Nudging him with my foot.
He looks around, chewing, just in time to see me knock his pewter cup to the floor. It hits the tiles with a muffled clang, and Bernard Blancus pauses mid-verse. Apologies, everyone! Apologies, apologies! Giving Raymond another kick, so that he joins me, for a moment, under the table.
Hurry now – can’t waste time. Point at him; that means ‘you’. Wag my palm back and forth, like pages turning; that means ‘read’. Make a fist and stamp the air with it, the way you’d stamp a seal; that means ‘letter’. You – read –letter? He shakes his head. Curse it! So he can’t tell me what’s inside.
But before I can climb back onto the bench he grabs my collar, and puts his mouth to my ear. ‘Tonight,’ he whispers, and begins to lisp so that the ‘s’ sounds don’t carry: ‘Thtay awake. Bring the letter. I’ll take care of it.’ And he pops back up to his seat like a diver returning to the surface, his empty cup in his hand.
Tonight? What does he mean, ‘tonight’? Clement glares suspiciously as I slip back into my place. (He doesn’t trust me out of his sight for a moment.) Bernard Blancus shuts his book with a bang. Oh Lord. Is that the end of dinner? I haven’t even finished my bread! Stuffing the rest of it into my mouth; scrambling to my feet with the others. Raymond is still madly chewing, and Clement raps the table, sharply.
When we look at him, he’s looking at Raymond. He waves his right hand, as if to say goodbye, and joins the thumbs and fingers of both hands to make a circle.
Leave – bread.
Poor old Raymond. Didn’t even get a decent meal. But I suspect that his father might have fed him: there’s a suspicious-looking stain on his wrist that has all the characteristics of honey. Poking him in the ribs as we line up to make our exit. I–lick? Pointing at his mysterious, sticky smudge.
He grins. Licks it off himself. Smacks his lips dramatically.
Time for one of our exclusive, private signals. The one involving an extended middle finger.
Up your arse, Raymond.
After you, Pagan.
Smart bastard. I just can’t catch him out, when it comes to sign-language. Still grinning, he tucks his hand into the crook of my arm, and leads me out of the refectory.
I wonder what he’s planning for tonight?
Chapter 26
It’s a big, bright moon, but not bright enough to read by. So what does Raymond think he’s doing? Beckoning to me from the shadows. Scurrying down the path to the herb-garden wall. Has he found himself a candle? A lamp? A torch? Maybe he isn’t even going to read the letter. Maybe this is about something else entirely.
Helping him to lift the enormous oak beam.
One of these days, the circator is going to pass this door while I’m still on the other side of it. He’s going to pick up the bar, and put it back in its slot, and I’m not going to be able to get back in again. I only hope he doesn’t do it tonight.
‘Quick,’ Raymond whispers, and opens the door just wide enough for us to squeeze through. He seems very nervous. ‘The circator’s passed, but we mustn’t dawdle. He’ll be back again soon.’
‘What’s going on?’ Softly, into his ear. ‘What are we supposed to be doing?’
‘We’re going to the guest-house.’
‘The guest-house?’
‘Shh! My father is staying there tonight. He’s leaving in the morning.’
‘But –’
‘I talked to his squire, Burchard; he’s a friend of mine. He promised to give me a lamp.’
Ah! I see. Then lead on, Raymond. Following his hunched figure as he turns right and right again, keeping to the beaten earth of the path, moving like a feather past the shuttered windows of our dormitory. It’s a beautiful night: a clear, cold, early spring night. Somewhere an owl hoots, and there’s a frightened rustle from the pile of dead leaves near the wall.
Mouse, I should think.
Raymond stops at the door of the guest-house, and taps it very softly with his knuckle. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s shaking all over, but not from the cold: he’s just scared. Something tells me that he doesn’t make a habit of wandering around the abbey after dark. Well he couldn’t, could he? Otherwise I would have run into him.
Suddenly, a muted noise from inside. The shuffle of footsteps. The creak of a hinge. A hand appears, with a flickering lamp in its palm. When Raymond takes the lamp the hand is quickly withdrawn, and the door closes.
‘I couldn’t ask my father,’ Raymond explains quietly, as we retrace our steps. ‘My father only agreed to handle this letter because I told him Father Clement knew all about it. He wouldn’t approve of what we’re doing. He wouldn’t understand.’
‘But Burchard would?’
‘Burchard is my friend. Anyway, he’s sleeping in the common room. On a table. He’s closer to the door.’
‘But if your father heard you knocking?’
‘Burchard will tell him that it was the circator, making his rounds. I’ve arranged all that.’
So I see. And I couldn’t have arranged it better myself. ‘By the way, Raymond, where are we going?’ Watching him as he walks along, shielding the fragile flame with his left hand. ‘I suppose you’ve worked all that out too, have you?’
‘We’re going to the orchard,’ he replies. ‘I thought it was the safest place. No one ever goes there at night, and the trees will help to hide us.’
‘Sounds sensible to me.’
‘You think so?’
‘I don’t know of anywhere better.’
He smiles, and we press on past the stables, across the bald patches of dry mud and brown grass, not too close to the mill-house (where Badilo and the other servants are sleeping), towards the mysterious, moonlit shelter of the orchard. It’s so still and peaceful – you’d think we had the whole abbey to ourselves. Nothing but the sound of our footsteps, crunching softly on grass or gravel, padding on carpets of ash or earth. Ahead of us, the dark forest of cherished fruit trees, their new buds wrapped in old rags to protect them from the frost.
If it was autumn there’d be servants stationed all around those trees, to guard the ripening apples. But no one’s interested in the orchard right now. It’s as safe a place as any.
‘Here,’ says Raymond. ‘Let’s stop here.’
‘No. We’ll go farther in. We’ve got a light, remember. We want a good screen.’
Pushing on through the twisted, clawing boughs, fending them off carefully, because a single broken twig will show the sharp-eyed gardeners that we’ve been here. Trying not to leave any footprints. Aha! This is good. This is excellent.
‘What about there? Behind that tree-trunk?’
‘All right.’ He moves over to it, and squats down. ‘Come on, then, quickly. We don’t have all week.’
The letter is still where I put it, twisted around my girdle. It has a very ornate seal, with spires and stars and a cross and some Latin words, and I can’t help wondering if there’s some way of opening the letter without breaking the seal. Seems a pity to spoil such a fine impression. But Raymond won’t let me ponder the possibilities; he’s on fire with impatience.
‘Go on!’ he cries. ‘What does it say? Hurry!’
I’ve never received a letter before. Never opened one up, or read one. It’s a wonderful thing, to know that yours are the first and only eyes to alight on a document since it was written and sealed by the person who sent it. The parchment crackles as I smooth it on my leg. The writing is clear and strong, though a little dense in places. Let’s see, now. Eugenius, servos Domini . . .
‘ “Eugenius, servant of God, abbot of Voutenay-sue-Cure, greetings and paternal blessings to his beloved son, Brother Raymond of Carcassone.’’ ’
‘That’s me,’ says Raymond, and giggles. ‘Doesn’t it sound good? Brother Raymond . . .’
‘You will be Brother Raymond, soon.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well of course.’
‘It’s going to be very strange,’ he murmurs, anxiously. �
��I just hope I can do it.’
Oh come on, Raymond. ‘After a year of Father Clement? You could do it upside down, with your head in a bag.’ Turning back to the letter. ‘ ‘‘With what grave consternation did I receive your news of Brother Aeldred de Reigny, and how fervently did I pray for guidance in this matter, which has tormented our foundation for many years, though the culprit himself fled these walls long ago.’’ ’
‘Bull’s-eye!’
‘Hold on. “You suspect a hidden blemish in Brother Aeldred’s past. You require a full account of his time here. My son, this man’s life is a catalogue of heinous acts; he is a slave to the vile and viperine powers of his own depravity. His sins, against which Saint Paul warned us in Romans Chapter One, Verse Twenty-seven, are manifold and loathsome in every particular . . .’’ ’
Exchanging looks. Romans Chapter One, Verse Twenty-seven? Raymond remembers it first.
‘ “And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another” ,’ he quotes.
‘Oh yes. Of course. “Men with men working that which is unseemly”.’ (How could I ever forget?)
‘Keep going. What else does he say?’
‘Hmmm. Where was I? “The corruption of innocents, the impurity of vile affections, the abuse of trust and privilege: all these sins were his, and more, for not least of his abominable offences was his impenitence, his utter lack of shame, arising from a most terrible and diabolic arrogance of the soul. O, what iniquity! O, what foul and degenerate perver sions! Shun this man, my son; cast him from your midst; cleanse your fraternity as you would cleanse yourself from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness in the fear of God, and in the name of the Holy and Undivided Trinity.” ’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. He certainly feels strongly about it. Look up at Raymond, who’s sitting there with his mouth open.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve got the right Aeldred.’ (Voicing the worry that’s been lurking at the back of my mind.) ‘This is all a bit hysterical, don’t you think? Did you describe him the way I told you to?’
‘Of course I did!’ (He’s offended, now.) ‘Red hair, pale blue eyes, snub nose, narrow shoulders . . .’
‘Then it must be him. How amazing. The way this abbot talks, it makes Aeldred sound like the Beast of the Apocalypse.’
‘Perhaps he is. Underneath.’
‘Perhaps.’ Returning to the letter. ‘ “My son, if you think me intemperate in my language, let me say that I use only those words which will spur you to action. I believe that my former restraint in speaking of this matter may have inspired your brethren with doubts, and caused them to temper their judgement with mercy, where none was deserved.” ’
‘Mercy?’ Raymond interrupts. ‘What’s he talking about? What “former restraint”?’
‘I don’t know. Shh! Let me finish. “For I was grieved to learn that this canker, this serpent, still lived among you, and that my warnings had gone unheeded. Where is Brother Montazin de Castronovo? Why has he not conveyed to you that which I told him, last spring, in reply to his urgent entreaties regarding the same, notorious malefactor? My son, the infection of Aeldred de Reigny’s impious lust has gone unchastened for too long. It must be cauterised. Take heed, and in fearful contemplation of future judgement, protect with unshakeable strength the sanctity of your house from the defilement of a man condemned to the eternal flames of hell.”’
Glory. Oh glory. This is it. This is it!
‘I don’t understand,’ Raymond objects. ‘Is he saying that Father Montazin already knew about Aeldred?’
‘Well of course he did!’ And suddenly it hits me. ‘I never told you that, did I? I never told you about Montazin.’
‘No.’ Deep in Raymond’s shadowy eyes, the reflection of a single flame leaps and flickers. ‘So you’d better tell me now, hadn’t you?’
‘Montazin knows everything. He’s blackmailing Aeldred, just as Centule is. He’s making him take stolen money to a woman called Beatrice, because she’s his cousin. Montazin’s cousin, I mean, not Aeldred’s cousin.’ Pausing a moment, so that Raymond has time to absorb it all. His lamp-lit face looks blank with shock. ‘You see, when Montazin found out that I knew what he was doing, he played that trick with the girl. So I’d be completely discredited.’
‘But I thought Roquefire –?’
‘Roquefire is working with Montazin. So is Sicard the guest-master. That’s one reason why I couldn’t have sent a letter myself. Sicard handles all the monastery letters, and if he’d seen something addressed to the Abbot of Voutenay-sur-Cure . . . well, you can imagine what would have happened.’
Slowly, Raymond shakes his head. When he speaks he sounds breathless. Awestruck.
‘You found this out by yourself?’ he whispers. ‘All on your own?’
‘I had to.’
‘But – but what will you do now?’
‘Now? Now I have proof! I have proof, Raymond! Written proof!’ Waving the letter at him. ‘And I’m going to show it to the abbot, as soon as he returns.’
‘He’s not returning until next week.’
‘I can wait.’
‘But why don’t you show it to Father Guilabert?’
‘Because I don’t trust Guilabert. I don’t trust any of them. Only the abbot.’ Folding up my precious letter. Tucking it carefully into my girdle. ‘I won’t be parted from this until I can put it straight into his hands.’
Raymond seems to be thinking. His hair shines like gold in the lamplight. His skin looks very pale. ‘If you wait until the abbot comes back,’ he says, ‘I may not be a novice any more when you tell him.’
‘So?’
‘So you won’t forget about me, will you? You’ll tell me what happens?’
‘Well of course I will!’ God, Raymond. ‘How could I possibly forget about you?’
Silence falls. I’m beginning to get a bit cold, sitting here under the trees. On the damp earth. Without my cowl or scapular.
Maybe it’s time to go in.
‘We should probably move now, Raymond. We’re running out of time.’ Scrambling to my feet; dusting off my robe.
But his hand shoots up and drags me back down again.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Wait, I – I just want to ask you something . . .’
Pause. Well, come on. What is it?
‘Ask me what?’
‘About women.’ He swallows. ‘Have you – have you ever – actually – you know . . .’
‘Bedded one?’
‘Yes.’ Even in this light, I can see the blush. ‘Have you ever done that?’
Oh Lord. Here we go. ‘Yes.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lot?’
‘No.’
‘How many times?’
‘Jesus, Raymond, I don’t know.’ What a question! ‘Twice? No, three times.’
‘What . . .’ He hesitates. ‘What was it like?’
What was it like? I’ll tell you what it was like. It was like hell, the first time. Back in Jerusalem, when I was fourteen, and that girl and her friends . . . But I won’t think about that. Anyway, the second time was better. Last year, on the ship to Marseilles, when Roland was seasick and I met that widow. Marguesia the widow. She was nice. Old, but nice. I wonder what happened to her?
‘It’s all right, I suppose.’ Thinking about the last time, with Marguesia. But I’d better not dwell on it. If I do, I’ll just get hot and bothered. ‘Actually, it can be a lot of fun.’
Raymond sighs.
‘There are so many things I haven’t done,’ he murmurs. ‘And if I become a monk, tomorrow . . . well, I’ll never do them, will I? Not ever.’
Uh-oh. ‘What’s the matter, Raymond? Don’t you want to be a monk?’
‘I suppose I do. It’s just – I don’t know.’ He stares down at the lamp. ‘I just wish I was more like you, that’s all. I wish I’d done everything.’
Done every
thing? What’s that supposed to mean?
‘Raymond, I haven’t done much, you know. I’ve wasted half my life messing around.’
‘But you’ve done things!’ he cries, and startles himself so much that he quickly covers his mouth. We sit for a moment, listening.
Nothing stirs.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ he finally remarks. ‘I never thought I would, but I will. It’s a shame that – well – you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’ It’s a shame that we didn’t work this out earlier. Watching him as he prods the ground with a stick, a scowl on his face, a dead leaf entangled in his hair. He looks very young for his age, like all the former oblates: very young, but also, in a peculiar fashion, very old. I don’t know what it is. Something to do with the lack of worldly experience, combined with the dead weight of long hours in church.
Poor sod. Poor miserable sod. He doesn’t belong here, in this desolate graveyard of a monastery; he should be out managing estates, with his father.
‘I’ll miss you too, Raymond.’ Carefully avoiding his eye. ‘It’s just not going to be the same, without you.’
And we make our way slowly back to the guest-house.
Chapter 27
Here comes Raymond. He looks pale, but composed. The church is so quiet that every one of his footsteps echoes around the vaults like the crack of a whip. He’s carrying his Act of Profession in both hands, reverently, the way you’d carry a fragment of the True Cross.
He stops in front of the altar, where Montazin is waiting for him.
Poor Raymond. I can see him shrinking back as Montazin reaches for the roll of parchment. How awful to have that tape-worm reading out your Act of Profession, when you know exactly what he’s been doing. The sonorous voice booms away (‘. . . stabilitas loci . . . conversio morum . . .’), while the monks yawn and fidget, and the novices nudge each other, and Bernard Incentor wipes his eyes.
I feel so sorry for Bernard. He and Raymond haven’t been apart since they were six days old; they even shared the same wet-nurse, Raymond tells me. But now Clement says that Bernard isn’t ready to become a monk. So the two friends are separated, and it seems pointlessly cruel, even though it’s just what you’d expect from a heartless brute like Clement. God, how I hate that man, sometimes.
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