Pagan's Vows (5 page)
‘Pagan!’ Another glare from Roland. What? What’s the matter? You know it’s true, my lord. Why shouldn’t I tell them?
‘Go on,’ says Gaubert. ‘What happened then? Finish the story!’
‘Well, I got down on my knees and begged Saladin for Roland’s life, and he freed him. I don’t know why he did it, because he hates Templars, but I’ll always be grateful. Always. And I say a prayer for Saladin every day.’ (Well, almost every day.) ‘He’s a good man, you know. Because if it hadn’t been for him, Roland wouldn’t even be here.’
A satisfied sigh from Gaubert, Bernard, Durand and Amiel. Raymond, however, doesn’t sigh. He snorts.
‘You’re lying,’ he says.
‘I’m not lying.’
‘You are lying! How could an Infidel be good? Infidels are bad! Infidels are demons!’ He’s red in the face. ‘The only good Infidel is a dead Infidel!’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly –’
‘Oh wouldn’t you?’ (What’s the matter with this slug-head? Why’s he splitting his seams?) ‘Maybe you wouldn’t say it because they’re your friends! Maybe
you’re
an Infidel! You certainly look like one! No decent Christian would have skin that colour – that dirty, Infidel colour –’
Suddenly Roland gets to his feet. From down on the floor he looks as tall as a cedar of Lebanon. He moves over to where Raymond is crouching and stands there, arms folded, glaring down his long de Bram nose.
‘Pagan is a good Christian,’ he says quietly. That’s all he says, but it’s enough. Poor old Raymond just shrivels up like a flower in a flame. I know exactly how he feels, too; that look of Roland’s would freeze the horns off a bullock. How could a half-weaned novice like Raymond hope to withstand it?
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, as Roland turns away, and you can’t help sympathising. Poor old Raymond. There he was, top novice, brightest star, a natural leader. Then along come two war-weary veterans – seasoned travellers, crusaders, Templars – one of them with blood as blue as the sky, and a face like something on a stained-glass window. Naturally poor Raymond doesn’t like all the attention they’re getting.
But I have to be tolerant. I have to be nice about this sort of thing. After all, I’m a monk now.
‘Come on, Raymond, let’s not argue.’ Smile, smile. Be nice, Pagan. Think kind thoughts. ‘We’re brothers, and we should be friends. “Let them show brotherly charity with a chaste love”.’
‘Oh yes!’ he snaps. ‘Oh yes, we all know what a Scholar of the Rule
you
are. But let me tell you something, Pagan.’ He leans into my face until I can count every scrap of salted herring wedged between his teeth. ‘You’re never going to fit in here. Never, never, never. You think you’re so smart, but you’re not like us.
‘You’re an outsider, and you always will be.’
T
he sound of Clement snoring. But is it fake, or is it real? Surely it must be real. Surely even Clement wouldn’t lie awake snoring, just to lull the suspicions of some poor novice. You’d have to be crazy to do a thing like that.
Although, when you think about it . . .
Oh come on, Pagan! Are you going to do it, or not? You can’t just lie here all night dithering. Either get up and do it, or shut up and go to sleep. Those are your choices.
Raising a cautious head. Eight motionless bundles, faintly visible in the light of one flickering lamp. Pushing off my blanket. Swinging my feet to the floor. Boots or no boots? No boots, I think. It’s warm enough for bare feet, and they’re certainly much quieter. Padding across to Roland’s bed.
He’s sleeping on his back, like a statue on a tomb. Mouth closed. Legs straight. Only his steady breathing betrays the fact that he’s actually alive.
One gentle touch . . .
He wakes with a start, instantly alert. Shh! It’s me! Flapping my hand at him, as he props himself up on one elbow, rubs his face, and raises a pair of questioning eyes.
Yes, I know it’s late, but I have to see you. Come on, Roland, please. This way. Tugging at the sleeve of his crumpled robe. Beckoning. Pointing.
Slowly, clumsily, he crawls out of bed.
But can we make it to the door? That’s the big question. Clement’s still snoring: it sounds like someone dragging a saw through an oak beam. Someone sighs and turns over. Watch those chamber-pots, Roland. We don’t want to get tangled up with a used chamber-pot. Guiding him between the beds, past the window, through the door, and into the garden.
It smells beautiful in the garden. Lavender and thyme. Herbal scents on the soft night air. Crickets chirping.
‘Well?’ Roland’s voice is a barely audible hiss. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Not here. Let’s go over there, under the olive tree. It’s probably safer.’
The ground feels damp, under the olive tree. Someone must have watered it. And there are shadows, too: shadows in the moonlight. Shadows to hide in. Branches to hide in.
‘What is it?’ Roland’s still whispering. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I have to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
About what? What do you mean, about what? ‘About everything. I haven’t talked to you properly for three days. There are always people around.’
He expels a quick, sharp sigh. ‘But Pagan,’ he says, ‘this is against the Rule.’
‘What is?’
‘This is. Doing this.’
‘No it isn’t. Not really.’
‘Well whatever it is, it’s not sensible. We should go back.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ His face hovers above his robe, as pale as the moon. It’s so hard to see, in the dimness. ‘Don’t you
want
to talk to me?’
‘Oh Pagan, of course I do. But I don’t want you to get into trouble. You’ve already –’
‘Trodden on toes? I realise that.’
‘You must learn to remember why we’re here. We must both learn. We’re not here to fight, we’re here to love God.’
‘But I do love God.’ (Most of the time.) ‘It’s just some of His monks I can’t stand.’
‘Pagan –’
‘Well can you? Can you honestly tell me that you like Clement? Or Guilabert? Or that stupid fat monk who’s always blocking doorways and slows right down whenever you want to get past?’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ he says, knitting his brows at me. ‘We must
learn
to love them. Like brothers.’
‘The way you love your brothers, you mean?’
Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. And now he’s thinking about Jordan. Now he’s remembering how he almost killed his own brother with an iron lamp-stand. How could I have brought that up again, when we agreed to forget Roland’s awful family life? Dammit, dammit, dammit!
‘I’m sorry, my lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’ Please don’t be angry, Roland. ‘Sometimes I just – my tongue moves faster than my head. Especially when they’re all so – when they – well how were
you
supposed to know about putting your hands in your sleeves during the ‘Gloria’? Nobody told you, did they? I only knew it myself because we used to do it at Saint Joseph’s.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does! It’s not fair! You’re only new – you can’t be expected to know when to bow, and when to genuflect, and when to put your hands in your sleeves. You don’t even know the psalter, yet.’
‘Hush. Quiet, Pagan, keep it down.’
‘But the way he talks to you! The way he talks . . .’ (That Clement. That needle-nosed maggot-bag.) ‘I swear, if he calls you
pauper sensu
one more time, I’m going to stick my
pes
in his festering old
faciem.
’
‘Pagan.’ Gently. ‘I don’t care what he says. Why should I? I don’t even know what it means.’
‘It means ‘poor simpleton’. And I’m damned if I’m going to sit there and let him call you names.’
‘Pagan, stop it. Listen to me.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘A poor simpleton is exactly what I am –’
‘You’re not! You’re better than all of them! They just don’t know what you’ve done –’
‘The only thing I’ve done in my whole life is kill people.’
‘But you’ve saved them, too! You’ve saved more people than you’ve killed!’
‘Let me finish, please,’ he says, and gives me a little shake. ‘Pagan, you must forget what has gone before. Do you understand? I am not a knight of the Temple now. I am the humblest servant of God in this entire abbey. I know nothing of prayer or worship. I am seeking God in the darkness, and I will take my guidance as it comes. Do you think a few harsh words are going to hurt me? You know there are things that hurt far more.’ He puts a hand on my head; it feels warm against my tonsure. ‘What does hurt me is seeing you snap at people like a chained dog, in my defence. I don’t need that. Do you understand? You must forget about me, and look to yourself. You have your own path to follow. Pagan? Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you say? Are you going to follow your own path?’
I’d rather follow yours. Mine will probably lead me straight into a dung-pit. But I suppose, if it’s really what you want –
‘Oi! You, there! Who’s that?’
God save us. It’s the circator.
‘Come here!’ A voice from across the garden. ‘Who is it? Don’t try to hide, I can see you quite clearly.’
Oh hell. Now we’re caught. What are we going to do? Roland shakes off my hand, and steps out of the shadows. The circator moves forward with his lantern raised.
It’s Aeldred, the almoner. Reddish hair, snub nose, narrow shoulders. I’ve seen him in church.
‘Who are you?’ he says. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘I am Roland Roucy de Bram. A new novice. This is Pagan Kidrouk.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I remember now. The new novice.’
He looks half asleep: his pale eyes are bleary, his thin hair tousled. His face is creased into lines of irritation and discontent. But I suppose the night watch must be a pretty unpleasant job, even if it only falls to you once or twice a season.
‘What are you doing out here at this time of night?’ he says. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
Roland opens his mouth to reply. Oh no you don’t, Roland. This is where I cut in.
‘He was taking me to the infirmary.’ Cough, cough. Swaying a little. Think sick, Pagan. Think cow manure and rotten cabbage. ‘I’m feeling ill, Father. I think I’m going to vomit.’
The almoner steps back a pace. ‘Is that true?’ he asks Roland, eyeing me warily. Roland hesitates.
‘No,’ he says at last.
No?
No
? Roland, what are you doing?
‘Pagan is not ill,’ he continues. ‘We were just having a talk.’
‘You should both be in bed.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I’ll have to report this to Brother Clement.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Roland! In God’s name, are you mad? It would have worked, I tell you! The man’s half asleep!
‘Well then, back to your dormitory. And don’t come out again until the bell rings.’
‘No, Father.’
‘And no more talking.’ He puts his hand over his own mouth, a little guiltily. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking myself.
Misereri mei, Domine.
Go in peace.’
Roland! Wait! Following him to the door. Catching up on the doorstep. Grabbing his arm.
He stops, turns, shakes his head. Makes the sign for silence: forefinger on the lips, drawn up and down. Oh you fool, you fool! Now we’re going to be cooked on a spit! But he won’t talk. He won’t even listen. He hurries back to bed and climbs under the covers.
In God’s name, Roland, where do you think you are? Do you really believe that a monastery is so different from anywhere else? Do you really believe that monks don’t lie? Of course they lie, when they have to. Especially when it’s not going to do any harm!
Christ in a cream cheese sauce, don’t you understand? No matter where you might be, you’ve simply got to look out for yourself.
Because no one else is going to.
W
ell, this is fun. This is a great way to spend a morning. So, Pagan, how exactly did you learn to be a monk? Oh, I spent a lot of time lying face down on the church floor with my arms stretched out. Really? And what was that supposed to teach you? Oh, it was supposed to teach me not to sneak around the abbey at night.
But no, that’s not quite true. Enforced silence was supposed to teach me not to sneak around the abbey. Lying flat on the floor was supposed to teach me not to tell falsehoods. Roland got away with a day of silence because he told the truth. But liars like me belong flat on the floor with our arms stretched out.