Pagan's Vows (8 page)
You are? Honestly? But you won’t be, when you hear what I’ve been up to. His lips feel like dead leaves, brushing against each cheekbone.
‘Unfortunately I can’t stay,’ he says, releasing my shoulders. ‘I’ve other people to visit, and there’s so much work piled up in my rooms that I can hardly get through the door. But I’ll see you all at Nones. And at supper, of course. I’m very happy to see you again. Very happy.’ He smiles at Clement. ‘It’s good to be home.’
Everyone’s silent as he makes his way out. Suddenly the room seems warmer. Friendlier. Even Clement looks a little softer around the edges.
So that’s Abbot Anselm. That’s the man in charge. What an unspeakably wonderful stroke of luck. A Good Abbot! I’ve never seen one before. I never would have believed that it was possible. If he stays around – if he doesn’t go away too often – just think what this place will be like! It won’t be like Saint Jerome’s. It will be like . . . well, like the kind of place it was meant to be. The kind of place Saint Benedict would have wanted it to be.
O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good: for His mercy endureth forever.
Maybe I’m going to make it here after all.
T
his is appalling. I can’t stand this. Roland doesn’t belong down here, slopping about in a puddle. Just look at him! He looks like a half-drowned beggar. And he isn’t doing the slightest bit of good: probably never picked up a cleaning-rag in his life before. Scrubbing away at that same bit of millstone as if he wants to dig a hole in it.
Wouldn’t know a mop from a donkey’s buttock.
‘Roland.’ He looks up. ‘That’s clean now, Roland. You can move onto the next bit.’
Snickers from Raymond. Shut your festering mouth, bog-brain. Say one single word and you’ll be wearing your guts around your ears.
Roland smiles sheepishly.
‘I wanted to make sure it was clean,’ he says. ‘If there’s dirt in the corn –’
‘I know. If there’s dirt in the corn, there’ll be dirt in the holy wafers. But if you scrub any harder, there won’t be any millstone left. And without a millstone, they can’t even make holy wafers. So take it easy.’
He nods, and returns to his slow, careful scrubbing. I hope we don’t have to do this in winter. It’s all right now, but what’s it going to be like with cold air whistling through every crack in the mill-house walls? Sloshing around in icy water is all very well when it’s sunny outside, but –
‘What’s wrong, Pagan?’ Raymond’s voice. ‘Feeling sorry for yourself?’
Just ignore him. He’s not worth wasting breath on.
‘Pagan doesn’t want to do this,’ His Majesty continues. ‘Pagan thinks he’s too good to scrub millstones. He thinks he’s too smart –’
‘All right, that’s enough.’ Badilo pops up from behind a stack of meal-bags. He’s covered in meal, from head to toe. (If you took just a handful of these mill-house servants, and put them in a bath together, you’d end up with enough bread-dough to feed the entire abbey for a week.) ‘Don’t you two start fighting again,’ he growls, ‘or I’ll tell Father Clement.’
But I didn’t say a word! It was Raymond! It’s always Raymond! Look at him, the viper. He sits back on his haunches, and glowers at Badilo.
Who glowers right back.
‘What are you doing?’ Badilo demands. ‘Are you slacking off, boy? Get down there and scrub.’
‘I’m not the one slacking off!’ Raymond bleats. ‘
Pagan’s
the one slacking off.’
‘I am not!’
‘Right. Both of you. Get up.’ Badilo’s so broad and burly, it’s impossible to argue. He folds his arms and glares. ‘I want you to go and refill those buckets. And if you’re not friends by the time you get back, I’m going to tell Father Clement about this when he returns from chapter.’
Oh great, that’s just what I need.
Raymond clenches his fists. ‘You wouldn’t talk to me like that if my father were here, you – you servant!’ he exclaims. (What a sepulchre-head.)
Badilo bares his collection of fangs, and takes a menacing step forward. ‘Go!’ he shouts.
Picking up the empty buckets, squelching into the sunshine. What a beautiful day for a journey. Warm breeze, feathery clouds, soaring swallows. A faint smell of fruit from the orchard. A stronger smell of manure from the stables. Everything absolutely as it should be, and here am I worrying about a poor little mixed-up puppy like Raymond. He’s just a child, really. He doesn’t know any better. Sixteen years old, and I bet he’s never set foot outside this place since he was six. Of course he doesn’t have a sense of proportion. Who would? I must try to be serene, and concentrate on the good things.
Like this well, for instance: this well is an example to us all. Look at the steps, and the paved pathway, and the beautiful carvings in the stone. Someone put a lot of thought into this well. Someone dedicated months of his life to it, and for what purpose? Simply to glorify God.
I’ve got to be like the man who built this well, and make every action count.
Drawing the water; filling my buckets. Raymond stands there in silence, waiting. Watching. Phew! These buckets are heavy.
Turn back. Take a step. His foot shoots out –
Whoa!
Help!
Hit the pavement. Water splashing. Buckets rolling. Ow, my wrist!
‘What’s the matter?’ (Raymond.) ‘Too heavy for you?’
Look up, and he’s sneering. Keep calm, Pagan. Keep very calm. This isn’t a garrison guard-room. This is a monastery. Just get up, and don’t raise your voice. Slowly, now. Slowly. Brush off your knees. Wipe your face. Don’t lose your temper.
‘Watch it, Raymond.’
‘Are you speaking to me?’
‘I said watch it. Understand?’
Whoops! Ducking just in time. His bucket bounces off my elbow.
‘How dare you speak to me like that! You miserable serf!’ (He’s sizzling like a goose on a spit.) ‘Do you think you can speak to me that way, just because Father Clement gives you your own special book to read? You filthy bastard! If you speak to me like that once more, I’ll break every bone in your body.’
Oh sure. You and what reinforcements, Raymond? ‘Don’t make me laugh. You couldn’t break wind.’
Whump! His other bucket flies through the air. Misses me. Hits the ground.
‘Now listen, Raymond, that’s stupid. That’s really stupid.’ Trying to be calm. Trying to be sensible. ‘I’m a trained squire. If you do that again, you’ll regret it –’
Oof! Blow to the chest! Step back – steady – digging my heels in. Ducking as he swings again. Head down. Charge! Straight to his breastbone.
That’s
done it. Feeling him yield; fall back; tumble. Kicking and rolling.
Let him roll. Jump on his back. Bend his arm . . .
‘Raymond –’
‘Ow! Ow!’
‘Peace, Raymond. Peace.
Pax.
All right?’
He bucks like a mule. Jesus, he’s solid. Jerks and thrashes. Whoops! Lost his arm. His hair! Quick! Grab his hair!
Yeowch!
Scum-bucket! Pig-swill! Bite me again and you’ll lose every tooth in your head, you pustulous gum-boil!
Oof!
That’s it. Chop his knee – down he comes – face in the dirt – punch in the ribs. One! Two!
‘Get him! Get him!’ A voice nearby. Look up, and it’s a stablehand. Two stablehands. Grinning and cheering and stamping their feet. ‘Come on! Don’t stop! He’s not finished yet!’
Ow! A kick – knocked back – he lunges. Slashing fingernails. Flailing arms. He grabs a rock. A rock! You maggot! You’re dead, you maggot!
Hard
to his neck!
Hard
to his groin! Punch. Slam. Kick. Fight me, would you? Fight
me
, would you?
‘Pagan!’
Jerked back. Struggling. Someone’s arms, like iron chains around my chest. Get off! Get off me!
‘Pagan!
Pagan!
’ It’s Roland. Roland’s breath. Roland’s arms. Roland’s panting voice. ‘Stop it, Pagan, stop it!’
I’m stopping, I’m stopping. Look, see? I’ve stopped. Vision clearing. Who’s that? Badilo? Bernard? Where did they come from?
‘What are you doing?’ Roland, angrily. Still holding on tight. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’ Gasp. Heave. ‘Raymond did. He started it.’
‘That’s right,’ someone says. It’s the older stable-hand. ‘That big one attacked first. This little one was just defending himself –’
‘Silence!’ Roland thunders. (I haven’t heard that voice for a long time – not since the siege of Jerusalem.) ‘Get back to work! All of you! Now! This instant!’
There’s a general shuffling of feet. The stablehands lower their eyes, and wander away. Bernard and Badilo exchange glances.
‘Did you hear me? I said all of you!’ Roland barks. He sets his jaw and waits as the novices follow Badilo back into the mill-house.
I feel as if my ribs are going to snap.
‘Roland – please – you’re hurting me.’
Ah! That’s better. He releases his grip, and drops to one knee beside Raymond’s huddled form. God. Raymond. Is he all right? There’s blood on the steps.
‘Raymond.’ Roland gently touches his shoulder. ‘Raymond? Are you hurt?’
‘Leave me alone.’
A muffled voice from a hidden face. But at least he can talk. At least he’s conscious. Roland frowns, and leans closer.
‘Where are you hurt? Tell me.’
‘Go away! Just go away!’
He sounds all right to me. Maybe a little embarrassed. We should probably leave him alone for a while. But Roland gets a grip on him; tries to pull him up.
‘Come, Raymond, you can’t stay here. You should go to the infirmary.’
Even as Roland speaks, Raymond raises his head. God preserve us.
Blood everywhere.
‘It’s my nose . . .’ he whimpers.
Oh Lord. What a mess. But it’s not my fault. Roland – please – don’t look at me like that.
‘It’s not my fault! I told him not to! I told him I was a trained squire –’
‘Go.’
‘But –’
‘Go! You’re not helping! Just go!’
‘That’s not fair!’ (Damn you, Roland!) ‘What was I supposed to do, let him kick my head in?’
‘Pagan –’
‘I’m bleeding too, you know! Look! Why don’t you ask me if
I’m
hurt?’
‘Don’t be so childish.’
Oh. So I’m childish, am I? Well in that case I might as well cut my losses. I might as well go and steal some apples, or break some windows. Since they’re probably going to throw me out anyway –
‘Pagan!’
Footsteps, pursuing. It’s Roland.
‘Pagan, wait!’ He catches my arm. ‘Stop. Please. Listen to me.’
‘Why should I?’ Shaking him off. ‘Why should I, when you won’t listen to me?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. But you must learn to control yourself. You must learn, Pagan.’
‘What do you mean? I have been controlling myself.’
‘No. You lost your temper. I saw you.’ Taking my hands and squeezing them hard. Searching my face with anxious blue eyes. ‘Please, Pagan, you have to make this work. If you don’t control yourself, you won’t be able to stay here. Don’t you understand? They’ll expel you.’
‘I know.’
‘Then please, please, will you
stay out of trouble
?’
Oh God, Roland, what do you think I’ve been trying to do? I don’t go looking for trouble. It just finds me, somehow.
It’s been stalking me like a panther ever since I was born.
