Pagan's Vows

by Catherine Jinks

  It’s Jerusalem. It’s got to be. A narrow street, lined with shops; the sun beating down on coloured awnings. And isn’t that Saurimunda? Hovering in a doorway, beckoning, smiling . . . But it’s hard to see, because she’s wearing a veil. A veil and a gauzy . . . wait. It isn’t her at all. It’s someone much older. Someone tall and dark, with big breasts – huge breasts – heavy and smooth –

  Dong. Dong. Dong.

  Oh no! Please don’t run away! Come back! It’s nothing! It’s just a church bell . . .

  Dong. Dong. Dong.

  On second thoughts, it’s not a church bell. It’s a hand bell. This is crazy. This doesn’t make sense. Where did the shops go? Something banging –

  Hold on, what’s under my head? Feels like wool. Darkness. Footsteps. Oh God. Now I understand.

  It’s time to wake up.

  Bernard Blancus, ringing his bell on the threshold. Dong. Dong. Dong. I don’t believe this: surely it can’t be nocturnes? I only just closed my eyes! Amiel, in the next bed, throwing back his covers. I can’t do that, it’s freezing in here! Burying my face in the pillow. Please, please, let me go back to my dream. Let me go back to the big-breasted lady.

  A sudden shaft of cold air, as Clement pulls my covers back. He raps at my bed with his stick.

  All right, all right, I’m coming.

  Feet first. Ow! Ah! This floor is like ice! Where are my socks? Quick, my socks! Fumbling about for my belt; my socks; my scapular. My wonderful winter cape. My sheepskin gloves

  – A tap on the shoulder.

  It’s Clement. He makes the sign for ‘where’, and runs one finger down the middle of his face (a reference to Roland’s aristocratic nose).

  Where – Roland?

  What do you mean, where’s Roland? Looking around. It’s hard to see, in this light: a bunch of shadowy figures, milling about, making beds, pulling on clothes, yawning, coughing, spitting. But none of them is big enough or broad enough to be Roland.

  God preserve us. Where is he?

  Making a fist, with the thumb turned down. I know not. Clement frowns, and peers at me closely. What are you looking at me like that for? I just told you, I don’t know where he is! Maybe he’s gone to the latrines! Maybe he’s sick!

  Oh Lord. I hope not. I hope he’s not sick. Signing at Clement: I – go – infirmary. Clement shakes his head.

  You – go – church, he replies, and heads for the door.

  Damn it, Roland, where are you? Why didn’t you wake me up? Fumbling with my boots as the others follow Clement, trailing after him like a flock of little black chicks. Hurry, Pagan, hurry! Don’t want to be late. One boot on. Other boot on. Joining the end of the line, just as it enters the herb garden. Past the refectory. Stumbling along in the dimness.

  I knew this would happen. Roland’s been so odd, lately. So quiet. And not eating nearly enough. Getting much too thin. But of course he won’t say anything, not even when we have a chance to talk – which is practically never. Oh Roland, Roland, where are you?

  Emerging from the corridor, into a steady flow of monks. Heads down, cowls up, all making for the church’s southern entrance. Dense, black, faceless shadows. Not a sound except for the shuffling of feet and the chorus of bubbling winter coughs, as we cross the threshold into the nave. Icy draughts whistling around our ankles. Gold leaf glittering in the candlelight. The sweet, painted face of the Holy Virgin, with the Christ child in her arms. And there – over there! That’s Roland! He moves away from the altar, stiffly, as if his knees are hurting him. Don’t tell me he’s been praying in here! What’s the point of praying at night, when we have to do it all day? If I linger at the end of the line, he’ll be able to catch up with me. What’s the matter, Roland? You look like a wreck. Your face is all bones and dark smudges.

  Clement signs at him. You – absent. Roland puts his gloved hands together, signifying ‘prayer’. It seems to satisfy 142 Clement. He nods and moves into his place. Roland nudges me forward. No, Roland, you can go first. I want to stay as far away from Clement as possible. The farther away I am, the better my chances are of getting you to tell me what’s wrong.

  ‘Domine labia mea aperies, et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam.’

  The chanting begins. It’s a little raw and ragged: I don’t think everyone’s really awake, yet. I know I’m not. Roland clears his throat, and tries to follow the verses. Even after all this time, he’s still not very confident.

  ‘Domine, quam multi sunt qui tribulant . . .’

  Roland. Roland! Tugging at his sleeve. He looks down, blinking.

  I have to mouth the words, because I don’t know what the signs are. What’s wrong? (Emphasising every syllable.) What’s the matter?

  He shakes his head, and turns away. In God’s name, Roland, what’s that supposed to mean?

  ‘. . . Penes Dominum est salus super populum tuum sit benedictio tua . . .’

  Roland! Look at me, damn you! Pulling at his robe again. This time he doesn’t even glance down; he just takes my hand, and gently pushes it aside.

  ‘Venite, exsultemus Domino, iubilemus Deo . . .’

  All right, if that’s the way you want it. Reaching up. Finding his arm. Giving it a sharp pinch.

  He jumps like a rabbit. Clement turns, and scowls down the row at us. I didn’t do a thing! Honestly! I was just chanting the ‘Gloria’. Look, I’ve got my hands in my sleeves and everything. How could I have pinched him?

  Slowly, reluctantly, Clement looks away.

  And Roland still won’t even cast a glance in my direction. Very well. Don’t, then. See if I care. You’re impossible, Roland, you never tell me anything. You just bottle it up inside – let it tear you to pieces – and you won’t even let me help! I know I said we had our own paths to follow, but I didn’t mean that they should be completely walled in.

  ‘De profundis clamavi, ad te, Domine; Domine, exaudi vocem meam . . .’

  Psalm One Hundred and – what? Twenty-nine? Thirty? A slow, sad rhythm, deep and hollow, swelling to a full chorus at the end of the first verse. ‘Out of the depths I cried unto thee, O Lord; O Lord, hear my voice.’ The piercing, pleading cry of the oblates, high and sweet, rising to the vaults – catching on the highest note – and suddenly falling again, in gentle steps, weary and wistful. ‘Let thine ears be attentive to my supplication.’ A quiet passage, now, throbbing like a heartbeat. Asking for forgiveness. How sad it is. How unbearably sad. Why do we have to sing this at nocturnes? I’m miserable enough as it is, so early in the morning.

  ‘Sustinuit anima mea in verbum eius; speravit anima mea in Domino.’

  Beside me, Roland coughs. It’s just a spasm, muffled in his chest. A slight shudder. His voice fails halfway through the sixth verse: ‘My soul waiteth for the Lord, more than they that watch for the morning.’ What an appropriate image. The morning is exactly what I’m watching for, because a little sunlight may serve to thaw my frozen feet.

  More shudders from Roland. I hope it’s not a choking fit. Glancing up at his face . . .

  And it’s wet.

  It’s wet. He’s crying. His whole body shakes with suppressed sobs.

  Sweet saints preserve us.

  ‘Quia apud Dominum misericordia et copiosa apud eum redemptio . . .’

  Roland. Roland! Grabbing his arm. He turns his face away, and wipes his eyes. But his chest is still heaving. Oh God, oh God, what is it? What’s wrong? In God’s name, Roland, don’t shut me out! I can’t bear it!

  ‘Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus eius.’

  The last, lingering verse, hanging in the air like a silver thread – a thin, pure, extended sound. Roland sniffs: he takes a deep breath, and another, and another. (Seems to be calming down.) With an immense effort, he brings himself under control, again.

  But he’s not going to tell me what’s wrong. I just know he isn’t. He’s going to let it eat away at his heart until it breaks, and then I’ll be left to pick up the pieces.

  O Lord, I beg you, won�
��t you ease his burden? Whatever it is, he doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. He’s a good man. He’s doing his best. Please, God, please, take away his sorrow. Lift up his soul and enlighten his darkness.

  You’re the only one who can help him, because he won’t take any help from me.

  Chapter 19

  ‘What’s this?’ Rainier pretends to be very, very puzzled. ‘What are you doing back on this stool, little man? Haven’t you already been shaved?’

  Ha ha. Pardon me while I sew up my sides. ‘No I haven’t, Father.’ (But I have heard all your bum-fluff jokes before, so why don’t you give them a rest?) ‘My moustache has been growing, see?’

  ‘Bless you, boy, that’s not a moustache! That’s a smudge of charcoal!’ He beams around at his snickering audience: a gaggle of monks all lined up along the cloister walls like crows along a fence. ‘What you need for that moustache is a bit of damp cloth,’ he continues. ‘You don’t need a razor!’

  Well maybe not, pus-bag, but you certainly do. If someone doesn’t take a scythe to those eyebrows pretty soon, you won’t be able to see out from under them. What 146 kind of fertiliser do you use on them, anyway? Manure or rotten vegetable peelings?

  ‘All right, Father.’ (You big fat swill-pot.) ‘If you don’t want to shave my jaw, perhaps you can do my head. There’s no lack of growth up there.’ In contrast to the windswept desert on your own scalp, Baldy. But I’d better not say it aloud – not while he’s carrying a razor.

  Honestly. I ask you. Why do I have to put up with this? Every single shaving day, it’s the same old thing. Other people don’t have to put up with this: why am I always the one?

  ‘Very well, Midge, I’ll clean up your tonsure for you.’ He winks as he wipes his razor on the skirts of his robe. ‘And I’ll keep the clippings, so you can make up a proper moustache for next time. With flour paste.’

  More mindless giggles. Everyone’s laughing except Roland and Clement: Clement because he doesn’t know how to, Roland because he’s lost in thought. Moping about, as usual. I really have to talk to Roland; I have to find out what’s wrong. And there’s no point waiting for a private moment, either, because private moments don’t exist any more. I’ll just have to do it when I’m finished here, and damn the eavesdroppers.

  Brrr! Gasping as Rainier slaps on the water. One day, when I’m an old, old monk, I might be first in line and get shaved with hot water, instead of the tepid dregs we novices always end up with. Cold shaves, cold food, cold feet; the essence of winter at Saint Martin’s.

  A blast of wind turns my head to ice.

  ‘Sit still, boy, or I’ll have your ear off.’ Rainier, scraping away up there. A fitful buzz of conversation. The drip, drip, 147 drip of water off the eaves, as they shed the residue of last night’s rainstorm.

  What a dreary, damp, uninspiring day.

  ‘There you go.’ A slap on the neck from Rainier. ‘Just one more rinse – that’s it – and you’re all tidied up. Who’s next? Gaubert? Come on, Pagan, get a move on.’

  I’m moving, I’m moving. Off the stool, across to Roland. Squeezing in next to him. Nudging his elbow. He looks up, and blinks.

  ‘Pagan . . .’ he murmurs. His cheeks are all raw where Rainier’s been at them.

  ‘You’re cut, my lord.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got a cut. On your cheek.’ (And were lucky to escape with your head, knowing Rainier.) ‘Shall I get some cobwebs?’

  ‘No, no, don’t trouble yourself.’ He blinks again and rubs his eyes, almost as if he’s been sleeping. ‘You mustn’t call me that, Pagan. I’ve told you not to call me that.’

  ‘Call you what?’

  ‘I’m not your lord any more. I’m your brother.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Lowering my voice. ‘Then why don’t you treat me like a brother? Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, instead of sulking away like a two-year-old?’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘I’m not stupid, you know. I’m not blind.’ (Softly now, Pagan, or you’ll have Clement listening in.) ‘It’s quite obvious that you’re miserable. It’s written all over your face. But how can you expect anyone to help if you don’t talk about it?’

  ‘I have talked about it.’

  Pause.

  What?

  He’s looking down at his boots.

  ‘What do you mean?’ In God’s name, Roland! ‘What do you mean, you’ve talked about it?’

  ‘In confession.’

  In confession? You mean you – you mean you’ve talked to someone else? And not to me? You’ve gone to someone else about this?

  God, I can hardly . . . this is . . . I’m having trouble breathing . . .

  ‘You went to someone else?’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘Oh well, if you went to someone else, that’s all right, then! Since they’ve obviously done you so much good! I mean, I can see that they’ve really put your mind at rest, there! Really cheered you up!’

  ‘Will you stop being so childish?’

  ‘No, Roland, you stop being so childish! Do you think you’re the only one with troubles? You don’t even know . . . I can’t even . . . If you had any idea . . .!’

  Suddenly aware of the silence. Looking around, and everyone’s staring. Staring at me. What happened? What’s wrong? What am I doing on my feet, like this?

  Quickly sitting down again.

  ‘If something’s troubling you, Pagan,’ Clement says at last, ‘there are people you can see. In private. Carrying on like a mad hen isn’t going to solve your problems.’

  God preserve us.

  ‘Unless, perhaps, you’d like to share your troubles with the whole abbey?’ He’s lifting his lip in a sneer. ‘Is that what you want to do?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘No. Good. Then kindly don’t raise your voice again.’

  I think I’m going to die of embarrassment. Quick – hurry – somebody say something! Clement turns back to Elias, and continues his interrupted lecture on the merits of garlic oil. Rainier invites his next victim to sit down. Gerard farts, and apologises.

  Roland won’t even look at me.

  ‘Aha! There he is!’ Bernard Incentor sits up straight. He waves frantically at the figure emerging from the guesthouse entrance. ‘Raymond! Here! Over here! I’ve saved a seat for you.’

  God, and now Raymond’s back. Just what I needed. He strolls across the cloister-garth, looking smug and self-satis fied; he’s carrying several small pots and a little leather bag.

  ‘It’s honey,’ he says, as he stops in front of Clement. ‘Honey for the novices, and a donation for the abbey. With my father’s compliments.’

  ‘How very kind of your father.’ Clement doesn’t sound too impressed, but then he never sounds impressed about anything. ‘You must give it to Brother Montazin. He’ll take care of it. Give it to him now.’

  Brother Montazin. Sitting on the next bench with Guilabert and Sicard and all the other, really important monks. Deep in conversation about really important things. Self-important expression on his razor-nicked face.

  Accepting the gifts wordlessly.

  I wonder if that little bag of money will end up in Lady Beatrice’s pocket. Bound to, I should think. Look at the way Montazin just slips it under his scapular (out of sight, out 150 of mind) as he mutters into Guilabert’s ear. Oh, you’re a sly one, aren’t you? Butter wouldn’t melt, you scorpion. But I know you. I’m watching you. One slip, pus-bag, and you’ve had it, my friend.

  ‘How’s your father?’ Bernard asks the question before Raymond has even reached our bench. ‘How are Lady Saurina and Lady Constance?’

  ‘They’re in good health,’ Raymond replies. He’s so very, very pleased with himself; so very pleased to be the only novice ever to receive visits from his family. Describing how his eldest brother has bought a new horse, and how his youngest sister is going to get married next month, while all the poor, abandoned novices cluster around eagerly, drinking in every word
. All the abandoned novices bar one, that is. I’m not interested in Raymond’s boring family news. I’ve got other things to think about.

  ‘. . . Are there any other guests in there?’ (Durand, hovering at Raymond’s elbow.) ‘Anyone interesting?’

  ‘Oh, there’s the almoner’s cousin. That foreigner. You know, the one who always comes.’ Raymond glances at Clement – who’s still discussing garlic oil – and continues in hushed tones: ‘Actually, he was in the room next to my father’s. And he was having an argument. You could hear it right through the wall.’

  An argument? ‘With whom?’ It’s out before I can stop it.

  Raymond turns to glare at me, a haughty expression on his stuck-up face.

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ he says.

  ‘But was it the almoner? Was he arguing with the almoner?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Which means yes, of course; I can tell by the fleeting look of annoyance which rumples His Majesty’s forehead. Durand presses for more information.

  ‘What did they say, Raymond? What did they say? Go on, tell us –’

  ‘Hush! Don’t shout! Do you want everyone to hear?’ Raymond’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper: he puts one hand on Bernard’s shoulder, and the other on Durand’s, and pulls them both towards him. ‘They were arguing about money,’ he says, ‘if you really want to know. They were arguing because the almoner owed his cousin some money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I knew, Bernard, I’d tell you. But I wasn’t going to sit there with my ear to the door. That’s the sort of thing a servant would do.’ Raymond throws a sideways look at me from out of his long grey eyes. ‘Only scum eavesdrop,’ he adds, meaning, of course, that I should move out of his immediate neighbourhood.

  But Durand seems puzzled.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Our monks don’t have any money, not for themselves. So how could they owe any?’

  ‘Well I’m just telling you what I heard, Durand. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. But I do know they didn’t seem to like each other very much.’ Raymond yawns, displaying a fine set of teeth. ‘The way they were carrying on!’ he exclaims. ‘It was really rough. In fact I’m surprised the cousin even bothers to visit.’