Pagan's Vows

by Catherine Jinks

‘Pagan –’

  ‘Well can you? Can you honestly tell me that you like Clement? Or Guilabert? Or that stupid fat monk who’s always blocking doorways and slows right down whenever you want to get past?’

  ‘But that’s the whole point,’ he says, knitting his brows at me. ‘We must learn to love them. Like brothers.’

  ‘The way you love your brothers, you mean?’

  Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. And now he’s thinking about Jordan. Now he’s remembering how he almost killed his own brother with an iron lamp-stand. How could I have brought that up again, when we agreed to forget Roland’s awful family life? Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’ Please don’t be angry, Roland. ‘Sometimes I just – my tongue moves faster than my head. Especially when they’re all so – when they – well how were you supposed to know about putting your hands in your sleeves during the ‘Gloria’? Nobody told you, did they? I only knew it myself because we used to do it at Saint Joseph’s.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But it does! It’s not fair! You’re only new – you can’t be expected to know when to bow, and when to genuflect, and when to put your hands in your sleeves. You don’t even know the psalter, yet.’

  ‘Hush. Quiet, Pagan, keep it down.’

  ‘But the way he talks to you! The way he talks . . .’ (That Clement. That needle-nosed maggot-bag.) ‘I swear, if he calls you pauper sensu one more time, I’m going to stick my pes in his festering old faciem.’

  ‘Pagan.’ Gently. ‘I don’t care what he says. Why should I? I don’t even know what it means.’

  ‘It means ‘poor simpleton’. And I’m damned if I’m going to sit there and let him call you names.’

  ‘Pagan, stop it. Listen to me.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘A poor simpleton is exactly what I am –’

  ‘You’re not! You’re better than all of them! They just don’t know what you’ve done –’

  ‘The only thing I’ve done in my whole life is kill people.’

  ‘But you’ve saved them, too! You’ve saved more people than you’ve killed!’

  ‘Let me finish, please,’ he says, and gives me a little shake. ‘Pagan, you must forget what has gone before. Do you understand? I am not a knight of the Temple now. I am the humblest servant of God in this entire abbey. I know nothing of prayer or worship. I am seeking God in the darkness, and I will take my guidance as it comes. Do you think a few harsh words are going to hurt me? You know there are things that hurt far more.’ He puts a hand on my head; it feels warm against my tonsure. ‘What does hurt me is seeing you snap at people like a chained dog, in my defence. I don’t need that. Do you understand? You must forget about me, and look to yourself. You have your own path to follow. Pagan? Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you say? Are you going to follow your own path?’

  I’d rather follow yours. Mine will probably lead me straight into a dung-pit. But I suppose, if it’s really what you want –

  ‘Oi! You, there! Who’s that?’

  God save us. It’s the circator.

  ‘Come here!’ A voice from across the garden. ‘Who is it? Don’t try to hide, I can see you quite clearly.’

  Oh hell. Now we’re caught. What are we going to do? Roland shakes off my hand, and steps out of the shadows. The circator moves forward with his lantern raised.

  It’s Aeldred, the almoner. Reddish hair, snub nose, narrow shoulders. I’ve seen him in church.

  ‘Who are you?’ he says. ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘I am Roland Roucy de Bram. A new novice. This is Pagan Kidrouk.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I remember now. The new novice.’

  He looks half asleep: his pale eyes are bleary, his thin hair tousled. His face is creased into lines of irritation and discontent. But I suppose the night watch must be a pretty unpleasant job, even if it only falls to you once or twice a season.

  ‘What are you doing out here at this time of night?’ he says. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

  Roland opens his mouth to reply. Oh no you don’t, Roland. This is where I cut in.

  ‘He was taking me to the infirmary.’ Cough, cough. Swaying a little. Think sick, Pagan. Think cow manure and rotten cabbage. ‘I’m feeling ill, Father. I think I’m going to vomit.’

  The almoner steps back a pace. ‘Is that true?’ he asks Roland, eyeing me warily. Roland hesitates.

  ‘No,’ he says at last.

  No? No? Roland, what are you doing?

  ‘Pagan is not ill,’ he continues. ‘We were just having a talk.’

  ‘You should both be in bed.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘I’ll have to report this to Brother Clement.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Roland! In God’s name, are you mad? It would have worked, I tell you! The man’s half asleep!

  ‘Well then, back to your dormitory. And don’t come out again until the bell rings.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘And no more talking.’ He puts his hand over his own mouth, a little guiltily. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking myself. Misereri mei, Domine. Go in peace.’

  Roland! Wait! Following him to the door. Catching up on the doorstep. Grabbing his arm.

  He stops, turns, shakes his head. Makes the sign for silence: forefinger on the lips, drawn up and down. Oh you fool, you fool! Now we’re going to be cooked on a spit! But he won’t talk. He won’t even listen. He hurries back to bed and climbs under the covers.

  In God’s name, Roland, where do you think you are? Do you really believe that a monastery is so different from anywhere else? Do you really believe that monks don’t lie? Of course they lie, when they have to. Especially when it’s not going to do any harm!

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce, don’t you understand? No matter where you might be, you’ve simply got to look out for yourself.

  Because no one else is going to.

  Chapter 6

  Well, this is fun. This is a great way to spend a morning. So, Pagan, how exactly did you learn to be a monk? Oh, I spent a lot of time lying face down on the church floor with my arms stretched out. Really? And what was that supposed to teach you? Oh, it was supposed to teach me not to sneak around the abbey at night.

  But no, that’s not quite true. Enforced silence was supposed to teach me not to sneak around the abbey. Lying flat on the floor was supposed to teach me not to tell falsehoods. Roland got away with a day of silence because he told the truth. But liars like me belong flat on the floor with our arms stretched out.

  Anyway, I’m glad Roland isn’t doing this. I’m glad he escaped this particular little lesson. After all, I was the one who dragged him outside.

  Footsteps approaching. Who’s this? I thought all the monks were at chapter. Turn my head and – whoops! Look out!

  ‘Oaagh!’ The feet stop, just in time. They’re not monk’s feet, either, because I can see brown stockings above the boots. ‘By the bees of Saint Ambrose! What are you doing down there?’

  Craning my neck to see who it is. Yes, it’s a servant. Young and grubby, with long black hair and a ripe-looking nose squashed all over his face. Blackheads the size of fortified hill-towns.

  Probably safe to speak.

  ‘I’m hugging the floor, what does it look like I’m doing?’

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re being punished.’

  ‘No, no, I enjoy it. I’m training to be a doorstep.’

  He snickers. His boots are covered in tallow and dried egg. They look enormous, from this angle.

  ‘How long do you have to do that?’ he asks.

  ‘Who knows? Probably until someone trips over me and breaks every bone in their body.’

  ‘I almost did. You’re hard to see, down there.’

  He moves away, and I can’t work out what he’s doing. There’s a clinking noise. And a scraping noise. And a squeaking noise like wet wool on met
al. Is he cleaning something, by any chance?

  ‘Are you cleaning something, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ He sounds surprised. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘It isn’t hard. People are always cleaning things in here. That Father Bernard must have been weaned on a pumice stone.’

  ‘Bernard Blancus?’

  ‘Is that what you call him?’

  ‘That’s what the monks call him. I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘It means he’s white.’

  ‘Oh.’ More vigorous squeaking, as if he’s rubbing something hard with a soft cloth. ‘It’s because there are so many Bernards,’ he says at last. ‘There’s the fat Bernard. He’s Bernard Magnus.’

  ‘Bernard the Big.’

  ‘And then there’s Bernard Surdellus. He’s the one in the refectory.’

  ‘Bernard the Deaf?’ I don’t believe it. ‘You mean he’s deaf, that Bernard?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Thinking hard. ‘But then again, we never talk in the refectory. We always use signs. So how could I possibly have known?’

  He grunts, and falls silent. God, I’m so bored. If this goes on for much longer, I’ll end up chewing my way through the floor-tiles. Come on, somebody! I’ve learned my lesson!

  ‘What did you do?’ The servant, still squeaking away. ‘I mean, what did you do wrong?’

  ‘Nocturnal perambulation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Walking around at night.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Which way did you go?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Which way did you go? Were you going through the refectory?’ Shuffle, shuffle. Suddenly his feet are in 45 front of my nose again. ‘Because if you’re trying to get to the kitchens, at night, you should never go through the refectory. You should open the gate in the herb-garden wall – it’s barred from the inside – and walk all the way around. The circators never go out there.’

  Is that so? Well, well. ‘But what about the kitchen door? Surely that must be barred too?’

  ‘Yes. But if you knock three times, I’ll let you in.’ He squats down, and waves a damp rag smelling of rose oil in front of my face. ‘I’m the scullion. I sleep in the kitchens. My name is Roquefire.’

  Roquefire, eh? Pleased to meet you, Roquefire. ‘And my name is Pagan. But you’d better not stay down here, because if anyone comes in they’ll see you talking to me. And I’m not supposed to be talking.’

  Roquefire’s knees crack as he rises. I wish I had a better view of his face. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to recognise him again, if I have to do it from the toes of his boots.

  ‘I think I’ve heard about you,’ he declares suddenly. ‘You’re the one from Jerusalem.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you killed Saladin’s uncle?’

  ‘No.’ (Where the hell did that come from?) ‘No, I was just a squire. A Templar squire.’

  ‘But they said you were in a monastery, too.’

  ‘Yes, when I was small. Then I ran away, and learned how to fight, and joined the local garrison.’ How long ago that seems! Like another lifetime. ‘I didn’t become a Templar until I was sixteen years old.’

  ‘You were smart.’ Roquefire’s voice is gruff but wistful. ‘You were smart, to run away. I don’t understand why you changed your mind. Why do you want to be a monk, when you could be a soldier?’

  Why? Because monks don’t kill people. They don’t kill people, and they don’t have to live with it afterwards. Finding the words to explain that . . . it’s very difficult. And now I don’t have to, because someone else has entered the church.

  Rap, rap, rap. I recognise that sound. It’s Clement’s walking-stick.

  ‘Roquefire.’ Clement’s voice, like the squawk of a hen. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m cleaning the candelabra.’

  ‘You look as if you’re sitting around on your backside, to me.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Get out of here. Out. “Idleness is the enemy of the soul”. Go and do something useful.’

  A sullen silence, as Roquefire trudges to the door. I can understand now why he wants to be a soldier. The door creaks, and bangs. The footsteps recede.

  Now it’s my turn to face the Toothless Terror.

  ‘So, Pagan. I hope you have come to repent your sins. I hope you have reflected upon the evil of falsehoods. The Scriptures say: “Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord”. In breaking with the truth, you have become an abomination. Do you realise that?’

  Well, Master Needle-nose, it takes an abomination to know an abomination. He hovers somewhere above my head, like a hawk waiting to strike. Circling . . . circling . . .

  Please God don’t let him tread on my fingers.

  ‘In fact there are seven things which are abominations to the Lord,’ he continues. ‘The first two are a proud look and a lying tongue. You display both. It seems to me that your pride is at the root of your disobedience. You are proud of your quick wits. Proud of your little store of learning. You think that you’ve mastered the Rule of Saint Benedict, yet you continue to flout it! What of Chapter Seven? What of the twelve steps of humility? Tell me what the seventh step of humility is. I give you permission to speak.’

  ‘ “The seventh step of humility is reached when a man not only confesses with his tongue that he is most lowly and inferior, but in his inmost heart believes so”.’

  ‘And do you believe so? Of course not. Yet you have the arrogance to think that you have mastered the Rule.’

  ‘I never said –’

  ‘Silence!’ (Wham! He slams his stick down.) ‘Did I give you permission to speak? Did I? “The ninth step of humility is reached when a monk stops his tongue from talking and, practising silence, speaks not till a question be asked of him”. Once again you fail to abide by the Rule.’

  Oh, go boil your bladder, you old crow. I’m sick of this. If you’re going to tread on my fingers, just do it. Anything’s better than being lectured to death.

  ‘The other novices are listening to Amiel, who is reading from the Rule.’ Rap, rap. Rap, rap. His stick strikes the floor as he circles. ‘Although they have heard the Rule many times, I can trust them to listen with humility, knowing that they will derive further wisdom from each holy chapter. They are not like you. You are too proud. You have a restless, frivolous mind. So I’m going to set you another task.’

  He stops suddenly, and nudges Boethius with the end of his stick. Poor old Boethius, lying about on the church floor like a worthless Arab. But what was I supposed to do with the thing? Use it as a footstool?

  ‘You’ve been carrying this book around with you for several days now,’ Clement adds, ‘yet it doesn’t seem to have taught you anything. That’s why I’m going to ask you to read it. Get up.’

  Get up? Easier said than done, Master Needle-nose. Ow! Ouch! Stiff joints; numb knees; I feel as if I’ve been run over by a herd of wild horses.

  ‘What are you doing?’ His voice is like someone forging nails. ‘Are you going to leave that book down there? Pick it up, quickly! Give it to me. If it’s damaged, you’ll be fasting for the rest of the summer.’

  He opens it, and begins to flick through the heavy pages as Bernard Blancus scurries past. I wish I was going with Bernard.

  ‘Here.’ Clement’s found the right chapter. ‘This is what I want you to read. All of this, this, this, all this . . .’ (Flick, flick.) ‘. . . and all of this down to here.’

  What?

  ‘You can start reading now,’ he continues, ‘and I’m going to ask you questions about it tomorrow.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You will have some reading time until Sext, and another spell of reading after supper. That will be ample.’

  He slams the book shut, and pushes it into my hands. Oof! The size of it! The weight of it! All those hundreds and hundreds of words!

  ‘But Father –’

 
; ‘No excuses.’ He bares his withered gums at me. (Is it a smile, or is he gnashing his tooth?) ‘I know that a brilliant scholar like you won’t have any trouble,’ he says. ‘And if you do, remember what it tells us in Chapter Sixty-eight of Saint Benedict’s Rule: “If anything hard or impossible be enjoined on a brother, let him receive the injunctions in all obedience”.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No excuses, Pagan.’

  Chapter 7

  Come on, Boethius, we’re going for a little stroll. Quietly, now. Quietly. Let’s not disturb any of the sleepers. Past Roland’s bed. Past Raymond’s. Past the snoring Clement. All the way to the door.

  Carefully pulling it open. Slowly, slowly . . . A little creak. (Please don’t wake up!) Holding my breath as we slip through the narrow space: just me, myself and Boethius. It’s a tight fit, but we manage somehow.

  God preserve us, I can’t see a thing! Where’s this damned gate? Off to the right, somewhere. Follow the path . . . and here it is. Groping around for the bar, which is as big as a battering ram. By the balls of Baal, I’m going to break my back, lifting this thing! Damn you, Boethius, why do you have to be so big? If you were a nice quick read I wouldn’t have to risk a rupture.

  Dropping Boethius. Struggling with the bar, as Boethius lounges there by the footpath, watching. Squeak. Scrape. Crunch. Please God, don’t let anybody hear. Laying the bar on a bed of mint, under the leaves where the circator won’t see it. Picking up Boethius and squeezing through the gate.

  Let’s see, now. Where am I? That big, dim lump over there must be the stables. (Stay away from those.) Striking out to the left, hugging the wall, hugging Boethius, looking for the kitchens. Almost running head first into the almonry. God, but it’s dark! I feel just like a cockroach.

  If it wasn’t for you, Boethius, I’d be snuggled up in bed, right now. But I’m not going to let old Needle-nose get the better of me. I’m going to learn this text off by heart, even if I have to kill myself doing it. Wait a moment. What’s that up there? Some kind of light . . .

  Ah, of course. That must be the infirmary window. So if I turn the next corner, and keep to the wall, I’ll end up on the kitchen doorstep. Perfect. I knew I could do it. Let’s just hope Roquefire isn’t a heavy sleeper.