Pagan's Vows (9 page)
T
his one looks like a ginger root. Brown; twisted; covered in lumps and knobs and patches of grass. But it doesn’t smell like ginger. Oh no. It smells like . . . it smells like . . .
Augh. I think I’m going to vomit.
Each toenail is like a slab of whalebone, and the soles are as hard as horn. But what’s this?
What’s this?
It’s coming apart in my hand!
No. No it isn’t. Don’t be a fool, Pagan, it’s just dirt. O give thanks unto the Lord, I thought his toe had come off.
There. That’s finished. One more wipe, and on to the next. But how many more? This foot here, and the two beside it . . . that’s twelve altogether. Twelve stinking paupers’ feet! For one miserable oath! It hardly seems fair. A single foot would be punishment enough. You know what they say about paupers: their feet go down to death; their steps take hold on hell.
Whew! And it’s so hot in here, too. So hot and noisy and crowded. Bedridden paupers coughing and spitting. Visiting paupers swapping names. Rush-collectors filing past, into the almoner’s office with their bundles, out again with their payments of bread. Everything steamy and sweaty and smelling of underarms.
Get out of here, dog. One sniff of this foot would probably kill you.
‘Is there anyone else?’ Raising my voice above the chatter. ‘Is there anyone else for a foot-bath?’
‘Me!’ A quavering voice; a misshapen form. He’s sitting on one of the beds, dressed in a yellow almonry night-shirt. Sorry, old man.
‘Not you. You live here.’
‘What about me?’ It’s a rush-collector. He’s small but solid, with bow legs and a huge bushy beard. Wearing a scythe on his belt. ‘
I’d
like to have my feet washed.’
Loud laughter from around the room. Call that a joke? I’ve seen funnier jokes on the back end of a bullock. And here’s someone coming down the infirmary stairs: Brother Elias, with a brimming piss-pot. Coughing, of course. Every time I see that man, he’s got something wrong with him. A terrible cold, or a scabby rash, or a stomach upset. Funny sort of infirmarian.
‘Go on.’ The bearded rush-collector sticks his boot in my face. ‘I could do with a foot-bath.’
‘Oh really? How much are you willing to pay?’
More laughter. (Anyone would think that I’d said something funny.) The rush-collector slaps his leg and wanders off. The pauper at the end of the line begins to remove strips of sticky black rag from around his feet, which look soft and swollen like rotting cucumbers. Please God, don’t make him a leper. Anything but that.
Someone stops just behind me. Taps my arm. What now, for God’s sake? Turning around
And it’s Saurimunda.
She must have been collecting rushes with the rest of the serfs, because there’s a loaf of bread tucked under her arm. In broad daylight she looks grubby and battered: her hands are scarred, her fingernails torn, her skin greyish and unhealthy. Even so, it’s easy to see how young she is. She can’t be more than fourteen years old.
But what’s she doing? She breaks off a piece of bread, and holds it out . . .
Oh no. No.
‘What’s that, little brother? A love-token?’ (The man with the ginger-root feet.) ‘I think she wants to be friends with you.’
No. No! I don’t want it. Go away. Go!
Go!
Her face falls as I flap my hand: with a bowed head she makes her way slowly to the door, followed by a chorus of growls and lewd whistles.
‘Go on, little monk, be a man.’
‘Give her a kiss.’
‘I’m willing, my lady, even if he isn’t!’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce – I’ve got to get out of here. Sloshing through the last pair of feet. Wrapping them in clean white rags. Rising slowly, stiff-kneed, with a crackling spine.
There, I’m done. Rejoice in the Lord, O ye righteous.
‘How about our money?’ Ginger-foot, again. What a thoroughly unpleasant pauper. ‘Where’s our money?’
Money?
‘What money?’
‘We get a coin. One coin. We always get a coin!’
‘All right, all right, I’ll ask. Keep your hair on.’
Picking up my bucket. (The water’s almost black.) Dragging it to the door of the almoner’s office. Aeldred is sitting in there on a stool, surrounded by bundles of rushes. He’s passing three small loaves to a little old woman with a face like a very bad hangover.
‘What is it?’ he snaps.
‘Please, Father, I’ve finished those feet. And they’re asking about money.’
‘They’ll have to wait. It hasn’t arrived yet. I’ll give it to them myself, when it does.’
‘Yes, Father. Is there anything else you want?’
‘Just empty the bucket and go.’
With pleasure. Back through the beds; past the staircase; past Ginger-foot. Out the rear door into fresh air and sunshine. Whew! What a relief! How lovely that rose bush smells! Feeling the breeze on my sodden skirts.
‘Father Pagan . . .?’
What –? Who –?
Oh Lord, it’s Saurimunda.
‘Look here.’ Trying to be nice. Trying to be pleasant. ‘You shouldn’t be talking to me. It’s not allowed.’
‘I want to give you some bread.’
‘Bread?’
‘For your kindness.’ She stands there with the bread in her dirty little hand. Her hair’s coming out of its net: it’s pale and wispy. ‘Roquefire told me what you did. I know you didn’t tell on us.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘You’re good. You’re kind and gentle. I want to thank you.’
‘No, please. Keep it. I get enough to eat.’
‘Oh.’ She looks at the bread. (It’s already a bit soiled.) Slowly, listlessly, she raises it to her mouth and bites off a mouthful. Her teeth are small and white and pretty.
Her face is pretty, too, what you can see of it.
‘Listen, Saurimunda.’ (How shall I put this?) ‘Could I ask you something? Why do you visit Roquefire? I mean no, I don’t mean that – I mean, why Roquefire? Why him?’ When she smiles, a dimple appears in her left cheek. ‘Because he loves me,’ she says.
‘Oh.’
‘And because he’s going to marry me.’
Oh, sure. And John the Baptist’s maiden name was Theodora Scum. ‘When’s that going to happen?’
‘I don’t know. Some time.’
Some time before the Last Judgement. Poor girl. She’s wrapped in a shapeless, ragged cloak, the colour of manure.
‘But are you really certain about this?’ Carefully, so as not to offend. ‘Can you really be sure?’
She stares at me, round-eyed. ‘About what?’ she says. ‘About Roquefire. You could do a lot better.’
‘Better than what?’
‘Better than Roquefire.’
‘How?’
How? Good question. Oh, I don’t know, it’s too complicated. I can’t get involved in this. It’s none of my business.
‘Saurimunda – I’m sorry – I’ve got to get back. I can’t stay here, or I’ll be punished. So take care of yourself and – um – thanks, and – and maybe I’ll see you again.’
‘Goodbye, Father Pagan.’
‘Don’t call me Father. I’m not a Father.’ Emptying the bucket. ‘Go on, go home. Before somebody sees you.’
Escaping back into the almonry. I hope no one heard. The last thing I need is another round of foot-baths. The paupers are all still sitting there, waiting for their pay-out. The little old woman is shuffling along with her loaves. She snarls at me as I brush past.
Probably thinks I want to steal them.
Up to the almoner’s office. The door’s half shut. Inside, Aeldred is facing Bernard Magnus, who’s holding a small leather purse in his hand. (Wonder how he managed to squeeze through that door?) Bernard seems to be asking something.
‘
Pauperes quit suet hodie?
’
‘
Octo.
’
‘
Et onus denarius per unum hominem –
’
‘Wait!’ Aeldred’s voice cuts across Bernard’s, sharp and furious. (He’s caught sight of me.) ‘What do you want? What are you skulking around there for?’
‘I wanted to know where to put the bucket –’
‘Just leave it there! Leave it!
Faciens stultitiam – !
’
Faciens stultitiam
yourself, dog-breath! Dropping the bucket with a bang. Heading for the front door. Striding into the herb garden.
Pausing halfway to the dormitory.
Wait a moment. Hold it just a moment. What’s going on here?
He didn’t want to be heard. He was angry at me because he didn’t want anyone to hear what he was saying. But what
was
he saying?
Let me think, now. Bernard asked him how many paupers there were today. And he said eight. And Bernard said: ‘And one denarius for one pauper –’
Eight?
Eight paupers?
But I only washed twelve feet!
All right. All right, Pagan, let’s look at this calmly. Twelve feet make six paupers. At one coin per pauper, that’s six coins. But Aeldred asked for eight. Which means . . .
Which means that he’s pocketing the other two coins.
So that’s why he was angry. That’s why he didn’t want anyone to hear him. Anyone like me, that is: anyone who could speak Latin, and who knew how many feet had been washed.
Because he’s embezzling abbey funds.
‘Pagan.’
Look up. It’s Clement, lurking under Saint Catherine like a dog at a gate.
‘What are you standing around for?’ he grumbles. ‘I told you to come straight back. Have you finished your act of penance?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘In here, then. You’ve got work to do.’
Oh numb your gums, Clement, I’m trying to think. Think, Pagan, think! But it’s impossible. He’s yapping away, yap, yap, yap, and I just can’t get it straight in my head.
‘. . . I hope this has taught you not to use oaths, Pagan. Remember, the Twenty-seventh Instrument of Good Works is not to swear at all, lest one forswear. Because Christ our Lord said: “Swear not at all, neither by heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by the earth, for it is His footstool . . .” ’
Later. I’ll think about it later.
‘D
eus in adjutorium meum intende . . .
’
The slow chant begins. Calm and strong, deep and mellow, rising to the vaulted roof like a bird.
‘
Domine labia mea aperies
,
et os meum annuntiabit laudem
tuam.
’
Sunlight washing through coloured glass, staining the pillars blue and green and purple. Rows of motionless monks, their faces half-hidden by their cowls, their hands very pale against their ebony-black robes. Among them, Aeldred. There he is, sitting there, staring into space. Preoccupied.
‘. . .
Tu mandasti
,
mandata tua custodiri nimis . . .
’
And now the First Psalm. Carried on deep bass voices like foundation stones, with the pure, sweet sound of the children’s chorus floating above. Soaring and dying and soaring again. Lifting our thoughts to heaven. Blessed art Thou, O Lord: teach me Thy statutes.
‘
Benedictus es
,
Domine
,
doce me justificationes tuns . . .
’
But I can’t concentrate on this, just now. I have to think. I really have to think. If I was Aeldred, what could I possibly be spending my embezzled money on? You can’t spend it in the abbey. You can’t even buy things outside the abbey, and bring them back: someone would be sure to notice.
You could, however,
give
the money to someone else.
‘. . .
Sederunt principes et adversum me loquebanter . . .
’
That’s it. That’s what he’s doing. He’s giving the money to his widow friend, I’m sure of it. But in that case, what should I do? Should I tell someone? If the abbot was here I’d tell him, because it’s his abbey, and I know he wouldn’t like this business at all. He’d believe me, too, I know he would. Damn, damn, damn. Why’s he always wandering off to councils and debates and general chapters? The bishops can’t possibly need him as much as we do.
‘
Ambulate in dilectione . . .
’
Whoops! It’s a hymn. What is it? ‘Walk in Love’? Yes. ‘Walk in Love’. That’s all right, I know ‘Walk in Love’.
Sicut
et Christus oblationem et hostiam . . .
easy. No problem. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Telling someone.
The prior?
Oh Lord, not old bladder-brain. I know what he’d do. He’d just look at me with those boiled eyes and tell me to talk to Brother Clement. Too worried about quotas, and how many lambs we should be getting in tithes, and whether the serfs should be paying one sextarius of wine for each day’s work, or one-and-a-half. I’ve heard him in the cloister, muttering to himself. His mind’s just too small to fit one more nugget of information. Try to insert another fact in there and his skull would explode.
‘
Ad Dominum cum tribularer clamavi . . .
’
Help! Are we on the psalms again? Glancing around, but Clement didn’t see me stumble. He’s too busy glaring at Roland. Poor old Roland, must have made a mistake. He’s always making mistakes. I wish there was something I could do to help him. As for Clement – one of these days I’m going to shove that old man’s walking-stick right up his left nostril.
Look at him, standing there. Growling his way through the psalms. Talk about the beast that spake as a dragon. I couldn’t possibly tell
him:
he’d bite my head off. No, I’ll go to someone else. Someone like . . .