Pagan's Vows

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘. . . Dominus det vobis societatem electorum suorum.’ Montazin finishes reading the Act, solemnly lays it on the altar, and withdraws at a stately pace, his chiselled nose in the air. Anyone would think that he was swearing in a monarch. But I don’t mind watching him swank about, any more, because I know that his days among the Elect are well and truly numbered. Enjoy it while you can, pus-head. You’re heading for the biggest fall since Lucifer’s.

  ‘Suscipe me secundum . . .’ Raymond prostrates himself, and tries to recite the versicle. But the poor thing is so nervous that his voice comes out as a strangled squawk. So he clears his throat and starts again.

  ‘Suscipe me secundum eloquium tuum, Domine, et vivam, et ne confundas me ab exspectatione mea . . .’

  Hah! And there’s Guilabert, all dressed up in the abbot’s cope. Holding the abbot’s pastoral staff in his pudgy hand. As if he could ever stand in for the abbot! God, if only the abbot were here. How am I ever going to wait until Tuesday? It’s such a strain, walking around with this letter tucked into my drawers. I’m so scared I’m going to lose it before I have a chance to show it to him.

  ‘Suscipe me secundum eloquium tuum . . .’ Raymond repeats the versicle, and prostrates himself for the second time. He’s getting more confident, now.

  I wonder how he’ll cope as a fully fledged monk? It’ll be awful, sleeping in the same dormitory as Montazin. And Sicard. And Aeldred, too! God, imagine sharing a room with Aeldred! Enough to make your flesh crawl. I know I couldn’t do it.

  ‘Suscipe me secundum eloquium tuum . . .’ Raymond’s voice, high-pitched and breathless. Down he goes, flat on the floor again, racing through his third recitation as if he’s trying to win a prize. When he finishes he scrambles to his feet, and Guilabert also rises, hoisting his bulk off the abbot’s throne with little grunts, like a pig. He comes forward until he’s standing beside Raymond. Clears his throat. Raises his staff.

  ‘Kyrie eleison,’ he bleats, and everyone makes the standard response: ‘Kyrie eleison.’

  ‘Christe eleison.’

  ‘Christe eleison.’

  ‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum . . .’

  Only Guilabert could make the ‘Our Father’ sound like a list of farriers’ supplies. He’s even mispronouncing the Latin. Glancing at Clement, who looks as if he’s just bitten into a sour grape. (Nobody hates a bungled inflection as much as Clement.) He catches me staring at him, and rolls his eyes – something I’ve never seen him do before. It’s almost as if he’s trying to say: ‘Listen to that hopeless bungler’.

  How very odd.

  ‘. . . Et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo, amen,’ Guilabert intones, and now it’s time for Psalm Fifty-one. The terrible, the unbearable ‘Miserere’.

  Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy goodness, according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies wipe out my transgressions.

  ‘Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum dele iniquitatem meam . . .’

  As the deep, gentle chorus rises slowly, like incense, towards the golden stars on the ceiling, Bernard Blancus comes forward with Raymond’s new cowl. Guilabert blesses it, and with his head bowed beneath the pure strains of the psalm he manages to achieve a certain degree of dignity.

  ‘Tibi soli peccavi et quod malum est coram te feci.’

  Turning, he places the cowl on Raymond’s head, and kisses him on both cheeks. Once. Twice. Three times. The chorus swells and fades, and a shower of silvery notes seems to enfold Raymond like a shaft of light, as all at once the music and the images merge into one glorious, inexpressible sensation: the glitter of the altar screen, the soaring voices, the smell of incense, the graceful and pious embrace, the loving smile of the Holy Virgin, painted in rainbow colours above the choir, as she bends down from her heavenly throne with her hand raised in blessing.

  God. Oh God. It’s so beautiful.

  ‘Ut manifesteris iustis in sententia tua, rectus in ludicio tuo . . .’

  Let Thy majesty be justified in Thy sentence, vindicated when Thou wouldst condemn.

  Slowly, one by one, the monks leave their places, and approach the altar, and give Raymond the kiss of peace. They move so smoothly, identical in their long black robes, that it almost looks like a dance – or like the majestic movement of stars across the sky. But when it’s Clement’s turn he breaks the rhythm, because he can hardly walk now, and he drags himself step by step across the floor of the church, his walking-stick rapping against the tiles, until he reaches Raymond in front of the altar. Transferring the stick to his left hand, he leans forward to kiss Raymond’s cheek – and suddenly they’re hugging each other, very tight, and it feels as if a steel splinter has pierced me right through the heart.

  Because I know: suddenly I know. I know that I’m never going to be up there in front of that altar, receiving the kiss of peace. I’m never going to present my Act of Profession. I’m never going to do it because I – because –

  Because I’m never going to be a monk.

  It’s so clear to me, now. They’ll never let me in, no matter how hard I try. And why should they? I don’t belong here. I can’t even imagine myself as one of these men, shuffling round and round the same solemn path, day after day, year after year, with nothing to sustain me but my love of God, which I have to admit is in a pretty sad state, at the moment. Not at all the flourishing, healthy faith that it should be. In fact I can’t help wondering if He actually knows what’s going on down here, sometimes. I can’t help thinking that people like me – well, that we’re too insignificant to attract His attention.

  ‘Ecce in culpa natus sum et in peccato concepit me mater mea.’

  Behold, I was shaped in wickedness, and in sin hath my mother conceived me.

  It’s the story of my life, that verse. Shaped in wickedness, conceived in sin. I’ll never make it at Saint Martin’s; I’ve known that, deep in my gut, ever since I joined. Nothing’s been holding me here except the prospect of avenging myself. But when Montazin is disgraced, what 226 shall I do then? Where shall I go? There’s nothing out there, absolutely nothing. And if Roland stays . . . if Roland . . .

  Roland. Oh God. He’s the reason I came here in the first place, and now – Christ, I can’t bear it. Where is he? He’s gone. He’s just not there any more, not for me. Not for anyone. He’s an empty shell, and even the shell looks different. Hollow-eyed. Stooping. Wasted. Like a candle that’s been snuffed out. Like a walking corpse. I can’t – oh God, oh God, I’ve lost him, I’ve lost Roland, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it any more. Oh God, why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me? I can’t even sing, or I’ll choke on my own tears. Trying to hide them. Trying to stop them, with one hand over my mouth, but the psalm goes on and on, so anguished and poignant and heart-rending, and it’s going to kill me, I just know it is. Cast me not away from Thy presence, and take not Thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation, and uphold me with Thy free spirit.

  A hand slips into mine.

  It’s Durand, of course: he squeezes hard. I can’t see his face, through the tears, but I know what he’s doing. Staring at me. Peering at me. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? When I try to pull my hand away he holds on tight, and starts to stroke it. Don’t do that, God, please, don’t do that! You’re only making it worse.

  The sacrifices of God are a troubled spirit; a broken and contrite heart; O God, shalt Thou not despise.

  And the psalm goes on. Phrase by agonising phrase. Winding its way to the end of the office, as it slowly tears me to pieces.

  Chapter 28

  The abbot’s back today, hooray, hooray, hooray.

  The abbot’s back today, hooray, hooray, hooray.

  Hell on earth, it’s that stupid song again. I can’t get the damned thing out of my head. And I must have been dreaming it, too, because it’s been knocking around my skull ever since I woke up. For God’s sake, Pagan, t
hink about something else! Think about what you’re doing, here. You’re supposed to be reciting the litany, not some inane, tuneless nursery rhyme. I know you’re still half asleep, but you’ve got to pull yourself together.

  ‘Kyrie eleison.’

  ‘Kyrie eleison.’

  ‘Christe eleison.’

  ‘Christe eleison.’

  And there’s Guilabert, wobbling across the floor. How wonderful to think that this is going to be his last Lord’s Prayer for at least two weeks. Two weeks! Just think, we’ll have the abbot leading the offices tonight. The abbot, with his intelligent face. And his trim figure. And his clear, precise, mellifluous Latin.

  The abbot’s back today, hooray, hooray, hooray.

  I wonder when he’ll be arriving? Not quite yet, I suppose. He certainly won’t be here until sunrise. Probably not until this afternoon. They said Tuesday afternoon. God, I wish he’d hurry! I simply have to get rid of this letter.

  ‘Pater noster,’ Guilabert drones, ‘qui in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum . . .’

  And then, of course, there’s the question of how I’m actually going to do it. How the hell does a nobody like me secure a private audience with Anselm? I’d have an easier time securing a seat beside the Lord God Almighty on Judgement Day. My only hope is that Anselm never fails to visit the novices when he comes back from his trips. Perhaps I’ll ask if I can speak to him then. Immediately. On a matter of the most crucial importance.

  Regarding a certain Montazin.

  ‘ . . . Et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo,’ Guilabert concludes, and everyone says ‘Amen’. At last! It’s over! There’s an air of subdued restlessness as the monks slowly file out the southern door: they all want to get to the cloisters quickly, and wash their faces while the water’s still hot. Personally, I don’t think I’ve washed my face in hot water since I arrived here. But then, I’m just a humble novice.

  A nudge in the ribs. It’s Bernard. He curls a strand of hair around his finger, and briefly covers his eyes with his left hand. Raymond – absent. Really? Raymond’s absent? I didn’t even notice. Standing on tiptoe to peer over the milling heads, but it’s impossible to see everyone in this light. With all those cowls pulled over their faces. I wouldn’t know if Raymond was here or not – especially since he worships with the monks, now. It’s been hard to keep track of him, since he became a monk.

  Another barrage of signs from Bernard. Raymond – sick? Well don’t ask me, Bernard, how should I know? I haven’t spoken to Raymond since he presented his Act of Profession. Neither has anyone else, in fact. Isn’t he supposed to be keeping silent for three days?

  Making a fist, with the thumb turned down. I know not.

  Bernard frowns, and begins to gnaw at his fingernails. Clement pushes me into line.

  And out we march, into the cloisters.

  Hello, hello. What’s happening here? A cluster of notables, all deep in conversation. The prior. The chamberlain. The cellarer. The sacristan. Muttering away by the chapter-house door, shadowy and suspicious in the flickering torchlight. How disgraceful. They shouldn’t be talking, like that. It’s supposed to be a Silent Time. As Clement emerges they all turn, and Rainier beckons to him.

  Surely the abbot can’t have arrived, yet?

  Wash, Clement tells us, with an imperious gesture. Wash – and – wait. He hobbles off to join the conspirators, leaving us to splash about in the bowl of tepid water which has been left on a stool near the book-presses. There are three towels set out beside it, all of them sopping. So we end up drying ourselves on our sleeves, as usual.

  Abbot – come? Durand inquires, after he wipes his face. He’s not asking anyone in particular: he’s just asking. Some of the monks, I notice, are asking the same question. They’re supposed to be pacing around the cloisters in silent contemplation, but most of them are watching the group by the chapter-house. I wonder what could possibly be going on, over there?

  Suddenly Clement breaks away from the group. He limps across the cloister-garth towards us, looking particularly formidable, and you can’t help thinking that he’s about to bite someone’s head off. (Please God, don’t let it be mine.) When he reaches us, however, he just stands for a moment, lost in thought.

  And when he speaks, his voice is so low that it’s almost a whisper.

  ‘We can’t use the chapter-house for recitations this morning,’ he says quickly. ‘It will be needed for an emergency council. Go back to the dormitory, and wait for me there. If I haven’t returned by the time the bell rings for Matins, go to the church without me. Roland, you can lead the recitations.’

  ‘But Master –’ Gaubert begins.

  ‘Shh!’ Clement draws his finger across his mouth. ‘No talking! Just go!’

  Emergency council? What could that be for? Trailing after Roland, who leads the way across the cloister-garth; through the covered passage; into the herb garden. Moving on feather-light feet past the oblates’ dormitory, because they’ll be in bed (lucky bastards). Filing back into our own room, where it still smells of night-farts.

  Black as the Bottomless Pit, as well, because Clement always snuffs the candle out when we leave for Nocturnes.

  ‘I can’t see a thing!’ Bernard hisses. ‘They should have given us a lamp.’

  ‘Shh!’ It’s Amiel’s voice – a mouse’s squeak in the darkness. ‘You’ll wake the oblates.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ (Durand.) ‘We will wake the oblates. How are we going to do recitations without waking the oblates?’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do recitations,’ Bernard whispers. But Roland won’t have that.

  ‘Father Clement told us to recite,’ he says, in the flat and lifeless voice that he’s been adopting, lately. It makes you want to punch him in the guts, just to get some kind of human response out of him. ‘If you speak softly, Bernard, you won’t wake the oblates. Now why don’t you start the recitations for us?’

  ‘Why don’t you start?’ Bernard retorts, and continues urgently: ‘Did anyone see Raymond this morning? I didn’t see him, did you?’

  ‘Bernard, please, Father Clement –’

  ‘Oh shut up, Roland! I’m asking a question, here. Did anyone see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe he’s sick,’ Amiel suggests.

  ‘Or maybe his father’s here?’ Gaubert sounds uncertain. ‘Maybe that’s why there was that fuss in the cloisters.’

  ‘Because of a guest? Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘Bernard, please. There’s no call for that.’

  ‘Up your arse, Roland! I’m worried about him! He should have been there!’

  Knock-knock-knock! A rap on the door. Someone moves (I can hear his knees cracking) and by some miraculous stroke of luck he finds the door-handle. There’s a creak of hinges, and all at once the room is flooded with light.

  A servant stands on the threshold with a lamp in his hand.

  ‘Is Pagan there?’ he asks. It’s Badilo, from the mill. ‘Pagan? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’ (What’s this about?) ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Father Clement wants to see you, Pagan. In the guesthouse.’

  ‘The guest-house?’

  ‘Right away.’

  What could Clement be doing in the guest-house?

  ‘There!’ Gaubert says. ‘I told you that Raymond’s father must have come.’

  But I can’t catch Bernard’s reply, because I’m out the door already. Trying to keep up with Badilo.

  Anyone would think he was running for his life.

  ‘Oi! Badilo! Wait for me!’

  He doesn’t even stop; he just disappears into the refectory, tossing a gruff remark over his shoulder. ‘I’m busy, Pagan, you know where the guest-house is.’

  Busy? At this time of night? What’s he doing, masturbating? Trying to perfect the art of snoring through one nostril? This is ridiculous.

  Passing into the cloisters, and they’re deserted. Completely empty.
Where is everyone? In the chapter-house? In the guest-house? Reaching the guest-house door – the inner door – and pushing it open. Inside, the common room is dark and silent. But there’s a faint glow coming from somewhere down the passage to my left.

  Aha. I see. Someone’s in the end room: there’s light spilling over the threshold. Should I announce my presence, or will I get my knuckles rapped for not using sign language? Moving forward, past the shuttered windows on my right, past the black, yawning doorways opposite them. Hello? Is that you, Master Needle-nose?

  Whump!

  On my knees. On the floor. What –? Who –? Someone hit me . . .

  ‘Where’s the letter?’

  That’s Montazin’s voice. Augh! Help! Weight on my back. Grip on my collar. Choking . . .

  ‘Give it to me! Give me the letter, or I’ll kill you!’

  The voice is right next to my ear. Quick! Now! Throw my head back. Thunk! Bone on bone. Got him! He yelps, and loosens his grip. Jabbing with the elbow; hitting something soft. Roll with the weight, Pagan, roll with the weight! Pulling him over, kicking his legs, and he rolls along with me. Onto his back. Tries to keep me pinned, but if I drive my toes into his knee – there! He lets go, howling, and I roll off him, onto my stomach.

  Quick, quick! Get away! ‘Help! Help me – oof!’ Ow! God, my arm, my arm! What’s he got? Jesus Christ, it’s a candlestick! A great, big, bronze – ow! Help! Stop it! Help!

  ‘Where is it?’ ( Thunk!) ‘Give it to me!’ (Thunk!) Ow! Christ! What’s he doing? Try to get up. Try to get away. I’ve got to get away, or he’ll kill me. He’s going to kill me. My legs won’t work. God, my mouth. I can’t see . . .

  Blood.

  ‘Where is it?’ His weight again. Fumbling hands. He’s pulling at my scapular, and the pain – Jesus, the pain – and he’s reaching under my robe, and it’s the letter – he’s looking for the letter –