Pagan's Vows

by Catherine Jinks

  Eight? Eight paupers? But I only washed twelve feet!

  All right. All right, Pagan, let’s look at this calmly. Twelve feet make six paupers. At one coin per pauper, that’s six coins. But Aeldred asked for eight. Which means . . .

  Which means that he’s pocketing the other two coins.

  So that’s why he was angry. That’s why he didn’t want anyone to hear him. Anyone like me, that is: anyone who could speak Latin, and who knew how many feet had been washed.

  Because he’s embezzling abbey funds.

  ‘Pagan.’

  Look up. It’s Clement, lurking under Saint Catherine like a dog at a gate.

  ‘What are you standing around for?’ he grumbles. ‘I told you to come straight back. Have you finished your act of penance?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘In here, then. You’ve got work to do.’

  Oh numb your gums, Clement, I’m trying to think. Think, Pagan, think! But it’s impossible. He’s yapping away, yap, yap, yap, and I just can’t get it straight in my head.

  ‘. . . I hope this has taught you not to use oaths, Pagan. Remember, the Twenty-seventh Instrument of Good Works is not to swear at all, lest one forswear. Because Christ our Lord said: “Swear not at all, neither by heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by the earth, for it is His footstool . . .” ’

  Later. I’ll think about it later.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Deus in adjutorium meum intende . . .’

  The slow chant begins. Calm and strong, deep and mellow, rising to the vaulted roof like a bird.

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

  Sunlight washing through coloured glass, staining the pillars blue and green and purple. Rows of motionless monks, their faces half-hidden by their cowls, their hands very pale against their ebony-black robes. Among them, Aeldred. There he is, sitting there, staring into space. Preoccupied.

  ‘. . . Tu mandasti, mandata tua custodiri nimis . . .’

  And now the First Psalm. Carried on deep bass voices like foundation stones, with the pure, sweet sound of the children’s chorus floating above. Soaring and dying and soaring again. Lifting our thoughts to heaven. Blessed art Thou, O Lord: teach me Thy statutes.

  ‘Benedictus es, Domine, doce me justificationes tuns . . .’

  But I can’t concentrate on this, just now. I have to think. I really have to think. If I was Aeldred, what could I possibly be spending my embezzled money on? You can’t spend it in the abbey. You can’t even buy things outside the abbey, and bring them back: someone would be sure to notice.

  You could, however, give the money to someone else.

  ‘. . . Sederunt principes et adversum me loquebanter . . .’

  That’s it. That’s what he’s doing. He’s giving the money to his widow friend, I’m sure of it. But in that case, what should I do? Should I tell someone? If the abbot was here I’d tell him, because it’s his abbey, and I know he wouldn’t like this business at all. He’d believe me, too, I know he would. Damn, damn, damn. Why’s he always wandering off to councils and debates and general chapters? The bishops can’t possibly need him as much as we do.

  ‘Ambulate in dilectione . . .’

  Whoops! It’s a hymn. What is it? ‘Walk in Love’? Yes. ‘Walk in Love’. That’s all right, I know ‘Walk in Love’. Sicut et Christus oblationem et hostiam . . . easy. No problem. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Telling someone.

  The prior?

  Oh Lord, not old bladder-brain. I know what he’d do. He’d just look at me with those boiled eyes and tell me to talk to Brother Clement. Too worried about quotas, and how many lambs we should be getting in tithes, and whether the serfs should be paying one sextarius of wine for each day’s work, or one-and-a-half. I’ve heard him in the cloister, muttering to himself. His mind’s just too small to fit one more nugget of information. Try to insert another fact in there and his skull would explode.

  ‘Ad Dominum cum tribularer clamavi . . .’

  Help! Are we on the psalms again? Glancing around, but Clement didn’t see me stumble. He’s too busy glaring at Roland. Poor old Roland, must have made a mistake. He’s always making mistakes. I wish there was something I could do to help him. As for Clement – one of these days I’m going to shove that old man’s walking-stick right up his left nostril.

  Look at him, standing there. Growling his way through the psalms. Talk about the beast that spake as a dragon. I couldn’t possibly tell him: he’d bite my head off. No, I’ll go to someone else. Someone like . . .

  Rainier?

  Oh no. Curse it! I can’t talk to him, either, he’s gone off to Carcassone to thrash out a property dispute. Oh, why does he have to be away right now? He’d be just the person. Didn’t Clement say he was in charge of the abbey finances? Although, when you come to think about it, he delegates quite a lot to Bernard Magnus.

  Bernard Magnus. Should I –? No, I can’t talk to that quivering mound of blubber. He’s the mean-minded pig who’s always slowing down in corridors when you want to get past. He’s the one who ate so many jam pancakes that none of the poor oblates got any. No, I can’t talk to him. I couldn’t be civil.

  Silence falls. Are we at the lesson, already? Who’s reciting it today? The cellarer, Montazin. Well that’s a relief. At least it’s not Bernard Blancus. Bernard’s nose is always so 86 blocked, he sounds as if he’s speaking through a faceful of fish-guts.

  ‘. . . Qui susceperit unum parvulum . . .’

  Montazin’s a good speaker. You need a nice powerful voice if you’re going to speak. And Montazin really works at it, too: he doesn’t just drone into his cowl, he throws back his head and delivers. He uses his voice like a musical instrument. You can tell that he’s actually thinking about what he says.

  You can also tell that he fancies himself, a little.

  ‘. . . Non est voluntas apud Patrem vestrum . . .’

  Wait a moment. Montazin! Of course! I can tell Montazin! He looks intelligent enough. And he also knows something about the way things work around here, being the cellarer. Oh yes, Montazin’s the one. He’s bound to know what to do.

  He finishes with a ringing flourish, his voice echoing around the carved stone heads of the prophets. But now it’s time for a versicle. Patience, Pagan, not much longer. And when we’re done, I’ll just dash across and ask Montazin if I could have a word. Let’s see, now: how would I get that message across, in sign language? I (point at myself) wish (hands crossed on heart) speak (make a duck’s beak) you (point at him). I–wish–speak–you. That should do it.

  ‘Kyrie eleison.’ It’s Gerard, intoning. The Kyrie? Good. Joining in the chorus: ‘Kyrie eleison.’

  ‘Christe eleison.’

  ‘Christe eleison.’

  And now it’s Guilabert’s turn; he finishes up with the Lord’s Prayer. Not doing it half as well as the abbot would have done it, if he’d been available. Come on, Guilabert, hurry up, will you? I have to speak to Montazin.

  ‘. . . Et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’

  Now! Leaping out of line, pushing past the tightly packed bodies. Excuse me. Excuse me, everyone. Squeezing. Wriggling. Let me through! Astonished looks from a couple of oblates. Angry looks from Elias and Aeldred.

  Just you wait, Aeldred. You’re going to be a lot angrier by the time I finish with you.

  Catching up with Montazin. Tugging his sleeve. He turns and glances down, his eyes a clear, cold hazel.

  I – wish – speak – you.

  He seems to understand. His right hand makes the sign for ‘now’. Now? Yes, please, now.

  Nodding at him vigorously in agreement.

  He points at the door. The northern door, not the southern door. Are we going outside, then? Into the graveyard? But I suppose we have to find somewhere to talk. We certainly can’t do it in the cloister.

  Across the milling heads, Montazin makes a sign to Clement. Novice – with –
me. Clement replies by clenching his fist with the thumb raised. I know well. He doesn’t look too happy, because he doesn’t like us to talk to other monks. Whoops! Don’t lose Montazin, Pagan. Scurrying after him: out of the northern transept, through the garden, into the graveyard. Trying to keep up. He – has a chiselled face and elegant hands, with long, bony fingers. He stops near one of the more recent graves.

  ‘Well?’ he says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Please, Father, it’s Father Aeldred.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I think he’s stealing money.’

  Montazin’s expression changes. It becomes very intent. He narrows his eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says.

  ‘I was in the almonry, washing feet – twelve feet – when I heard Father Aeldred tell Father Bernard that there were eight paupers. So Father Bernard gave him eight coins. But there were only six paupers, which means that Father Aeldred must have kept the other two coins. He was lying, Father.’

  Montazin seems to be thinking. His face is unreadable.

  ‘Brother Aeldred may have made a mistake,’ he says at last, very slowly. ‘Or you may have.’

  ‘No, Father, I don’t think so. You see, I think he’s visiting someone in town. A widow.’ (Forgive me, Roquefire, but I never made any promises.) ‘I think that’s where the money might be going. To the woman in town.’

  Montazin blinks. This time he really seems startled. ‘How do you know about that?’ he exclaims.

  ‘Someone told me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well . . . if you don’t mind, I can’t tell you who told me. But it’s true, I swear it is.’

  A long pause. Everything’s very quiet and peaceful out here, now that the bells have stopped ringing. Just the twitter of birds, the buzzing of bees, and the faraway sound of a horse’s whinny.

  ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ Montazin suddenly inquires.

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Then don’t. It’s a very serious thing, to accuse a monk of breaking his vows. Of course I shall look into it immediately. If it’s true, Brother Aeldred will be punished. But if you’ve made a mistake . . .’

  Another pause. Don’t tell me. If I’ve made a mistake you’ll pour molten lead down my throat and hang me upside down from the bell-tower.

  ‘If you’ve made a mistake,’ he continues, pensively, ‘Father Aeldred’s honour would be tarnished for no good reason. That’s why I want you to keep silent. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Tell no one else about your suspicions. Just forget that you ever had them. If you so much as whisper a word of this to anyone else, you’ll suffer for it. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ (In God’s name! I just said so, didn’t I? What’s the matter with you?)

  ‘And I don’t want you poking around in Father Aeldred’s affairs, any more.’ His voice is hard and imperious. ‘You’re not qualified to do so. I’ll look into this, and if there’s any problem, I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘But what about the abbot?’

  ‘The abbot?’

  ‘You’re going to tell him, aren’t you? When he gets back?’

  ‘Of course I will. Now off you go to Brother Clement. And don’t mention Brother Aeldred. Think of another story.’

  Looking up into his face. It isn’t anxious. It isn’t upset. It’s just very, very cold.

  This is most unusual.

  ‘You mean I should lie, Father?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he snaps. ‘Just tell him you had to see me on private business.’

  Private business? Oh, sure. ‘Perhaps I should say that I was lodging a complaint about last night’s stuffed olives.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he grunts. But he’s not really listening. His thoughts are far away. ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘And remember what I told you. Complete silence.’

  Complete silence. Well, all right. If you say so, Father, you’re the expert. I’m just a scum-sucking novice with a bad reputation.

  The last thing I want to do is get into trouble.

  Chapter 12

  So now I know what the big, bronze tubs are for. They’re not for soup. They’re for washing altar linen.

  Bernard Blancus demonstrates, using a long, wooden stick. First you fish around in the tub of cold water, and drag out a soggy white corporal (which has been soaking there all night). Then you carry it, limp and dripping, to the next tub. Splat! In it goes. Bernard Blancus makes a fist with his right hand, and rubs it against his left. What’s that supposed to mean?

  ‘Lye,’ mouths Durand. (He must have seen the lost look on my face.) Ah, I see. So it’s a tub full of lye.

  Now you wait while Bernard passes the corporal to Roquefire, who gives it a good pounding with his beater. He doesn’t look too happy: he’s all bruised around the jaw. But he’s certainly energetic when it comes to cleaning linen. He 92 slaps it onto his washboard and pummels it and rubs it and wrings it out, and pummels it again. Finally he flings it into the last tub, which – according to Bernard Blancus – is full of cornflour solution. (He makes the sign for corn; the sign for flour.) I wonder what the cornflour does. Stiffens things, I suppose. Next you push your linen around the tub for a while, before scooping it up and carrying it, with great care, out of the sacristy.

  Which Bernard Blancus proceeds to do.

  Everyone looks at each other. Should we go with him? Perhaps we should. So all the novices file into the transept, and follow the trail of wet drips around the corner. Through the presbytery door. Into the bare, open space behind the chapter-house.

  Here Bernard Blancus has arranged several laundry lines.

  ‘You bust hag it od here,’ he snuffles. (Translation: You must hang it on here.) Well, that’s pretty straightforward. I’m sure we can all manage that. He places his corporal over one of the lines, fastens it with a cheap wooden peg, and bustles back into the presbytery. He makes an odd sound as he walks: it must be all the pegs he’s carrying in that bag around his waist.

  Everyone slouches after him.

  ‘Don’t forget to watch Pagan,’ Raymond mutters, just before he crosses the threshold. ‘Pagan knows all about laundry. He’s an expert.’

  Meaning that I’ve spent most of my humble life washing dirty clothes. Ha ha. Very amusing. But there isn’t enough time to respond, because now we’re in the church again, and we’re not allowed to talk, in here.

  Bernard Blancus hands out wooden sticks as we enter the sacristy. One for Raymond. One for Gaubert. One for Amiel. Raymond heads for the cold-water tub, and pulls out a piece of linen that looks like an altar frontal. Why does he always have to look so smug when he does things? Anyone would think he’d defeated an entire Infidel army with a slice of cheese tart.

  If I were Raymond, and I’d been soundly thrashed by an illegitimate Arab at least a handspan shorter than me, I’d be a little more self-effacing.

  A nudge from Roland. What? Oh, my stick. Thanks. Moving up to the first tub. Climbing onto the stool. Peering in at the stew of wet linen. Let’s see, now. I like the look of that piece – it seems nice and small.

  Dragging it out on the end of my stick. Yes, it’s small, all right. I can’t even see what it is. A pall, perhaps? Climbing down, and heading for the lye tub. Roquefire is waiting there with his beater and washboard.

  ‘Hello, Roquefire.’ (Very quietly, out of the corner of my mouth.) ‘What happened to your face?’

  He glares at me as I drop my linen into the lye. He looks positively ferocious.

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk to you,’ he whispers.

  ‘What? What do you mean? Who said?’

  ‘Father Montazin.’

  ‘The cellarer?’

  ‘It was a secret! All that stuff about the widow – I told you it was a secret!’ Retrieving my linen from the tub, he slaps it onto his washboard and begins to beat away like a blacksmith. ‘Father Montazin says that if I talk to you again, I won’t be allowed to go to Carca
ssone with the almoner, any more. So just leave me alone!’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Get lost!’ he hisses. ‘And if you come near the kitchens again, I’ll call the circator!’

  He flings the wet linen into my face, and turns to help Roland. Glance over at Bernard Blancus. Did he see any of that? But he’s too busy handing out clothes-pegs to Durand and Arnie!. Oh please, please let him stay in here. I need time to think. I need time to tell Roland . . .

  Collecting my peg. Carrying my linen to the laundry line. Passing Raymond on the way: he’s already hung out his altar cloth, and is returning to pick up something else.

  He pokes out his tongue at me.

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Just grow up, will you? Reaching the line; finding a space. Fumbling with my soggy white square. Come on, Roland, get a move on. Where are you?

  At last he emerges from the presbytery door, bearing something long and purple.

  ‘Roland!’

  He pauses. Blinks. Looks around. Over here, Roland, hurry! Grabbing his sleeve as he approaches.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘Listen to me! Just listen!’ Lowering my voice, so that Durand doesn’t hear. ‘Please, it’s important.’

  He frowns down his long nose. ‘What’s wrong?’ he says. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I – I just found something out . . .’ God, where shall I begin? ‘I didn’t tell you this before, because I knew you wouldn’t like it, but – well – several weeks ago I was told something. About the almoner.’ Take a deep breath, Pagan. Slow down. ‘I was told he was visiting a widow, in Carcassone.’

  Pause for his response. But there’s nothing. Just a stunned silence.

  Good.

  ‘I kept it a secret, because I didn’t want to make trouble. You told me not to make trouble.’ (I’m trying to be good, Roland, really I am.) ‘But then last week, when I was in the almonry, I found out something else. I found out that Aeldred was stealing alms. So I went to the cellarer–’ ‘Pagan –’

  ‘Wait. Let me finish. I went to the cellarer, and told him everything. And he told me that he’d look into it. He also told me to keep my mouth shut.’ (God, God, God, no wonder!) ‘And I said I would. But it’s been a week now, and the almoner’s still the almoner, and he hasn’t been flogged, or chastised, or given any other kind of penance, and that would be all right – I could have made a mistake –except now I’ve heard something very strange from Roquefire.’