Pagan's Vows

by Catherine Jinks

  Punch at his face, but I didn’t – oh help –

  Whump!

  Flash of light. Stars. The taste in my mouth, and he’s still there. Don’t hit me, please – Jesus, don’t hit me –

  ‘Pagan!’

  Roland? Is that you? Suddenly, an impact; weight hitting weight. Cries. Blows. Feet everywhere. Look up (I’m so dizzy) and it’s Roland. It is Roland. Praise God, he’s here, and he’s punching him and punching him and driving his head into the wall, again and again, and he’s shouting and screaming. Take that, Montazin, you bastard, I hope he kills you. Oh Christ. Oh Christ, I feel so ill.

  ‘Roland!’ It’s Clement. ‘Roland, stop! Roland!’ There he is, and he sounds so scared.

  It’s all very muddled . . . I can’t see . . . what’s he doing? He’s grabbing Roland’s arm, but Roland ignores him. Roland’s got the candlestick, now. He’s pounding it into Montazin’s head.

  ‘Roland!’ Clement screams, and raises his stick, and brings it down on Roland’s spine. It’s not a heavy blow, but it does the job. Roland staggers. He turns. He drops the candlestick and he drops Montazin.

  Montazin slides to the floor . . .

  ‘Pagan.’ Roland’s voice is so low that I can hardly hear it, even though he’s beside me, now. Even though he’s kneeling, and I can feel his hands on my face, on my chest, on my shoulders. Holding my head. ‘Oh Pagan. Oh God, God, Pagan, God . . .’ He sounds as if he’s in pain, terrible pain, but I’m the one who’s bleeding.

  ‘The letter.’ Did I speak? I can’t even tell. ‘The letter, take the letter.’ It’s in my drawers. I have to get it. I have to give it to him. Move my hand –

  Jesus Christ!

  Flash.

  Pain.

  Darkness.

  Chapter 29

  ‘The letter. The letter . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Pagan, I have the letter. I gave it to the abbot. Do you hear me? It’s all right.’

  The abbot. The abbot? You mean he’s here? Open my eyes, but everything’s blurred. No, wait, it’s clearing. And my head – God! My head’s going to split. My mouth is so sore.

  Roland.

  His face, hanging over me: drawn, pale, heavy-eyed. His long nose, and his scar, and the fuzz of gold on his unshaven cheek. Oh Roland. Oh Roland.

  ‘The abbot has read your letter,’ he says. ‘You mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.’

  ‘You’re here.’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’

  ‘He wath going to kill me!’

  ‘Shh. You’re safe, now. I won’t leave you.’

  ‘Roland.’ What’s the matter with my mouth? I can’t move it. I can’t speak properly. ‘My mouth –’

  ‘It’s swollen. You’ve lost a tooth.’

  ‘And my arm –’

  ‘Your wrist is broken. Your head is injured. Don’t talk, Pagan, you have to rest.’

  His voice sounds odd. No, it’s not his voice, it’s my ear. There’s something in my ear. ‘Ith there blood in my ear?’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘It’th not working. My ear . . .’ Reaching up to touch it. Ouch! Shooting pain. Heavy splint.

  ‘Don’t move that arm, Pagan.’

  ‘My ear –’

  ‘Leave it. It’s probably the bandages.’

  ‘My head hurth.’ And my ribs ache. And my mouth is burning and my back is sore and I can’t even hear properly.

  But at least I’m alive.

  Looking up at him. At Roland. He’s holding my hand – my good hand – and his fingers are warm. Nice and warm.

  ‘You came.’ You came, and you saved my life. ‘How did you know? Why did you come?’

  ‘Father Clement returned just after you left. He asked us where you were.’

  Roland closes his eyes for a moment. Suddenly he looks old: very, very old.

  ‘When I heard him say that, I – I knew,’ he murmurs. ‘Somehow I knew. I knew that something was wrong, and I ran to the guest-house.’ A pause. ‘Clement must have followed me. I don’t know. I don’t remember. All I remem ber is you, on the ground . . .’ He closes his eyes again, tightly. He bows his head and lifts my hand and presses it to his brow. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he gasps. ‘You were lying there all covered in blood, and he was hitting you, and for an instant – just for one instant – but it seemed like forever. And it was all my fault. All of it.’

  What? What are you talking about? ‘My lord –’

  ‘Forgive me, Pagan.’ He’s leaning on the bed, on his elbows, with my hand still pressed to his forehead and his eyes firmly shut. He sounds as if he’s choking. ‘You must forgive me, please, I was going mad. It was the pain, you see, I – it was the pain. The pain of losing Esclaramonde. I thought it would get better, but it only got worse. Worse and worse until everything was dark, all the time. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I felt as if I was in a little box, a dark little box, and it was getting smaller and smaller. I thought it was God’s punishment, and I was ashamed – so ashamed of loving a heretic.’

  Oh Jesus. ‘My lord –’

  ‘And then one day I remembered something. Something that you told me, once, about following my own path. And it suddenly made sense. Because there’s a chapter in the Rule of Saint Benedict which says: ‘set nothing whatsoever before Christ’. And in the gospels, too – in the gospels Christ tells us: ‘He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me’. And I saw that it must be true, because if you love a person, and that person dies . . .’ He pauses, overcome.

  ‘Roland –’

  ‘But God will never die,’ he continues quickly, opening his eyes and raising his head. ‘God will never die, or be hurt, and so there won’t be any pain, you see. No pain at all. If you can only break the bonds that hold you to the earth, and dedicate your heart to God, then you’ll be more than a perfect monk. You’ll be at peace. In the light. With no one to hurt you any more.’

  And you tried that, didn’t you? That’s what you’ve been trying to do. You’ve been trying to wall yourself in.

  ‘But I wasn’t thinking of you,’ he groans, ‘I was thinking of myself. And you turned away, and were in danger, and I didn’t know – I didn’t know what you were doing. If I’d known – if I’d cared – I could have protected you. This would never have happened. It never occurred to me that you would be hurt.’

  In more ways than one, Roland. But I can’t say it. My mouth is too sore.

  ‘I knew it when I saw you, there on the ground,’ he says wearily. ‘I knew then that it was all wrong. Or perhaps it’s right – I don’t know – but I can’t do it. I can’t be a good monk. I can’t dedicate my whole heart to God, because I care about you too much. You and my mother and Esclaramonde. All of you. They’re both dead, now, but you’re still alive. How can I stand by, and see you hurt, and not suffer? I can’t. It’s impossible, even if you hate me. So it looks as if I’ll just have to suffer.’

  God, Roland. Hate you? How can you say that? ‘I don’t hate you. I wath angry, that time. I wath hurt. I didn’t mean it . . .’

  ‘Now, now. No talking.’ It’s Elias. Elias? Oh, of course, I must be in the infirmary. I should have recognised those herbs hanging from the rafters.

  Elias’s face, with its bloodshot eyes. He’s carrying a cup.

  ‘Now that you’re awake,’ he says, ‘you can drink this. It will help with the pain.’ He lifts my head; rests the cup on my bottom lip. Ow! Ouch! ‘Come along, drink up.’

  Yuk! Ugh! That’s revolting!

  ‘Just a bit more . . . that’s it . . . there. And now you can have a spoonful of honey, to take the taste away.’

  No, please, just leave me alone.

  ‘I don’t think he wants any honey, Father.’ Roland’s anxious voice. ‘Perhaps his mouth is too sore.’

  ‘Very well. No honey.’ Elias touches my cheek; my wrist; my shoulder. He gives me a pat. ‘Now do
n’t you move, whatever you do. If you need anything, just call me. I’ll be over with Montazin.’

  Montazin? Where? Where’s Montazin? Trying to turn my head as he walks away, but I can’t – it’s like a knife through my skull. God! Help!

  ‘Montathin . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, he won’t hurt you.’ Roland takes my hand again. ‘He’s in bed. He – I – he’s not – he can’t hurt you, Pagan.’

  ‘I thought you killed him.’

  ‘No.’ A pause. ‘Not quite.’

  Not quite, but almost. Montazin. Wait a moment. Montazin!

  ‘How did he find out? How did he find out about the letter?’

  ‘Pagan, you shouldn’t talk –’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘We found another letter, beneath his pillow.’ Roland 241 speaks with great reluctance. ‘It must have arrived yesterday. It was from the same man who wrote your letter, the Abbot of Voutenay-sur-Cure. He was asking about the letter that Raymond sent, and why Montazin hadn’t informed the community about Aeldred’s sins.’

  So that’s it. Of course. I should have considered – I should have realised –

  ‘But I didn’t put my name to that letter. Raymond did. How could Montathin –?’ Raymond. God. Raymond. Staring at Roland, and he’s avoiding my eye. He’s looking down at the blankets. ‘Where ith he?’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘Where ith he?’

  ‘Nobody knew. He was missing when the monks rose for Nocturnes.’ Roland’s tone is one I’d almost forgotten: his Commander-of-the-Temple tone. Dry. Clear. Expressionless. ‘We couldn’t ask Montazin, because he’s been unconscious all day. Then, after Prime, a girl came. A girl from the village.’ Throwing me a sideways glance. ‘It was the same girl.’

  ‘Thaurimunda . . .’

  ‘She said she was in the compound, last night. Waiting.’

  ‘For Roquefire?’ I don’t believe it. But Roland shakes his head.

  ‘For you, Pagan. She was waiting for you.’

  ‘For me? But I never had anything to do with her!’ (This is insane!) ‘I haven’t laid eyeth on her thince Roquefire put her in our dormitory –’

  ‘I know that, Pagan.’ Soothingly. ‘She didn’t say that you had arranged to meet her. She was just waiting. In case you happened to appear.’

  ‘But why?’ I don’t understand.

  Roland’s face is like a mask: he seems to be counting my fingers, one by one. Finally he looks up and says: ‘She seems to regard you with a great deal of affection.’

  Oh Lord. You don’t mean – you can’t mean –

  ‘It was a full moon,’ Roland continues. ‘She was waiting near the kitchens when she saw a young monk emerge from the herb garden. She says that she knew he was young because of the way he walked; he was wearing a cowl, so she couldn’t see his face. But she thought that he might be you. So she followed him.’ Pause. ‘She didn’t say anything. She just wanted to see you. To look at your face.’

  Sweet saints preserve us.

  ‘She followed him through the orchard, to the old well. And she saw that there was another monk there, waiting for him. A tall monk.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Father Clement went there this morning and found a little note. It was written in charcoal, on a page torn from a book. It said: ‘Meet me at the well tonight’, and it was signed with your name –’

  ‘What happened, damn you?!’

  He can’t tell me. Look, he can’t tell me. He’s just staring–staring at his hands. Staring at my hand.

  ‘He’s dead, Pagan.’ Quietly. ‘Raymond is dead.’

  No. Oh no.

  ‘The girl says that Montazin jumped on him. Threatened him with a knife, and demanded the letter. Raymond told him that you had it. Then Montazin must have panicked. He asked if anyone else knew about the letter and Raymond said no, so Montazin stabbed him –’

  ‘No.’

  ‘– and threw him down the well. He threw the knife down there, too. He left the note, so that you would be blamed if anyone found the body. (I don’t know how he was going to explain the blood on his clothes.) But it would only work if he took the letter from you, and he had to move quickly, because he guessed that you would be showing it to the abbot, who was returning today. So when the alarm went out for Raymond, he asked Guilabert to call an emergency chapter: that way Clement would have to leave us by ourselves. Then Montazin slipped away and told Badilo to tell you that Clement wanted you in the guest-house – Pagan? Please, Pagan, don’t cry, I can’t bear it.’

  No. Not Raymond. Not Raymond, not him. You can’t do this, please, please don’t do this, it can’t be true. Oh God. Oh God.

  ‘Pagan – Pagan please –’

  ‘It wath my fault! It wath all my fault!’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Oh God . . . oh God . . .’

  ‘Pagan, listen to me. It wasn’t your fault. It was Montazin. Montazin did this. You mustn’t blame yourself. Pagan? Pagan stop it, you’ll make yourself ill. Pagan! Father Elias, come here! Quickly! Pagan, calm down. Shh. Shh. Oh please don’t, please, I can’t bear it . . .’

  Chapter 30

  How empty the chapter-house looks, with so many people missing. Aeldred and Montazin. Sicard. Raymond . . .

  No. Don’t think about Raymond. You mustn’t think about Raymond. Think about someone else – think about Aeldred. No! On second thoughts, I don’t want to think about Aeldred, either. It was too awful, the way they dragged him off to the Bishop’s Court. The way he cried and grovelled and tried to hold onto pieces of furniture. That’s something I want to forget.

  And Montazin, too; I’d rather forget Montazin. He may have deserved it, but . . . God, it’s frightening. It’s horrible. Once he was a man, and now he’s – what? Half a man? Sitting there blank-eyed, drooling, making vague gestures and uttering meaningless words. I’m glad that 245 they sent him away to the Bishop’s Court. I don’t want to see him again. I don’t want to see what Roland did to him, with that candlestick.

  One more blow, and Montazin could have done the very same thing to me.

  Who else is missing? Sicard, at the Bishop’s Court. Rainier, also at the Bishop’s Court, but not to stand trial: just to explain what’s been going on. So Bernard Blancus is doing Rainier’s job, and Bernard Surdellus is doing Sicard’s job, and Elias is doing Aeldred’s job, and Guilabert is doing Montazin’s job, and that’s why the food is so awful, these days.

  Oh! And not to forget Roquefire, of course. Roquefire’s gone off to Carcassone with the rest of them. I suppose they’ll dismiss Roquefire, though he’s really not to blame: in my opinion, his only fault is what he did to Saurimunda. Poor Saurimunda. There’s another person I don’t want to think about. At least they didn’t punish her, though. At least they didn’t punish her for being in the abbey compound, that night.

  That night . . .

  ‘Brothers!’ It’s the abbot. Oh dear, he must have finished reading. And I didn’t hear a word of it, either, though I don’t suppose I missed much. I’ve read the Rule of Saint Benedict at least two hundred times already: in fact I don’t know why they bother reading it at all, on these occasions. No wonder it goes in one ear and out the other.

  Well, in one ear and not out the other. Damn you, Montazin. Damn you for what you did to my ear. I don’t know what you did, but you well and truly spoiled it. You’ve made me deaf in my left ear. Deaf, like an old man!

  Or perhaps it wasn’t you. Perhaps it was God’s punishment. I could understand that. I deserve that. I deserve to be punished for what I did to Raymond.

  ‘Brothers,’ says the abbot, and his voice is very soft and tired, just like his face. He sits on his throne as if he belongs there; when he closes the book he doesn’t pass it to Gerard, the way Guilabert always did, but holds and caresses it, absent-mindedly, like a man who really knows and loves the written word.

  ‘Brothers,’ he continues, ‘today we welcome the novices to our chapter, and we welc
ome them not in Latin, which some of them don’t understand, but in the language of the people. The common language.’

  He looks down at us, at the three of us, standing here by ourselves in the middle of the floor like pimples on a bull’s backside: at Ademar, the Walking Scar; at Roland, tall and thin and beautiful; at yours truly, held together with rags and string and old bits of wood.

  He smiles at us. ‘Today,’ he says, ‘it is my solemn duty to present three of our novices – Ademar, Roland and Pagan – with a choice. A very important choice. Ademar, step forward, please.’

  Ademar steps forward. His head is bowed, his face almost hidden.

  ‘Ademar, you have been with us now for twelve months. During that time you have submitted willingly to the excellent virtue of obedience. You have surrendered dominion over your heart and soul, and humbled yourself before the dread judgement of the Lord Christ, our true king. With a patient and quiet mind you have devoted yourself to prayer, and watched over the actions of your life every hour of the day.’

  A pause, as the abbot studies Ademar with the most intense concentration. At last he says: ‘Ademar, do you love the Lord God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength?’

  Ademar nods. ‘I do,’ he whispers. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in – oh, in months. Months and months. It sounds like someone sharpening an axe on a whetstone.

  ‘And do you desire everlasting life with your entire spiritual longing,’ the abbot inquires, ‘to the exclusion of all else, temporal or spiritual?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Ademar, in your wish to enter this holy community, the Abbey of Saint Martin, are you still steadfast of purpose?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you are welcome.’ The abbot smiles again, and leans forward, as if he’d like to get up. ‘Today, at Mass, you will present your Act of Profession. You will be bound with the sacred and inviolable bonds of your vows, and you will join our loving brotherhood of worship. So if you go with Brother Bernard, he will take you to the sacristy, where you can prepare yourself for Mass. Brother Bernard?’