Pagan's Vows (12 page)
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.
N
o 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.
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 . . .’
Hmmm.
‘He said . . .’ (Hiccup.) ‘He said he was going to m-marry me!’
‘Shhh, calm down.’ Squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t cry, there’s no need to cry.’
‘But what did I do? I d-didn’t do anything . . .’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ The question is, who did? A monk? A cook? Perhaps Montazin found out, and had a quiet word with Roquefire.
Or perhaps Roquefire has found someone more to his taste. Anything’s possible.
‘I’m very sorry, Saurimunda, but I don’t quite see what you want. From me, that is.’
A pause. You can hear her gulping away in the darkness, trying to regain some measure of self-control. At last she says: ‘I just want to see him. I want to ask him why he’s doing this.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘All I need is to get in. Through one of the doors.’ She strokes my hand as if it were a dog. ‘
You
could let me in,’ she adds shyly.
‘Oh no.’ Wrenching my hand away. ‘No.’
‘But he won’t come out! I can’t get in to see him, and he won’t come out! He never comes out!’
‘Yes he does.’ Suddenly remembering. ‘He leaves the abbey grounds every Tuesday.’
‘With a monk,’ she groans. ‘There’s always a monk with him –’
‘Be quiet. Just listen to me.’ Trying to think. What was the name? Mazzi –? No. Mazeroles? That’s it. That’s the one. ‘Now look, Saurimunda. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’
‘Oh,’ she says breathlessly, ‘I promise.’
‘Do you swear by the Holy Virgin?’
‘I swear. I swear by the Holy Virgin.’
‘All right. Well, it just so happens that every Tuesday, Roquefire goes with the almoner into Carcassone, where they visit a house belonging to a widow called Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux. But Roquefire doesn’t go into the house. He waits outside, for the almoner.’ Peering into the shadows; I wish I could see her face. ‘Now, Carcassone isn’t even a day’s walk from this abbey. So if you can somehow get to Carcassone, and find the house of Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux –’
‘I can wait for him there!’ she squeals, and grabs my hand again. More passionate kisses. ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! You are my friend! You are my dear Father–’
‘Will you stop doing that!’ Trying to shake her off. God preserve us; it’s driving me mad. ‘And for the last time, I’m not a father. I’m just a novice. You can call me Pagan.’
‘Pagan,’ she murmurs. ‘Heaven bless you, Pagan. You are so good. You are my angel of the Lord –’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ God, this is excruciating. ‘And don’t thank me, I don’t even know where the house is. Do you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her voice is high and hopeful, but still a little 111 unsteady. ‘Lord Gilles owns a vineyard where my father works.’
‘Lord Gilles –?’
‘Lord Gilles de Castronovo. He’s the father of Lady Beatrice.’
‘
Castronovo?
’
‘What’s wrong?’ A frightened squeak. ‘What did I say?’ ‘Nothing. Nothing, it’s – it’s all right. Really.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Castronovo! That’s Montazin’s name! And if Beatrice is a Castronovo . . .
Then I’ve found the connection.
‘What else do you know about Lady Beatrice?’ Stay calm, Pagan, don’t frighten the poor girl. ‘Does she have any brothers?’
‘No.’
‘What about cousins?’
‘I don’t know.’ (Snuffle.) ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Really. You’ve been a great help.’
Yes indeed, a great help. Well that’s it, then. Either Aeldred is in love with Montazin’s relative – and Montazin approves – or Montazin is somehow making Aeldred visit her. Perhaps to give her alms money. But if that’s the case, why is Aeldred involved? He can’t be related. He doesn’t even come from this part of the world: somebody said he was born in Normandy. Or was it Burgundy? No matter. The point is, why would he be helping Montazin? Friendship? Money? Fear? Blackmail? If only I could find out. If only I knew what was going on.
‘Listen, Saurimunda.’ Groping about. Finding her hand. ‘Could you do something for me?’
‘What?’ She sounds nervous.
‘It won’t be difficult. I want to write to this widow, Lady Beatrice, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing. So I need you to take my letter to Carcassone. Will you do that?’
‘Ohh . . .’ She expels a long, awe-struck sigh. ‘You mean a
letter?
To read?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You’ve written one? A real one?’
‘Not yet, but I will. Tomorrow.’ Let’s think, now. Think hard. What’s the best course of action? ‘If I was to leave it right here, under a stone, could you pick it up?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’
‘And you could give it to someone at the widow’s house?’ ‘I would do anything for you, Pagan. You are my good angel –’
‘Yes, yes, all right, I know.’ (Give it a rest, will you?) ‘But Saurimunda, listen to me. You mustn’t say who wrote it. Is that clear?
Do not say who wrote it.
’
‘No, Pagan, I won’t.’
‘Good.’ Dropping her hand. Rising to my feet. I can hear the swish of her skirts as she moves. ‘And now I’m leaving; I’ve been here much too long already. Can you show me how to get back to the kitchen?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you, Pagan –’
‘Don’t mention it.’
She grabs my sleeve and makes for the low black bulk of Saint Martin’s. Wet leaves slapping at my ankles. Squelch, squelch, squelch through a patch of mud. I hope it doesn’t stick to my boots; the Toothless Terror would be sure to notice. But even if he does, so what? I’m still glad I came. It’s given me a chance to stir the pot a little. Just to see what rises to the surface.
Who knows? I may be able to scare this widow off. I may be able to plug the leak in the almonry.
‘Here.’ Saurimunda stops, and drags on my arm until my right ear’s almost level with her mouth. ‘Here it is,’ she breathes. ‘God bless you, Pagan.’ Suddenly, a stranglehold. Help! What’s she doing? Fierce hug – smacking kiss – and she disappears into the darkness.
God preserve us. God preserve us, that was . . . that was a shock. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. Right on the lips, too, I can still feel
But I won’t think about it. It’s pointless thinking about things like that. I’ll think about the letter, instead.
‘E
xcuse me, Master, but I seem to have lost Boethius.’ He swings around. Glares. Grinds his tooth.
‘What?’ he splutters.
‘I think I must have left Boethius in the kitchen.’
Here goes. Please God, make this work. Please don’t let him send someone with me. If he does, I’ll have to start all over again.
‘In the kitchen?’ he growls. ‘You left that valuable book
in the kitchen?
’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
He glances around the dormitory. Bernard and Gaubert are collecting stools. Raymond is retrieving the big black psalter from the chest under the window. Amiel has collapsed onto the nearest bed.
He looks very blue today.
‘Imbecile!’
(Thwomp!
Clement slams his stick down.) ‘Brainless fool! Simpleton! How could you lose a book?’
‘Master –’
‘Go and get it! Right now!’
Yes! Hooray! It worked! Bolting for the door as fast as my legs will carry me.
‘Pagan!’
Stop. Turn. He’s standing there in the middle of the room: hunched, glowering, ominous.
‘Come straight back,’ he growls, ‘or I’ll come and find you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Oh Pagan, you’re so brilliant. Sometimes I’m amazed at how quick you are. Although, to be fair, you shouldn’t forget Boethius. Credit where credit’s due, Pagan. Who would have thought old Boethius would prove to be such an asset?
Across the herb garden. Turn left. Passing Elias in the corridor: his limp’s gone but his eyes are all gummed up. What’s wrong with him now, I wonder? Looks bad, whatever it is. Sharp right into the refectory, which still smells of last night’s eggs. Bernard Surdellus, sweeping up the dirty rushes.