Pagan's Vows (19 page)

‘Benedictus sit Dominus, Pater.’
Malodorous maggot. I hope he’s got the flux. Waiting until he’s shuffled out before I tackle Durand.

‘Listen, Durand, can I ask you something?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘Shh! Not too loud.’ (Our voices seem to echo around the damp, cavernous space.) ‘I don’t want anyone to hear this.’

‘Hear what?’

‘Well . . .’ How shall I put it? ‘Has the almoner ever – has he ever – well, bothered you?’

‘Bothered me?’

‘You know.’ Or do you? He’s staring at me with those big, startled eyes, and it’s hard to discern just how much is hidden behind them. ‘Has he ever kissed you, or patted you, or – or –’

‘Raped me, you mean?’

Well I’ll be spit-roasted. ‘Um . . . yes. I suppose that is what I mean.’

‘Oh no, he’s never raped me. Why? Has he raped you?’

‘No.’ What a laugh. Here I was, wondering how much he knew, when of course he knows the lot. How could he avoid it? He’s in a monastery, for God’s sake.

He wipes his nose and peers at me from under his fringe of fine, lank hair. ‘Has he raped someone else, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fighting the insane urge to giggle. ‘I don’t know, has he?’

‘I don’t think so.’ When Durand frowns, he looks much older. ‘No one’s said anything to me. I didn’t even know he
liked
boys.’

‘Well he does.’

‘How did you work that out?’

‘I just did.’

‘But how?’

Oh Lord, and now he wants the whole story. Somehow I knew he would.

‘Please, Pagan, I won’t tell, I promise.’ His breath smells of the thyme he’s been eating, as a cold-cure. He’s practically wagging his tail. ‘I know how to keep a secret. You can trust me. I’d never tell on you, never. Have I ever told on you?’

‘No, but –’

‘Please. I know there’s something going on; I’ve been watching you. Why won’t you trust anyone? I know a lot of things that other people don’t know. Maybe I can help.’

Maybe you can, at that. You’d certainly be the first person around here who’s ever tried. But do you really want to help? Or do you just want a juicy bit of gossip?

It’s his hand that really convinces me. The way he pats my arm, so hesitant, so earnest, as if he’s afraid that I’ll bite him. He glances towards the entrance, but there’s no one in 178 sight. No sound of footsteps in the cloisters. Just the drip-drip-drip of water in the sluice.

Perhaps I should risk it.

‘Remember that cousin of Aeldred’s? The one who visits every month?’ Waiting until he’s nodded. ‘Well, I talked to the cousin yesterday, and he told me Aeldred used to be a monk in a Burgundian monastery. But then he left, because they found out he was molesting the oblates.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. And I’m sure it’s true, because Aeldred is paying this cousin money. To keep him quiet.’

‘Paying him money? I don’t understand. What money?’

‘Money that he’s stolen. Alms money.’

Durand’s jaw drops. It’s not a pretty sight.

‘The trouble is, I don’t have any proof. And without proof, no one’s going to believe me.’

The words are hardly out of my mouth before Durand blushes. Even in this light, you can see the wash of red that engulfs his face.

‘
I
believe you,’ he croaks.

‘Well – good. At least someone does.’ Better get moving, I suppose, before Clement comes screaming in like the Beast of the Apocalypse. Hoisting up my skirt. Preparing to aim.

‘Pagan?’

Tinkle, tinkle.

‘What?’

Another pause. Go on, Durand. Whatever it is, just say it. He takes a deep breath.

‘I know you didn’t bring that girl in,’ he announces.

God preserve us! Just as well I’m finished, or I would have pissed up the wall.

‘You
what
?’

‘I saw her with Roquefire one night. She was Roquefire’s girl.’ He’s staring at his feet. ‘I saw her in the kitchens.’

‘You saw her?’ I can’t believe it. ‘What were you doing?’

This time the blush is so deep, it’s almost purple.

‘I was stealing food,’ he whispers.

Stealing food. In the kitchens. And he saw her! He actually saw her, with Roquefire! ‘But why didn’t you say something?’ In God’s name, Durand! ‘I got beaten for that! Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘I couldn’t.’ There’s a crack in his voice. ‘How could I tell them what I’d been doing? They would have beaten
me.
’

That’s true. They would have. And it mightn’t have done any good.

Still and all . . .

‘I’m sorry, Pagan.’ He’s wiping his eyes, now, as well as his nose. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a coward. It’s terrible, what happened to you.’

‘Never mind. You’re not to blame.’ He isn’t, either: he’s only a child. How can you expect a child to speak up when he’s scared witless? Poor little scrap. He’s not the right shape to be a hero. ‘Cheer up, Durand, I’m not angry. At least I know that you can keep your mouth shut. You will keep your mouth shut, won’t you? About the almoner? He mustn’t know that I know.’

‘All right.’ He’s frowning again. ‘But aren’t you going to tell the others?’

The others? ‘What others?’

‘The rest of us. You know. Bernard and Raymond and –’

‘Raymond!’ Ha! ‘Do you think Raymond would listen to a word I say?’

‘He likes you, you know.’

‘
Raymond
?’

‘He does. He admires you.’ The round, dark eyes haven’t left my face. ‘He’s just jealous, that’s all. So is everyone. So am I. But then I’ve got more reason to be.’

Jealous? Don’t make me laugh. You might as well be jealous of a gum-boil. ‘Oh, right. Sure. Naturally. Why not be jealous of the way I’m kicked around? It’s an enviable thing, being the official whipping-post.’

Durand smiles, and shakes his head. It’s an odd little smile, but then again, when you think about it, he’s an odd little person. I never realised that, until now.

‘You’re very clever, Pagan,’ he says, ‘but sometimes you can be a bit stupid, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ He shuffles his feet, looking over his shoulder. ‘I think we’d better be getting back, now. If we don’t, Father Clement will be down on us like the church roof.’

Amen to that. And we both know who’ll be getting the worst of it.

Chapter 23

‘H
ello, Amiel.’ Clement stands at the foot of the bed, leaning on his walking-stick. ‘How are you today? You look better.’

Amiel nods. He does look better: there’s a little more pink in his face, and a little less blue. But his chest is still heaving away desperately.

‘I’m much better now,’ he gasps. ‘Father Elias said that I can get up soon.’

‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Elias objects. ‘I said that if you continue to improve, we might sit you in a chair next week. That’s all I said.’

‘Brother Elias tells me that you’re strong enough to be visited.’ Clement’s voice is hoarser than usual, thanks to the highly epidemic nature of Durand’s cold. He looks as if he’s been killed, buried and dug up again; a tottering 182 wreck just barely able to support himself. His crippled hands are wrapped in fur mittens. ‘He tells me that you want to see your friends.’

‘Yes, Master.’ Cough. Wheeze. I feel as if I’ve wandered into a hospice. Nothing but clogged chests and runny noses as far as the eye can see. Even Roland doesn’t look too good, with his drawn, shadowy face. But then again, it’s his own damned fault. So it’s hard to be sympathetic.

‘I have to go to chapter, now,’ Clement continues. ‘If I leave you here with your friends, Amiel, will you promise to be good and quiet, and not to over-excite yourself?’

‘Oh yes, Master. Yes. Oh yes.’

Sounds a bit over-excited already. Clement gives him a sceptical look, and turns to address the rest of us.

‘Brother Elias will not be going to chapter,’ he declares, ‘because Brother Landric, over there, is too sick to leave. Consequently, if there is any rowdy behaviour, I will most certainly hear about it when I return. Do I make myself clear, Pagan?’

Oh, come on. Why are you always picking on me? Every time I break wind, I get my ear chewed off.

‘Do I make myself clear?’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Master, you always make yourself clear. It’s your rhetorical training.’

He narrows his eyes, and points his stick in my direction. It looks as if he’s going to give me one of his pokes, but without the support of the walking-stick his knees can’t take the pressure. They buckle, and he has to grab at Brother Elias – who mutters something in Latin about going to bed.

‘Rubbish!’ Clement snarls. And he straightens his back before stomping off towards the stairs, just to show everyone that he’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.

Elias shakes his head a little.

‘All right, boys,’ he says (apparently unaware of the fact that Roland, at least, hasn’t been a boy for some considerable time), ‘I want you to remember that Brother Landric is very ill, and we don’t want to make him any worse. So no shouting, please, or laughing, or running around.’

Laughing? Shouting? Running around? I’ve forgotten what they are, let alone how to do them. Elias gives Amiel a pat on the wrist before returning to Brother Landric, who’s twitching and sweating at the other end of the infirmary.

There’s a funny smell in the air.

‘You can sit on the bed,’ Amiel wheezes, as we cluster around. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘How are you feeling?’ (Raymond.) ‘Are you really feeling better?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘We would have brought you something to eat,’ Gaubert chimes in, ‘but Durand ate it.’

A burst of laughter, quickly stifled by the look that Elias flings at us from across the room. Amiel takes Gaubert’s hand.

‘So what’s been going on?’ he inquires weakly.

‘Well . . . everyone’s got a cold,’ says Raymond, ‘and it’s all Durand’s fault.’

‘It is not!’

‘Even the prior has it, and every time he sneezes he wobbles all over the place like a big fat wineskin.’

More muffled laughter. Bernard sits on the bed.

‘It’s freezing outside,’ he remarks. ‘You’re lucky to be in here all day.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are. If you sit down in the latrines, your arse freezes to the seat. They have to chip you off.’

‘It snowed last night,’ Raymond adds. ‘Did you know about that?’

‘Yes, Father Elias told me.’

‘And the well froze, so they’re melting ice in the kitchens.’ Raymond sighs, and looks at Bernard. ‘Do you remember what it was like in Carcassone, when we used to go skating? I’d love to go skating.’

Skating? ‘What’s skating?’

All eyes focus on me. There’s a long pause. Everyone waits for Raymond to reply.

‘Don’t you know what skating is?’ he says. ‘You put wooden things on your feet, and glide over the ice very fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘Oh, as fast as a horse. Faster.’

‘Really?’ That’s incredible. ‘But don’t you fall down?’

Bernard snickers. ‘He falls down, all right. He was always falling down.’

‘Not as much as you, Bernard.’

‘Father Aeldred fell down,’ Amel says abruptly. ‘He slipped on the ice, and he came in here because he thought he’d broken his ankle. But he hadn’t.’ As everyone digests this piece of news, Amiel leans forward and adds, in a low voice, ‘I don’t like him very much.’

‘Why not?’ The question is out of Durand’s mouth before I’ve even opened mine. ‘He hasn’t messed with you, has he?’

Oh God. That’s done it. There’s a puzzled silence, followed by an exchange of meaningful glances. Durand turns bright red.

It’s Raymond, once again, who takes the initiative.

‘What do you mean?’ he says, in hushed tones. He leans forward, his eyes bright with interest. ‘Do you mean like little Enguerrand and that disgusting gardener?’

Durand appears to have lost the power of speech. He wriggles uncomfortably, and casts me a hunted look. God damn you, Durand, you and your big mouth! I told you it was a secret!

‘He didn’t mess with
you
, did he?’ Raymond prompts, his head almost touching Durand’s.

Suddenly everyone’s huddled together, like cows under a tree in the rain. Only Ademar and Roland stand apart: Ademar because he’s simply not interested, and Roland – well, I don’t think Roland’s quite grasped what’s going on. He doesn’t have the monastic background to pick up those all-important nuances.

‘What did he do to you, Durand?’ It’s obvious that Raymond’s not going to let Durand off the hook. Poor old Durand, caught between the rocks and the reef. Doesn’t want to upset either of us.

Probably time for me to step in.

‘He didn’t do anything.’

Heads turn; jaws drop. Raymond peers at me intently.

‘Do you know about this?’ he demands, putting a great deal of force into a very soft whisper. ‘Don’t tell me he messed with
you.
’

‘No. But he was thrown out of another monastery for molesting children.’

You could hear a sparrow fart.

Bernard’s the first to recover.

‘He
what
?’

‘Shhh!’ (Keep it down!) ‘Do you want Father Elias to hear?’

‘That’s rubbish.’ Raymond, angrily. ‘How could you possibly know a thing like that?’

‘Because I heard it from the man who’s blackmailing him.’