And off they trudge. One down, two to go. My heart is beating so hard that I can barely hear anything else. What a strain this is! But when the abbot turns to Roland, his smile is very encouraging.
‘Roland, step forward, please.’
Roland steps forward. He doesn’t look nervous: his face is a mask, his eyes blue and blank. But I know that he is nervous. I know it, because I know him. Inside and out.
‘Roland, you have been with us for eight months, and during that time you have denied yourself to follow Christ.’ (How true.) ‘You have become a stranger to the ways of the world, chastising the flesh while you nurtured the spirit. Rarely have I witnessed such a profound desire to attain that love of God which casteth out fear. Roland, you have truly set your foot on God’s path . . . but your journey is not yet complete.’
The abbot is still straining forward: you can tell that he doesn’t want to sit on his throne. He wants to spring up and grab Roland’s hand and sit down next to him. He wants to tuck his arm into Roland’s and take him for a walk around the cloisters. He’s speaking to Roland, not at him, with knitted brows and a gentle gaze and an earnest, troubled expression.
‘My son,’ he says, ‘you have yet to learn the essence of our last Instrument of Good Works: ‘Never despair of God’s mercy’. Have you forgotten the words of Saint Paul? He said that God loveth a cheerful giver. The fruit of the Holy Spirit is joy and peace, not misery and despair. My son, you have yet to find the Holy Spirit, and without the Holy Spirit you cannot be a happy monk.’ Hard words, but they’re softened by his smile, which is warm, sympathetic, and ever so slightly quizzical. ‘However,’ he adds, ‘I know that you are searching diligently, and I am anxious to help you in your search. Roland, in your wish to enter this holy community, the Abbey of Saint Martin, are you steadfast of purpose?’
Roland squares his shoulders.
‘I am,’ he says.
‘Then you will stay here for another four months, as a novice, and I will speak to you again at the end of that time.’
Hooray! He’s done it. Roland moves back to his seat, soundlessly, and now I’m all alone, encircled by staring monks, with my arm in a sling and a crack in my head and my face a mass of bruises. Feeling very, very vulnerable.
‘Pagan, step forward, please.’
Stepping forward, and here I am: face to face with the abbot. Last time I saw him was in the infirmary, with Clement, when he asked a few questions and left.
God knows what he thinks of me now.
‘Pagan,’ he begins, and his voice has changed. But at least he’s still smiling. ‘Pagan, it’s hard for me to know what to say to you. Sometimes I feel that you have been nothing but a curse, and that’s unfair because I know that what you’ve done, you’ve done for the good of Saint Martin. I also know that everyone in this room owes you the most profound debt of gratitude. That’s why I would dearly love to welcome you into our community.’ He hesitates; sighs; bites his lip. ‘But I can’t,’ he says at last.
What? What do you mean? Murmurs from the audience. Looking at Roland, who’s risen to his feet again.
‘I’ve talked about this with Brother Clement,’ the abbot continues, firmly, ‘and we both feel that you don’t really belong here. But we’re not going to discuss it with you now. We’ll do it after chapter.’
My mind’s a blank. I can’t think. They’re going to throw me out? Just like that? But what about Roland? What about my arm? I don’t – I don’t know what to do . . .
He’s rising. The abbot’s rising, and so is everyone else. Is it finished? Is it the end of chapter? It must be, I suppose, because they’re all walking out. All of them except Clement. And Roland. And the abbot, of course; he’s beside me, now, and his hand is on my arm.
‘Come and sit down, Pagan.’ It’s as if he’s speaking from inside a well. No, not a well – don’t think about wells. What am I doing? Things aren’t making sense.
The abbot’s voice, close to my ear, but sounding so far away. ‘Sit down, Pagan, I know this is a shock.’
‘My lord.’ And that’s Roland: he’s stayed behind. He and Clement, but the rest of them are gone. ‘My lord, I must speak,’ he says.
‘Yes, Roland?’
‘My lord, if Pagan is sent away, then I must go with him.’
Silence. Oh Roland. Would you really? Oh Roland, God bless you for that. God bless you.
But of course it’s out of the question.
‘Would you abandon your holy vocation for Pagan’s sake?’ Clement says sharply.
The abbot, however, stretches out a hand. ‘ “What man doth live without affections?” ’ he murmurs. ‘Come here, Roland. Sit down. I have to talk to you.’
So here we are. The abbot in the middle, Roland on one side, and the source of everyone’s problems on the other. Feeling very small in the big, empty chapter-house, which still smells of bad breath and sweaty feet. That’s one thing I won’t miss, when I go: the concentrated smell of sweaty monastic feet. It’s positively suffocating.
‘Roland, Saint Augustine had much to say about love,’ the abbot declares, thoughtfully. ‘He said: ‘Let the root of love be within; of this root can nothing spring but what is good’. He also said: ‘Love, but take heed what you love’. My son, you have a loving heart, so you must learn to take this foundation of earthly love in your heart and build upon it a tower that will carry you to the higher love of Christ. I believe that you can build such a tower here, in this abbey.’
‘But –’
‘With my help, Roland. With my help.’ The abbot shakes his head. ‘I am grievously to blame for what’s been happening here. I should not have been absent for so long, on so many occasions. It wasn’t entirely my fault but –’ He pauses; clicks his tongue; drives his fist into his knee. ‘No!’ he says. ‘No, it was my fault. If I had been determined to stay, I would have stayed. You must forgive me, and accept my promise that in future I shall be here, where I should be, to help you in your search for God.’
Oh yes, go right ahead. Go on and help him. But you won’t help me, will you?
Roland stares down at his hands, and swallows. ‘I cannot stay,’ he says dully. ‘Not if you expel Pagan.’
‘Roland, we’re not going to throw Pagan out onto the streets. We have other plans for Pagan.’
The abbot turns, and suddenly we’re eyeball to eyeball, and it’s like being pinned to a wall by a lance.
‘Pagan,’ he says, ‘you may not realise this, but Brother Clement is an unusually learned person. He has studied at university, and would be there still but for two reasons: firstly, because in 1163 the Council of Tours prohibited monks from studying law and medicine at university; secondly, because he believes – and I share his belief – that one of the most important tasks we have is to train and nurture our novices. Without good novices, we are nothing. So Brother Clement has devoted his life to winnowing the grain from the chaff, and planting the grain, and watching it grow.’
Really? And what’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I’m the chaff? Is that what you’re saying? Glaring at Clement, but he doesn’t move a muscle: just stands there, leaning on his stick, with a grumpy expression on his face.
‘After twenty-six years as a novice-master, Brother Clement knows when a person isn’t suitable for the monastic life,’ the abbot goes on. He takes my hand, my good hand, and gives it a squeeze. He looks deep into my eyes. ‘I think you know that yourself, too.’ (Gently.) ‘Don’t you, Pagan?’
The church. The music. The embrace. I remember all of that. And I remember the tears, as well; I remember the harsh taste of them. Oh Jesus.
‘Yes.’ Gasp. Gulp. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Pagan, you simply don’t have the makings of a monk,’ says the abbot. He drops my hand; glances at Clement; takes a deep breath. ‘But you do have the makings of a brilliant canon lawyer. Father Clement says that you have one of the sharpest and clearest intellects that he’s ever come across. He says he’s never met anyone of y
our age who’s so quick, or so able, with such an extraordinary grasp of ideas and their practical application. He says he’s neglected the other novices for your sake, so that he could give you the kind of attention you needed. But he’s gone as far as he can. That’s why he wants to send you to Carcassone, to the cathedral school.
‘From there, you will have a chance of reaching university.’
What? I don’t – what was that? Is this some kind of joke? But the abbot seems quite serious. And Clement – Clement’s just standing there, leaning on his stick. Staring at the floor.
He won’t even look at me.
‘The Bishop of Carcassone is my cousin,’ the abbot explains. ‘I will ask him to accept you into the cathedral chapter, as a secondary. I think the life of a secular canon will suit you much better than the life of a monk. It’s a freer life, and it’s concerned with the world. We are concerned only with God. Although, of course, we are all serving God in our different ways.’ He turns back to Roland. ‘Knowing this, Roland – knowing that your dear friend will be safe and cared for – will you consent to stay here with us?’
Roland lifts his head. He looks at me with his blue eyes, and they’re solemn and questioning, and of course he has to stay, he has to stay now that the abbot’s back, because if he leaves this place he’ll never be happy: he’ll never be at peace. And if Roland isn’t happy, I’ll never be happy either.
Go on, Roland. It’s all right, I swear. There’s only one choice for you – one choice and one path. You have to take it.
Please.
‘Very well,’ he says at last. ‘Very well, my lord, I’ll stay.’ And he leans back, sighing, like a man who’s just finished the most exhausting race of his life.
Chapter 31
Isn’t it odd how much better a place looks, when you’re leaving it? Even this dormitory looks cosier, somehow. Even my bed . . . just think, I’ve been sleeping in this bed for longer than I’ve slept in any bed since I was ten years old, and I’ll never sleep in it again. Never. Last night was the last time.
‘Carcassone isn’t far,’ says Roland, breaking the silence. ‘It’s less than half a day’s ride from Saint Martin’s.’
‘Mmmm.’
Pause. He’s sitting on the bed opposite, watching me dress. My old tunic, so stained and shabby. My old stockings. My old cloak, smelling of herbs. They must have stored it with herbs, to stop insects from chewing holes in the fabric.
It’s so hard to get dressed, when I can’t use my arm.
‘Here,’ says Roland, rising to his feet. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll help you.’
He undoes the knot in my girdle; pulls my robe over my head, carefully, because there are scabs it might catch on. When he picks up my tunic he holds it for a moment, staring at the ancient brown bloodstains on the hem.
‘You can write to me,’ he mutters. ‘I can always ask someone to read it. I can always ask someone to write a reply.’
Oh sure. That’ll be something to look forward to. Pushing my arms through the sleeves of my tunic, but the sleeves are too narrow for the splint.
‘We’ll have to tear it,’ Roland decides, and rips the worn fabric right up to the elbow. Never mind. Who cares? I’ll only be wearing this sad old thing until I reach the cathedral. Then I suppose they’ll put me into something else. Anyway, it doesn’t even fit any more: it seems a little short. A little tight.
‘You’ve grown,’ says Roland. ‘You’ve filled out.’
He picks up my belt and fastens it around my waist. Picks up my sword, in its dangling scabbard.
Will I be needing that?
‘Take it,’ he says. ‘You still have to reach Carcassone.’
True. Very true. My stockings feel damp: they need a good airing. My old boots look exactly like a pair of mum-mified eels. One more trip for these old campaigners, and then they ought to be given a proper burial. Roland actually smiles when he sees them.
‘They’ve covered a lot of ground,’ he begins, and suddenly seems to lose his voice.
Don’t, Roland. Just don’t.
He arranges the cloak around my shoulders, and I’m ready. Ready? What a joke. This is – I think I’m going to die. I’m going to walk out that door and die.
‘Come on,’ he says. And now I’ve left the dormitory, never to return. Walking along the path to the herb-garden wall. The sky’s still pink; there’s still dew on the grass. And there’s a group of people waiting under the olive tree.
Are they here for my sake? I suppose they are. Durand’s crying; his nose is running; he looks terrible. He darts forward – hugging me – and I can feel his tears on my neck.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he sobs. ‘I’ll miss you, Pagan.’
Oh God. How can this be happening? And Gaubert, little Gaubert. I have to bend over to embrace him. He feels so delicate, like a bird.
‘Goodbye, Pagan.’ His voice quavers. ‘Come back soon.’
I think I’m going to break, but no – no I’m not. Because here’s Bernard, and he hates me now; he blames me for everything that happened to Raymond. He can’t even bring himself to touch me.
‘Goodbye,’ he says. And good riddance: the unspoken words are clear in his eyes.
Forgive me, Bernard. Forgive me for what I’ve done to you.
‘Take care of yourself.’ It’s Amiel. Exhausted, ghostly, his touch as weak as a butterfly’s. This may be the last time I see him; he may not live much longer. But what can I say? If I speak, it will be the end. I’ll be finished. And I can’t risk that.
Moving from Amiel to Gaucher. Never liked Gaucher. Glad to see the back of him. Perfunctory hug . . . and here’s Ademar. Ademar? It can’t be. Stopping to stare at him. He stares right back. Doesn’t have to say or do anything. Just the fact that he’s come – I still don’t believe it.
And Clement’s next in line.
Clement, leaning against the olive tree. (He’s propped his stick against the wall.) But he pushes himself upright, and takes a step forward. Holds out his arms. I can see over his shoulder; I can feel his bones grinding as he squeezes, as he staggers, using my weight to support himself. His harsh breathing. His voice in my ear – my right ear.
‘Make me proud,’ he mumbles. ‘Make me even prouder.’ He pulls back, and raises his clumsy, swollen hands until I can feel them on my face, one on each cheek, and he bends down and kisses my forehead. Kisses it hard.
Sweet Jesus.
The tears; they’re coming. I can’t stop them now. I can’t see and I can’t breathe, and if I breathe, I’ll howl. I’ll collapse. Someone’s hand on my arm. ‘Come on, Pagan.’ How can this be happening? How did I get all these friends? And Clement – Clement never told me –
Through a door. Gravel underfoot. Stables and horses, three horses, and the abbot’s on one of them, dressed for riding. Good horses. Big horses. The second one’s a bay gelding, with a servant in the saddle.
The third one must be mine.
‘Pagan?’ It’s Roland’s voice. No, I can’t. I can’t leave him.
‘I can’t leave you . . .’
Bawling like a baby. God, oh God, this is unbearable. But he’s still there, all warm and solid, his arms and his chest and his back, stooping now, so he can lay his cheek against my head. So I can lay my head against his heart. Holding him tight, because soon I’ll be gone.
Roland. My mother and my father. My friend. My lord.
Help me. Please help me to leave you.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he says softly.
‘I can’t – I can’t –’
‘Yes you can. You can do anything. Everything.’ He swallows; I can feel it shuddering down his throat and into his chest. ‘Don’t make this any harder, Pagan, please. The abbot is waiting.’
The abbot. Yes. The abbot is waiting. Can’t let the abbot wait. Releasing my grip; turning blindly towards where the horses were, before I drowned them in a flood of tears. No – hold on – I can see them, again. And I can see the abbot, too: he’s gazing politely
off into the distance.
While his servant gawks at us like an owl.
‘I’ll help you up,’ says Roland.
Owl-eyes is holding my horse, but he surrenders the reins to Roland, who flicks them back over the long, snowy neck where they’re supposed to be.
‘Put your arm across my shoulders, Pagan, and I’ll lift you. No – no, put your foot there. That’s it. That’s right. Be careful. Good.’
A struggle; a stagger; a jerk of the reins. And suddenly I’m up. I’m up! Now I just have to ride the damned thing.
How long has it been since I sat on a horse?
‘This is an extremely placid animal,’ the abbot assures me. He looks very organised: riding gloves, riding boots, saddlebags with his initials on them. ‘Even one-handed, you’ll be able to ride her. All she does is follow the horse in front.’ He glances at Roland, grimaces, and turns away. ‘We have to go, now,’ he says.
Owl-eyes clicks his tongue. The abbot digs in his heels. They’re both moving. They’re both going.
Roland is still holding my reins.
‘Roland –’
‘Pray for me. Think of me.’ He grabs my good hand, and presses it to his lips. He folds my fingers around the reins. He steps back. ‘I’ll see you again,’ he says, and slaps the white crupper in front of him.
With a snort and a shiver, my horse begins to move. It begins to follow the big, brown backside in front of it, heading for the abbey gates. It feels so peculiar. So high and unsteady and – and –
Twisting in my saddle, but Roland’s already turned his back. He’s turned his back, and he’s walking towards the herb-garden wall. No, he’s not going in there. He’s going somewhere else. Why doesn’t he look? Why doesn’t he wave? But before we turn the corner, I can see him stop.
He stops, and covers his face with his hand.
Oh Roland. Oh Roland. Now he’s out of sight, and we’re passing the dormitory. Passing the guest-house. Coming up to the gates. The gates! Watching the porter, as he lifts his hand to us. Under the archway, from shadow into sunlight.
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