Well I’m not. I’m not at all surprised. This simply must have something to do with that Lady Beatrice business; the question is, what? What’s the connection? And why 152 would Aeldred be paying money to a cousin he can’t stand? Unless . . . wait a moment . . .
‘Raymond?’
‘What?’ It’s almost funny, the level of revulsion he manages to convey in a single word. ‘What do you want now?’
‘I was wondering if you could tell me, confidentially of course . . .’ (Keep it down, Pagan, don’t let Montazin hear.) ‘I was wondering if you could tell me how long the almoner’s cousin has been showing up?’
‘Why?’
Dear oh dear, it’s like squeezing water from a stone. ‘Well I was only wondering, but if you can’t tell me –’
‘Of course I can tell you!’ (Ha. I knew he’d jump at that bait. So proud of being informed.) ‘The almoner’s cousin has been visiting every month, for six months,’ he says. ‘But why would you want to know that?’
‘Just interested.’ Very interested. So it’s been six months, has it? Exactly the length of time that Aeldred’s been visiting his lady friend.
I think I’m onto something, here.
‘Novices!’ Clement’s voice cuts through the air like a Turkish mace. ‘Brother Rainier’s finished with you now, so we’re going back to the dormitory. All rise, please.’
Curse it, not the dormitory! I need to visit that guesthouse. I need to talk to that cousin. Unless Aeldred’s still there . . . but he’s not. He’s back here, with Montazin. Must have joined us after Raymond did.
Come on, Pagan, concentrate. What are you going to do?
‘This way, novices.’ Clement heads for the herb garden, 153 disappearing into the long icy tunnel that links the garden to the cloisters. It’s dark, in there. Do you think if I . . .? But I’d have to be quick . . .
Waiting as Roland follows Clement: first Roland, and Raymond next, and Durand, and Gaubert, all in a straight line, with Bernard and Ademar bringing up the rear. Dawdling after them, carefully, so that I’m still in the shadowy passage by the time they’ve turned the corner.
Now! Quick! Fingers down the throat, and let’s get started. Think snot pies. Think roast turds. Think vomit . . .
Gagging. Choking.
‘Pagan?’ Bernard’s voice, from somewhere nearby. ‘Master! Come quickly! Pagan’s throwing up!’
A valuable skill I first learned many years ago, at Saint Joseph’s. Still comes in handy. Oooh. Auugh. The sound of Clement’s walking-stick: rap-rap, rap-rap.
‘Pagan?’ His feet are hovering at the edge of my mess. ‘What’s wrong?’
Groaning.
‘It must be something he ate,’ Gaubert squeaks. ‘I felt sick myself, last night –’
‘Silence! Go back to the dormitory. You too, Roland. All of you.’ With my face against the wall, like this, it’s impossible to see them go, but their shuffling footsteps fade away like the colours of sunset. Only Clement remains.
‘Come on, Pagan.’ He touches my arm. ‘I’ll take you to the infirmary.’
Groan.
‘Yes, yes, I know you don’t feel well. But we’ll get you to bed, and you’ll soon feel better. Come on, now, it’s not very far.’
God preserve us, he sounds almost human. Could it really be pity? Or is it some kind of trick?
He totters like a newborn calf when I lean on him.
‘That’s it. Just a few steps,’ he says. ‘And then Brother Elias will put you to bed, and he’ll give you a draught, and in no time at all you’ll be well enough to come back and clean up this disgusting mess you’ve made. Incidentally,’ he adds, as we lurch through the almonry door, ‘if you’ve been eating stolen food, Pagan, you must expect this kind of punishment. “Evil pursueth sinners, but to the righteous good shall be repayed”.’
God preserve us. Doesn’t he ever let up?
Chapter 20
‘Ugh! Yuk!’
‘Drink it, Pagan.’
‘But it tastes like –’ ‘I know it tastes horrible. All medicines taste horrible. Now drink it.’
God preserve us. Tastes like the floor of a leper’s latrine. ‘What is this stuff, anyway, goats’ piss?’
‘It’s lovage and aniseed and – well – other things. It’s to settle your stomach.’ Elias lifts his head as the sound of bells penetrates the walls of the infirmary. ‘That’s the bell for Sext,’ he remarks. ‘It’s Mass, so I’ll have to go. Can you and Amiel look after each other, while I’m away? I won’t be long.’
‘Oh yes, Father. No problem.’ Go, go! Get lost, will you? ‘We’ll be fine. And if I’m sick again, I’ll do it into this bucket.’
Elias nods wearily, wiping his hands on the rag that’s tucked into his girdle. He has a bandage around one finger, and he’s limping from a scalded foot, but otherwise he seems to be in pretty good health, for a change. He isn’t coughing or sweating or sniffing, and he doesn’t look any more tired than usual. (His face always reminds me of a very old palliasse that’s been kicked and torn and slept on, and pissed on and dragged around, and finally dumped in a barn, for the dogs to play with.) He moves over to Amiel’s bed, and pats Amiel’s blanket.
‘Will you be all right, Amiel?’ he asks. ‘If anything happens, remember what I told you: horehound and tarragon in boiling water, and breathe in the steam. Hot-dry remedies for a cold-wet complaint.’
Amiel nods. He’s propped up against a mountain of pillows, gulping down air like a drowning man. Every breath is a major struggle: his cheeks are white, his lips blue. Elias checks his pulse, and frowns a little.
‘I won’t be long,’ he repeats. ‘Make sure he doesn’t talk, Pagan, and don’t get him too excited.’
‘No, Father, I won’t.’
‘Good. All right. Dominus vobiscum.’
And off he toddles. Weaving his way between the empty beds; through the strewing herbs; past the linen chest and the fireplace and the locked cupboard full of strange and expensive medicaments: vipers’ flesh, crushed deer antlers, crabs’ eyes, oil of earthworm. (I’ve heard all about them, from Durand.) Disappearing down the stairs.
I thought he’d never go.
‘Pssst! Amiel!’ Throwing off my blankets. ‘Are you very 157 sick? Are you going to need me? No – wait – don’t answer that. You’re not supposed to talk.’
Pulling my boots on; moving across to his bed. He gives me a puzzled look, but doesn’t have the breath to make an inquiry. Just wheezes away like a pair of bellows with a hole in them.
‘The thing is, Amiel, there’s something I have to do, and I don’t want anyone to know I’m doing it. So I’m going to do it now, while everyone’s at Mass.’ God, will you look at him? Poor little beggar. Straining so hard that there’s sweat on his forehead. How can I leave him like this? ‘But if you’d prefer me to stay, I will. Just nod, don’t talk. Do you want me to stay?’
He shakes his head, sluggishly. Gropes for my sleeve with one shrivelled, bluish hand. ‘Wha’?’ he mutters. ‘Wha’re you doing?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Don’t talk.’
‘. . . Trouble?’
‘No, there won’t be any trouble. It’s all right. If Father Elias comes back, you can tell him I was feeling better. Tell him that the medicine made me better, and I’ve gone back to church. Can you do that?’
Amiel nods. Good man, Amiel. You’re a true friend. ‘Thanks for this, I won’t forget it. And I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful. I wish there was something I could do to help.’ Patting his arm, and he smiles at me. ‘We’re all praying like mad, of course, so maybe things will improve. Let’s hope so, anyway.’
He nods again, and has a mild coughing fit. But he won’t let me hang around; just pushes me away when I try to pass him the water. Go on! Get going! Falls back exhausted as I back out of the room.
God preserve us, I hope he’ll be all right. I wouldn’t have left him if this errand wasn’t so urgent. Scuttling down the stairs and into the almonry, w
here the old men are huddled around a few miserable, dying embers in the fireplace. (They don’t even spare me a glance.) Out the back door, into the drizzle. Turn right and right again, around the long way, to avoid the cloisters; it’ll be safer if I do it like that. Slipping past the almonry, outside the herb-garden wall. Pulling my cowl down over my face. Splashing through puddles, and through the clouds of steam pouring out of my nose. God, but it’s cold! Smoke drifting up from half a dozen chimneys in the abbey compound: from the almonry, the infirmary, the guest-house, the bakery, the kitchen. Not a soul in sight.
I’ve never been in the guest-house, before. I know where the entrance is, but I don’t know what to expect. The big carved door opens easily, on oiled hinges; there’s a dim room beyond it, with torches and tables and a chest in one corner. A faint smell of whitewash mingles with the stronger scent of boiled cabbage. Everything looks clean and tidy.
Now then, where are these guests’ rooms? They must be off to the right, I suppose. Through that little archway and . . . yes, here they are. Eight identical doors, opening onto a long, painted passage. Scenes from the life of Saint Martin, squeezed between the windows in the western wall: the birth of Saint Martin; Saint Martin divides his cloak with the beggar; Saint Martin founds the first Frankish monastery. (Is that a three-legged beggar, or a beggar with an oddly shaped crutch?) On the left, above the doors, are depicted the various martyrdoms of somebody – Saint George, perhaps? – who’s being impaled and boiled and 159 disembowelled, and who finally has his head chopped off.
The door underneath the beheading is slightly ajar.
‘Hello?’ Peering around it, cautiously. ‘Is anybody there?’
Whoops! There’s somebody there, all right, but I don’t think it’s the somebody I want. Tall and well built, with a stately grey beard, an embroidered tunic and . . . ah yes. And Raymond’s turned-up nose.
‘I’m sorry, my lord.’ (Retreating a little, as he whips around to glare at me.) ‘Are you Lord Bertrand?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Pardon, my lord, I’m looking for someone else.’
Lucky Raymond. No wonder he’s so proud of his father. I’d be proud of a father like that. Withdrawing apologetically, as he returns to his interrupted dressing. Let’s just hope that his neighbour hasn’t left, yet.
Knock-knock-knock. My hand is shaking so much, it’s hard to deliver the kind of authoritative rap on the door that announces a man of confidence. Come on, Pagan, you can do it. Stand up straight! Take a deep breath! Don’t be such a miserable coward! This will only work if you get a grip on yourself.
‘Come in!’
A muffled voice, low and harsh. Same accent as Aeldred’s. Pushing open the door, and there he is: squat, blond, hairy, with blunt features and no neck.
Doesn’t look at all like the almoner.
‘What is it?’ he inquires.
‘Are you Father Aeldred’s cousin?’
‘Yes.’ He squints at me, frowning. ‘I’m Centule. Who are you?’
All right, Pagan. This is it. Nice and casual . . .
‘I was looking at your horse. It’s a nice horse. Did you get it with the almoner’s money?’
Whew! That’s done it. He looks as if he’s been whacked over the ear with a lead pipe.
‘What?’ he exclaims.
‘Shh!’ Closing the door behind me. ‘Not so loud. If you raise your voice, you can be heard in the next room.’
‘What is this?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell. It’ll be our little secret: yours, mine, and the almoner’s.’
‘Get out!’ (He’s beginning to sweat, already.) ‘Get out of here!’
‘You mean you want me to go to the abbot, and tell him what I heard? Because I will, you know.’
‘What – what you heard?’
Ha! That’s done it. He sits down abruptly, on the unmade bed, as if his knees have given way. He might look tough on the outside, but his guts are made of wet feathers.
‘What do you mean?’ he says.
‘I was in the next room. I heard you shouting – you and the almoner. The walls are quite thin.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ he says, trying to assume a carefree tone. ‘Get along with you, boy. I’m too busy for these silly games.’
‘The abbot won’t think it’s a game. Not if I tell him. The abbot will expel the almoner, and then you won’t get your money any more.’
Watching him closely, as his eyes go blank. I’m taking a big risk, here. A real leap in the dark. Who knows what this money business is all about? It might be quite harmless. It might be a legitimate debt.
On the other hand, it might not be
‘What do you want?’ he says, in a harsh voice . . . and suddenly it hits me.
I’ve pulled it off. I’ve won. I set the trap, and he fell straight in.
This is unbelievable.
‘I’ll tell you what I want, Master Centule. I want you to tell me the whole story, from beginning to end.’ (Arranging my words with care, to conceal the fact that I don’t even know where the story starts, let alone where it finishes.) ‘I want to know every detail.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s worth money!’ Trying to sound impatient. Oh, it’s like spearing fish in a barrel; I can’t believe I was ever nervous about this. ‘If the almoner pays you, then he’ll certainly pay me. Just to keep the abbot from finding out about this whole shady business.’
A thoughtful grunt, but he still seems uncertain. Time to take the biggest gamble of all. Please, God, please – don’t let him call my bluff.
‘And then, of course, there’s Father Montazin . . .’
‘Oh all right, all right, I’ll tell you!’ He wipes the sweat from his brow with short, stubby fingers. ‘I’ll tell you, and then you can get out. What do you want to know?’
What do I want to know? Good question. ‘Let’s start with you. Are you and Aeldred really related?’
A snort.
‘To that worm? Not likely.’
‘So you met –’
‘We met at Voutenay-sur-Cure. We were both monks 162 there. He was the child-master, which is how he managed to molest all those boys.’
Sweet saints preserve us. You mean – you mean –
‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ he continues, ‘not until the last boy reported him. And then of course he disappeared; escaped in the night, before they could pass sentence. No one knew where he’d gone, until I happened to turn up here.’ A sly smirk becomes visible through the undergrowth on his chin. ‘It was the hand of God, I believe.’
‘How did you end up here, though?’
‘Oh, I was looking for help.’ Another unsavoury smirk. ‘Things weren’t going too well, after I was thrown – I mean, after I left – Voutenay. I was down on my luck, and wandering about. Stopped in at the almonry, here, to pick up a bite to eat. And who should I see but old Aeldred?’ This time he laughs – a savage, spiteful laugh. ‘He almost died on the spot when I walked in. But we came to an agreement.’
God save us. I think I’m going to be sick. But I mustn’t get angry; I mustn’t let it show. Keep calm, Pagan. Keep a lid on it.
‘What about Montazin? How did he get involved?’
‘As far as I know, Montazin found out from the guest-master. What’s his name? Sicard? Nasty little drooling baldy who listens at doors. Montazin got him the job: I believe they’re cousins.’
So that’s it. Aeldred’s being blackmailed; Sicard overhears; Sicard tells Montazin; Montazin uses that information to make Aeldred do . . . what? Embezzle more money? Deliver it to Lady Beatrice? Anything and everything, just to keep Montazin quiet.
‘If you’re looking to get much out of Aeldred,’ Centule adds, ‘you’re out of luck. He says he’s already at breaking point, the snivelling toad. That’s why we were arguing.’
‘I don’t want very much. Just enough to pay off a girl.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ His face
settles into a sullen, pouchy expression, in which distrust battles with resentment and fatigue. ‘Is that all? Are you finished? Because I’ve got to be going.’
‘Where are you living, anyway? In Carcassone?’
‘That’s none of your business.’ He stands up. ‘Now get out of here. And if I see you again, I’ll beat your head to a bloody pulp.’
Temper, temper. Some people don’t have any self-control. ‘Thanks for your time, Centule. And don’t worry – I won’t tell Aeldred that you’re the one who told me. I’m not that sort of monk.’
Waving cheerfully as I make my departure, just to annoy him. Closing the door softly on his dawning look of indignation.
Oh, Pagan. What can I say? You are magnificent!
Chapter 21
I can’t stop thinking about Brother Macharius, back at Saint Joseph’s. I must have been – what? Seven? Eight? And little Lambert was only about six. I remember what he was like when he arrived, always asking questions and running around, laughing at the picture of the pigs in Saint Stephen’s chapel. And then he changed, just like that. Stopped laughing. Stopped running. Hid in corners during the day and wet the bed at night. Of course, we all knew what was happening: it had happened once or twice before. But we didn’t say a word, not to anyone. Too scared, I suppose. Scared and confused.
And that kind of stuff is always going on in monasteries; you hear about it all the time. All those dirty jokes about lifting a monk’s skirts . . . I mean, everyone knows about it. Everyone. Why do you think monks aren’t allowed to talk 165 to oblates? Or touch them? Or sit next to them? It’s to stop the bad monks from molesting children.
Doesn’t help, though. Not if your own child-master is a pederast. God, I wish I’d spoken up. Why was I such a coward? It could have been me, in that bell-tower with Macharius. Pure luck that it wasn’t. But instead of doing something, I just – in God’s name, I just pretended it didn’t happen! How could I have done that? How could I have been such a miserable, crawling, weak-kneed, paltry, pathetic . . .
But it won’t happen this time. Oh no. I’m going to get that son of Belial, the way I should have got Macharius. I’m going to get him and Montazin and Sicard and all that verminous scum, just as soon as I have some proof. Proof, proof! No one will believe me without proof. And Centule won’t talk, not to the abbot. Oh, if only the abbot were here. Even without proof, I might have sown a seed of doubt in his mind. But then again, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near him.
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