‘Roquefire?’ Roland sounds bewildered.
‘The servant. In the sacristy. He’s the one who told me about Aeldred in the first place, because he goes with him into town, every week. And now the cellarer has told him never to talk to me again, or he won’t be allowed to go on those trips, any more!’
Waiting for a comment. Well? Well? He puts his hand to his temple, and closes his eyes. Oh come on, Roland!
‘Don’t you see? It means that the cellarer is probably involved!’
‘Pagan –’
‘Don’t you see it makes sense? Why would he let the almoner keep doing what he’s been doing? Unless he approves of it.’ Oh Lord, what a cesspool. And who else is involved? That’s what I want to know. Rainier? Gerard? Guilabert? ‘If only the abbot were here! He’d deal with it. He’s the only one I trust. He’s the only one who’d believe me . . .’ Looking at Roland. He’s standing there with his head bowed, a blank expression on his face. ‘What should I do, my lord? What do you think I should do?’
Pause.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies.
Oh come on, Roland, you can do better than that. ‘But you must have some idea. Some kind of suggestion –’
‘Wait for the abbot.’ His voice is dull and tired. ‘If you trust him, wait for him.’
‘Yes, but it’s going to be at least a month. We can’t just sit here and let those hypocrites steal money from the poor –’
‘Pagan, please. Don’t talk like that. You may be wrong.
These are only suspicions.’
Suspicions?! Well thanks a lot! ‘My lord, I know a racket when I see one. I used to be part of one, in Jerusalem. Remember? When I used to collect protection money for the viscount –’
‘Yes, I know you lived in a sewer, Pagan. Maybe that’s why you see evil wherever you go.’
What?
Oh Roland. How could you? That’s just – that’s just –’
That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘Forgive me –’
‘How can you say that? It’s not fair! I don’t go looking for this stuff, I just find it!’
‘Yes, but why must it always be you, Pagan? Why?’ (What’s the matter with him? He looks so miserable.) ‘I came here to look for refuge. This is supposed to be our path . . .’ His voice becomes more and more incoherent. ‘I don’t have any authority . . . I can’t do anything . . .’
‘You don’t have to do anything. I will.’
‘But you’re just a novice! Why should you be the one? Please, Pagan, must you pursue this? Can’t you leave these matters to the people who should be concerned with them?’
I don’t believe it. This can’t be Roland talking. His face is pale; he’s breathing heavily. Something’s hurt him deep inside.
‘What are you afraid of, my lord?’
‘Don’t call me that! I’m not your lord any longer. We are both subject to the monks of this abbey –’
‘What are you afraid of, Roland?’
‘I’m afraid that you will be expelled,’ he says, and lifts his gaze to the sky. ‘You know how hard it was to find this haven. If you should be expelled . . .’
‘I won’t be expelled.’
He shakes his head, sadly. ‘We came here to find peace,’ he murmurs. ‘Peace, not war. If your eyes were fixed on the face of God – if your soul were striving to see the Good of all good – you would be blind to these wretched conspiracies. You should be looking to the heavens, not to the earth.’
A cold fist closing around my stomach. Around my heart. ‘What are you saying?’ (It’s hard to form the words.) ‘Are you saying that I don’t belong in this abbey?’
‘I’m saying that you should be careful. Please. I can’t protect you, here –’
The sudden sound of clapping. It’s Bernard Blancus, hovering at the presbytery door. He looks cross.
‘Whad are you doig?’ he exclaims. ‘Cub bag idside ad once. There’s bore worg to be dud.’
Yes, well. I’m not absolutely sure, but that sounded like a summons. Something about more work to be done? As Bernard retreats back into the church, Roland stoops and puts his mouth to my ear.
‘Please wait,’ he breathes. ‘Fix your eyes on God, and wait until the abbot returns. I don’t want you to run any risks. Please, Pagan.’
Hmmm.
Chapter 13
Clement shuts his eyes for a moment, thinking hard. ‘Ut navem, ut aedicium idem destruit facillime qui construxit,’ he finally declares, ‘sic hominem eadem optime quae conglutinavit natura dissolvit.’
And he sits there, waiting, like a frog on a rock. Waiting for me to answer. Come on, Pagan, think. Think hard. If destruit means destroy . . . aha! Got it.
‘As the builder most readily destroys the house which he has built, so nature is the agent best fitted to give dissolution to man.’
Clement nods. Not a word of praise, naturally. No ‘Good’ or ‘Excellent’ or ‘Well done’. I’m more likely to see an apple core in full armour than I am to hear a compliment issue from the mouth of Brother Clement.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘is that particular sentence a syllogism, 100 an induction, an enthymeme, or an example?’
Hmm. Well it’s not a syllogism. An example? No . . . Oh, of course.
‘It’s an induction.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because induction is an argument by means of which there is progression from particulars to universals.’ He nods. Hurrah! I knew it.
‘And where,’ he continues, ‘can we find the proposition, in this induction?’
‘In the first clause.’
‘And is it an affirmative or a negative proposition?’
‘It’s – it’s –’ (Come on, Pagan, what is it?) ‘It’s affirmative!’
‘Predicative or conditional?’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Oh – er – um – predicative?’
‘Universal, particular, indefinite or singular?’
Oh God. I don’t know! My head’s spinning. I’ve lost track . . .
‘Hurry up, boy, what’s the delay? This is as simple as bread and cheese.’ Clement’s voice is like a wasp: buzzing, circling, waiting to sting. ‘What’s happened to your intellect? Come on, wake up! Is this the best you can do? I thought you were a master of dialectic –’
Suddenly the door opens. Yes! Praise God! It’s the porter. ‘Well?’ Clement frowns at him. ‘Quid?’
‘Veni, Frater.’
‘Nunc?’
‘Nunc.’
Painfully, Clement struggles to his feet. All this wet 101 weather seems to have slowed him down: his knees are stiff, his knuckles shiny and swollen. He grimaces every time he has to bend over.
‘I shan’t be long,’ he says, and glares at me. ‘When I come back, I’ll be expecting three predicative syllogisms. All in the first mood of the first form. As for the rest of you . . .’ (His gaze sweeps across the huddle of novices at the other end of the dormitory.) ‘You may continue with your reading.’
Tap-tap; tap-tap; tap-tap. And out he goes, leaning heavily on his walking-stick. Clunk! The door swings shut behind his stooping shoulders.
I wonder what’s happened.
‘I bet it’s him again.’ (Raymond, quietly.) ‘I bet he’s done something wrong.’
‘Who?’ says Bernard. ‘You mean Pagan?’
‘Who else?’
God preserve us. I’ve had enough of this. Swinging around on my stool to confront the miserable thread-worm. ‘Are you addressing me, Raymond?’
‘I wouldn’t stoop so low.’
‘Then keep your voice down.’
‘Or what?’
‘Oh please,’ Amiel cries, ‘please don’t start!’
Roland is already on his feet, grim and glowering. ‘Enough,’ he says. ‘Enough of this. Pagan, we are not here to fight.’
‘Tell that to Raymond!’
‘I am. And I’m also telling you.’ His coldest, deadliest Templar voice. ‘If
you cannot speak to each other in a civil fashion, then you shouldn’t speak at all.’
‘Says who?’ Raymond snaps. Bad idea, Raymond. He flinches as Roland skewers him with a perfectly expressionless, sky-blue gaze.
There’s a long silence.
‘I think we should return to our reading,’ Roland says at last. And he sits down again. ‘Amiel?’
Amiel fumbles with the psalter in his lap. Opening it, he begins to read aloud. ‘Mihi,’ he quavers, ‘autem nimis honorati suet arnici tui . . .’
Oh Lord, how tired I am. Please God, don’t let Clement return. Let the east wind carrieth him away. If I see one more predicative proposition I’m going to throttle it with a bookmark and stuff it down the nearest latrine. Damn you, Boethius, I’d kill you if you weren’t dead already.
Syllogisms. Syllogisms. The first mood of the first form . . .
But it’s no good: I’ve run out of time. Because there he is on the threshold, back to poison my existence. Old Needle-nose.
‘Pagan?’ he growls.
‘Yes, Master.’
‘What is the Sixty-third Instrument of Good Works?’ (The Sixty-third?) ‘It’s . . . it’s to love chastity.’
‘Correct. And do you know what that means?’
Uh-oh. Something tells me I’m in trouble.
‘Yes, Master, I think so.’
‘What does it mean?’
Glance at Roland. No help there. Clement lowers his head like a bull.
Gulp.
‘It means – I suppose it means keeping your penis to yourself.’
A snort from Bernard. Clement slams his stick down hard against the floor.
‘It means keeping away from women!’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘More bitter than death is the woman, whose heart is snares and nets’. Her house is the way to hell, Pagan. Has no one ever told you that?’
Only about five hundred and eighty-seven times. Clement begins to cripple his way across the room, breathing heavily. He looks ready to kill.
‘ “Whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her,” he splutters, ‘ “but the sinner shall be taken by her”. You are a novice, Pagan. Novices do not associate with members of the opposite sex!’
‘But I haven’t –’
‘There is a woman at the gates! She has been asking for you repeatedly!’
Oh Lord. Saurimunda.
‘You know her, don’t you?’ (Peering into my face.) ‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she a relative?’
‘Well, no –’
‘Then you must forsake her entirely. Entirely,’ he exclaims, leaning closer. ‘Pagan? Do you hear?’
I’d have to be deaf if I didn’t. ‘Yes, Master, I hear.’ (Wiping his spit off my forehead.)
‘All of you, listen to me.’ He shuffles over to his stool, and lowers himself onto it. He looks worn out. ‘I want you 104 to remember the words of Saint Paul the Apostle, who said: ‘It is good for a man not to touch a woman’. A woman takes possession of a man’s precious soul, and the strongest men are ruined by her . . .’
Blah, blah, blah. Same old stuff. Anyone would think that Saurimunda had venomous snakes growing out of her nostrils. What the hell does he think she wants – my bowels for breakfast? Although, come to think of it, what does she want? I told her I’m not allowed to speak to her. Unless . . . perhaps it’s something really important?
Perhaps it’s something to do with Roquefire.
‘Chastity is more than just foreswearing women.’ (Clement, still droning on.) ‘Chastity is purity. Chastity is the Twenty-first Instrument; it is preferring nothing to the love of Christ. Impure love summons the soul to lust after earthly things, whether they be women or riches or fame. Saint Augustine said: ‘Cleanse therefore thy love. Turn the waters flowing into the drain into the garden’. For the soul that is bound by the love of the earth has birdlime on its wings, and cannot rise up . . .’
Maybe I should go and see her. Maybe I should slip out tonight. If she’s so desperate to talk to me, she might wait by the hole in the wall. Or she might hang around the front gate, in case I make an appearance. It’s not much of a chance, but –
Wait! I know! That rock! The red rock. What did Roque-fire say? Something about leaving it on the right, instead of the left? That’s it. That’s what I’ll do. A signal. If I can just slip out before sunset, and find the right stone . . .
But then she’ll think it’s Roquefire. She’ll think it’s his 105 signal, and she’ll go straight to the kitchen. Damn, damn, damn, that won’t work.
No, I’ll take a chance that she’s waiting. I’ll see if she’s there, and if she’s not, well, too bad. I’ll have done my best. Let’s just hope that she’s worth all this trouble.
‘Pagan?’ (Uh-oh.) ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘What did I just tell you?’
‘Urn –’ Augh. Help. ‘It was about chastity.’
‘What about chastity?’
‘Um . . .’
Smirks from Raymond. That’s right, bladder-brain, laugh. See if I care. Clement shakes his head in disgust.
‘You were not listening at all,’ he says. ‘You are lying. Bread and water for you tonight, Pagan. ‘A man’s belly shall be satisfied with the fruit of his mouth’. You should learn to tell the truth, my friend, for he that covereth his sins shall not prosper, but whoso,confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.’
Oh, sure. Tell that to Aeldred. Tell that to Montazin, and every other hypocrite who’s involved in his nasty little conspiracy of silence. Talk about whited sepulchres. Talk about blind guides who strain at a gnat and swallow a camel.
Let me tell you something, Master Clement. He that walketh uprightly walketh surely, but he that perverteth his ways shall be known.
So if you’ve been perverting your ways, old man, you’d better watch it. Because I’m onto you now.
Chapter 14
No moon tonight; it’s as dark as the Queen of Sheba’s armpit. How am I ever going to find that hole in the wall? How am I ever going to get through the vegetable garden without leaving a trail of squashed leeks and trampled strawberry plants behind me?
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
Feeling my way past the stables, around the almonry, splashing through icy-cold puddles. Praise God that it’s stopped raining. I’d be stuck if it hadn’t. Imagine what Clement would say, if I climbed out of bed in a sopping-wet robe tomorrow. ‘Bladder problems, Pagan?’ It doesn’t bear thinking of.
Ah! And here’s the kitchen. Just don’t fall over that doorstep, whatever you do. Taking it slowly. What’s this? A bucket? Mind the bucket. Groping . . . groping . . .
‘Ouch!’ Dammit! Who left this shovel here? A person could break every bone in his body! God, I hope no one inside heard that. Waiting. Waiting. Holding my breath.
Praying that the cooks are heavy sleepers.
‘Pagan?’
A whisper in the dark. A rustling sound. Who –? Where –? Someone sniffing close by.
‘Is that you, Pagan?’
‘Saurimunda?’
‘Oh, it is you!’ Her hiss turns into a wobbly squeak. ‘I thought you were one of Them –’
‘Shh!’ Groping around to find her. Here she is. Smooth skin – a little wet knob
Whoops! It’s her face.
‘We can’t stay here.’ Leaning close to where her ear should be. (She smells of damp earth.) ‘Show me where the hole is. In the wall.’
Saurimunda touches my chest, my arm, my wrist, and finally my hand. Her fingers are small and cold and slippery. She gives a slight tug as she begins to move.
Her feet make almost no sound on the sodden pathway.
Please God, don’t let anyone find us. If I’m found with a girl, I can kiss my guts goodbye. Stumbling along in her wake, between dripping beanstalks, ghostly turnip greens, makeshift wooden fences. Under a low branch. Around a puddle.
&nb
sp; This girl must have eyes like an owl’s.
And suddenly, the wall. Looming dense and dark against a paler sky. Ow! Owch! Spiny bushes growing along its base. ‘Here,’ she whispers, ‘here it is.’
Where? I can’t see a thing. She pulls me down and guides my hand to a small pile of rubble.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘It’s the hole. Right here.’
‘Would I fit through, do you think?’
‘Maybe.’ She sounds dubious. ‘I don’t know.’
Well, then, perhaps I’d better not try. The last thing I need is to get stuck in a hole.
‘It doesn’t matter. We can talk here.’ Trying to retrieve my hand, but she won’t let go. She just clutches it more tightly, and carries it to her lips.
Cold, fervent kisses.
‘Don’t.’ (Let go!) ‘Please – don’t do that.’
‘Oh Father. Oh Father.’ She’s sobbing and sniffing. ‘Thank you so much –’
‘Let go, will you? Please. And don’t call me Father.’
‘But you came, you came! I never thought you would. I never, never thought you would . . .’
‘Then why were you waiting?’
‘I was waiting for R-Roquefire.’ Her voice wobbles tearfully. ‘I thought he might – I thought – I’ve been waiting and waiting –’
Oh Lord. Patting her on the back as she groans and gulps and heaves, poor thing. Waiting for Roquefire? Don’t tell me it’s a lovers’ tiff.
‘So what’s the problem? You’d better tell me, I can’t stay long, you know.’
‘It’s Roc – Roc –’
‘Roquefire? What about him?’
‘He won’t see me!’ she wails. (Hush, girl, keep it down.) ‘He won’t talk to me any more!’
‘What do you mean, he won’t talk to you?’
‘It’s been two weeks . . . he hasn’t touched the stone . . . won’t open the door . . . I can’t get in, without people seeing . . .’ Her voice is soggy and incoherent. ‘When I ask at the gate, he won’t come out. They say he’s not allowed to . . .’