Pagan's Vows (20 page)

There. That’s done the trick. It’s deprived him of breath, like a kick in the ribcage. And with Raymond winded, Amiel has a chance to speak.

‘Blackmailing who?’ he gasps. ‘Is Father Aeldred blackmailing someone?’

‘No.’ Bog-brain. ‘Someone’s blackmailing him – the man who calls himself Aeldred’s cousin. The one who was asking him for money. He’s not Aeldred’s cousin at all, he’s a former monk from the Burgundian monastery where Aeldred used to live.’

‘Lies,’ says Raymond. ‘All lies.’ But his delivery is rather weak, as if he’s lost most of his stuffing. ‘You’re always trying to blame the monks. You tried to blame them when you let that girl in –’

‘No he didn’t.’ Durand doesn’t even let him finish the sentence. ‘Pagan didn’t let that girl in. Roquefire let her in.’

Raymond snorts.

‘He did, I tell you! That girl was Roquefire’s girl. I’ve seen them together before, in the kitchen.’

‘In the kitchen? When?’

Durand blushes. ‘When I – when I was getting 187 something to eat,’ he stammers, whereupon Bernard rolls his eyes.

But before he can say anything, Raymond turns back to me with an intent, guarded, quizzical look on his face. It’s a look that I’ve never seen there before. A look that really suits him.

‘If you know all this,’ he says softly, ‘why haven’t you told any of the monks?’

‘Because they won’t believe him!’ Durand breaks in. ‘Not without proof. They’ll think he’s lying, the way you did. He needs proof, or it won’t work.’

Thanks, Durand, but I’ll speak for myself, if you don’t mind. Glancing over to where Elias is sitting, spooning milk down Landric’s throat. Let’s hope he hasn’t heard any of this.

‘Pagan.’ It’s Roland. He’s hovering at the edge of the group, and he sounds exhausted. ‘You – you should have told me. Why didn’t you?’

Why didn’t I tell you? I like that! What a gall you have, standing there and – and – sweet saints preserve us! Are you trying to make me feel
guilty
? First cast the beam out of thine own eye, Roland!

‘Well I don’t know.’ Glaring up at him. ‘I don’t know, Roland, maybe I had to tell somebody else first.’

He blinks, just once, and I know I’ve hit the target. His face is blank, his eyes are blank, but I know. It’s something about the way he becomes very still.

‘Pagan.’ Gaubert tugs at my sleeve. ‘Why don’t you
get
some proof? Then they’d believe you.’

‘It’s not that easy.’ (Durand shoves his oar in again.) ‘What kind of proof can you get? Aeldred won’t admit to 188 anything. The man who’s blackmailing him won’t admit to anything, either.’

‘Except perhaps in confession,’ says Bernard, ‘but that’s no good.’

‘Maybe we could trick them, somehow,’ Amiel croaks, and Bernard turns on him scornfully.

‘How?’

‘I’m – I’m not sure . . .’

‘Big help you are, Amiel.’

Wait! Hold on, now! This is going too fast. Looking around at the circle of eager faces: at Gaubert, brimming with enthusiasm; at Bernard, frowning thoughtfully; at Amiel, restless and worried; at Raymond . . .

At Raymond. Even as our gazes meet, it flashes into my head – the perfect solution – and he’s thought of it too, I can tell. It’s there in his eyes, and he beats me to it.

‘A letter,’ he says, before I get the chance. A letter. Of course. It’s so obvious, and yet . . . well, I never could have sent one myself, could I? I don’t know a soul outside this monastery. I don’t know anyone who might be travelling north.

But Raymond does.

‘I could write a letter to the abbot of that monastery Aeldred came from,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m always writing letters to my mother.’

Yes, by God. ‘So you’ll be able to get the ink and the parchment –’

‘And I’ll call myself Brother Raymond.’ (He’s getting excited, now.) ‘I’ll ask for the whole story. What Aeldred did. What he looks like. Everything. And then,’ he finishes, ‘I could give the letter to my father, to pass on to one of 189 his friends. They’re always moving around.’

Oh, Raymond. You cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi. I could kiss you. ‘Brilliant! Wonderful! What a brilliant idea, Raymond, you’re a genius.’

He smiles at that. It’s not a superior smile at all: it’s a shy, reluctant, exhilarated smile. He rubs his nose in an effort to hide it.

‘The trouble is, I don’t know how long you might have to wait for an answer,’ he warns me. ‘It may be weeks before any of my father’s friends go to Burgundy. And then it may be months before the abbot’s reply gets back to him. You could be waiting until next summer.’

That’s all right, my friend. I’ve waited this long; I can afford to wait a bit more. I just need to know that some day, somehow, I’m going to see Montazin’s little conspiracy crushed like a louse under the heel of my boot.

Chapter 24

W
here’s Raymond? Why doesn’t he come back? Won’t his father take the letter? What’s he
doing
in there?

‘Pagan!’

Oh, leave me alone, you old snakeskin.

‘Pagan, you’re not concentrating. Look at me. Pagan! What is
brevitas
?’

Brevitas. Brevitas.
Brief– oh no, I remember. ‘It’s rapidity of narration.’

‘And
continuato
?’

Continuato.
That’s a hard one. Let’s see . . . Wait. Are those footsteps? Raymond’s footsteps?

‘Pagan!’ Clement drives his stick into the floor. ‘Are you still asleep? Have you left your brain in bed? Look at me!’

Look at you? Why would I want to look at you? You 191 look like the husk of a beetle that’s been eaten out by ants. Sniffing and shaking and coughing in that disgusting fashion . . . It’s enough to make anyone sick.

God. How cold I am.

‘What is
continuato
?’ He just goes on and on, like an attack of the flux. ‘Pagan? Answer me.’

‘It’s a rapid succession of words completing a sentence.’

‘
Dubitatio
?’

‘An assumed hesitation.’

‘
Descriptio
?’

‘A description of someone’s personal appearance.’

‘No!’
This time the Terror’s voice is so loud that Bernard stops reading, startled and apprehensive. Clement glares across the room.

‘Did I tell you to stop, Bernard?’

‘No, Master –’

‘Then continue. Ignore what’s going on over here, it’s none of your concern.’

Obediently, Bernard drops his gaze to the psalter in front of him. When he begins to read again, his breath comes out in damp and filmy jets of steam. The rest of them sit huddled in fur-lined cloaks, their hands tucked under their armpits.

‘Pagan! Look here! What’s the matter with you? Are you sick? Are you drunk? Did you hit yourself on the head this morning?’ Clement reaches over and prods me in the chest. ‘Something must be wrong. A child could have answered that question. I can’t believe that a person so puffed up with intellectual conceit –’

‘
Descriptio.
’ (You slug-faced scumbucket.) ‘ “A clear and impressive statement of the results of an action.” ’

So there. Clement snorts, and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can deliver his next batch of insults someone appears on the threshold: someone who stands there with snow on his shoulders, cheeks red with cold, grey eyes sparkling. Someone who looks at me and winks.

It’s Raymond.

‘Well, Raymond,’ says Clement, ‘what took you so long? You can join the others, now.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘And kindly don’t drip on the book, if you please, or I’ll wring you out myself.’

Come on, Raymond. Did you do it? Did he take it? Give me a sign! You said you’d give me a sign! Watching him cross the room, with a skip and a saunter, his curls bobbing with each frisky step.

As he sits down beside Roland, he kisses the back of his hand at me.

Yes! He did it! Hooray! It worked! God, what a relief. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name.

‘Pagan.’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Turning to meet the flinty gaze of the Terror, who looks exactly like Death on a Pale Horse with Hell following unto him. Even his voice sounds deadly.

‘It appears that your mind is on other things,’ he says. ‘Perhaps my questions aren’t difficult enough to engage your mighty intellect. Perhaps they’re giving you room to reflect on other matters – on things unholy and unchaste.’

Oh, please. Give it a rest, will you? How can anyone be unchaste in this weather?

‘What you need,’ Clement continues, ‘is a challenge. Something suitably formidable. Something to cut your teeth on.’ He stares down at the floor, thinking so energetically that the veins stand out on his temples. (With any luck his brain will burst.)

Rolling my eyes at Raymond, who starts making signs at me with the fluid skill of a lifetime’s practice:
letter –
go – twelve – days . . .
What does it mean when you put all your fingers together on your forehead?

Suddenly Clement breaks the silence.

‘Te rogamus ut nobis parcas, ut nobis indulgeas, ut ad veram
poenitentiam nos perducere digneris.’

Pardon? Staring at him, open-mouthed. He makes an impatient noise, and begins to repeat himself.

‘Te rogamus ut nobis parcas . . .’

Oh, I see. Well if you want a translation, why don’t you ask for one? Let’s think, now.
Te rogamus . . .
‘ “We beseech you that you would spare us, that you would pardon us, that you would bring us to true penance.” ’
‘Correct.’ He nods. ‘And what rhetorical device is illustrated in that sentence?’

Help! What
rhetorical device
? Sweet saints preserve us.

‘Come on, Pagan –’

‘Repetitio!’

‘Which is?’

‘The repetition of the same word at the beginning of each clause.’

A grunt from Clement. I suppose that means I’ve got it right. Why the hell can’t he scare up a compliment, occasionally?

‘Quid mihi est in caelo?’
he says.

Quid mihi est in caelo
? That’s easy. ‘ “Whom else have I in heaven?” ’
‘And what can you find in that sentence?’

‘Ratiocinatio.’

‘Which is?’

‘ “A question addressed to oneself.” ’
‘Correct.
Totum huius capitis corpus, etsi diversae facies, in
posterioribus tamen non discrepat.
’

Woof! That’s a hard one. Let’s see. The whole body . . . No. All the followers of this chief, although their faces are diverse . . .
in posterioribus
? What’s that? Oh, I see. Very amusing. Remind me to stitch up my sides.

‘ “All the followers of this chief, although their faces are diverse, do not differ in what comes after them.” An example of
adnominatio.
’ There! Got it. Once again he nods.

‘Correct,’ he declares. ‘And what is
adnominatio
?’

‘A pun.’ (If you can call it that.) ‘At least, it’s supposed to be a pun. I’d call it a pretty pathetic attempt at humour, myself.’

Pause. Clement narrows his eyes and cocks his head.

‘Would you indeed?’ he growls. ‘But then, even with something as unimportant as a joke, you must be better than everyone else. Isn’t that right, Pagan?’

Oh, get off my back. ‘When it comes to jokes, Master Clement, I
am
better than everyone else.’

‘Odd that I’ve never noticed it.’

‘You’ve never noticed it because you don’t have a sense of humour.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes really. And I can prove it with a syllogism. Because all people with a sense of humour laugh, and you don’t laugh; therefore you don’t have a sense of humour.’

He’s staring at me like a lizard, his eyes black and unblinking. After a while he says: ‘We are not studying syllogisms today. We are studying
elocutio.
’

Which means that you can’t think of a response. Ha! Got you there, didn’t I? Think you’re so smart, you dried-up old relic. You can’t get the better of me. I’ll always be one step ahead of you because I’m younger and smarter, and I’m not scared of your ranting no matter how loudly you shout, Master Needle-nose.

‘Nescierunt, neque intellexerunt, in tenebris ambulant.’

Here we go again. ‘ “They know not, neither will they understand; they walk in darkness.” ’
‘And what can you find in that sentence?’

What can I find? A moral reflection? No, if it was a moral reflection there’d be something about good or evil in it. So it’s not
sentential . . .

‘I’m waiting, Pagan.’

Then why don’t you just wait, instead of flapping your tongue around? Oh – wait – I’ve got it!

‘Translatio!’

‘Which is?’

‘A metaphor.’

‘And what else?’

What else? What do you mean, what else?

He parts his lips in a savage, toothless grin. ‘What else can you find in that sentence?’ he inquires, and I can’t believe he’s serious. Something else? There can’t be something else!

Frantically thinking, as he spits words at me like arrowheads.

‘So, Pagan, perhaps you’re not so clever after all. Could it be that the Fount of Wisdom is beginning to dry up? Don’t tell me there’s something you don’t know. Where is that brilliant mind you’re so proud of?’

Shut up! Just shut up!