‘No!’
‘Yes. And I’m sure it’s true, because Aeldred is paying this cousin money. To keep him quiet.’
‘Paying him money? I don’t understand. What money?’
‘Money that he’s stolen. Alms money.’
Durand’s jaw drops. It’s not a pretty sight.
‘The trouble is, I don’t have any proof. And without proof, no one’s going to believe me.’
The words are hardly out of my mouth before Durand blushes. Even in this light, you can see the wash of red that engulfs his face.
‘I believe you,’ he croaks.
‘Well – good. At least someone does.’ Better get moving, I suppose, before Clement comes screaming in like the Beast of the Apocalypse. Hoisting up my skirt. Preparing to aim.
‘Pagan?’
Tinkle, tinkle.
‘What?’
Another pause. Go on, Durand. Whatever it is, just say it. He takes a deep breath.
‘I know you didn’t bring that girl in,’ he announces.
God preserve us! Just as well I’m finished, or I would have pissed up the wall.
‘You what?’
‘I saw her with Roquefire one night. She was Roquefire’s girl.’ He’s staring at his feet. ‘I saw her in the kitchens.’
‘You saw her?’ I can’t believe it. ‘What were you doing?’
This time the blush is so deep, it’s almost purple.
‘I was stealing food,’ he whispers.
Stealing food. In the kitchens. And he saw her! He actually saw her, with Roquefire! ‘But why didn’t you say something?’ In God’s name, Durand! ‘I got beaten for that! Why didn’t you tell them?’
‘I couldn’t.’ There’s a crack in his voice. ‘How could I tell them what I’d been doing? They would have beaten me.’
That’s true. They would have. And it mightn’t have done any good.
Still and all . . .
‘I’m sorry, Pagan.’ He’s wiping his eyes, now, as well as his nose. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a coward. It’s terrible, what happened to you.’
‘Never mind. You’re not to blame.’ He isn’t, either: he’s only a child. How can you expect a child to speak up when he’s scared witless? Poor little scrap. He’s not the right shape to be a hero. ‘Cheer up, Durand, I’m not angry. At least I know that you can keep your mouth shut. You will keep your mouth shut, won’t you? About the almoner? He mustn’t know that I know.’
‘All right.’ He’s frowning again. ‘But aren’t you going to tell the others?’
The others? ‘What others?’
‘The rest of us. You know. Bernard and Raymond and –’
‘Raymond!’ Ha! ‘Do you think Raymond would listen to a word I say?’
‘He likes you, you know.’
‘Raymond?’
‘He does. He admires you.’ The round, dark eyes haven’t left my face. ‘He’s just jealous, that’s all. So is everyone. So am I. But then I’ve got more reason to be.’
Jealous? Don’t make me laugh. You might as well be jealous of a gum-boil. ‘Oh, right. Sure. Naturally. Why not be jealous of the way I’m kicked around? It’s an enviable thing, being the official whipping-post.’
Durand smiles, and shakes his head. It’s an odd little smile, but then again, when you think about it, he’s an odd little person. I never realised that, until now.
‘You’re very clever, Pagan,’ he says, ‘but sometimes you can be a bit stupid, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ He shuffles his feet, looking over his shoulder. ‘I think we’d better be getting back, now. If we don’t, Father Clement will be down on us like the church roof.’
Amen to that. And we both know who’ll be getting the worst of it.
Chapter 23
‘Hello, Amiel.’ Clement stands at the foot of the bed, leaning on his walking-stick. ‘How are you today? You look better.’
Amiel nods. He does look better: there’s a little more pink in his face, and a little less blue. But his chest is still heaving away desperately.
‘I’m much better now,’ he gasps. ‘Father Elias said that I can get up soon.’
‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Elias objects. ‘I said that if you continue to improve, we might sit you in a chair next week. That’s all I said.’
‘Brother Elias tells me that you’re strong enough to be visited.’ Clement’s voice is hoarser than usual, thanks to the highly epidemic nature of Durand’s cold. He looks as if he’s been killed, buried and dug up again; a tottering 182 wreck just barely able to support himself. His crippled hands are wrapped in fur mittens. ‘He tells me that you want to see your friends.’
‘Yes, Master.’ Cough. Wheeze. I feel as if I’ve wandered into a hospice. Nothing but clogged chests and runny noses as far as the eye can see. Even Roland doesn’t look too good, with his drawn, shadowy face. But then again, it’s his own damned fault. So it’s hard to be sympathetic.
‘I have to go to chapter, now,’ Clement continues. ‘If I leave you here with your friends, Amiel, will you promise to be good and quiet, and not to over-excite yourself?’
‘Oh yes, Master. Yes. Oh yes.’
Sounds a bit over-excited already. Clement gives him a sceptical look, and turns to address the rest of us.
‘Brother Elias will not be going to chapter,’ he declares, ‘because Brother Landric, over there, is too sick to leave. Consequently, if there is any rowdy behaviour, I will most certainly hear about it when I return. Do I make myself clear, Pagan?’
Oh, come on. Why are you always picking on me? Every time I break wind, I get my ear chewed off.
‘Do I make myself clear?’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Master, you always make yourself clear. It’s your rhetorical training.’
He narrows his eyes, and points his stick in my direction. It looks as if he’s going to give me one of his pokes, but without the support of the walking-stick his knees can’t take the pressure. They buckle, and he has to grab at Brother Elias – who mutters something in Latin about going to bed.
‘Rubbish!’ Clement snarls. And he straightens his back before stomping off towards the stairs, just to show everyone that he’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.
Elias shakes his head a little.
‘All right, boys,’ he says (apparently unaware of the fact that Roland, at least, hasn’t been a boy for some considerable time), ‘I want you to remember that Brother Landric is very ill, and we don’t want to make him any worse. So no shouting, please, or laughing, or running around.’
Laughing? Shouting? Running around? I’ve forgotten what they are, let alone how to do them. Elias gives Amiel a pat on the wrist before returning to Brother Landric, who’s twitching and sweating at the other end of the infirmary.
There’s a funny smell in the air.
‘You can sit on the bed,’ Amiel wheezes, as we cluster around. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘How are you feeling?’ (Raymond.) ‘Are you really feeling better?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘We would have brought you something to eat,’ Gaubert chimes in, ‘but Durand ate it.’
A burst of laughter, quickly stifled by the look that Elias flings at us from across the room. Amiel takes Gaubert’s hand.
‘So what’s been going on?’ he inquires weakly.
‘Well . . . everyone’s got a cold,’ says Raymond, ‘and it’s all Durand’s fault.’
‘It is not!’
‘Even the prior has it, and every time he sneezes he wobbles all over the place like a big fat wineskin.’
More muffled laughter. Bernard sits on the bed.
‘It’s freezing outside,’ he remarks. ‘You’re lucky to be in here all day.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Yes you are. If you sit down in the latrines, your arse freezes to the seat. They have to chip you off.’
‘It snowed last night,’ Raymond adds. ‘Did you know about that?’
‘Yes, Fath
er Elias told me.’
‘And the well froze, so they’re melting ice in the kitchens.’ Raymond sighs, and looks at Bernard. ‘Do you remember what it was like in Carcassone, when we used to go skating? I’d love to go skating.’
Skating? ‘What’s skating?’
All eyes focus on me. There’s a long pause. Everyone waits for Raymond to reply.
‘Don’t you know what skating is?’ he says. ‘You put wooden things on your feet, and glide over the ice very fast.’
‘How fast?’
‘Oh, as fast as a horse. Faster.’
‘Really?’ That’s incredible. ‘But don’t you fall down?’
Bernard snickers. ‘He falls down, all right. He was always falling down.’
‘Not as much as you, Bernard.’
‘Father Aeldred fell down,’ Amel says abruptly. ‘He slipped on the ice, and he came in here because he thought he’d broken his ankle. But he hadn’t.’ As everyone digests this piece of news, Amiel leans forward and adds, in a low voice, ‘I don’t like him very much.’
‘Why not?’ The question is out of Durand’s mouth before I’ve even opened mine. ‘He hasn’t messed with you, has he?’
Oh God. That’s done it. There’s a puzzled silence, followed by an exchange of meaningful glances. Durand turns bright red.
It’s Raymond, once again, who takes the initiative.
‘What do you mean?’ he says, in hushed tones. He leans forward, his eyes bright with interest. ‘Do you mean like little Enguerrand and that disgusting gardener?’
Durand appears to have lost the power of speech. He wriggles uncomfortably, and casts me a hunted look. God damn you, Durand, you and your big mouth! I told you it was a secret!
‘He didn’t mess with you, did he?’ Raymond prompts, his head almost touching Durand’s.
Suddenly everyone’s huddled together, like cows under a tree in the rain. Only Ademar and Roland stand apart: Ademar because he’s simply not interested, and Roland – well, I don’t think Roland’s quite grasped what’s going on. He doesn’t have the monastic background to pick up those all-important nuances.
‘What did he do to you, Durand?’ It’s obvious that Raymond’s not going to let Durand off the hook. Poor old Durand, caught between the rocks and the reef. Doesn’t want to upset either of us.
Probably time for me to step in.
‘He didn’t do anything.’
Heads turn; jaws drop. Raymond peers at me intently.
‘Do you know about this?’ he demands, putting a great deal of force into a very soft whisper. ‘Don’t tell me he messed with you.’
‘No. But he was thrown out of another monastery for molesting children.’
You could hear a sparrow fart.
Bernard’s the first to recover.
‘He what?’
‘Shhh!’ (Keep it down!) ‘Do you want Father Elias to hear?’
‘That’s rubbish.’ Raymond, angrily. ‘How could you possibly know a thing like that?’
‘Because I heard it from the man who’s blackmailing him.’
There. That’s done the trick. It’s deprived him of breath, like a kick in the ribcage. And with Raymond winded, Amiel has a chance to speak.
‘Blackmailing who?’ he gasps. ‘Is Father Aeldred blackmailing someone?’
‘No.’ Bog-brain. ‘Someone’s blackmailing him – the man who calls himself Aeldred’s cousin. The one who was asking him for money. He’s not Aeldred’s cousin at all, he’s a former monk from the Burgundian monastery where Aeldred used to live.’
‘Lies,’ says Raymond. ‘All lies.’ But his delivery is rather weak, as if he’s lost most of his stuffing. ‘You’re always trying to blame the monks. You tried to blame them when you let that girl in –’
‘No he didn’t.’ Durand doesn’t even let him finish the sentence. ‘Pagan didn’t let that girl in. Roquefire let her in.’
Raymond snorts.
‘He did, I tell you! That girl was Roquefire’s girl. I’ve seen them together before, in the kitchen.’
‘In the kitchen? When?’
Durand blushes. ‘When I – when I was getting 187 something to eat,’ he stammers, whereupon Bernard rolls his eyes.
But before he can say anything, Raymond turns back to me with an intent, guarded, quizzical look on his face. It’s a look that I’ve never seen there before. A look that really suits him.
‘If you know all this,’ he says softly, ‘why haven’t you told any of the monks?’
‘Because they won’t believe him!’ Durand breaks in. ‘Not without proof. They’ll think he’s lying, the way you did. He needs proof, or it won’t work.’
Thanks, Durand, but I’ll speak for myself, if you don’t mind. Glancing over to where Elias is sitting, spooning milk down Landric’s throat. Let’s hope he hasn’t heard any of this.
‘Pagan.’ It’s Roland. He’s hovering at the edge of the group, and he sounds exhausted. ‘You – you should have told me. Why didn’t you?’
Why didn’t I tell you? I like that! What a gall you have, standing there and – and – sweet saints preserve us! Are you trying to make me feel guilty? First cast the beam out of thine own eye, Roland!
‘Well I don’t know.’ Glaring up at him. ‘I don’t know, Roland, maybe I had to tell somebody else first.’
He blinks, just once, and I know I’ve hit the target. His face is blank, his eyes are blank, but I know. It’s something about the way he becomes very still.
‘Pagan.’ Gaubert tugs at my sleeve. ‘Why don’t you get some proof? Then they’d believe you.’
‘It’s not that easy.’ (Durand shoves his oar in again.) ‘What kind of proof can you get? Aeldred won’t admit to 188 anything. The man who’s blackmailing him won’t admit to anything, either.’
‘Except perhaps in confession,’ says Bernard, ‘but that’s no good.’
‘Maybe we could trick them, somehow,’ Amiel croaks, and Bernard turns on him scornfully.
‘How?’
‘I’m – I’m not sure . . .’
‘Big help you are, Amiel.’
Wait! Hold on, now! This is going too fast. Looking around at the circle of eager faces: at Gaubert, brimming with enthusiasm; at Bernard, frowning thoughtfully; at Amiel, restless and worried; at Raymond . . .
At Raymond. Even as our gazes meet, it flashes into my head – the perfect solution – and he’s thought of it too, I can tell. It’s there in his eyes, and he beats me to it.
‘A letter,’ he says, before I get the chance. A letter. Of course. It’s so obvious, and yet . . . well, I never could have sent one myself, could I? I don’t know a soul outside this monastery. I don’t know anyone who might be travelling north.
But Raymond does.
‘I could write a letter to the abbot of that monastery Aeldred came from,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m always writing letters to my mother.’
Yes, by God. ‘So you’ll be able to get the ink and the parchment –’
‘And I’ll call myself Brother Raymond.’ (He’s getting excited, now.) ‘I’ll ask for the whole story. What Aeldred did. What he looks like. Everything. And then,’ he finishes, ‘I could give the letter to my father, to pass on to one of 189 his friends. They’re always moving around.’
Oh, Raymond. You cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi. I could kiss you. ‘Brilliant! Wonderful! What a brilliant idea, Raymond, you’re a genius.’
He smiles at that. It’s not a superior smile at all: it’s a shy, reluctant, exhilarated smile. He rubs his nose in an effort to hide it.
‘The trouble is, I don’t know how long you might have to wait for an answer,’ he warns me. ‘It may be weeks before any of my father’s friends go to Burgundy. And then it may be months before the abbot’s reply gets back to him. You could be waiting until next summer.’
That’s all right, my friend. I’ve waited this long; I can afford to wait a bit more. I just need to know that some day, somehow, I’m going to see Montazi
n’s little conspiracy crushed like a louse under the heel of my boot.
Chapter 24
Where’s Raymond? Why doesn’t he come back? Won’t his father take the letter? What’s he doing in there?
‘Pagan!’
Oh, leave me alone, you old snakeskin.
‘Pagan, you’re not concentrating. Look at me. Pagan! What is brevitas?’
Brevitas. Brevitas. Brief– oh no, I remember. ‘It’s rapidity of narration.’
‘And continuato?’
Continuato. That’s a hard one. Let’s see . . . Wait. Are those footsteps? Raymond’s footsteps?
‘Pagan!’ Clement drives his stick into the floor. ‘Are you still asleep? Have you left your brain in bed? Look at me!’
Look at you? Why would I want to look at you? You 191 look like the husk of a beetle that’s been eaten out by ants. Sniffing and shaking and coughing in that disgusting fashion . . . It’s enough to make anyone sick.
God. How cold I am.
‘What is continuato?’ He just goes on and on, like an attack of the flux. ‘Pagan? Answer me.’
‘It’s a rapid succession of words completing a sentence.’
‘Dubitatio?’
‘An assumed hesitation.’
‘Descriptio?’
‘A description of someone’s personal appearance.’
‘No!’ This time the Terror’s voice is so loud that Bernard stops reading, startled and apprehensive. Clement glares across the room.
‘Did I tell you to stop, Bernard?’
‘No, Master –’
‘Then continue. Ignore what’s going on over here, it’s none of your concern.’
Obediently, Bernard drops his gaze to the psalter in front of him. When he begins to read again, his breath comes out in damp and filmy jets of steam. The rest of them sit huddled in fur-lined cloaks, their hands tucked under their armpits.
‘Pagan! Look here! What’s the matter with you? Are you sick? Are you drunk? Did you hit yourself on the head this morning?’ Clement reaches over and prods me in the chest. ‘Something must be wrong. A child could have answered that question. I can’t believe that a person so puffed up with intellectual conceit –’
‘Descriptio.’ (You slug-faced scumbucket.) ‘ “A clear and impressive statement of the results of an action.” ’