Pagan's Vows (17 page)
I thought he’d never go.
‘Pssst! Amiel!’ Throwing off my blankets. ‘Are you very 157 sick? Are you going to need me? No – wait – don’t answer that. You’re not supposed to talk.’
Pulling my boots on; moving across to his bed. He gives me a puzzled look, but doesn’t have the breath to make an inquiry. Just wheezes away like a pair of bellows with a hole in them.
‘The thing is, Amiel, there’s something I have to do, and I don’t want anyone to know I’m doing it. So I’m going to do it now, while everyone’s at Mass.’ God, will you look at him? Poor little beggar. Straining so hard that there’s sweat on his forehead. How can I leave him like this? ‘But if you’d prefer me to stay, I will. Just nod, don’t talk. Do you want me to stay?’
He shakes his head, sluggishly. Gropes for my sleeve with one shrivelled, bluish hand. ‘Wha’?’ he mutters. ‘Wha’re you doing?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Don’t talk.’
‘. . . Trouble?’
‘No, there won’t be any trouble. It’s all right. If Father Elias comes back, you can tell him I was feeling better. Tell him that the medicine made me better, and I’ve gone back to church. Can you do that?’
Amiel nods. Good man, Amiel. You’re a true friend. ‘Thanks for this, I won’t forget it. And I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful. I wish there was something I could do to help.’ Patting his arm, and he smiles at me. ‘We’re all praying like mad, of course, so maybe things will improve. Let’s hope so, anyway.’
He nods again, and has a mild coughing fit. But he won’t let me hang around; just pushes me away when I try to pass him the water. Go on! Get going! Falls back exhausted as I back out of the room.
God preserve us, I hope he’ll be all right. I wouldn’t have left him if this errand wasn’t so urgent. Scuttling down the stairs and into the almonry, where the old men are huddled around a few miserable, dying embers in the fireplace. (They don’t even spare me a glance.) Out the back door, into the drizzle. Turn right and right again, around the long way, to avoid the cloisters; it’ll be safer if I do it like that. Slipping past the almonry, outside the herb-garden wall. Pulling my cowl down over my face. Splashing through puddles, and through the clouds of steam pouring out of my nose. God, but it’s cold! Smoke drifting up from half a dozen chimneys in the abbey compound: from the almonry, the infirmary, the guest-house, the bakery, the kitchen. Not a soul in sight.
I’ve never been in the guest-house, before. I know where the entrance is, but I don’t know what to expect. The big carved door opens easily, on oiled hinges; there’s a dim room beyond it, with torches and tables and a chest in one corner. A faint smell of whitewash mingles with the stronger scent of boiled cabbage. Everything looks clean and tidy.
Now then, where are these guests’ rooms? They must be off to the right, I suppose. Through that little archway and . . . yes, here they are. Eight identical doors, opening onto a long, painted passage. Scenes from the life of Saint Martin, squeezed between the windows in the western wall: the birth of Saint Martin; Saint Martin divides his cloak with the beggar; Saint Martin founds the first Frankish monastery. (Is that a three-legged beggar, or a beggar with an oddly shaped crutch?) On the left, above the doors, are depicted the various martyrdoms of somebody – Saint George, perhaps? – who’s being impaled and boiled and 159 disembowelled, and who finally has his head chopped off.
The door underneath the beheading is slightly ajar.
‘Hello?’ Peering around it, cautiously. ‘Is anybody there?’
Whoops! There’s somebody there, all right, but I don’t think it’s the somebody I want. Tall and well built, with a stately grey beard, an embroidered tunic and . . . ah yes. And Raymond’s turned-up nose.
‘I’m sorry, my lord.’ (Retreating a little, as he whips around to glare at me.) ‘Are you Lord Bertrand?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Pardon, my lord, I’m looking for someone else.’
Lucky Raymond. No wonder he’s so proud of his father.
I’d
be proud of a father like that. Withdrawing apologetically, as he returns to his interrupted dressing. Let’s just hope that his neighbour hasn’t left, yet.
Knock-knock-knock.
My hand is shaking so much, it’s hard to deliver the kind of authoritative rap on the door that announces a man of confidence. Come on, Pagan, you can do it. Stand up straight! Take a deep breath! Don’t be such a miserable coward! This will only work if you get a grip on yourself.
‘Come in!’
A muffled voice, low and harsh. Same accent as Aeldred’s. Pushing open the door, and there he is: squat, blond, hairy, with blunt features and no neck.
Doesn’t look at all like the almoner.
‘What is it?’ he inquires.
‘Are you Father Aeldred’s cousin?’
‘Yes.’ He squints at me, frowning. ‘I’m Centule. Who are you?’
All right, Pagan. This is it. Nice and casual . . .
‘I was looking at your horse. It’s a nice horse. Did you get it with the almoner’s money?’
Whew! That’s done it. He looks as if he’s been whacked over the ear with a lead pipe.
‘
What
?’ he exclaims.
‘Shh!’ Closing the door behind me. ‘Not so loud. If you raise your voice, you can be heard in the next room.’
‘What is this?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell. It’ll be our little secret: yours, mine, and the almoner’s.’
‘Get out!’ (He’s beginning to sweat, already.) ‘Get out of here!’
‘You mean you want me to go to the abbot, and tell him what I heard? Because I will, you know.’
‘What – what you heard?’
Ha! That’s done it. He sits down abruptly, on the unmade bed, as if his knees have given way. He might look tough on the outside, but his guts are made of wet feathers.
‘What do you mean?’ he says.
‘I was in the next room. I heard you shouting – you and the almoner. The walls are quite thin.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ he says, trying to assume a carefree tone. ‘Get along with you, boy. I’m too busy for these silly games.’
‘The abbot won’t think it’s a game. Not if I tell him. The abbot will expel the almoner, and then you won’t get your money any more.’
Watching him closely, as his eyes go blank. I’m taking a big risk, here. A real leap in the dark. Who knows what this money business is all about? It might be quite harmless. It might be a legitimate debt.
On the other hand, it might not be
‘What do you want?’ he says, in a harsh voice . . . and suddenly it hits me.
I’ve pulled it off. I’ve won. I set the trap, and he fell straight in.
This is unbelievable.
‘I’ll tell you what I want, Master Centule. I want you to tell me the whole story, from beginning to end.’ (Arranging my words with care, to conceal the fact that I don’t even know where the story starts, let alone where it finishes.) ‘I want to know every detail.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s worth money!’ Trying to sound impatient. Oh, it’s like spearing fish in a barrel; I can’t believe I was ever nervous about this. ‘If the almoner pays
you
, then he’ll certainly pay me. Just to keep the abbot from finding out about this whole shady business.’
A thoughtful grunt, but he still seems uncertain. Time to take the biggest gamble of all. Please, God, please – don’t let him call my bluff.
‘And then, of course, there’s Father Montazin . . .’
‘Oh all right, all right, I’ll tell you!’ He wipes the sweat from his brow with short, stubby fingers. ‘I’ll tell you, and then you can get out. What do you want to know?’
What do I want to know? Good question. ‘Let’s start with you. Are you and Aeldred really related?’
A snort.
‘To that worm? Not likely.’
‘So you met –’
‘We met at Voutenay-sur-Cure. We were both monks 162 there. He was the child-master, which is how he managed to molest all those boys.’
Sweet saints preserve us. You mean – you mean –
‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ he continues, ‘not until the last boy reported him. And then of course he disappeared; escaped in the night, before they could pass sentence. No one knew where he’d gone, until I happened to turn up here.’ A sly smirk becomes visible through the undergrowth on his chin. ‘It was the hand of God, I believe.’
‘How did you end up here, though?’
‘Oh, I was looking for help.’ Another unsavoury smirk. ‘Things weren’t going too well, after I was thrown – I mean, after I left – Voutenay. I was down on my luck, and wandering about. Stopped in at the almonry, here, to pick up a bite to eat. And who should I see but old Aeldred?’ This time he laughs – a savage, spiteful laugh. ‘He almost died on the spot when I walked in. But we came to an agreement.’
God save us. I think I’m going to be sick. But I mustn’t get angry; I mustn’t let it show. Keep calm, Pagan. Keep a lid on it.
‘What about Montazin? How did he get involved?’
‘As far as I know, Montazin found out from the guest-master. What’s his name? Sicard? Nasty little drooling baldy who listens at doors. Montazin got him the job: I believe they’re cousins.’
So that’s it. Aeldred’s being blackmailed; Sicard overhears; Sicard tells Montazin; Montazin uses that information to make Aeldred do . . . what? Embezzle more money? Deliver it to Lady Beatrice? Anything and everything, just to keep Montazin quiet.
‘If you’re looking to get much out of Aeldred,’ Centule adds, ‘you’re out of luck. He says he’s already at breaking point, the snivelling toad. That’s why we were arguing.’
‘I don’t want very much. Just enough to pay off a girl.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ His face settles into a sullen, pouchy expression, in which distrust battles with resentment and fatigue. ‘Is that all? Are you finished? Because I’ve got to be going.’
‘Where are you living, anyway? In Carcassone?’
‘That’s none of your business.’ He stands up. ‘Now get out of here. And if I see you again, I’ll beat your head to a bloody pulp.’
Temper, temper. Some people don’t have any self-control. ‘Thanks for your time, Centule. And don’t worry – I won’t tell Aeldred that you’re the one who told me. I’m not that sort of monk.’
Waving cheerfully as I make my departure, just to annoy him. Closing the door softly on his dawning look of indignation.
Oh, Pagan. What can I say? You are
magnificent
!
I
can’t stop thinking about Brother Macharius, back at Saint Joseph’s. I must have been – what? Seven? Eight? And little Lambert was only about six. I remember what he was like when he arrived, always asking questions and running around, laughing at the picture of the pigs in Saint Stephen’s chapel. And then he changed, just like that. Stopped laughing. Stopped running. Hid in corners during the day and wet the bed at night. Of course, we all knew what was happening: it had happened once or twice before. But we didn’t say a word, not to anyone. Too scared, I suppose. Scared and confused.
And that kind of stuff is always going on in monasteries; you hear about it all the time. All those dirty jokes about lifting a monk’s skirts . . . I mean, everyone knows about it. Everyone. Why do you think monks aren’t allowed to talk 165 to oblates? Or touch them? Or sit next to them? It’s to stop the bad monks from molesting children.
Doesn’t help, though. Not if your own child-master is a pederast. God, I wish I’d spoken up. Why was I such a coward? It could have been me, in that bell-tower with Macharius. Pure luck that it wasn’t. But instead of doing something, I just – in God’s name, I just pretended it didn’t happen! How could I have done that? How could I have been such a miserable, crawling, weak-kneed, paltry, pathetic . . .
But it won’t happen this time. Oh no. I’m going to get that son of Belial, the way I should have got Macharius. I’m going to get him and Montazin and Sicard and all that verminous scum, just as soon as I have some proof. Proof, proof! No one will believe me without proof. And Centule won’t talk, not to the abbot. Oh, if
only
the abbot were here. Even without proof, I might have sown a seed of doubt in his mind. But then again, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near him.
‘Herrem . . . Gherlerriumbemm –’
Raymond, talking in his sleep. I wonder what time it is? Haven’t slept a wink since we went to bed. How slowly the night crawls by, when you’re lying awake worrying. Not that there’s any reason to worry about Centule: he’ll never say a word to Aeldred about this, I’m sure of it. He’ll scurry back to his lair and keep his head down for another month, hoping that Aeldred and I will sort it out between ourselves. What a cockroach he is. Doesn’t surprise me that they threw him out of Voutenay-sur-Cure. The question is, what did he do to deserve expulsion? Did he steal? Cheat? Vandalise? Probably all three, to judge from what he’s doing now. Oh God, I’m so exhausted. Why can’t I get to sleep?
Sudden noise from across the room: the creak of someone shifting his weight in bed. Look around, and it’s Roland. He sits up; pushes his blankets off; swings his feet to the floor. Seems to be looking for his chamber-pot.
No. On second thoughts, he’s not looking for his chamber-pot. He’s looking for his boots. What in God’s name is he doing? Surely he can’t be going outside? Watching as he stands up slowly, his face expressionless in the soft glow of the candle.