So there. Clement snorts, and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can deliver his next batch of insults someone appears on the threshold: someone who stands there with snow on his shoulders, cheeks red with cold, grey eyes sparkling. Someone who looks at me and winks.
It’s Raymond.
‘Well, Raymond,’ says Clement, ‘what took you so long? You can join the others, now.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And kindly don’t drip on the book, if you please, or I’ll wring you out myself.’
Come on, Raymond. Did you do it? Did he take it? Give me a sign! You said you’d give me a sign! Watching him cross the room, with a skip and a saunter, his curls bobbing with each frisky step.
As he sits down beside Roland, he kisses the back of his hand at me.
Yes! He did it! Hooray! It worked! God, what a relief. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name.
‘Pagan.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Turning to meet the flinty gaze of the Terror, who looks exactly like Death on a Pale Horse with Hell following unto him. Even his voice sounds deadly.
‘It appears that your mind is on other things,’ he says. ‘Perhaps my questions aren’t difficult enough to engage your mighty intellect. Perhaps they’re giving you room to reflect on other matters – on things unholy and unchaste.’
Oh, please. Give it a rest, will you? How can anyone be unchaste in this weather?
‘What you need,’ Clement continues, ‘is a challenge. Something suitably formidable. Something to cut your teeth on.’ He stares down at the floor, thinking so energetically that the veins stand out on his temples. (With any luck his brain will burst.)
Rolling my eyes at Raymond, who starts making signs at me with the fluid skill of a lifetime’s practice: letter – go – twelve – days . . . What does it mean when you put all your fingers together on your forehead?
Suddenly Clement breaks the silence.
‘Te rogamus ut nobis parcas, ut nobis indulgeas, ut ad veram poenitentiam nos perducere digneris.’
Pardon? Staring at him, open-mouthed. He makes an impatient noise, and begins to repeat himself.
‘Te rogamus ut nobis parcas . . .’
Oh, I see. Well if you want a translation, why don’t you ask for one? Let’s think, now. Te rogamus . . . ‘ “We beseech you that you would spare us, that you would pardon us, that you would bring us to true penance.” ’ ‘Correct.’ He nods. ‘And what rhetorical device is illustrated in that sentence?’
Help! What rhetorical device? Sweet saints preserve us.
‘Come on, Pagan –’
‘Repetitio!’
‘Which is?’
‘The repetition of the same word at the beginning of each clause.’
A grunt from Clement. I suppose that means I’ve got it right. Why the hell can’t he scare up a compliment, occasionally?
‘Quid mihi est in caelo?’ he says.
Quid mihi est in caelo? That’s easy. ‘ “Whom else have I in heaven?” ’ ‘And what can you find in that sentence?’
‘Ratiocinatio.’
‘Which is?’
‘ “A question addressed to oneself.” ’ ‘Correct. Totum huius capitis corpus, etsi diversae facies, in posterioribus tamen non discrepat.’
Woof! That’s a hard one. Let’s see. The whole body . . . No. All the followers of this chief, although their faces are diverse . . . in posterioribus? What’s that? Oh, I see. Very amusing. Remind me to stitch up my sides.
‘ “All the followers of this chief, although their faces are diverse, do not differ in what comes after them.” An example of adnominatio.’ There! Got it. Once again he nods.
‘Correct,’ he declares. ‘And what is adnominatio?’
‘A pun.’ (If you can call it that.) ‘At least, it’s supposed to be a pun. I’d call it a pretty pathetic attempt at humour, myself.’
Pause. Clement narrows his eyes and cocks his head.
‘Would you indeed?’ he growls. ‘But then, even with something as unimportant as a joke, you must be better than everyone else. Isn’t that right, Pagan?’
Oh, get off my back. ‘When it comes to jokes, Master Clement, I am better than everyone else.’
‘Odd that I’ve never noticed it.’
‘You’ve never noticed it because you don’t have a sense of humour.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes really. And I can prove it with a syllogism. Because all people with a sense of humour laugh, and you don’t laugh; therefore you don’t have a sense of humour.’
He’s staring at me like a lizard, his eyes black and unblinking. After a while he says: ‘We are not studying syllogisms today. We are studying elocutio.’
Which means that you can’t think of a response. Ha! Got you there, didn’t I? Think you’re so smart, you dried-up old relic. You can’t get the better of me. I’ll always be one step ahead of you because I’m younger and smarter, and I’m not scared of your ranting no matter how loudly you shout, Master Needle-nose.
‘Nescierunt, neque intellexerunt, in tenebris ambulant.’
Here we go again. ‘ “They know not, neither will they understand; they walk in darkness.” ’ ‘And what can you find in that sentence?’
What can I find? A moral reflection? No, if it was a moral reflection there’d be something about good or evil in it. So it’s not sentential . . .
‘I’m waiting, Pagan.’
Then why don’t you just wait, instead of flapping your tongue around? Oh – wait – I’ve got it!
‘Translatio!’
‘Which is?’
‘A metaphor.’
‘And what else?’
What else? What do you mean, what else?
He parts his lips in a savage, toothless grin. ‘What else can you find in that sentence?’ he inquires, and I can’t believe he’s serious. Something else? There can’t be something else!
Frantically thinking, as he spits words at me like arrowheads.
‘So, Pagan, perhaps you’re not so clever after all. Could it be that the Fount of Wisdom is beginning to dry up? Don’t tell me there’s something you don’t know. Where is that brilliant mind you’re so proud of?’
Shut up! Just shut up!
‘Come on, boy, I thought you were an orator. Call yourself a rhetorician? You couldn’t talk your way out of bed –’
‘Interpretatio!’ (You maggot!) ‘ “The repetition of the same idea in different words!” ’
Dead silence. Even Bernard’s stopped reading. And I’m panting as if I’ve just run a race – panting for breath – and Clement leans forward until we’re nose to nose.
‘What else?’ he hisses.
Blank. Total blank. Turning to look at the others, but they’re no help; they just sit there staring, white-faced, and I have to think – I have to work this out . . .
‘Well?’
Significatio? No. Membrum? Can’t be.
‘Well, Pagan?’ His eyes are slits. His voice is a goad. ‘Could it be that you’re stumped? Could it be that you don’t know the answer? Of course you don’t. Because you’re a puffed-up little bantam-cock under the mistaken impression that you’re an eagle. You’re nothing. Compared to the Masters of the Trivium, you’re just a worm in a hole. Why don’t you admit it? Lost your tongue, now?’
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe, properly.
‘Come on, Pagan, spit it out! Tell me the answer! Surely you know the answer?’
‘No.’
It emerges as a strangled squawk, because the muscles 197 in my throat seem to be paralysed. Clement puts his hand to his ear.
‘What? What was that?’
‘No.’ You stinking scumbag. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know.’ He sits back, with a vicious look of satisfaction. ‘Then I’ll tell you, shall I? Shall I tell you, Pagan?’
‘Yes! Yes, yes, just tell me!’
‘The answer is nothing.’
&nbs
p; What? I don’t understand. Staring into his glittering eyes as he elaborates, softly.
‘There is nothing else to be found in that sentence.’ He’s grinning like a skull; like a devil. Triumphantly. ‘Fooled you there, didn’t I? Eh?’
You bastard. You – you – I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you!
‘Pagan –’
Wrench the stick from his hands. Smash it down – crack! – on the floor, so hard that it breaks, and one piece goes spinning. But the other piece – I’ve still got that. Throwing it at him. ‘You bastard! You maggot! I hate you, I’m going to kill you!’ He ducks, and it bounces off his arm. Let go! Let go of me! Someone on my back – get off, will you? Kicking. Writhing. Roland’s voice, from somewhere above.
‘Pagan, stop! Stop it!’
Get off me! Get off me! Scratch – jab – go for the guts – ouch! You bastard! The knee, the knee! A sob of pain.
‘Stop it!’
Christ! The weight! On the ground, on my chest, and my arms, I can’t – ow! Yeow! Bent back behind; someone holding me down. Shaking me. Wrists numb with the pressure.
‘That’s enough! Stop it!’
Bucking, and he lets go. It worked! No, it didn’t. He’s hauling me around. Ow – help – get off! On my back, face to face . . .
With Roland.
Thwack! He slaps me across the cheek. ‘Stop it, Pagan!’ Thwack! He does it again. ‘Do you hear me? You’re hysterical! Calm down!’
Can’t move. Can’t even breathe. Pain in my leg, my wrist, my head . . . sick in my stomach . . .
What have you done to me, you bastard?
‘Pagan? Listen, you have to calm down –’ And I spit in his face.
He reacts as if I’ve burned him. Rears back, white as snow; scrambles to his feet; turns away, gasping. And suddenly a fire is snuffed out in my head. I can see again, now. I can breathe again. I’ve got wet cheeks and sore ribs and – and I’m so tired . . .
‘Pagan?’ It’s Clement. His voice is very calm. ‘Pagan, can you hear me?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Go and wash your face. Durand, help him up. Take him to wash his face.’
‘Yes, Master.’
And here’s Durand. Good old Durand: he’s almost as shaky as I am. Why does everyone look so sick? Oh yes. Yes, I remember, it’s my fault. It’s my fault because I spat – because I spat
‘Pagan? Listen to me.’ It’s Clement speaking. God, and I broke his walking-stick. I’m dead, now. I’m finished. ‘Pagan? I want you to remember something. Will you remember something?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Violence is the last refuge of illiterates. It means that you’ve lost.’ He taps his forehead. ‘What we have up here – up here – is the deadliest weapon that God has given us. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And there’s something else.’ He looks down at the floor, biting his lip. When he looks up again, he’s perfectly expressionless. ‘I intend to order a new staff,’ he says, in the most arid of tones. ‘I shall inform the cellarer that I broke this staff myself, in an accident. A fall.’ He glares around the room: at Raymond, at Gaubert, at Durand. His eyes are like embers set deep in his skull. ‘We will forget,’ he says coldly, ‘that this incident ever occurred. It was a mistake. Is that clear?’
‘It should not have happened.’
Spring 1189
Chapter 25
I wish Guilabert would hurry. I want to sit down. Ah! There he is, squeezing through the refectory door, and everyone bows as he waddles his way up the centre aisle like a huge milk pudding on legs. Reaches the abbot’s table. Mutters the Benedicite. And who’s that at the lectern? Not Bernard Blancus! God preserve us, it is Bernard Blancus. This is going to be rough.
‘Edent bauberes,’ he remarks, forcing the words through a noseful of congealed goo, and it’s enough to put you off your dinner. He asks us all to pray for him; Guilabert gives the blessing; everyone sits down. Across the table, Bernard catches my eye.
He twirls a lock of hair three times around his index finger.
I know what he’s thinking. That’s the sign for ‘Raymond’. He’s worried that Raymond’s going to miss a meal, if he doesn’t hurry back.
‘Bobulus Ziod.’ (The clogged voice of Bernard Blancus, painfully ploughing through the Book of Isaiah.) ‘Ecce, Dobidus vediet ad salvadas gedes ed audidab facied . . .’
And here comes the wine. Oh no, damn, it’s not wine, it’s water. I keep forgetting about Lent. Bernard Surdellus pours it very carefully into each cup, as his assistants follow with the bread and beans. So many beans . . . it’s going to be fun in the dormitory tonight. All I can say is, someone had better leave the window open.
Splat! The beans. Splat! Ladled onto our bread. Splat! They’re still steaming, but that doesn’t deter old Durand. He picks up a mouthful and drops it, instantly, because he’s burned himself. Starts blowing on his fingers. Beside him, the new novice swallows a giggle.
I don’t like that new novice. What’s his name? Gaucher? Always whining. Always complaining. It’s too hot, it’s too cold, he’s hungry, he’s tired, his back’s sore, he can’t eat eggs, he can’t sleep properly because Amiel’s been coughing all night. Doesn’t seem to occur to him that Amiel’s the one who should be complaining. And of course he never says a word when Clement’s around: just purses his lips and lifts his eyes to the hills whence cometh. Reminds me a bit of the Patriarch of Jerusalem: tall, pale and slender, just like the Patriach, with the same long neck, the same long eyelashes, and the same petulant personality. Except, of course, that Gaucher’s only a boy, so he doesn’t have the Patriarch’s considerable experience with women.
Watching him as he blows on his beans.
‘Cobfordabidi ed iab nolidae dibere; ecce, edib Deus nosder redribued judiciub . . .’
Ugh! That blocked nose! It’s as irritating as an unoiled hinge. Ignore it, Pagan, think about something else. Think about . . . God. What is there to think about? Certainly not the food. It’s never been inspiring at the best of times, and at Lent it’s so plain that it’s positively Cistercian.
Gaubert nudges me: when I turn, he points at his breastbone (which means I), crosses his hands on his chest (want), and knocks one forefinger against the other, twice (eggs). I – want – eggs. Well so did I, Gaubert, but we won’t be getting any.
Ouch! Who did that? Who kicked my ankle? As I look up, Bernard points towards the door. What –? Who –? Oh, I see, it’s Raymond.
He’s trying to slip in quietly, without causing a disturbance. Hurriedly washing his hands. Bowing in Guilabert’s direction. Scurrying across to join us, his face flushed with excitement.
Must have got a present from his father.
He stops in front of Clement, and begins to make his formal apology (with a great fluttering of fingers), but Clement waves it aside before he’s even finished. So he abandons the effort and squeezes in next to me – despite the fact that there’s much more room on the opposite bench. Bernard, who’s been saving a spot, looks a little put out.
Your – father – well? (Amiel signs from the other end of the table.) Your – sister – well?
Raymond nods. He’s trying to look calm, but I can feel him quivering. Bernard Surdellus arrives with the food, and there’s a pause as Bernard receives his share. I can almost hear the growling of Durand’s stomach: he’s already finished his beans, and is casting wistful glances at Raymond’s portion. Bernard sticks his thumb in his mouth – it’s a sign that means ‘baby’.
Baby? What baby? Oh, that’s right; I understand.
Raymond shakes his head, indicating that his sister still hasn’t given birth. He’s sitting with his hands hidden from view, under the tabletop, and suddenly I can feel him tapping my leg. When I look at him, he’s gazing off towards the lectern.
What the hell is he doing?
Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Reaching down to push his hand away, but there’s something else down ther
e – a wad of parchment . . .
God save us! It’s the letter!
Quickly relieving him of it. Tucking it into my girdle. O clap your hands, all ye people; shout unto God with the voice of triumph. I can’t believe it’s come. It’s actually come! No wonder Raymond’s so excited. No wonder he’s sweating like a piece of cheese. Glancing at him, sideways, and he throws me one of his conspiratorial grins. You gem, Raymond. You bundle of myrrh. I’ll never forget this, never.
But how am I going to read the damned thing?
I’ll need time, I’ll need light, I’ll need privacy – and I might as well ask for the moon. Tomorrow, perhaps? When Clement’s at chapter? No, that’s no good. We’re supposed to be going to chapter tomorrow, too, because Raymond’s presenting his petition. And of course he’ll be accepted: why wouldn’t they want to make him a monk? He’s always been the perfect novice, so he’s bound to be a perfect monk.
God, how I wish I could read this letter now. I’m so desperate to read it! If only I could just open it up under the table. But I can’t, of course; not with all these people watching me. Durand’s watching me. Clement’s watching me. Roland’s watching me . . .
Roland. He drops his gaze as I look at him, and begins to pick at his bread. Barely a mouthful gone, needless to say. No wonder he’s as thin as a whip. No wonder he’s so listless. He’s going to kill himself – he’s going to damn well kill himself, and he can’t blame me because it’s all his own fault. Was it me who stopped talking to him? No. He was the one who stopped talking to me. Wouldn’t even listen when I tried to apologise that time. That time when I . . . when I . . .
God damn you, Roland! Well you can crawl off under a stone, for all I care, because I’m fed up with your stupid behaviour. I don’t need you. I don’t need that miserable moping, it’s driving me insane. I can take care of myself, thank you, and – and – oh God, I have to stop thinking about this. I have to stop thinking, or it hurts too much.
‘Rorade, caeli, desuber, ed dubes pluadt jusdub; aberiadur derra ed gerbided salvadoreb . . .’
Sucking the last of the sauce off my fingers. Tearing a piece off my bread. Beside me, Raymond’s shovelling his food down like a thief with a stolen capon: you’d think he hadn’t eaten in years. I wonder if he’s actually read this letter? But I can’t just ask him, not in public. I’ll have to think of another way.