

Bang!

Straight into Clement.

‘Where have you been?’ he snarls.

‘I went to the kitchen –’

‘I was just in the kitchen, and you weren’t there!’

‘No, Master. Neither was Boethius. I must have left the book in church, after our last office.’

Nice footwork, Pagan. Very nimble. He squints at me, in a threatening way, and his knuckles turn white as he squeezes the top of his stick.

‘Are you lying to me, Pagan?’

‘No, Master.’

‘Because if you are, you’ll suffer for it. Remember what I told you about lying. I told you that lying is an abomination to the Lord.’

Yes, you did tell me that. But you also told me that it’s a readily believable argument. Which tends to be the way I look at it myself.

‘Yes, Master.’

‘And the Lord is terrible in his punishments, Pagan.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘So will you tell the truth and repent, or lie and suffer the Lord’s punishment?’

It’s no good, Clement. You’ll have to do better than that. Meeting his gaze and returning it, unflinchingly. Chin up. Wide-eyed. Ingenuous.

‘Master, I have been telling the truth.’

Whoops! Is he going to hit me? No, I’m safe. He turns on his heel, and shuffles back down the corridor.

‘Come on!’ he barks. ‘Get moving! We’ve wasted enough time already, through your carelessness!’

Not what you’d call a graceful loser.

As for me, I suppose I’ll just have to wait. Wait and watch, and pray that it keeps fine until tomorrow morning. Because I’m certainly not doing this again.

Chapter 16

‘R
oquefire! Roquefire!’

Who –? What –? What’s going on? What’s all the noise? Thumping and screaming . . .

‘Roquefire, come back! Don’t leave me!’

That sounds like Saurimunda. I don’t understand. Is it a nightmare? Am I still asleep? Turning over; sitting up. It
is
Saurimunda! Clearly visible in the soft glow of the nightlight, sobbing and screaming and banging at the door.

God preserve us.

‘Silence!’ It’s Clement. He’s on his feet, and so is Roland. They’re both hovering, unsure of what to do. Clement waves his stick at her. ‘Silence! I command you to be silent!’

Suddenly the door bursts open. Saurimunda is pushed back, and hits the ground with a thud as Montazin appears on the threshold.

He’s fully dressed, with a lamp in his hand. Tall. Majestic. Forbidding. Don’t tell me he’s on circator duty.

‘What’s going on?’ he cries. ‘Who is this woman?’

No response. Saurimunda’s whimpering, her face shiny and wet. This is insane. What’s happening here? Why couldn’t she get the door open? Was someone holding it from the outside? I don’t understand . . .

‘Who admitted this woman?’ Montazin takes a step forward. He points at Roland. ‘You? Did you admit her?’ Roland shakes his head.

‘What about you?’ This time Montazin points at Gaubert, who nearly hits the roof.

‘Me?’ he squeaks. (It’s almost laughable.)

Saurimunda makes a dash for the door, but Montazin is too quick for her.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ He grabs her wrist, and pulls it so hard that she yelps. She also drops something. Montazin picks it up.

It’s a leather housewife.

‘I didn’t steal it!’ she moans. ‘Roquefire gave it to me –’
Thwack!
He chops her across the face. All right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of you, you bastard.

‘Stop that! Keep your hands to yourself?’

Everyone turns and stares. Uh-oh. Now I’m really in trouble.

Clement makes signs at me.
Where–your–housewife?
Trust him to follow the Rule. Even in this moment of crisis, he remembers that we’re not supposed to be talking. He flaps a hand at Bernard, who struggles with the chest under my bed. Drags it out. Throws open the lid. Rummages among the spare socks and shirts.

No housewife, of course. Doesn’t surprise me. This whole thing is beginning to smell like a set-up.

‘I swear, Master, I haven’t touched my housewife since last Tues –’

Clement strikes the floor with his stick. He puts his finger to his lips, and draws it up and down.
Silence!

Montazin tosses the housewife onto my bed.

Oh yes, it’s mine, all right. Somebody must have got in here and stolen it when I wasn’t around. Montazin? Roque-fire? Those scumbags. Those festering maggots. Clement reaches over and picks it up. Examines it. Drops it. And suddenly stiffens, like a hunting dog on a stag’s scent.

There’s something else tangled in the covers: something bright and pretty.

A red petticoat.

Hold on, this is insane. It’s unbelievable. ‘Master, it’s a trick! Can’t you see what’s happening? Someone’s playing a trick on me!’

Clement jerks his finger again.
Silence!
Oh no. Not yet, old man. Not until I’ve had my say.

‘No! I won’t be silent! Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to bring a woman in here? Into this dormitory? Into this bed? You must be out of your minds!’ Peeling Clement’s hand off my mouth, as he tries to gag me. ‘This is Roquefire’s doing! He must have brought her in! Ask her! Ask her who brought her here! It was Roquefire, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ A shrill, frightened squeak. She’s seen me, now. There’s hope on her face. ‘It was Roquefire. He said he wanted to show me something. Then he pushed me in here and shut the door –’

Thwack!
Another of Montazin’s blows, this time across her ear. You bastard. You evil bastard. I’m going to kill you, Montazin.

‘Naturally this wicked novice would blame Roquefire,’ he spits. ‘Just to save his own skin. He is a liar, as well as a fornicator.’

‘But didn’t you hear what she said?’ Appealing to Clement, whose expression is a mixture of doubt and disgust. Please, Clement, please, where’s your intelligence? ‘She just
said
it was Roquefire! She said so herself!’

‘She?
She?
Are we to believe this harlot?’ Montazin sneers, as Saurimunda writhes in his grasp. ‘If it was Roquefire’s doing, then where is he? I didn’t see anyone.’

‘That’s because you sent him!’ Slapping Clement’s hand away again. ‘That’s because you planned all this! Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I’m a fool? You panicked, because of that letter I wrote –’

‘Silence!’ Montazin’s losing his self-control. The veins stand out like ropes in his neck. ‘Insolent Turk! How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘Master, please . . .’ (Listen, Clement, I’m begging you.) ‘Why do you think she couldn’t get the door open? Because someone was holding it shut from outside! This is all a trick, to get me expelled. Because I know things about the cellarer –’

‘
Yeowch!
’

It’s Montazin’s voice; Saurimunda’s teeth are buried in his hand. He drops her wrist, and she bolts like a hare.

‘Ow – ah – owch . . .’