Pagan's Vows (16 page)

A blast of wind turns my head to ice.

‘Sit still, boy, or I’ll have your ear off.’ Rainier, scraping away up there. A fitful buzz of conversation. The drip, drip, 147 drip of water off the eaves, as they shed the residue of last night’s rainstorm.

What a dreary, damp, uninspiring day.

‘There you go.’ A slap on the neck from Rainier. ‘Just one more rinse – that’s it – and you’re all tidied up. Who’s next? Gaubert? Come on, Pagan, get a move on.’

I’m moving, I’m moving. Off the stool, across to Roland. Squeezing in next to him. Nudging his elbow. He looks up, and blinks.

‘Pagan . . .’ he murmurs. His cheeks are all raw where Rainier’s been at them.

‘You’re cut, my lord.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got a cut. On your cheek.’ (And were lucky to escape with your head, knowing Rainier.) ‘Shall I get some cobwebs?’

‘No, no, don’t trouble yourself.’ He blinks again and rubs his eyes, almost as if he’s been sleeping. ‘You mustn’t call me that, Pagan. I’ve told you not to call me that.’

‘Call you what?’

‘I’m not your lord any more. I’m your brother.’

‘Oh really?’ Lowering my voice. ‘Then why don’t you treat me like a brother? Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, instead of sulking away like a two-year-old?’

‘Pagan –’

‘I’m not stupid, you know. I’m not blind.’ (Softly now, Pagan, or you’ll have Clement listening in.) ‘It’s quite obvious that you’re miserable. It’s written all over your face. But how can you expect anyone to help if you don’t talk about it?’

‘I have talked about it.’

Pause.

What?

He’s looking down at his boots.

‘What do you mean?’ In God’s name, Roland! ‘What do you mean, you’ve talked about it?’

‘In confession.’

In
confession
? You mean you – you mean you’ve talked to someone else? And not to me? You’ve gone to someone else about this?

God, I can hardly . . . this is . . . I’m having trouble breathing . . .

‘You went to someone
else
?’

‘Pagan –’

‘Oh well, if you went to someone else, that’s all right, then! Since they’ve obviously done you so much good! I mean, I can see that they’ve really put your mind at rest, there! Really cheered you up!’

‘Will you stop being so childish?’

‘No, Roland,
you
stop being so childish! Do you think you’re the only one with troubles? You don’t even know . . . I can’t even . . . If you had any idea . . .!’

Suddenly aware of the silence. Looking around, and everyone’s staring. Staring at me. What happened? What’s wrong? What am I doing on my feet, like this?

Quickly sitting down again.

‘If something’s troubling you, Pagan,’ Clement says at last, ‘there are people you can see. In private. Carrying on like a mad hen isn’t going to solve your problems.’

God preserve us.

‘Unless, perhaps, you’d like to share your troubles with the whole abbey?’ He’s lifting his lip in a sneer. ‘Is that what you want to do?’

‘No, Master.’

‘No. Good. Then kindly don’t raise your voice again.’

I think I’m going to die of embarrassment. Quick – hurry – somebody say something! Clement turns back to Elias, and continues his interrupted lecture on the merits of garlic oil. Rainier invites his next victim to sit down. Gerard farts, and apologises.

Roland won’t even look at me.

‘Aha! There he is!’ Bernard Incentor sits up straight. He waves frantically at the figure emerging from the guesthouse entrance. ‘Raymond! Here! Over here! I’ve saved a seat for you.’

God, and now Raymond’s back. Just what I needed. He strolls across the cloister-garth, looking smug and self-satis fied; he’s carrying several small pots and a little leather bag.

‘It’s honey,’ he says, as he stops in front of Clement. ‘Honey for the novices, and a donation for the abbey. With my father’s compliments.’

‘How very kind of your father.’ Clement doesn’t sound too impressed, but then he never sounds impressed about anything. ‘You must give it to Brother Montazin. He’ll take care of it. Give it to him now.’

Brother Montazin. Sitting on the next bench with Guilabert and Sicard and all the other, really
important
monks. Deep in conversation about really important things. Self-important expression on his razor-nicked face.

Accepting the gifts wordlessly.

I wonder if that little bag of money will end up in Lady Beatrice’s pocket. Bound to, I should think. Look at the way Montazin just slips it under his scapular (out of sight, out 150 of mind) as he mutters into Guilabert’s ear. Oh, you’re a sly one, aren’t you? Butter wouldn’t melt, you scorpion. But I know you. I’m watching you. One slip, pus-bag, and you’ve had it, my friend.

‘How’s your father?’ Bernard asks the question before Raymond has even reached our bench. ‘How are Lady Saurina and Lady Constance?’

‘They’re in good health,’ Raymond replies. He’s so very, very pleased with himself; so very pleased to be the only novice ever to receive visits from his family. Describing how his eldest brother has bought a new horse, and how his youngest sister is going to get married next month, while all the poor, abandoned novices cluster around eagerly, drinking in every word. All the abandoned novices bar one, that is.
I’m
not interested in Raymond’s boring family news. I’ve got other things to think about.

‘. . . Are there any other guests in there?’ (Durand, hovering at Raymond’s elbow.) ‘Anyone interesting?’

‘Oh, there’s the almoner’s cousin. That foreigner. You know, the one who always comes.’ Raymond glances at Clement – who’s still discussing garlic oil – and continues in hushed tones: ‘Actually, he was in the room next to my father’s. And he was having an argument. You could hear it right through the wall.’

An argument? ‘With whom?’ It’s out before I can stop it.

Raymond turns to glare at me, a haughty expression on his stuck-up face.

‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ he says.

‘But was it the almoner? Was he arguing with the almoner?’

‘Maybe.’ Which means yes, of course; I can tell by the fleeting look of annoyance which rumples His Majesty’s forehead. Durand presses for more information.

‘What did they say, Raymond? What did they say? Go on, tell us –’

‘Hush! Don’t shout! Do you want everyone to hear?’ Raymond’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper: he puts one hand on Bernard’s shoulder, and the other on Durand’s, and pulls them both towards him. ‘They were arguing about money,’ he says, ‘if you really want to know. They were arguing because the almoner owed his cousin some money.’

‘Why?’

‘If I knew, Bernard, I’d tell you. But I wasn’t going to sit there with my ear to the door. That’s the sort of thing a servant would do.’ Raymond throws a sideways look at me from out of his long grey eyes. ‘Only scum eavesdrop,’ he adds, meaning, of course, that I should move out of his immediate neighbourhood.

But Durand seems puzzled.

‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Our monks don’t have any money, not for themselves. So how could they owe any?’

‘Well I’m just telling you what I heard, Durand. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. But I do know they didn’t seem to like each other very much.’ Raymond yawns, displaying a fine set of teeth. ‘The way they were carrying on!’ he exclaims. ‘It was really rough. In fact I’m surprised the cousin even bothers to visit.’

Well I’m not. I’m not at all surprised. This simply must have something to do with that Lady Beatrice business; the question is, what? What’s the connection? And why 152 would Aeldred be paying money to a cousin he can’t stand? Unless . . . wait a moment . . .

‘Raymond?’

‘What?’ It’s almost funny, the level of revulsion he manages to convey in a single word. ‘What do you want now?’

‘I was wondering if you could tell me, confidentially of course . . .’ (Keep it down, Pagan, don’t let Montazin hear.) ‘I was wondering if you could tell me how long the almoner’s cousin has been showing up?’

‘Why?’

Dear oh dear, it’s like squeezing water from a stone. ‘Well I was only wondering, but if you can’t tell me –’

‘Of course I can tell you!’ (Ha. I knew he’d jump at that bait. So proud of being informed.) ‘The almoner’s cousin has been visiting every month, for six months,’ he says. ‘But why would you want to know that?’

‘Just interested.’ Very interested. So it’s been six months, has it? Exactly the length of time that Aeldred’s been visiting his lady friend.

I think I’m onto something, here.

‘Novices!’ Clement’s voice cuts through the air like a Turkish mace. ‘Brother Rainier’s finished with you now, so we’re going back to the dormitory. All rise, please.’

Curse it, not the dormitory! I need to visit that guesthouse. I need to talk to that cousin. Unless Aeldred’s still there . . . but he’s not. He’s back here, with Montazin. Must have joined us after Raymond did.

Come on, Pagan, concentrate. What are you going to do?

‘This way, novices.’ Clement heads for the herb garden, 153 disappearing into the long icy tunnel that links the garden to the cloisters. It’s dark, in there. Do you think if I . . .? But I’d have to be quick . . .

Waiting as Roland follows Clement: first Roland, and Raymond next, and Durand, and Gaubert, all in a straight line, with Bernard and Ademar bringing up the rear. Dawdling after them, carefully, so that I’m still in the shadowy passage by the time they’ve turned the corner.

Now! Quick! Fingers down the throat, and let’s get started. Think snot pies. Think roast turds. Think vomit . . .

Gagging. Choking.

‘Pagan?’ Bernard’s voice, from somewhere nearby. ‘Master! Come quickly! Pagan’s throwing up!’

A valuable skill I first learned many years ago, at Saint Joseph’s. Still comes in handy. Oooh. Auugh. The sound of Clement’s walking-stick: rap-rap, rap-rap.

‘Pagan?’ His feet are hovering at the edge of my mess. ‘What’s wrong?’

Groaning.

‘It must be something he ate,’ Gaubert squeaks. ‘I felt sick myself, last night –’

‘Silence! Go back to the dormitory. You too, Roland. All of you.’ With my face against the wall, like this, it’s impossible to see them go, but their shuffling footsteps fade away like the colours of sunset. Only Clement remains.

‘Come on, Pagan.’ He touches my arm. ‘I’ll take you to the infirmary.’

Groan.

‘Yes, yes, I know you don’t feel well. But we’ll get you to bed, and you’ll soon feel better. Come on, now, it’s not very far.’

God preserve us, he sounds almost human. Could it really be pity? Or is it some kind of trick?

He totters like a newborn calf when I lean on him.

‘That’s it. Just a few steps,’ he says. ‘And then Brother Elias will put you to bed, and he’ll give you a draught, and in no time at all you’ll be well enough to come back and clean up this disgusting mess you’ve made. Incidentally,’ he adds, as we lurch through the almonry door, ‘if you’ve been eating stolen food, Pagan, you must expect this kind of punishment. “Evil pursueth sinners, but to the righteous good shall be repayed”.’

God preserve us. Doesn’t he
ever
let up?

Chapter 20

‘U
gh! Yuk!’

‘Drink it, Pagan.’

‘But it tastes like –’
‘I know it tastes horrible. All medicines taste horrible. Now drink it.’

God preserve us. Tastes like the floor of a leper’s latrine. ‘What is this stuff, anyway, goats’ piss?’

‘It’s lovage and aniseed and – well – other things. It’s to settle your stomach.’ Elias lifts his head as the sound of bells penetrates the walls of the infirmary. ‘That’s the bell for Sext,’ he remarks. ‘It’s Mass, so I’ll have to go. Can you and Amiel look after each other, while I’m away? I won’t be long.’

‘Oh yes, Father. No problem.’ Go, go! Get lost, will you? ‘We’ll be fine. And if I’m sick again, I’ll do it into this bucket.’

Elias nods wearily, wiping his hands on the rag that’s tucked into his girdle. He has a bandage around one finger, and he’s limping from a scalded foot, but otherwise he seems to be in pretty good health, for a change. He isn’t coughing or sweating or sniffing, and he doesn’t look any more tired than usual. (His face always reminds me of a very old palliasse that’s been kicked and torn and slept on, and pissed on and dragged around, and finally dumped in a barn, for the dogs to play with.) He moves over to Amiel’s bed, and pats Amiel’s blanket.

‘Will you be all right, Amiel?’ he asks. ‘If anything happens, remember what I told you: horehound and tarragon in boiling water, and breathe in the steam. Hot-dry remedies for a cold-wet complaint.’

Amiel nods. He’s propped up against a mountain of pillows, gulping down air like a drowning man. Every breath is a major struggle: his cheeks are white, his lips blue. Elias checks his pulse, and frowns a little.

‘I won’t be long,’ he repeats. ‘Make sure he doesn’t talk, Pagan, and don’t get him too excited.’

‘No, Father, I won’t.’

‘Good. All right.
Dominus vobiscum.
’

And off he toddles. Weaving his way between the empty beds; through the strewing herbs; past the linen chest and the fireplace and the locked cupboard full of strange and expensive medicaments: vipers’ flesh, crushed deer antlers, crabs’ eyes, oil of earthworm. (I’ve heard all about them, from Durand.) Disappearing down the stairs.