Pagan in Exile (9 page)

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 don’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.’

Oh, right. And my Auntie Eleanor was the Queen of Persia. What a dunghead.

‘Lord Abbot.’ Roland’s beginning to get annoyed. He actually clears his throat. ‘Lord Abbot, if it hadn’t been for Clairin’s own actions –’

‘There is no proof that Clairin did anything to deserve such an assault!’

‘My lord, this was clearly an act of revenge –’

‘Nonsense!’

God preserve us. The expression in Roland’s eyes! Suddenly he looks just a little bit like Galhard.

‘Abbot Tosetus,’ he says stiffly, ‘I would appreciate it if you would adopt a respectful tone when you speak to me.’ (Every word chipped from a block of granite with a blade of Damascus steel.) ‘There is no need for discourteous behaviour.’

Gulp. Heads down, everyone. The Abbot mumbles 75 something, and coughs. Esclaramonde stares. A handful of monks actually cross themselves.

‘My apologies,’ the Abbot finally remarks, wheezing and gurgling like a water mill. ‘I am not well, as you can see. You may tell your father, Lord Roland, that I will examine this matter regarding Clairin’s alleged trespass. And if any wood was taken, then Lord Galhard will receive it back in full measure.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Providing that Lord Galhard also returns the two dozen sheep which his men have stolen from me.’

‘But –’

‘Perhaps, when the sheep have been returned, I will consider restoring this criminal to your father’s jurisdiction.’

Oh God. Worse and worse. Glancing at Roland. What’s he going to do? Grab the old bog-brain and shake some sense into him?

But no, of course not. If there’s one thing that doesn’t rule Roland, it’s his temper. He simply clenches his teeth, folds his arms, and thinks for a moment. At last he finds his voice again.

‘You are an old man and a sick man, and for this reason I can find the heart to forgive your gross ill-breeding and unreasonable prejudice,’ he announces. ‘I cannot, however, allow this matter to rest. If the Bishop will not bring his authority to bear, I will go to the lords of Montferrand. I believe they have rights of jurisdiction over this Abbey. I also believe that they have a proper understanding of the responsibilities attached to such rights. You, it seems, have forgotten all the understanding you ever possessed.’

(That’s telling him.)

‘Many years ago, I regarded this Abbey as a place of truth, and virtue, and piety,’ Roland continues. ‘Now I see that it has been cast down from heaven unto earth, like the daughter of Zion. And I grieve for its desolation.’

He straightens his back; turns on his heel; heads for the door. Looks as though we’re leaving.

Esclaramonde hesitates.

‘Let’s go.’ Touching her arm. Come on, Mistress, before they decide to keep us here after all.

‘Yes! Go! Get out!’ The Abbot waves his walking stick. It’s a pretty feeble gesture. He can hardly lift it off the ground. ‘Follow that path you have chosen! You are following a writhing serpent down a sink and abyss of errors! The assembly of the wicked have enclosed you, my lord! Beware, for the wicked watcheth the righteous, and seeketh to slay him!
The words of her mouth are smoother than butter, but war is
in her heart!
’

‘How can you say that?’ Esclaramonde cries. ‘I do not want bloodshed! It’s you who are violent! You are the one with war in your heart!’

Oh hell. ‘Mistress Maury –’

‘Please, Lord Abbot, I beg you.’ She falls to her knees. Hands outstretched. ‘Be merciful. Don’t shed any more of this man’s blood. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful –’

Roland! Help! What shall I do? Turning to see where he is – and he’s already retracing his steps. ‘Come,’ he murmurs. (Dragging her upright.) ‘Come, there is nothing more we can do, here.’

‘Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned!’ she pleads. ‘Are we greater than God, we sinners, to pass judgement on other sinners? He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone!’

What a terrific preacher she’d make. And she’s strong, too. It’s quite a task, pulling her towards the doorway.

‘Aribert!’ she shouts, twisting her head to catch one last glimpse. ‘Aribert! My prayers are with you! God loves you, Aribert!’

Stumbling into the cloister-garth.

‘I’ll take her to the stables and saddle the horses,’ Roland says quietly, putting his mouth to my ear. ‘You get our things. Can you find the stables, by yourself?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘My lord.’ Esclaramonde grips his arm with both hands. ‘My lord, must we leave him? Is there nothing you can do?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘He’ll be all right, Mistress.’ (She’s really taking this hard, isn’t she?) ‘I’ve seen worse, truly. And they were always up and walking within a couple of weeks.’

‘So much violence,’ she whispers. ‘So much blood.’ Her face is as white as chalk. You’d think she was actually ill, just to look at her.

It’s almost frightening.

‘If only there was something I could do!’ she cries.

‘You can pray,’ says Roland. ‘There is always prayer. Pagan, if you need help, you should call a monk. And don’t dawdle.’

No chance of that. Just watch me. I’ll stir up such a wind, it’ll bring the roof down.

Chapter 9

Y
awn, yawn. What a bore. Nothing to look at. Nothing to eat. Not much of a road, this one. A real goat track, hemmed in by scrubby forest: the occasional oak, lots of sweet chestnuts, wild thyme, campions, and other things I don’t recognise. Little brown birds. Twit, twit, twit. Enough to drive you crazy.

No wonder Roland’s on edge. He doesn’t like riding through forests. Personally, I think he’s overreacting a little, because any snot-nosed peasant who attacked Roland would have to have his brain in a splint. He wouldn’t last as long as a fish in the Dead Sea.

‘There.’ Esclaramonde points. At last! A break in the trees. More sunlight, and the cleared land unfolds as we draw closer. Trees thin out. The wind picks up. A field of ripe barley. A stone fence. A sickly olive grove. And skulking behind it, a huddle of houses.

Two small dwellings; stables; a winter store-house. Another building, large and sturdy, which I can’t identify. Smoke drifting from a hole in one of the thatched roofs.

‘Is this where you live?’ Roland asks. He doesn’t sound surprised, but I know he is. It’s the way his mouth moves. Must have expected something more lavish.

‘Yes,’ Esclaramonde replies. ‘This is the hospice.’

So it’s a hospice, is it? I hope it’s not for lepers. Moving slowly past the olive trees, towards the muddy ruts of the farmyard. Doesn’t seem to be anyone about. Not many animals, either. No chickens. No sheep. No ducks or pigs or dogs. Just the two workhorses, grazing in a paddock by the stables.

‘What happened to your livestock?’ (I can’t help asking.) ‘Were they stolen?’

‘No.’ She seems distracted. Scans her surroundings for a friendly face. ‘We don’t eat meat. Or eggs.’

‘But why?’ That’s crazy. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Meat and eggs are born of the flesh by generation or fornication, which is the greatest sin because it condemns another soul to imprisonment on earth,’ she rejoins. ‘And besides, it’s a sin to kill animals or birds. They too have their holy spirits, which pass from one body to another.’

Weird.
Glance at Roland, who frowns back ferociously. No religious dialogues, Pagan.

Esclaramonde prepares to dismount.

‘Wait.’ Roland’s tone stops her. ‘Where are your friends?’

‘I don’t know. Inside, I assume.’

‘How many live here?’

She thinks for a moment. ‘Twelve, including me. And Aribert, of course.’