Shuffle, scrape, shuffle, scrape. It’s painful to watch the old man limp along. Passing from the dim, grey ante-room into an equally dim, equally grey, but slightly larger reception room. Some kind of mural painted on the wall, up near the ceiling. Cold stone tiles underfoot. A selection of mismatched furniture: folding stool, high-backed chair, stone bench, carved ebony table. A gilt cross hanging above the window.
‘Please be seated.’
The smell of cooking food, somewhere. We must be near the Abbey kitchens. Or maybe the Abbot has his own kitchens. Back in the monastery of Saint Joseph, we used to have a special wing for the Abbot and his guests. Just to make sure that none of the monks talked to visitors.
Looks as if they might have the same arrangement here.
‘My lord Abbot, this is a very joyful occasion for me.’ (Roland, getting things started.) ‘Before my journey to Jerusalem, I spent many happy days under the roof of your most venerable and holy foundation. I have also listened many times, with the most profound humility and respect, to the words of your predecessor, Father Cyprien, may God have mercy on his soul.’
‘Gloria Patri. He was a grievous loss to us.’
‘I can imagine. A most worthy servant of Christ, most dutiful and devout. His guidance was always a blessing.’
‘He that handleth a matter wisely shall find good; and whoso trusteth in the Lord, happy is he.’
‘Amen.’
Ho hum. What a bore. Glance at Esclaramonde: her head is bowed, her hands are folded. She looks exactly like a nun.
‘Lord Abbot, you must forgive us for this intrusion, but my father felt that we should settle a certain matter which affects many people, including yourself.’ Roland’s treading carefully: there’s no emotion in his voice at all. ‘It concerns a man called Clairin; I believe he is a resident of this Abbey?’
‘We have a servant by that name.’
‘Only the one?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘And does he often enter my father’s forest at Lavalet, to collect wood?’
The Abbot stiffens.
‘Never,’ he declares. ‘This Abbey has no right or claim to any produce from that land.’
‘Then I must tell you that Brother Clairin appears to have dishonoured your authority, and assaulted a free man known as Garnier of Lavalet, while collecting wood in my father’s forest.’
There. That’s done it. No more compliments. No more courtesies. Now we’re getting down to business.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ the Abbot retorts. ‘Have you any proof of such a thing?’
‘My lord, this woman lives and works in the same community as the injured man. She has seen his wounds. She has spoken to his son, who witnessed the assault, 64 and who identified Clairin.’ Roland gestures towards Esclaramonde. ‘I believe there may be grounds for some sort of inquiry.’
The Abbot’s face puckers. His jaw begins to move. His fingers twitch on the head of his cane.
‘I do not agree,’ he snaps.
‘My lord Abbot –’ ‘This . . . this woman . . .’ (Scowling at Esclaramonde.)
‘This woman, or should we say demon, is a false witness and a foul perverter of the truth. Her tongue is polluted. Her house is the way to hell. This woman is like the whore of Babylon, drunk with the blood of saints, and no good Christian should bear witness to her filthy deceits.’
Uh-oh.
‘My lord Abbot –’
‘Go back to your father, Lord Roland, and tell him not to defile himself, but to shut his ears to the profane counsel of Lucifer, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and whose tongue is a sharp sword.’
‘I am not a liar.’ Esclaramonde leaps to her feet. ‘I am not a liar. I am not a false witness. You are unjust.’ Her dark eyes blazing, her voice sharp and strong. ‘You are like Saul, when the evil spirit came upon him!’
God preserve us. The Abbot tries to speak, but his words are swallowed by a fit of coughing. Esclaramonde turns to go. Roland grabs her arm, and pulls her back.
‘Sit down,’ he hisses.
‘You are like Jezebel!’ (The Abbot’s found his breath, again.) ‘You are like the beast with seven heads and the names of blasphemy on them! You have defiled this house with your corruption, and filled this man’s ears with lies!’
‘I will not stay here!’
‘No, you will not stay here. You will leave the Abbey grounds at once. You are an evil woman, not welcome in this holy place.’
And off she goes. As fast as a flea. ‘Pagan! Stay with her!’ Yes, my lord, that’s just what I was thinking. She’s so hampered by the length of her skirts that she doesn’t get far before I’ve caught up. Barely manages to clear the first corner.
‘Wait. Hold on. Don’t run away, Mistress.’ Catching her arm. ‘I know it wasn’t pleasant, but he’s probably senile.’
‘He is unjust!’
‘I know, I know he is. And incontinent too, I’ll bet.’
She can’t help laughing. It’s a reluctant kind of laugh, but it’s a laugh.
‘I was foolish,’ she mutters. ‘They were only words. That was very foolish.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think you were pretty restrained. If it had been me, I would have shoved his walking stick up his left nostril.’
Another smile. But it doesn’t last long. She’s obviously a serious-minded person.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I’ve ruined everything. What should I do? Is there anything I can do?’
‘I think the best thing you can do is keep quiet. Let Lord Roland take care of things.’ Looking about, just to see where we are. Seems to be a cloister: arches on all four sides, and a cobbled square in the middle. ‘We’ll sit down here and wait for him. I don’t suppose he’ll be long.’
There are stone benches set around the cloister garth, most of them speckled with bird droppings. Who’s supposed to be cleaning these? Because whoever they are, they’re not doing a very good job of it. At Saint Joseph’s I’d have been beaten bloody, for leaving the benches in this state. It’s hard to find a clear spot that’s big enough for a single backside.
‘Is it true – what Lord Roland said – are you really from Jerusalem?’ (Oh Lord. I should have known. Didn’t even give me time to sit down.) ‘I’ve never met someone who was born in the Holy Land.’
‘There are quite a few of us, you know.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She sounds faintly apologetic. ‘You must be tired of people asking questions. But it’s hard to imagine what it must be like.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I had a friend, once. She went there on pilgrimage. She said it was wonderful.’
‘It isn’t that wonderful.’ Sudden memory of the view from the Mount of Olives. Dust and loose gravel under your toes. White roofs in the sunlight. The Golden Gate, the spire of Saint Anne’s, the gleaming dome of the Temple. The flocks in the valley. The burning, arching sky. ‘But it’s better than this.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her gentle voice. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll see it again. Perhaps you’ll go back.’
‘Oh, we’ll be going back, all right. As soon as the armies of Christendom are raised, we’ll be going back to run the Turks out of the kingdom. We’re only in Languedoc to find more troops.’
‘You mean you’re doing that now?’ She seems concerned. ‘Raising an army?’
‘Well, yes. In a way.’
‘But are you sure it’s the right thing to do?’
The right thing to do? What a bizarre question. ‘Of 67 course it is. It’s a Crusade. Against the Infidels.’
‘But there will be so much killing. So much blood. Must all those people lose their lives, just for another piece of earth?’
‘It’s for Jerusalem!’
‘Jerusalem is a piece of earth. It’s not a piece of heaven.’
‘Jerusalem is the birthplace of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ (Roland’s voice. God help us. He nearly scared me to death, sneaking up like that.) ‘Jerusalem is the Lord
’s footstool.’
‘Jerusalem is where Christ came to earth in the shape of a man,’ Esclaramonde rejoins, craning her neck to look up at him. ‘But earth is our prison and the realm of the Evil One. Not a single mile of it is worth killing for.’
Well I’ll be damned. ‘Is that what you believe? That the whole world is the work of Satan?’ (No wonder she’s in trouble.)
‘I believe that the world is part of the kingdom of darkness, governed by the Devil, just as heaven is the kingdom of light, governed by God,’ she replies. ‘I believe that the world is hell, and that human souls are fragments of the kingdom of light, trapped in earthly bodies which will not rise again at the Last Judgement, because they are part of the kingdom of darkness. And I believe that Jesus Christ, who was not a real man but God’s spirit from heaven, showed us how we might free our souls from the earthly prisons they inhabit by living a holy life –’
‘Be silent.’ Roland cuts her off. His tone is harsh; anxious; flustered. ‘I don’t want you talking like this in front of Pagan. You must not talk of these things again, do you understand? Never. Or you must go away at once.’
Oh, leave the poor woman alone. She’s harmless enough. She just thinks she’s a speck of light in a kingdom of darkness. And she certainly hasn’t convinced me.
‘What happened, my lord?’ (Trying to distract him.) ‘Did you talk to the Abbot? Did you calm him down?’
‘Who? Oh, the Abbot.’ Roland shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid the Abbot is unconvinced, although I told him about the axe. Tomorrow morning, when he’s had time to reflect, I will approach him again. It seems to me that the best thing would be to have one of his monks visit Lavalet, and see Garnier, and talk to Garnier’s family.’
‘You mean they’re going to let us stay here? Overnight?’ (I don’t believe it.)
‘There is nowhere else for us to go,’ he replies. ‘I pointed this out to the Abbot, when he – when he talked of expelling Mistress Maury. I pointed out that we couldn’t, in Christian charity, let her sleep in the forest by herself.’ His solemn glance shifts to Esclaramonde, and back to me again. ‘You and I are always welcome, the Abbot said, but she must return home as soon as possible, tomorrow morning.’
Esclaramonde lifts her chin.
‘I will do that willingly,’ she declares. ‘I have no wish to stay longer.’
Hear, hear. I’m with the lady. This place makes my skin crawl.
Chapter 8
‘Ouch!’
‘Pagan, will you hold still?’
‘Let me do it. I’ll do it. You’re hurting me.’ ‘No, you’re too rough. You’ll break the comb. You always break the comb, and this is the only one we have left. I don’t want you breaking it.’
Tug, tug. He has no idea. Ouch! Knots are plain torture.
‘Why do I have to comb it, anyway? Why don’t I just cut it all off?’
‘With what? Hold still.’ His hand, pressing my head down. ‘I wasn’t trained to cut hair with a sword. Neither were you. We’ll cut it when we get back home. I think my father still has my mother’s scissors.’ (Ouch!) ‘It ought to be cut. If it gets any longer, you’ll have to start plaiting it.’
Knock-knock-knock. A gentle tap on the door. Whoops! Get up, Pagan. If anyone sees Roland picking away at your head, like that, they’ll think he must be delousing you.
‘Come in!’ Rising to his feet, with the comb still in his hand. Hasn’t put his belt on, yet.
The door opens slightly.
‘My lord Roland?’ A monk with a harelip. Seems to be the wrong shape for his robe. ‘Good morning, my lord. The Abbot wants you.’
‘The Abbot?’
‘If you please.’
Roland glances in my direction. ‘What about my squire?’ he says. ‘And Mistress Maury?’
‘He wants all of you, right now.’
Hmmm. Wonder what’s happened? Roland reaches for his belt. ‘Pagan, you’re dressed. Go and rouse her. We’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Now, where did they put Esclaramonde? In the room next door? That’s right. I remember. Turn left, and just a few steps down the passage: knock-knock-knock.
‘Mistress? It’s me, Pagan. You’re wanted.’
Can’t hear anything. Do you think she’s awake yet? Perhaps she’s still asleep. Perhaps I ought to knock again.
The door swings open.
Her room’s almost identical to ours. Your basic monastic cell, with the usual white walls and polished floor and plain oak chest. There’s a candle on the chest and a basin on the floor. One narrow bed instead of two.
But as for Esclaramonde – I can’t believe it. Will you look at that hair! As black as jet, thick and glossy, flowing 71 all the way down to her ankles. I’ve never seen anything so fine.
‘What is it?’ she says. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
‘Hmm? Oh – yes – I mean no. No. The Abbot wants to see us. What beautiful hair you have.’
‘Thank you.’ Stiffly.
‘It must be impossible to comb, though. It must take hours. Don’t you feel like cutting it off, sometimes?’
‘Saint Paul said that if a woman has long hair it is a glory to her, for her hair is given for a covering.’
Oh, right. I remember that bit. Isn’t that where it says: if a man has long hair, it is a shame unto him?
I’ve really got to get my hair cut.
‘Pagan? Ah.’ It’s Roland. He catches sight of Esclaramonde, and blinks. (What do you think, my lord? Isn’t it beautiful?) Drags his gaze away with what looks like a bit of an effort. ‘We must hurry,’ he says.
‘But my hair –’
‘Leave it.’
Yes, leave it. We can’t wait around for the rest of the day while you fix up your hair. Anyway, I want to see how the monks react. This one’s already speechless. Keeps glancing back over his shoulder as we bustle along the passage. A little more, a little more, and – yes! He almost falls down a flight of stairs, turning the first corner.
What a joke.
‘This way, my lord,’ he pants. ‘This way.’
Whoops! And there’s another stricken monk. Stops in his tracks to stare after us. What time is it, I wonder? Looks quite early. I think I heard the bell for Terce, not long ago. That’s one thing you can say about monasteries. As long 72 as you’re in one, you’ve always got a pretty good idea of the time.
‘Just through here, please. This way.’ A lintel set low in a sandstone wall. (Roland has to stoop to pass under it.) And here we are in the cloister-garth again. More monks, huddled in groups. A buzz of voices. A servant, dressed for the harvest.
Fresh blood sprinkled on the ground.
‘My lord.’ Twitching the skirt of Roland’s surcoat. Pointing out the blood (discreetly). Roland’s expression doesn’t change: he just nods and keeps walking, across the cobbles to the chapter house. At least, I suppose it’s the chapter house. It’s certainly where the chapter house should be. Big, bronze doors standing open. Beyond them, a beautiful tiled floor, and tiers of wooden seats set under the windows. (Lovely stained glass.) A domed roof, blue, with golden stars painted on it. Monks everywhere . . .’
‘Aribert!
’ Esclaramonde darts forward. Roland catches her, pulling her back. There’s a man, moaning, at the other end of the room. He’s slumped between two hefty servants, who are dressed in dirty work boots and tunics hitched up to show their bare, scratched knees. Blood drips slowly from his nose, his mouth, his right hand, his temple.
‘What have you done?! What have you done to him?’ She pulls and squirms, but Roland won’t let go. ‘Aribert! Talk to me! What did they do?’
‘You know this man?’ It’s the Abbot. Sitting to one side, his back hunched, breathing heavily. Any moment now he’s going to keel over and expire.
‘Of course I know him! It’s Aribert! Ow!’
‘Be still,’ says Roland. Speaking in his most ominous 73 tone. She subsides, of course – and so does everyone else. You do
n’t argue with that voice. ‘What’s going on, Lord Abbot?’ (Very calm. Very courteous.) ‘Who is this man, and why is he here?’
‘Your friend can tell you that. I cannot. I don’t know him.’
‘It’s Aribert! Aribert! Garnier’s eldest son.’ Esclara-monde’s hands are shaking. ‘Look what they – how could they do that? How?’
I’ve got to admit, he looks pretty bad. Nose mashed all over his face. Mouth a bloody hole. Fingers shattered. Somebody’s really put the boot in.
‘This man has assaulted our servant Clairin,’ the Abbot reveals. (Cough, cough, cough.) ‘Clairin was harvesting corn in the southern field, and this man struck him with a scythe. Clairin is now in the infirmary.’
‘Surely the infirmary is where this man belongs, also,’ Roland says, in his quiet way. But the Abbot strikes the floor with his staff.
‘This man belongs at the end of a rope!’ he squawks. ‘He tried to kill one of my men!’
‘Oh, but why?’ Esclaramonde groans. ‘Why, Aribert, why? I’ve told you again and again. ‘Put up thy sword into his place, for those that take the sword shall perish with the sword’.’
No reply from Aribert. I don’t think he’s even conscious.
‘My lord Abbot, this man needs care.’ Roland’s still trying to keep things civilised. ‘I don’t know who did this to him, and I’m not going to ask, but if he’s to undertake any travelling –’
‘Travelling? Oh no. He isn’t going anywhere.’
‘My lord, this man is under my father’s jurisdiction –’
‘He is not.’
Roland takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. ‘My father,’ he says, with grinding patience, ‘has judicial rights over every man, woman and child at Lavalet. Just as you, my lord, have judicial rights over servants such as Clairin. Now, I know my father is quite satisfied that you should pronounce judgement on Clairin, as long as he is compensated for the wood Clairin has stolen. But you must allow my father the right to pronounce judgement on Aribert, for his crime.’
The Abbot scowls.
‘Clairin is a victim,’ he says, ‘not a criminal.’