Hmmm.
‘He said . . .’ (Hiccup.) ‘He said he was going to m-marry me!’
‘Shhh, calm down.’ Squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t cry, there’s no need to cry.’
‘But what did I do? I d-didn’t do anything . . .’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ The question is, who did? A monk? A cook? Perhaps Montazin found out, and had a quiet word with Roquefire.
Or perhaps Roquefire has found someone more to his taste. Anything’s possible.
‘I’m very sorry, Saurimunda, but I don’t quite see what you want. From me, that is.’
A pause. You can hear her gulping away in the darkness, trying to regain some measure of self-control. At last she says: ‘I just want to see him. I want to ask him why he’s doing this.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘All I need is to get in. Through one of the doors.’ She strokes my hand as if it were a dog. ‘You could let me in,’ she adds shyly.
‘Oh no.’ Wrenching my hand away. ‘No.’
‘But he won’t come out! I can’t get in to see him, and he won’t come out! He never comes out!’
‘Yes he does.’ Suddenly remembering. ‘He leaves the abbey grounds every Tuesday.’
‘With a monk,’ she groans. ‘There’s always a monk with him –’
‘Be quiet. Just listen to me.’ Trying to think. What was the name? Mazzi –? No. Mazeroles? That’s it. That’s the one. ‘Now look, Saurimunda. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’
‘Oh,’ she says breathlessly, ‘I promise.’
‘Do you swear by the Holy Virgin?’
‘I swear. I swear by the Holy Virgin.’
‘All right. Well, it just so happens that every Tuesday, Roquefire goes with the almoner into Carcassone, where they visit a house belonging to a widow called Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux. But Roquefire doesn’t go into the house. He waits outside, for the almoner.’ Peering into the shadows; I wish I could see her face. ‘Now, Carcassone isn’t even a day’s walk from this abbey. So if you can somehow get to Carcassone, and find the house of Beatrice Mazeroles de Fanjeaux –’
‘I can wait for him there!’ she squeals, and grabs my hand again. More passionate kisses. ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! You are my friend! You are my dear Father–’ ‘Will you stop doing that!’ Trying to shake her off. God preserve us; it’s driving me mad. ‘And for the last time, I’m not a father. I’m just a novice. You can call me Pagan.’
‘Pagan,’ she murmurs. ‘Heaven bless you, Pagan. You are so good. You are my angel of the Lord –’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ God, this is excruciating. ‘And don’t thank me, I don’t even know where the house is. Do you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her voice is high and hopeful, but still a little 111 unsteady. ‘Lord Gilles owns a vineyard where my father works.’
‘Lord Gilles –?’
‘Lord Gilles de Castronovo. He’s the father of Lady Beatrice.’
‘Castronovo?’
‘What’s wrong?’ A frightened squeak. ‘What did I say?’ ‘Nothing. Nothing, it’s – it’s all right. Really.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Castronovo! That’s Montazin’s name! And if Beatrice is a Castronovo . . .
Then I’ve found the connection.
‘What else do you know about Lady Beatrice?’ Stay calm, Pagan, don’t frighten the poor girl. ‘Does she have any brothers?’
‘No.’
‘What about cousins?’
‘I don’t know.’ (Snuffle.) ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Really. You’ve been a great help.’
Yes indeed, a great help. Well that’s it, then. Either Aeldred is in love with Montazin’s relative – and Montazin approves – or Montazin is somehow making Aeldred visit her. Perhaps to give her alms money. But if that’s the case, why is Aeldred involved? He can’t be related. He doesn’t even come from this part of the world: somebody said he was born in Normandy. Or was it Burgundy? No matter. The point is, why would he be helping Montazin? Friendship? Money? Fear? Blackmail? If only I could find out. If only I knew what was going on.
‘Listen, Saurimunda.’ Groping about. Finding her hand. ‘Could you do something for me?’
‘What?’ She sounds nervous.
‘It won’t be difficult. I want to write to this widow, Lady Beatrice, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing. So I need you to take my letter to Carcassone. Will you do that?’
‘Ohh . . .’ She expels a long, awe-struck sigh. ‘You mean a letter? To read?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You’ve written one? A real one?’
‘Not yet, but I will. Tomorrow.’ Let’s think, now. Think hard. What’s the best course of action? ‘If I was to leave it right here, under a stone, could you pick it up?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’
‘And you could give it to someone at the widow’s house?’ ‘I would do anything for you, Pagan. You are my good angel –’
‘Yes, yes, all right, I know.’ (Give it a rest, will you?) ‘But Saurimunda, listen to me. You mustn’t say who wrote it. Is that clear? Do not say who wrote it.’
‘No, Pagan, I won’t.’
‘Good.’ Dropping her hand. Rising to my feet. I can hear the swish of her skirts as she moves. ‘And now I’m leaving; I’ve been here much too long already. Can you show me how to get back to the kitchen?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you, Pagan –’
‘Don’t mention it.’
She grabs my sleeve and makes for the low black bulk of Saint Martin’s. Wet leaves slapping at my ankles. Squelch, squelch, squelch through a patch of mud. I hope it doesn’t stick to my boots; the Toothless Terror would be sure to notice. But even if he does, so what? I’m still glad I came. It’s given me a chance to stir the pot a little. Just to see what rises to the surface.
Who knows? I may be able to scare this widow off. I may be able to plug the leak in the almonry.
‘Here.’ Saurimunda stops, and drags on my arm until my right ear’s almost level with her mouth. ‘Here it is,’ she breathes. ‘God bless you, Pagan.’ Suddenly, a stranglehold. Help! What’s she doing? Fierce hug – smacking kiss – and she disappears into the darkness.
God preserve us. God preserve us, that was . . . that was a shock. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. Right on the lips, too, I can still feel
But I won’t think about it. It’s pointless thinking about things like that. I’ll think about the letter, instead.
Chapter 15
‘Excuse me, Master, but I seem to have lost Boethius.’ He swings around. Glares. Grinds his tooth.
‘What?’ he splutters.
‘I think I must have left Boethius in the kitchen.’
Here goes. Please God, make this work. Please don’t let him send someone with me. If he does, I’ll have to start all over again.
‘In the kitchen?’ he growls. ‘You left that valuable book in the kitchen?’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
He glances around the dormitory. Bernard and Gaubert are collecting stools. Raymond is retrieving the big black psalter from the chest under the window. Amiel has collapsed onto the nearest bed.
He looks very blue today.
‘Imbecile!’ (Thwomp! Clement slams his stick down.) ‘Brainless fool! Simpleton! How could you lose a book?’
‘Master –’
‘Go and get it! Right now!’
Yes! Hooray! It worked! Bolting for the door as fast as my legs will carry me.
‘Pagan!’
Stop. Turn. He’s standing there in the middle of the room: hunched, glowering, ominous.
‘Come straight back,’ he growls, ‘or I’ll come and find you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Oh Pagan, you’re so brilliant. Sometimes I’m amazed at how quick you are. Although, to be fair, you shouldn’t forget Boethius. Credit where credit’s due, Pagan. Who w
ould have thought old Boethius would prove to be such an asset?
Across the herb garden. Turn left. Passing Elias in the corridor: his limp’s gone but his eyes are all gummed up. What’s wrong with him now, I wonder? Looks bad, whatever it is. Sharp right into the refectory, which still smells of last night’s eggs. Bernard Surdellus, sweeping up the dirty rushes.
It’s all right, Father, don’t look at me like that. I’m here to collect Boethius. Pausing to bow, on my way to the kitchen. Feeling his eyes on my back as I cross the threshold.
Rostand the cook is chopping up carrots.
‘Yes?’ he mutters, peering through the steam. ‘What do you want?’
‘I left my book.’
‘Your what?’
‘I was here before. With the novices.’ (Remember? That huddle of pasty mutes, left in one corner to watch the beans 116 soak while Clement was in chapter with the rest of the monks? You must remember. One of them was so excited, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.) ‘I put my book behind that hand-screen, so it wouldn’t get splashed. But I forgot it.’
Pointing at the folded hand-screen propped up against the northern wall. Rostand grunts, and returns to his vegetables. He looks rather like a peeled vegetable himself: moist, sticky, with raw features that seem to have been hacked out of his face with a blunt kitchen knife. His big hairy paws are covered in flour.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Go and get it. But don’t you touch those chestnuts, or I’ll skin you alive.’
Don’t worry. It’s not the chestnuts I’m after. Slipping past his sweat-soaked back, kicking my way through the vegetable peelings. Lingering by the fireplace, where something is simmering over a pile of red-hot embers. Soup, is it? Smells like dirty socks.
And there, on the hearthstone – a piece of charcoal, long and straight and perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.
‘What’s this in here?’ (Stooping, as if to sniff at the pungent fumes. Down – down – got it!) ‘Is it for supper?’ ‘Leave that stuff alone. That belongs to Father Elias.’
‘It smells like somebody died.’
‘You’ll be dead if you don’t get out.’ Waving his knife at me. ‘Go on! Hop it! Before I call Father Clement.’
All right, all right, you don’t have to shout. Boethius is still lurking where I left him, behind the hand-screen. Doesn’t seem to have suffered any ill-effects. Pick him up; dust him off; head for the door. The outside door. Let’s hope that Rostand doesn’t ask me where I’m going.
But he’s much too busy with his carrots to worry about anything else.
Out into the pale watery light. An overcast day, all damp wind and puddles. Here comes the hard bit. Can I make it to Saurimunda’s hole without attracting attention? I can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being watched. From the almonry, or the infirmary, or the orchard . . .
Well, it’s no good trying to stay hidden. There’s nothing to hide behind. I’ll just have to pretend I’ve got Clement’s permission to be here. Back straight. Head up. Sauntering along without a care in the world. Who, me? Making trouble? Never. Father Clement told me to go for a little walk. Just to clear my head. I’ve been studying very hard, you know.
Past the pig-sty. Through a strawberry patch. Skirting empty furrows, where the carrots used to be. Somebody’s left a basket out in the rain. (There’s going to be trouble, when Montazin finds out.) The sound of pigs grunting.
Come on, Pagan, nearly there.
Now, where’s this hole, exactly? I don’t want to spend too much time wandering up and down looking for it. There were bushes, I remember. Spiky bushes. And we went up a slight hill
Over here, perhaps?
This looks promising. Yes! Look here! Footprints in the mud. My footprints, or Saurimunda’s? And here’s the pile of rubble, all grassy and overgown. This is perfect. If I duck behind this bush, no one will see me from the abbey.
Squatting down, with my back to the wall; opening Boethius. Last page . . . last page . . . here it is. All blank and smooth. Now, where’s that charcoal?
Lady Beatrice. (Ugh! How I hate writing with charcoal.) The coin yo hay been gived is not of yor own. It belong to S Martin. Tak no more coin, or the abbott will beer of yor sinne and the sinne of your cosin Montasin. Be Ware.
Hmm. I’m not quite sure about some of that spelling. Maybe I should have done it in Latin. But what if she can’t read Latin?
What if she can’t even read?
Never mind. She’s bound to have a chaplain who can read it for her. A chaplain or a notary, or an educated friend. Now, the next problem is tearing this page out. If only it wasn’t such tough vellum. (I don’t want to smudge the charcoal.) Let’s see if I can do it gently. Gently . . . gently . . .
R-r-r-i-i-ip!
Oh Lord. I knew that would happen. Most of the ‘Ware’ gone. Still, it could be worse. I’ll just squeeze it in again down the bottom. That’s it. Be Ware. Perfect.
Folding the vellum carefully, so that it doesn’t smudge. Placing it between two stones. Please God, don’t let it rain before Saurimunda comes. Standing up, slowly, with my arms full of Boethius. No one seems to be around . . . oh yes . . . there’s someone. It looks like Roquefire, emerging from the kitchen. Off to feed the pigs. Should I move now, or should I wait? Move, probably. While he’s emptying his buckets. Head for the presbytery door: it’s always open in the daytime, and there’s never anyone in church, at this hour. Except for Bernard the White.
Strolling casually across a stretch of grass and gravel. Feeling very exposed. If only I could run! But that would be a mistake. No one runs in a monastery. Running is the surest way of attracting attention. I just have to be calm and 119 relaxed. And humble. Remember you’re a monk, Pagan. Remember the twelfth step of humility: ‘Always let him, with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground, bethink himself of his sins and imagine that he is arraigned before the Dread Judgement of God’. Either that, or the Dread Judgement of Father Clement. If Clement ever finds out what I’ve done to the back of this book, he’ll slice me into very small pieces and nail every piece to the dormitory wall.
Over the threshold; into the church. Nearly there, now. Shuffling past the sacristy, the abbot’s chair, the altar. (Stop; bow; genuflect.) Turn left, and through the cloister door. Gerard’s working at the book-presses: he gives me a suspicious glance. Go boil your bladder, Gerard. A low buzz of voices from the gathering of monks by the latrines. What’s happened now? Something pretty exciting, by the look of it. Maybe Sicard’s got rid of that wart at long last. Or perhaps Bernard Magnus is constipated. I can’t wait to find out.
Plunging into the dimness of the corridor and
Bang!
Straight into Clement.
‘Where have you been?’ he snarls.
‘I went to the kitchen –’
‘I was just in the kitchen, and you weren’t there!’
‘No, Master. Neither was Boethius. I must have left the book in church, after our last office.’
Nice footwork, Pagan. Very nimble. He squints at me, in a threatening way, and his knuckles turn white as he squeezes the top of his stick.
‘Are you lying to me, Pagan?’
‘No, Master.’
‘Because if you are, you’ll suffer for it. Remember what I told you about lying. I told you that lying is an abomination to the Lord.’
Yes, you did tell me that. But you also told me that it’s a readily believable argument. Which tends to be the way I look at it myself.
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And the Lord is terrible in his punishments, Pagan.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘So will you tell the truth and repent, or lie and suffer the Lord’s punishment?’
It’s no good, Clement. You’ll have to do better than that. Meeting his gaze and returning it, unflinchingly. Chin up. Wide-eyed. Ingenuous.
‘Master, I have been telling the truth.’
Whoops! Is he going to hit me? No, I’m safe. He turns on his heel,
and shuffles back down the corridor.
‘Come on!’ he barks. ‘Get moving! We’ve wasted enough time already, through your carelessness!’
Not what you’d call a graceful loser.
As for me, I suppose I’ll just have to wait. Wait and watch, and pray that it keeps fine until tomorrow morning. Because I’m certainly not doing this again.
Chapter 16
‘Roquefire! Roquefire!’
Who –? What –? What’s going on? What’s all the noise? Thumping and screaming . . .
‘Roquefire, come back! Don’t leave me!’
That sounds like Saurimunda. I don’t understand. Is it a nightmare? Am I still asleep? Turning over; sitting up. It is Saurimunda! Clearly visible in the soft glow of the nightlight, sobbing and screaming and banging at the door.
God preserve us.
‘Silence!’ It’s Clement. He’s on his feet, and so is Roland. They’re both hovering, unsure of what to do. Clement waves his stick at her. ‘Silence! I command you to be silent!’
Suddenly the door bursts open. Saurimunda is pushed back, and hits the ground with a thud as Montazin appears on the threshold.
He’s fully dressed, with a lamp in his hand. Tall. Majestic. Forbidding. Don’t tell me he’s on circator duty.
‘What’s going on?’ he cries. ‘Who is this woman?’
No response. Saurimunda’s whimpering, her face shiny and wet. This is insane. What’s happening here? Why couldn’t she get the door open? Was someone holding it from the outside? I don’t understand . . .
‘Who admitted this woman?’ Montazin takes a step forward. He points at Roland. ‘You? Did you admit her?’ Roland shakes his head.
‘What about you?’ This time Montazin points at Gaubert, who nearly hits the roof.
‘Me?’ he squeaks. (It’s almost laughable.)
Saurimunda makes a dash for the door, but Montazin is too quick for her.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ He grabs her wrist, and pulls it so hard that she yelps. She also drops something. Montazin picks it up.