Pagan's Vows Read Free

name? Rainier?) ‘Please, Father Rainier, where should we put everything?’
    ‘There’s a box under each of your beds. Brother Clement will show you. Ah – and here he is now.’ The chamberlain grins a wide, yellow grin as he turns towards the door. ‘Don’t laugh, Brother, I’ll be ordering new robes for both of them.’
    Laugh? Laugh? I don’t think Brother Clement knows the meaning of the word. Look at his face! You could sharpen flints on it. He’s one of those dried-up old hunchbacks who’s had the juice completely wrung out of him. Eyes like chips of ebony; mouth like a trap; two or three strands of white hair clinging to his scalp like cobwebs.
    ‘Laughter is forbidden by the Fifty-fifth Instrument of Good Works,’ he says, in a voice you could shave your corns with. ‘There should be no laughter in this abbey. Are you finished here, Brother?’
    ‘For the moment.’
    ‘Did you describe your duties to these novices?’
    ‘Well, no –’
    ‘Brother Rainier is the chamberlain. A chamberlain receives and distributes all tithes, donations and gifts. He is in charge of the abbey finances, and any buying or selling that needs to be done.’ (Every sentence bitten off sharply, despite the old man’s general lack of teeth.) ‘If you would both come this way, I will take you to the novices’ dormitory. At present the novices are studying Saint Benedict’s Rule. Speech is permitted until the bell rings for Sext. This room is normally out of bounds to all novices.’
    And off he goes. What a merry old relic. I can see that we’re going to have no end of jolly japes with him. He walks quite fast, for a tottering ruin: his stick raps against the polished tiles of the church floor. A servant with a scrubbing brush scrambles out of his way, as he heads for the south aisle.
    ‘That is Brother Bernard de Moutiers,’ he announces, nodding at an albino who seems to be scouring the font with a piece of pigskin. ‘Brother Bernard is the sacristan. He looks after the fabric and contents of our church. This way, please.’
    Through a door, and into the cloister. Covered walkways on all four sides. A patch of grass in the middle. To our right, against the church’s southern wall, a series of big wooden presses. Clement points his stick at them.
    ‘That is where the books are stored,’ he says crisply ‘They are in the care of Brother Gerard Bonardin, our precentor.’ He squints around, as if looking for someone. ‘Brother Gerard doesn’t seem to be here at the moment. But over there you can see Brother Montazin de Castronovo, our cellarer.’ (A tall, thin, olive-skinned man, with a hooked nose and iron-grey curls.) ‘Brother Montazin is responsible for the abbey diet, as well as fuel, transport and repairs. Both the guest-master and the keeper of the refectory report to him. The guest-house entrance is to your right: the abbot lives upstairs when he’s not away, as he is at present. Both areas are out of bounds to all novices. The building in front of you is the monks’ dormitory, and the latrines are down there. This way, please.’
    Quick march over to the south-east corner, past crowds of chattering monks. Some of them are sharpening knives, some nursing books. One of them seems to have mislaid a forearm.
    ‘To your left is the refectory,’ Clement continues, plunging into the dimness of a long, straight corridor with a vaulted roof. ‘Meals are served in that room to all brethren, novices and oblates. The kitchens and bakery are on the other side of it. To your right, as I said, is the monks’ dormitory; it can only be reached from the cloister. And this is the herb garden.’
    Emerging into another open space. It’s full of mint and fennel, all laid out in tidy rows, and there’s an olive tree planted against the far wall.
    ‘The infirmary is on the top floor of the building to your left,’ Clement explains, waving his stick around. ‘Underneath it is the almonry, where the poor are received