Pagan's Vows Read Free Page A

and succoured. Do not tread on the plants, or you’ll regret it. Some of them are very valuable. Mind the step.’
    He turns right, and heads for a low, sheltered doorway with a saint carved on the lintel. (Saint Nicholas, to judge from the money-bags.)
    ‘This is where the oblates sleep,’ he says, stopping abruptly. ‘On no account are you to talk to the oblates. You may exchange bows, but you must not touch them or communicate with them in any way. Nor may you sit beside an oblate in the church or in the cloister. The penalties for doing so are very, very severe.’
    God preserve us. Are we allowed to turn over in bed at night? Or do we have to sleep face down under a pile of gravel? Glance at Roland, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is firmly fixed on the ground.
    ‘The last door is your door,’ Clement concludes. ‘It leads to the novices’ dormitory. Notice the depiction of Saint Catherine, patron of all students, carved above it; notice that milk, rather than blood, flows from her severed head. This indicates that we shall all be nourished by the manna of wisdom. ‘For wisdom is better than rubies, and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared with it.’ Kindly wipe your feet before entering.’
    Roland goes first. He has to stoop to pass under the lintel. Me next, I suppose. Up one step – wipe my feet – through the door . . .
    And into dead silence.

Chapter 3
    S o this is the novices’ dormitory. Nothing much to look at. A long, low room with beds at the far end. Cross on the wall. Chest under the window. And more cast-off relatives sitting on stools.
    ‘ Benedictus sit Dominus. ’ A mumbled chorus, as they lurch to their feet: one full-grown man and five striplings. Most of the young ones look younger than I am.
    ‘ Dominus vobiscum. Dominus vobiscum. ’ Clement waves a withered claw. ‘Attention, please. We have two new brothers to welcome – Roland and Pagan. Roland is the son of Lord Galhard Roucy de Bram. Pagan was his squire. They have come to us from Jerusalem.’ (A couple of gasps; a nudge; a look. But no one has the guts to comment.) ‘Since most of you grew up in this abbey, you will be able to help them understand our ways, just as you have been helping Ademar.’ Clement points his stick at the oldest novice, who seems to have burned half his face off. He’s missing one eye and quite a lot of nose; the remaining eye is wet and inflamed. He keeps his head lowered.
    ‘Ademar is a former layman, as you are,’ Clement informs Roland. ‘He came to us about a month ago, from Castelnaudery. Beside him is Bernard, whom we call Bernard Incentor – Bernard the Tune-setter – because of the voice with which God has blessed him. Bernard was an oblate; he entered this abbey as a little child. So did Raymond, and Gaubert, and Durand. And Amid., of course. Sit down, Amid. I told you not to stand unless you have to.’
    Arnie! collapses back onto his stool, wheezing the way a wineskin does when you’re trying to squeeze out the very last drop. Obviously has a bad chest, poor soul. He’s just a wisp of gristle, thin and pale, with bluish lips and fingernails, and big, dark circles under his eyes. Gaubert’s an even sadder case: practically a dwarf, with stunted dwarfs’ legs and a stump for a right hand. But he seems cheerful enough, grinning away down there.
    The rest of them don’t look too unhealthy, although Bernard’s pimples are pretty frightening. He’s the tallest of the lot, and by far the greasiest – his dung-coloured hair has a lank, sticky gleam to it, as if it’s been dipped in olive oil. Durand has a big belly and two chins, but he’d look all right if it wasn’t for his tonsure. (Some people just shouldn’t wear tonsures.) Raymond’s the only one who rises above the general atmosphere of desolation, thanks to his solid build and chestnut curls, but I don’t like the way he’s got his nose in the air. Seems to think he deserves to be