tall as a cedar of Lebanon. He moves over to where Raymond is crouching and stands there, arms folded, glaring down his long de Bram nose.
‘Pagan is a good Christian,’ he says quietly. That’s all he says, but it’s enough. Poor old Raymond just shrivels up like a flower in a flame. I know exactly how he feels, too; that look of Roland’s would freeze the horns off a bullock. How could a half-weaned novice like Raymond hope to withstand it?
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, as Roland turns away, and you can’t help sympathising. Poor old Raymond. There he was, top novice, brightest star, a natural leader. Then along come two war-weary veterans – seasoned travellers, crusaders, Templars – one of them with blood as blue as the sky, and a face like something on a stained-glass window. Naturally poor Raymond doesn’t like all the attention they’re getting.
But I have to be tolerant. I have to be nice about this sort of thing. After all, I’m a monk now.
‘Come on, Raymond, let’s not argue.’ Smile, smile. Be nice, Pagan. Think kind thoughts. ‘We’re brothers, and we should be friends. “Let them show brotherly charity with a chaste love”.’
‘Oh yes!’ he snaps. ‘Oh yes, we all know what a Scholar of the Rule you are. But let me tell you something, Pagan.’ He leans into my face until I can count every scrap of salted herring wedged between his teeth. ‘You’re never going to fit in here. Never, never, never. You think you’re so smart, but you’re not like us.
‘You’re an outsider, and you always will be.’
Chapter 5
T he sound of Clement snoring. But is it fake, or is it real? Surely it must be real. Surely even Clement wouldn’t lie awake snoring, just to lull the suspicions of some poor novice. You’d have to be crazy to do a thing like that.
Although, when you think about it . . .
Oh come on, Pagan! Are you going to do it, or not? You can’t just lie here all night dithering. Either get up and do it, or shut up and go to sleep. Those are your choices.
Raising a cautious head. Eight motionless bundles, faintly visible in the light of one flickering lamp. Pushing off my blanket. Swinging my feet to the floor. Boots or no boots? No boots, I think. It’s warm enough for bare feet, and they’re certainly much quieter. Padding across to Roland’s bed.
He’s sleeping on his back, like a statue on a tomb. Mouth closed. Legs straight. Only his steady breathing betrays the fact that he’s actually alive.
One gentle touch . . .
He wakes with a start, instantly alert. Shh! It’s me! Flapping my hand at him, as he props himself up on one elbow, rubs his face, and raises a pair of questioning eyes.
Yes, I know it’s late, but I have to see you. Come on, Roland, please. This way. Tugging at the sleeve of his crumpled robe. Beckoning. Pointing.
Slowly, clumsily, he crawls out of bed.
But can we make it to the door? That’s the big question. Clement’s still snoring: it sounds like someone dragging a saw through an oak beam. Someone sighs and turns over. Watch those chamber-pots, Roland. We don’t want to get tangled up with a used chamber-pot. Guiding him between the beds, past the window, through the door, and into the garden.
It smells beautiful in the garden. Lavender and thyme. Herbal scents on the soft night air. Crickets chirping.
‘Well?’ Roland’s voice is a barely audible hiss. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Not here. Let’s go over there, under the olive tree. It’s probably safer.’
The ground feels damp, under the olive tree. Someone must have watered it. And there are shadows, too: shadows in the moonlight. Shadows to hide in. Branches to hide in.
‘What is it?’ Roland’s still whispering. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I have to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
About what? What do you mean, about what? ‘About everything. I haven’t talked to you properly for three days. There are always people around.’
He expels a quick, sharp sigh. ‘But
‘Pagan is a good Christian,’ he says quietly. That’s all he says, but it’s enough. Poor old Raymond just shrivels up like a flower in a flame. I know exactly how he feels, too; that look of Roland’s would freeze the horns off a bullock. How could a half-weaned novice like Raymond hope to withstand it?
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, as Roland turns away, and you can’t help sympathising. Poor old Raymond. There he was, top novice, brightest star, a natural leader. Then along come two war-weary veterans – seasoned travellers, crusaders, Templars – one of them with blood as blue as the sky, and a face like something on a stained-glass window. Naturally poor Raymond doesn’t like all the attention they’re getting.
But I have to be tolerant. I have to be nice about this sort of thing. After all, I’m a monk now.
‘Come on, Raymond, let’s not argue.’ Smile, smile. Be nice, Pagan. Think kind thoughts. ‘We’re brothers, and we should be friends. “Let them show brotherly charity with a chaste love”.’
‘Oh yes!’ he snaps. ‘Oh yes, we all know what a Scholar of the Rule you are. But let me tell you something, Pagan.’ He leans into my face until I can count every scrap of salted herring wedged between his teeth. ‘You’re never going to fit in here. Never, never, never. You think you’re so smart, but you’re not like us.
‘You’re an outsider, and you always will be.’
Chapter 5
T he sound of Clement snoring. But is it fake, or is it real? Surely it must be real. Surely even Clement wouldn’t lie awake snoring, just to lull the suspicions of some poor novice. You’d have to be crazy to do a thing like that.
Although, when you think about it . . .
Oh come on, Pagan! Are you going to do it, or not? You can’t just lie here all night dithering. Either get up and do it, or shut up and go to sleep. Those are your choices.
Raising a cautious head. Eight motionless bundles, faintly visible in the light of one flickering lamp. Pushing off my blanket. Swinging my feet to the floor. Boots or no boots? No boots, I think. It’s warm enough for bare feet, and they’re certainly much quieter. Padding across to Roland’s bed.
He’s sleeping on his back, like a statue on a tomb. Mouth closed. Legs straight. Only his steady breathing betrays the fact that he’s actually alive.
One gentle touch . . .
He wakes with a start, instantly alert. Shh! It’s me! Flapping my hand at him, as he props himself up on one elbow, rubs his face, and raises a pair of questioning eyes.
Yes, I know it’s late, but I have to see you. Come on, Roland, please. This way. Tugging at the sleeve of his crumpled robe. Beckoning. Pointing.
Slowly, clumsily, he crawls out of bed.
But can we make it to the door? That’s the big question. Clement’s still snoring: it sounds like someone dragging a saw through an oak beam. Someone sighs and turns over. Watch those chamber-pots, Roland. We don’t want to get tangled up with a used chamber-pot. Guiding him between the beds, past the window, through the door, and into the garden.
It smells beautiful in the garden. Lavender and thyme. Herbal scents on the soft night air. Crickets chirping.
‘Well?’ Roland’s voice is a barely audible hiss. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Not here. Let’s go over there, under the olive tree. It’s probably safer.’
The ground feels damp, under the olive tree. Someone must have watered it. And there are shadows, too: shadows in the moonlight. Shadows to hide in. Branches to hide in.
‘What is it?’ Roland’s still whispering. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I have to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
About what? What do you mean, about what? ‘About everything. I haven’t talked to you properly for three days. There are always people around.’
He expels a quick, sharp sigh. ‘But
Similar Books
Love Inspired Historical October 2013 Bundle: A Family for Christmas\The Secret Princess\Taming the Texas Rancher\An Unlikely Union
Rhonda Gibson, Winnie Griggs, Rachelle McCalla, Shannon Farrington
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel)
Maegan Beaumont
Newborn Conspiracy
Delores Fossen
Deadly Lullaby
Robert McClure
The Divided Family
Wanda E. Brunstetter
Side Show
Rick Shelley
Mercy, A Gargoyle Story
Misty Provencher
The Carrot and the Stick
C. P. Vanner
Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella)
Stephanie Brother
Anita Blake 20bis - Beauty: An Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Outtake
Laurell K. Hamilton