It’s a leather housewife.
‘I didn’t steal it!’ she moans. ‘Roquefire gave it to me –’ Thwack! He chops her across the face. All right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of you, you bastard.
‘Stop that! Keep your hands to yourself?’
Everyone turns and stares. Uh-oh. Now I’m really in trouble.
Clement makes signs at me. Where–your–housewife? Trust him to follow the Rule. Even in this moment of crisis, he remembers that we’re not supposed to be talking. He flaps a hand at Bernard, who struggles with the chest under my bed. Drags it out. Throws open the lid. Rummages among the spare socks and shirts.
No housewife, of course. Doesn’t surprise me. This whole thing is beginning to smell like a set-up.
‘I swear, Master, I haven’t touched my housewife since last Tues –’
Clement strikes the floor with his stick. He puts his finger to his lips, and draws it up and down. Silence!
Montazin tosses the housewife onto my bed.
Oh yes, it’s mine, all right. Somebody must have got in here and stolen it when I wasn’t around. Montazin? Roque-fire? Those scumbags. Those festering maggots. Clement reaches over and picks it up. Examines it. Drops it. And suddenly stiffens, like a hunting dog on a stag’s scent.
There’s something else tangled in the covers: something bright and pretty.
A red petticoat.
Hold on, this is insane. It’s unbelievable. ‘Master, it’s a trick! Can’t you see what’s happening? Someone’s playing a trick on me!’
Clement jerks his finger again. Silence! Oh no. Not yet, old man. Not until I’ve had my say.
‘No! I won’t be silent! Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to bring a woman in here? Into this dormitory? Into this bed? You must be out of your minds!’ Peeling Clement’s hand off my mouth, as he tries to gag me. ‘This is Roquefire’s doing! He must have brought her in! Ask her! Ask her who brought her here! It was Roquefire, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ A shrill, frightened squeak. She’s seen me, now. There’s hope on her face. ‘It was Roquefire. He said he wanted to show me something. Then he pushed me in here and shut the door –’
Thwack! Another of Montazin’s blows, this time across her ear. You bastard. You evil bastard. I’m going to kill you, Montazin.
‘Naturally this wicked novice would blame Roquefire,’ he spits. ‘Just to save his own skin. He is a liar, as well as a fornicator.’
‘But didn’t you hear what she said?’ Appealing to Clement, whose expression is a mixture of doubt and disgust. Please, Clement, please, where’s your intelligence? ‘She just said it was Roquefire! She said so herself!’
‘She? She? Are we to believe this harlot?’ Montazin sneers, as Saurimunda writhes in his grasp. ‘If it was Roquefire’s doing, then where is he? I didn’t see anyone.’
‘That’s because you sent him!’ Slapping Clement’s hand away again. ‘That’s because you planned all this! Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I’m a fool? You panicked, because of that letter I wrote –’
‘Silence!’ Montazin’s losing his self-control. The veins stand out like ropes in his neck. ‘Insolent Turk! How dare you speak to me like that?’
‘Master, please . . .’ (Listen, Clement, I’m begging you.) ‘Why do you think she couldn’t get the door open? Because someone was holding it shut from outside! This is all a trick, to get me expelled. Because I know things about the cellarer –’
‘Yeowch!’
It’s Montazin’s voice; Saurimunda’s teeth are buried in his hand. He drops her wrist, and she bolts like a hare.
‘Ow – ah – owch . . .’
Bernard snickers. Saurimunda disappears. Montazin doubles up, groaning, his wound tucked under his armpit. There’s a brief, stunned silence.
‘Leave her,’ the cellarer finally remarks. ‘Let her go. She’s just a dirty little slut of a peasant.’ He straightens up, and tries to shake the pain from his hand. ‘She’s not the real sinner,’ he gasps. ‘The real sinner is still in this room.’
‘Yes, you’re right! And it’s you, you hypocrite!’ Turning to Clement. Gripping his arm. ‘Please – Master – you’ve got to listen to me –’
Oof! Reeling back, as he pushes me away.
‘Silence!’ he hisses. ‘If you say one more word – one more word – I’m going to throw you out of this monastery! Do you understand?’
‘Master.’ It’s Roland. Very pale, very agitated. He steps forward. ‘Master, I know this can’t be Pagan’s doing –’
‘Silence!’ Clement stamps his foot. ‘There must be silence!’ He puts his right hand under his cheek, and closes his eyes. (Sleep.) He holds his clasped hands out in front of him. (We.) He makes a flapping duck’s bill. (Talk.) He draws a circle in the air. (Tomorrow.)
Sleep. We–talk–tomorrow.
And all at once, the bells start ringing. God preserve us. It is tomorrow.
As Clement claps his hands, there’s a sudden rush for belts and scapulars. Raymond fumbles with his blanket, drawing it up over his pillow. Gaubert begins to pull on his boots. Roland stands there, helpless.
Montazin reels off a rapid series of signs, aimed directly at Clement. I – go – infirmary. We – talk – chapter.
Clement nods, and Montazin disappears. I hope he breaks his neck on the infirmary staircase. I hope his bite goes bad, and he dies of blood-poisoning. I hope he goes straight to hell, and spends eternity roasting on a slow spit over a blazing fire.
Jesus Christ our Lord, what am I going to do? It’s beginning to sink in, at last. The awful realisation.
You’ve had it now, Pagan. You’ve really had it now. Who’s going to believe a word you say? You don’t have any proof. It’s your word against the cellarer’s, and he’s been here since God created Adam.
O Lord my God, deliver me from mine enemies. Defend me from them that rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity and save me from the bloody men.
For lo, they lie in wait for my soul: the mighty are gathered against me.
Chapter 17
Thwoomp!
Oh God. Don’t cry, Pagan. You’re not going to cry, not in front of Montazin.
Thwoomp!
Don’t think about the pain. Think about something else. Think about . . . think about revenge. That’s it. Think about skewering Montazin’s eyeballs, and serving them up lightly grilled with a mushroom salad.
Thwoomp!
How many more? Six? Seven? I’ve lost count. And every blow is worse than the one before.
I think Montazin is trying to kill me.
Thwoomp!
Wish I was standing up. Why are they making me lie 128 face down on the floor? Because they’re scared of looking me straight in the eye?
Thwoomp!
God, God, God, this is – this is tough. This is really tough. Please God, make this finish soon.
‘Reverend Father!’
Who’s that? Is it Roland? His voice sounds strange. ‘Reverend Father – please –you mustn’t do this.’ A hoarse, gasping voice. ‘This is wrong, very wrong –’
‘Sit down, Roland.’ (Guilabert.) ‘You are not permitted to speak in chapter.’
‘But –’
‘Sit down!’
Poor Roland. Don’t fret, my lord, I’ve had worse than this. When I was at Saint Joseph’s, they practically flogged the skin off my back every second week.
Thwoomp!
Oh. Ah. But I have to admit, I’d forgotten what it felt like.
Sudden noise. Sounds like . . . footsteps? Turn my head, and it’s Roland. Can’t see much above his ankles, but I recognise the way he moves. Rushing past me, out the door. Leaving a shocked silence that Guilabert finally breaks.
‘Continue,’ he says.
Thwoomp!
It can’t last much longer. If it does, he’ll have all the skin off my back. I know it. I can feel it. Surely they don’t want blood all over their chapter-house floor?
&n
bsp; Thwoomp!
Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord. Let them be ashamed and confounded that seek after my soul: let them be turned backward, and put to confusion, that desire my hurt
Thwoomp!
God damn you to hell, Montazin, you devil’s spawn, you whore of Babylon, I’m going to get you, and I’m going to break you, and you’re going to wish you were dead and buried.
Thwoomp!
‘Enough,’ says Guilabert. (Oh God. Thank you, God.) ‘Get up, Pagan.’
I don’t even know if I can get up. Slowly, stiffly, pushing myself onto my knees. Can I take my hands off the floor? Everything’s shaking like a tree in a gale. First foot. Second foot. Rising like Lazarus.
Jesus, but my back hurts. I can hardly breathe, it hurts so much.
‘Put your clothes on, Pagan.’ Guilabert, sitting right in front of me. Close enough to spit at. Pale and flaccid, like a great, quivering heap of poached egg-whites. ‘Brother Montazin, help him with the back of that robe, will you?’
Montazin. Standing there, breathless, with the stick dangling from his long, elegant fingers. He drops the stick, and reaches for me. Oh no you don’t, you unspeakable vermin. If you touch me again – if you lay one more finger on me – I’ll kill you. I swear it. I’ll flay you alive.
Knocking his hand away. Dragging my shirt back over my shoulders. Tugging at the strings of my robe. Ow! Owch! God, how the scapular burns.
‘Pagan Kidrouk.’ Guilabert intones it like a psalm. ‘You have been chastised for a terrible sin, the sin of fornication, which is forbidden by the Holy Rule and by Saint Paul 130 the Apostle, who wrote: “He that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body”. Do you repent of this sin, and ask forgiveness of your brothers in Christ?’
My brothers in Christ. That’s a good one. What brothers are we talking about? Montazin, perhaps? I can’t see Montazin, any more (he’s standing behind me), but I know what must be written on his face. I can’t see Raymond, either, but I’m sure he’s enjoying the show. As for Clement, I’m surprised he didn’t wade in and finish the flogging himself.
‘Pagan? Answer me. Do you repent of your sin?’
‘I didn’t commit any sin.’
A murmur from around the room. Guilabert sighs impatiently.
‘Do you still persist in denying that you committed fornication?’ he says.
‘I didn’t commit anything! It was all a trick! The cellarer –’
‘Silence!’ Guilabert purses his lips and makes a sour face, as if he’s been licking lemons. ‘This assembly will not soil its ears with your wicked and deceitful tales. You are a sinful creature, Pagan Kidrouk. You are sick with the sickness of impudence and hypocrisy.’
He takes a deep breath, and continues in such heavy, baleful accents that you’d think he was announcing the end of the world.
‘In cases such as yours, Pagan, the Holy Rule recommends first applying the ointments of exhortation. If that should fail, as it has with you, then the medicine of the Holy Scriptures should be administered. Next comes the final cautery of scourging. If this has no effect, the Rule advises 131 prayer, that the Lord (who can do all things) may work the cure of the sick brother. Finally, the Rule says: “If he is not healed by this means, then let the abbot use the severing knife according to the saying of the Apostle, ‘Put away the evil one from among you, lest one diseased sheep should infect the whole flock’ .” This is what the Rule advises us, Pagan.’
A long pause. Does that mean what I think it means? If only the abbot were here! Guilabert leans forward, and puts his pudgy hands together.
‘If you do not repent,’ he concludes, ‘then you will be expelled from this monastery.’
So there it is: the final threat. Stand firm and go, or submit and stay. I knew it was coming. The question is, what should I do?
But there’s only one answer. Of course I’m staying. I’ve got some unfinished business to complete.
‘Reverend Father.’ Trying to bow. God, my back! ‘Reverend Father, I humbly beseech you to pardon my sins, that I may rejoin this holy brotherhood.’
Tears pricking my eyes. Tears of anger, not shame. I’m not ashamed, why should I be? I’ve licked dirtier boots than his.
Get a grip on yourself, Pagan. Never let anyone see you cry.
‘You are forgiven, but not absolved,’ says Guilabert. He shifts around, grimacing. (Perhaps his left buttock has gone to sleep.) ‘You will proceed from this place to the church, and pray there until Sext,’ he continues. ‘During the services, you will prostrate yourself before the altar, and you will remain there, during every office, until every monk has left the 132 church. You will do this until I and the novice-master believe that you are truly repentant.’ He lifts his gaze, and fixes it on someone behind me. ‘You novices: you have been invited to chapter this day to witness the punishment of an unrepentant sinner. Let his sufferings be an example to you.
Now go to the kitchen and reflect on what you have just seen. You can go too, Pagan.’
With pleasure. If I have to look at your fat face any more, I’m going to be sick. Casting one quick glance around, just to find Montazin. He’s standing there with his hands in his sleeves. Smiling a little. He sees me looking, and narrows his eyes.
You wait, Montazin. Just you wait. You’re dead meat on a stick, pus-bag.
It’s hard to walk. My robe feels like molten chain-mail, rubbing against my shoulders. But I’ll make it somehow, even if it kills me. Out of the chapter-house. Crippling into the cloister. Turn right, and past the book-presses. It’s still raining.
The church is cold and dark.
My stumbling footsteps, echoing across the tiles. Huge stone pillars marching off into the shadows. A black shape crouched in front of the altar.
Roland.
He’s on his knees, with his face in his hands. Praying? Crying? Please don’t let him be crying. I’ll never be able to make it, if he is.
‘My lord?’
He looks up. No tears, but such misery – such sickly grey shock, and despair
‘Oh, my lord, it’s all right. It wasn’t too bad.’
He shuts his eyes and groans.
‘Please, my lord, I’ve had worse. Much worse. I used to get beaten all the time. You must have seen the scars . . .’
He buries his face in his hands, again. Mumbles something through his fingers. It’s too quick to catch.
‘Pardon? I didn’t quite –’
‘We’re leaving.’ Hoarsely. ‘We’ll leave as soon as you want.’
Leave? Are you serious? Squatting down, so I’m level with his right ear. ‘But why should we leave, my lord? I’ve made my submission. They’re not going to expel me now.’
He turns his head. Up close, you can see the little wrinkles forming on his brow and in the corners of his eyes. His nose seems to go on forever. ‘You made your submission?’ he says. ‘But you told me it was all a trick . . .’
‘Well of course it was!’
‘Then why –’
‘Because I don’t want to get expelled! Not now. That’s just what the cellarer was planning.’ Oh yes. Because I’ve hit a nerve, with him. That letter was right on target. Montazin is channelling alms to Beatrice de Mazeroles, and Aeldred is acting as his courier. I’m sure of it. ‘What I’ve got to do now is hang on until I can find some proof. Some fragment of proof. Otherwise the abbot won’t believe me. Not after last night. Everyone’s going to think I’m a lying little fornicator.’
‘Pagan –’
‘But Montazin’s going to pay for this. I’m telling you. He’s going to pay for every stripe on my back.’
‘Oh Pagan.’ He’s wringing his hands. ‘Oh Pagan, I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do?’
‘My lord –’
‘Don’t call me that! I’m not a lord! I can’t protect you – I have no authority – I’ve foresworn my arms, but I can’t – I can’t stand there and let them –’
‘Roland
. Calm down.’
‘It’s so hard,’ he whispers. ‘Why is it all so hard?’
Don’t ask me. I’m just an illegitimate Arab with a very sore back.
He sighs, and presses both hands to his temples. ‘I can’t bear it,’ he says. ‘I just can’t bear it any more.’
Bear what? What are you talking about? You’re not talking about me, are you?
‘My lord – I mean, Roland – do you remember what you told me last summer? When we joined?’
He looks perplexed. ‘Last summer?’ he echoes.
‘You said it was hurting you to see me jumping to your defence. You said I should forget about you, and look to my own path. Do you remember that?’
‘Of course.’ He nods. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Well then, don’t you understand that it works both ways? Don’t you realise how much it hurts me to see you upset like this? It doesn’t make me feel any better, you know.’
A pause, as he thinks. I wish I knew what was wrong with him. He’s never been a particularly happy person, but ever since Esclaramonde . . . I don’t know. It’s as if something’s broken.
Perhaps he’s still grieving. Perhaps he’ll get over it, eventually. Or perhaps it has something to do with his change of occupation; after spending all his life as a knight, riding around in the open air, it must be difficult to adapt to a monastery. Perhaps he’s not coping with the fasts, and the lack of exercise.
‘You’re right,’ he says, in a dull voice. ‘I have my own path. I must look to my own path.’
‘And you mustn’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.’ (Ouch! God! My back!) He hears me grunt, and winces.
‘You should go to the infirmary,’ he says.
‘I can’t. I have to stay here and pray.’
‘But your back –’
‘It’s all right. Really. I’ll manage.’
I will manage, too. I’ll get through tonight without shedding a tear. I’ll keep my head low, and my mouth shut. I’ll stick on Montazin’s trail like a lymer-hound.
And when I find the proof I need, I’ll see him flogged until he can’t stand up straight.
Winter 1188–1189
Chapter 18