Pagan's Vows Page 3

  No. Of course. He stops at the book-presses.

  ‘Ah, Brother Gerard. How fortunate,’ he observes. And there’s Brother Gerard, arranging books on one of the shelves. He’s a shuffling, round-shouldered, cross-looking monk, with an apple-red birthmark completely covering the left side of his face.

  He frowns as he looks up.

  ‘Brother Gerard, I have need of a book,’ Clement announces. ‘Book Two of the De topicis differentiis, by Boethius. Could you get it for me?’

  Gerard breathes an elaborate sigh (as if to suggest that he’s got enough damned work to do without other people’s selfish demands), drops the stack of books he’s holding, and drags over a little footstool. The way he climbs up onto it, you’d think he was scaling Mount Sinai.

  ‘Here,’ he says, pulling a massive volume from the topmost shelf. ‘How long will you be needing it?’

  ‘Oh – some time, I think.’

  ‘Then I’ll mark you down in the register.’ Gerard hands the book to Clement, who staggers slightly under its weight. It’s as big as a road-fort, and just as impenetrable. The spine makes a noise like a bone snapping when Clement parts the middle pages.

  ‘Now, if I remember correctly . . . I think it’s in Book Two . . . Ah yes. Here we are.’ He shoves the thing under my nose. ‘What does this say, Pagan? Read it to us.’

  Oofl Talk about a solid piece of literature! One wrinkled talon, pressed against the top of the page. The script looks like the work of a blind drunkard. A blind drunkard writing with a club foot.

  Let’s see, now . . .

  ‘Nam cum sint aliae propositiones –’

  ‘Translate it please, Pagan. For the benefit of the others.’

  ‘Urn . . . “There are some propositions that are only known through themselves, but also have nothing more fundamental by which they are demonstrated, and these are called maximal and principal propositions” .’

  (There. Happy? I hope that was fun for you, because I didn’t understand a word of it.)

  ‘The maximal proposition is the foundation of an argument,’ Clement declares. ‘It is the key to any discourse which produces belief regarding a matter that is in doubt. Can you give me an example of a maximal proposition?’

  Who, me? ‘Um – well – no . . .’

  ‘No? In that case, I suggest that you refrain from practising the noble arts of rhetoric and dialectic until you have mastered their fundamentals.’ Tapping at the book with his index finger. ‘Saint Augustine said: “What man is there who can comprehend that wisdom by which God knows all things?” You should live by those holy words, Pagan. And remember: “Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise”.’

  Meaning that I should shut my mouth. Is that it? Well why didn’t you just say so? Why go through all this fancy drivel? It’s not doing anyone any good.

  ‘Pagan? Are you listening?’ Look up, and he’s baring his gums at me. (What a ghastly sight.) ‘I have decided to let you keep this book,’ he says, with a kind of vicious satisfaction. ‘I’m going to let you carry it around for a while, and perhaps it will help you to understand the weight of the world’s knowledge. Because there are many things you have to learn, Pagan. Many, many things. Despite what you may believe.’

  Is that so? Well there’s one thing I have learned, Master Needle-nose. I’ve learned to recognise a real sepulchre-head when I see one.

  And I’m looking at one right now.

  Chapter 4

  Look at the size of that millstone. You can hardly see from one end to the other. They must need at least a score of mules to pull that thing around. And the corn! I’ve never seen so much. Talk about gathering corn as the sand of the sea. Piled up as high as the roof-vaults; stacked against the walls; carried in on the backs of labouring servants.

  ‘Here are your basins.’ The fish-faced servant in the green tunic starts handing around carved wooden bowls. ‘Your corn is on the sorting cloth. When you’ve filled up your basin, bring it to me.’

  What? What’s he talking about? But of course he doesn’t explain, just turns on his heel and lumbers off to the other side of the mill-house. Raymond pokes me in the ribs.

  ‘We’re supposed to sort the corn,’ he says. ‘For holy wafers. Only the very best grains of corn are used to make holy wafers.’

  I see.

  ‘It’s one of the duties of a novice,’ Raymond continues, in a patronising voice. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you how to do it. Just sit next to me.’

  He leads the way to a huge pile of corn, which someone’s dumped on a gold-embroidered blanket. Chaff and straw crunch under his feet as he hurries along. The other novices follow suit, babbling away as they dust off the paving stones and sit down. Only Ademar remains silent: I don’t think he’s opened his mouth since yesterday morning.

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe to speak like this?’ It doesn’t seem possible that Clement isn’t lurking outside, waiting to pounce. I can’t believe that he’s really in chapter with the rest of the monks. If you ask me, this whole thing is an elaborate hoax, specially designed to get us into trouble. ‘What about those servants? Won’t they tell on us?’

  Raymond laughs.

  ‘We’re allowed to talk in here,’ he says. ‘Everyone’s allowed to talk in here, even during the silent times. That’s because it’s not the church, or the cloister, or the dormitories.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’ll learn.’ He pats my arm. ‘You’re just new. If there’s anything you want to know, come to me. I can tell you everything.’

  Oh, sure. And my Auntie Eleanor was the Queen of Persia. But he babbles on with unshakeable confidence. (Seems to be uncommonly attached to the sound of his own voice.)

  ‘If you want to know about the rest of us, for example, I can tell you where we all came from,’ he says. ‘I’m one of the Mir family, of Carcassone. My father is Lord Bertrand Mir, the son of Lord Folcrand de Capendu. My father owns five mills and seven vineyards, as well as many fields and houses.’ (Ah. So that’s why this pullet is so pleased with himself. I was beginning to wonder.) ‘Bernard Incentor is the son of my father’s steward. Both his parents died when he was six. Gaubert is the son of the weaver Ernoul Daudet, of Cambiac. He’s been here the longest – his parents dedicated him to this abbey when he was only three years old.’ (No need to ask why. The big surprise is that they let him live at all, poor runt.) ‘Amiel is the son of Roger Barravus, a doctor in Narbonne. He has twelve brothers and seven sisters, and ten of them are in the church. Durand is the son of a priest from Saissac. He’s a bastard, of course.’ (Of course.) ‘There are many men of noble blood in this abbey. The abbot is one. So is the chamberlain. That’s why my father chose it.’ Raymond turns his head, and blinks his grey eyes at me. ‘Who is your father?’ he inquires.

  Who is my father? That’s easy. My father is the biggest heap of regurgitated pigs’ tripe east of Byzantium.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know who my father is. He raped my mother. That’s why she got rid of me as soon as she could.’

  ‘Oh.’ That’s floored him. He looks away uncomfortably, and falls silent.

  I thought he’d never shut up.

  Glance over at Roland, to see what he’s doing. Seems to be getting along all right. Takes a handful of corn; picks out one grain; examines it; puts it in his bowl. Picks out another; throws it aside. Picks out a third; puts it in his bowl. Doesn’t look too difficult.

  ‘Which ones are the bad ones?’ I happen to be asking Roland, but of course it’s Raymond who replies. He just can’t keep his nose out of a conversation.

  ‘See how this one’s black?’ he says. ‘We don’t want the black ones. And see how this one’s soft? The soft ones are rotten. We don’t want those, either.’

  ‘What about this one?’

  ‘That’s all right. If it’s a good colour, and it’s firm, and it isn’t too small, you should put it in the bowl.’

  What a strange job this is. No wonder they get the novices
to do it. Most monks probably can’t even see the grains, let alone distinguish between them. Little white hands, flutter ing over the golden heap of corn. Picking at it like chickens. Black robes covered in husks and meal.

  ‘Roland?’ It’s Gaubert. He has a squeaky, excited voice, much bigger than he is. Roland looks up.

  ‘Yes?’ he says, cautiously.

  ‘Father Clement told us that you were in Jerusalem.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you fight against the Infidels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you kill any?’

  Roland drops his eyes. His face hardens into its Man of Marble expression: blank, stony, forbidding. He begins to examine the corn again.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies.

  ‘How many did you kill?’

  I wish they’d shut up. Dead Turks aren’t exactly what 31 Roland wants to talk about just now. But he makes a final effort.

  ‘Some,’ he says at last.

  ‘How many, though?’ This time it’s Bernard. His voice is thick and hoarse. ‘Five? Ten? A hundred?’

  ‘He can’t tell you.’ (Don’t worry, Roland. Let me take care of this.) ‘He can’t tell you how many, because there were too many to count.’

  An awestruck hiss from around the blanket. Poor things, stuck inside this strong-box all their lives; they’re drooling for a good, juicy battle yarn. Even Raymond’s dying to ask a question. You can tell by the way he keeps opening and shutting his mouth.

  ‘Did he kill them with a sword?’ Gaubert inquires, breathlessly.

  ‘Most of them.’

  ‘Did he ever get hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Glance at Roland. He’s stubbornly working through a handful of corn, his gaze lowered. What do you want me to say, Roland? Do you want me to ‘answer that one? If I don’t, they’ll probably tear me to pieces.

  ‘In the side. He was wounded in the side.’

  ‘Ooooh . . .’ A chorus of sympathetic murmurs. Arnie! places his thin, bluish hand on my arm.

  ‘What about you?’ he says. ‘Did you fight the Infidels?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Looking around the circle of eager faces, with their slack jaws and shining eyes. Only two of them aren’t sweating with curiosity: Raymond, who looks cross, and Ademar, who doesn’t seem to be here at all. His thoughts are far away, in some lightless, despairing hell of his own. His expression is enough to give you nightmares. ‘As a matter of fact, I even met Saladin once. No, twice.’

  ‘Saladin?’ That really makes them sit up straight. Gaubert begins to bounce up and down like a frog in a box. (You can’t help liking him.) Bernard leans forward.

  ‘Isn’t Saladin the Grand Turk?’ he demands.

  ‘Sort of. He’s a sultan –’

  ‘What’s he like? Does he really have two horns?’

  Horns? ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Does he drink the blood of Christians?’ (Arniel.) ‘I’ve heard that he drinks the blood of Christians.’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t.’ God preserve us. Are these ever the backwoods! ‘Saladin is a great warrior. He may be an Infidel, but he’s a noble Infidel. When he conquered Jerusalem, he spared the lives of every single soul. And he also freed every old pauper, because they couldn’t pay their ransoms. And he saved Roland, too.’

  ‘Pagan.’ A warning growl from Roland, which makes everybody flinch. I haven’t heard him use that commander-of-the-Temple voice in a long time.

  But it’s too late to stop now.

  ‘What happened?’ Durand pleads. ‘Tell us! Tell us what happened!’

  ‘Well . . .’ Should I? Oh, all right. ‘If you must know, when Saladin conquered Jerusalem everyone had to pay a ransom, and Roland’s was fifty dinars, because he was a knight of the Temple –’

  ‘A knight of the Temple? You didn’t tell us that!’

  ‘Well he was. But he didn’t want to pay it, because he knew that his fifty dinars would free ten women, or fifty children, and he’s so noble and good that he wanted to sacrifice himself –’

  ‘Pagan!’ Another glare from Roland. What? What’s the matter? You know it’s true, my lord. Why shouldn’t I tell them?

  ‘Go on,’ says Gaubert. ‘What happened then? Finish the story!’

  ‘Well, I got down on my knees and begged Saladin for Roland’s life, and he freed him. I don’t know why he did it, because he hates Templars, but I’ll always be grateful. Always. And I say a prayer for Saladin every day.’ (Well, almost every day.) ‘He’s a good man, you know. Because if it hadn’t been for him, Roland wouldn’t even be here.’

  A satisfied sigh from Gaubert, Bernard, Durand and Amiel. Raymond, however, doesn’t sigh. He snorts.

  ‘You’re lying,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘You are lying! How could an Infidel be good? Infidels are bad! Infidels are demons!’ He’s red in the face. ‘The only good Infidel is a dead Infidel!’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly –’

  ‘Oh wouldn’t you?’ (What’s the matter with this slug-head? Why’s he splitting his seams?) ‘Maybe you wouldn’t say it because they’re your friends! Maybe you’re an Infidel! You certainly look like one! No decent Christian would have skin that colour – that dirty, Infidel colour –’

  Suddenly Roland gets to his feet. From down on the floor he looks as tall as a cedar of Lebanon. He moves over to where Raymond is crouching and stands there, arms folded, glaring down his long de Bram nose.

  ‘Pagan is a good Christian,’ he says quietly. That’s all he says, but it’s enough. Poor old Raymond just shrivels up like a flower in a flame. I know exactly how he feels, too; that look of Roland’s would freeze the horns off a bullock. How could a half-weaned novice like Raymond hope to withstand it?

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, as Roland turns away, and you can’t help sympathising. Poor old Raymond. There he was, top novice, brightest star, a natural leader. Then along come two war-weary veterans – seasoned travellers, crusaders, Templars – one of them with blood as blue as the sky, and a face like something on a stained-glass window. Naturally poor Raymond doesn’t like all the attention they’re getting.

  But I have to be tolerant. I have to be nice about this sort of thing. After all, I’m a monk now.

  ‘Come on, Raymond, let’s not argue.’ Smile, smile. Be nice, Pagan. Think kind thoughts. ‘We’re brothers, and we should be friends. “Let them show brotherly charity with a chaste love”.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ he snaps. ‘Oh yes, we all know what a Scholar of the Rule you are. But let me tell you something, Pagan.’ He leans into my face until I can count every scrap of salted herring wedged between his teeth. ‘You’re never going to fit in here. Never, never, never. You think you’re so smart, but you’re not like us.

  ‘You’re an outsider, and you always will be.’

  Chapter 5

  The sound of Clement snoring. But is it fake, or is it real? Surely it must be real. Surely even Clement wouldn’t lie awake snoring, just to lull the suspicions of some poor novice. You’d have to be crazy to do a thing like that.

  Although, when you think about it . . .

  Oh come on, Pagan! Are you going to do it, or not? You can’t just lie here all night dithering. Either get up and do it, or shut up and go to sleep. Those are your choices.

  Raising a cautious head. Eight motionless bundles, faintly visible in the light of one flickering lamp. Pushing off my blanket. Swinging my feet to the floor. Boots or no boots? No boots, I think. It’s warm enough for bare feet, and they’re certainly much quieter. Padding across to Roland’s bed.

  He’s sleeping on his back, like a statue on a tomb. Mouth closed. Legs straight. Only his steady breathing betrays the fact that he’s actually alive.

  One gentle touch . . .

  He wakes with a start, instantly alert. Shh! It’s me! Flapping my hand at him, as he props himself up on one elbow, rubs his face, and raises a pair of questioning eyes.r />
  Yes, I know it’s late, but I have to see you. Come on, Roland, please. This way. Tugging at the sleeve of his crumpled robe. Beckoning. Pointing.

  Slowly, clumsily, he crawls out of bed.

  But can we make it to the door? That’s the big question. Clement’s still snoring: it sounds like someone dragging a saw through an oak beam. Someone sighs and turns over. Watch those chamber-pots, Roland. We don’t want to get tangled up with a used chamber-pot. Guiding him between the beds, past the window, through the door, and into the garden.

  It smells beautiful in the garden. Lavender and thyme. Herbal scents on the soft night air. Crickets chirping.

  ‘Well?’ Roland’s voice is a barely audible hiss. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Not here. Let’s go over there, under the olive tree. It’s probably safer.’

  The ground feels damp, under the olive tree. Someone must have watered it. And there are shadows, too: shadows in the moonlight. Shadows to hide in. Branches to hide in.

  ‘What is it?’ Roland’s still whispering. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I have to talk to you.’

  ‘About what?’

  About what? What do you mean, about what? ‘About everything. I haven’t talked to you properly for three days. There are always people around.’

  He expels a quick, sharp sigh. ‘But Pagan,’ he says, ‘this is against the Rule.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This is. Doing this.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Not really.’

  ‘Well whatever it is, it’s not sensible. We should go back.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ His face hovers above his robe, as pale as the moon. It’s so hard to see, in the dimness. ‘Don’t you want to talk to me?’

  ‘Oh Pagan, of course I do. But I don’t want you to get into trouble. You’ve already –’

  ‘Trodden on toes? I realise that.’

  ‘You must learn to remember why we’re here. We must both learn. We’re not here to fight, we’re here to love God.’

  ‘But I do love God.’ (Most of the time.) ‘It’s just some of His monks I can’t stand.’