Pagan's Vows (24 page)
T
he abbot’s back today, hooray, hooray, hooray.
The abbot’s back today, hooray, hooray, hooray.
Hell on earth, it’s that stupid song again. I can’t get the damned thing out of my head. And I must have been dreaming it, too, because it’s been knocking around my skull ever since I woke up. For God’s sake, Pagan, think about something else! Think about what you’re doing, here. You’re supposed to be reciting the litany, not some inane, tuneless nursery rhyme. I know you’re still half asleep, but you’ve got to pull yourself together.
‘Kyrie eleison.’
‘Kyrie eleison.’
‘Christe eleison.’
‘Christe eleison.’
And there’s Guilabert, wobbling across the floor. How wonderful to think that this is going to be his last Lord’s Prayer for at least two weeks. Two weeks! Just think, we’ll have the abbot leading the offices tonight. The abbot, with his intelligent face. And his trim figure. And his clear, precise, mellifluous Latin.
The abbot’s back today, hooray, hooray, hooray.
I wonder when he’ll be arriving? Not quite yet, I suppose. He certainly won’t be here until sunrise. Probably not until this afternoon. They said Tuesday afternoon. God, I wish he’d hurry! I simply
have
to get rid of this letter.
‘
Pater noster
,’ Guilabert drones, ‘
qui in caelis
,
sanctificetur
nomen tuum . . .
’
And then, of course, there’s the question of how I’m actually going to do it. How the hell does a nobody like me secure a private audience with Anselm? I’d have an easier time securing a seat beside the Lord God Almighty on Judgement Day. My only hope is that Anselm never fails to visit the novices when he comes back from his trips. Perhaps I’ll ask if I can speak to him then. Immediately. On a matter of the most crucial importance.
Regarding a certain Montazin.
‘ . . . Et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo,’
Guilabert concludes, and everyone says ‘Amen’. At last! It’s over! There’s an air of subdued restlessness as the monks slowly file out the southern door: they all want to get to the cloisters quickly, and wash their faces while the water’s still hot. Personally, I don’t think I’ve washed my face in hot water since I arrived here. But then, I’m just a humble novice.
A nudge in the ribs. It’s Bernard. He curls a strand of hair around his finger, and briefly covers his eyes with his left hand.
Raymond – absent.
Really? Raymond’s absent? I didn’t even notice. Standing on tiptoe to peer over the milling heads, but it’s impossible to see everyone in this light. With all those cowls pulled over their faces. I wouldn’t know if Raymond was here or not – especially since he worships with the monks, now. It’s been hard to keep track of him, since he became a monk.
Another barrage of signs from Bernard.
Raymond –
sick?
Well don’t ask me, Bernard, how should I know? I haven’t spoken to Raymond since he presented his Act of Profession. Neither has anyone else, in fact. Isn’t he supposed to be keeping silent for three days?
Making a fist, with the thumb turned down.
I know
not.
Bernard frowns, and begins to gnaw at his fingernails. Clement pushes me into line.
And out we march, into the cloisters.
Hello, hello. What’s happening here? A cluster of notables, all deep in conversation. The prior. The chamberlain. The cellarer. The sacristan. Muttering away by the chapter-house door, shadowy and suspicious in the flickering torchlight. How disgraceful. They shouldn’t be talking, like that. It’s supposed to be a Silent Time. As Clement emerges they all turn, and Rainier beckons to him.
Surely the abbot can’t have arrived, yet?
Wash
, Clement tells us, with an imperious gesture.
Wash – and – wait.
He hobbles off to join the conspirators, leaving us to splash about in the bowl of tepid water which has been left on a stool near the book-presses. There are three towels set out beside it, all of them sopping. So we end up drying ourselves on our sleeves, as usual.
Abbot – come?
Durand inquires, after he wipes his face. He’s not asking anyone in particular: he’s just asking. Some of the monks, I notice, are asking the same question. They’re supposed to be pacing around the cloisters in silent contemplation, but most of them are watching the group by the chapter-house. I wonder what could possibly be going on, over there?
Suddenly Clement breaks away from the group. He limps across the cloister-garth towards us, looking particularly formidable, and you can’t help thinking that he’s about to bite someone’s head off. (Please God, don’t let it be mine.) When he reaches us, however, he just stands for a moment, lost in thought.
And when he speaks, his voice is so low that it’s almost a whisper.
‘We can’t use the chapter-house for recitations this morning,’ he says quickly. ‘It will be needed for an emergency council. Go back to the dormitory, and wait for me there. If I haven’t returned by the time the bell rings for Matins, go to the church without me. Roland, you can lead the recitations.’
‘But Master –’ Gaubert begins.
‘Shh!’ Clement draws his finger across his mouth. ‘No talking! Just go!’
Emergency council? What could that be for? Trailing after Roland, who leads the way across the cloister-garth; through the covered passage; into the herb garden. Moving on feather-light feet past the oblates’ dormitory, because they’ll be in bed (lucky bastards). Filing back into our own room, where it still smells of night-farts.
Black as the Bottomless Pit, as well, because Clement always snuffs the candle out when we leave for Nocturnes.
‘I can’t see a thing!’ Bernard hisses. ‘They should have given us a lamp.’
‘Shh!’ It’s Amiel’s voice – a mouse’s squeak in the darkness. ‘You’ll wake the oblates.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ (Durand.) ‘We
will
wake the oblates. How are we going to do recitations without waking the oblates?’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t do recitations,’ Bernard whispers. But Roland won’t have that.
‘Father Clement told us to recite,’ he says, in the flat and lifeless voice that he’s been adopting, lately. It makes you want to punch him in the guts, just to get some kind of human response out of him. ‘If you speak softly, Bernard, you won’t wake the oblates. Now why don’t you start the recitations for us?’
‘Why don’t
you
start?’ Bernard retorts, and continues urgently: ‘Did anyone see Raymond this morning? I didn’t see him, did you?’
‘Bernard, please, Father Clement –’
‘Oh shut up, Roland! I’m asking a question, here. Did anyone see him?’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘Maybe he’s sick,’ Amiel suggests.
‘Or maybe his father’s here?’ Gaubert sounds uncertain. ‘Maybe that’s why there was that fuss in the cloisters.’
‘Because of a guest? Don’t be a fool.’
‘Bernard, please. There’s no call for that.’
‘Up your arse, Roland! I’m worried about him! He should have been there!’
Knock-knock-knock!
A rap on the door. Someone moves (I can hear his knees cracking) and by some miraculous stroke of luck he finds the door-handle. There’s a creak of hinges, and all at once the room is flooded with light.
A servant stands on the threshold with a lamp in his hand.
‘Is Pagan there?’ he asks. It’s Badilo, from the mill. ‘Pagan? Are you there?’
‘Yes.’ (What’s this about?) ‘I’m here.’
‘Father Clement wants to see you, Pagan. In the guesthouse.’
‘The guest-house?’
‘Right away.’
What could Clement be doing in the guest-house?
‘There!’ Gaubert says. ‘I told you that Raymond’s father must have come.’
But I can’t catch Bernard’s reply, because I’m out the door already. Trying to keep up with Badilo.
Anyone would think he was running for his life.
‘Oi! Badilo! Wait for me!’
He doesn’t even stop; he just disappears into the refectory, tossing a gruff remark over his shoulder. ‘I’m busy, Pagan, you know where the guest-house is.’
Busy? At this time of night? What’s he doing, masturbating? Trying to perfect the art of snoring through one nostril? This is ridiculous.
Passing into the cloisters, and they’re deserted. Completely empty. Where is everyone? In the chapter-house? In the guest-house? Reaching the guest-house door – the inner door – and pushing it open. Inside, the common room is dark and silent. But there’s a faint glow coming from somewhere down the passage to my left.
Aha. I see. Someone’s in the end room: there’s light spilling over the threshold. Should I announce my presence, or will I get my knuckles rapped for not using sign language? Moving forward, past the shuttered windows on my right, past the black, yawning doorways opposite them. Hello? Is that you, Master Needle-nose?
Whump!
On my knees. On the floor. What –? Who –? Someone hit me . . .
‘Where’s the letter?’
That’s Montazin’s voice. Augh! Help! Weight on my back. Grip on my collar. Choking . . .
‘Give it to me! Give me the letter, or I’ll kill you!’
The voice is right next to my ear. Quick! Now! Throw my head back.
Thunk!
Bone on bone. Got him! He yelps, and loosens his grip. Jabbing with the elbow; hitting something soft. Roll with the weight, Pagan, roll with the weight! Pulling him over, kicking his legs, and he rolls along with me. Onto his back. Tries to keep me pinned, but if I drive my toes into his knee – there! He lets go, howling, and I roll off him, onto my stomach.
Quick, quick! Get away! ‘Help!
Help me – oof!
’ Ow! God, my arm, my arm! What’s he got? Jesus Christ, it’s a candlestick! A great, big, bronze – ow! Help! Stop it! Help!
‘Where is it?’ (
Thunk!
) ‘Give it to me!’ (
Thunk!
) Ow! Christ! What’s he doing? Try to get up. Try to get away. I’ve got to get away, or he’ll kill me. He’s going to kill me. My legs won’t work. God, my mouth. I can’t see . . .
Blood.
‘Where is it?’ His weight again. Fumbling hands. He’s pulling at my scapular, and the pain – Jesus, the pain – and he’s reaching under my robe, and it’s the letter – he’s looking for the letter –
Punch at his face, but I didn’t – oh help –
Whump!
Flash of light. Stars. The taste in my mouth, and he’s still there. Don’t hit me, please – Jesus, don’t hit me –
‘Pagan!’
Roland? Is that you? Suddenly, an impact; weight hitting weight. Cries. Blows. Feet everywhere. Look up (I’m so dizzy) and it’s Roland. It
is
Roland. Praise God, he’s here, and he’s punching him and punching him and driving his head into the wall, again and again, and he’s shouting and screaming. Take that, Montazin, you bastard, I hope he kills you. Oh Christ. Oh Christ, I feel so ill.
‘Roland!’ It’s Clement. ‘Roland, stop! Roland!’ There he is, and he sounds so scared.
It’s all very muddled . . . I can’t see . . . what’s he doing? He’s grabbing Roland’s arm, but Roland ignores him. Roland’s got the candlestick, now. He’s pounding it into Montazin’s head.
‘Roland!’
Clement screams, and raises his stick, and brings it down on Roland’s spine. It’s not a heavy blow, but it does the job. Roland staggers. He turns. He drops the candlestick and he drops Montazin.
Montazin slides to the floor . . .
‘Pagan.’ Roland’s voice is so low that I can hardly hear it, even though he’s beside me, now. Even though he’s kneeling, and I can feel his hands on my face, on my chest, on my shoulders. Holding my head. ‘Oh Pagan. Oh God, God, Pagan, God . . .’ He sounds as if he’s in pain, terrible pain, but
I’m
the one who’s bleeding.
‘The letter.’ Did I speak? I can’t even tell. ‘The letter, take the letter.’ It’s in my drawers. I have to get it. I have to give it to him. Move my hand –
Jesus Christ!
Flash.
Pain.
Darkness.
‘T
he letter. The letter . . .’
‘It’s all right, Pagan, I have the letter. I gave it to the abbot. Do you hear me? It’s all right.’
The abbot. The abbot? You mean he’s here? Open my eyes, but everything’s blurred. No, wait, it’s clearing. And my head – God! My head’s going to split. My mouth is so sore.
Roland.
His face, hanging over me: drawn, pale, heavy-eyed. His long nose, and his scar, and the fuzz of gold on his unshaven cheek. Oh Roland. Oh Roland.
‘The abbot has read your letter,’ he says. ‘You mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.’
‘You’re here.’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘He wath going to kill me!’
‘Shh. You’re safe, now. I won’t leave you.’
‘Roland.’ What’s the matter with my mouth? I can’t move it. I can’t speak properly. ‘My mouth –’
‘It’s swollen. You’ve lost a tooth.’
‘And my arm –’
‘Your wrist is broken. Your head is injured. Don’t talk, Pagan, you have to rest.’
His voice sounds odd. No, it’s not his voice, it’s my ear. There’s something in my ear. ‘Ith there blood in my ear?’
‘Blood?’
‘It’th not working. My ear . . .’ Reaching up to touch it. Ouch! Shooting pain. Heavy splint.