Pagan,’ he says, ‘this is against the Rule.’
‘What is?’
‘This is. Doing this.’
‘No it isn’t. Not really.’
‘Well whatever it is, it’s not sensible. We should go back.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ His face hovers above his robe, as pale as the moon. It’s so hard to see, in the dimness. ‘Don’t you want to talk to me?’
‘Oh Pagan, of course I do. But I don’t want you to get into trouble. You’ve already –’
‘Trodden on toes? I realise that.’
‘You must learn to remember why we’re here. We must both learn. We’re not here to fight, we’re here to love God.’
‘But I do love God.’ (Most of the time.) ‘It’s just some of His monks I can’t stand.’
‘Pagan –’
‘Well can you? Can you honestly tell me that you like Clement? Or Guilabert? Or that stupid fat monk who’s always blocking doorways and slows right down whenever you want to get past?’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ he says, knitting his brows at me. ‘We must learn to love them. Like brothers.’
‘The way you love your brothers, you mean?’
Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. And now he’s thinking about Jordan. Now he’s remembering how he almost killed his own brother with an iron lamp-stand. How could I have brought that up again, when we agreed to forget Roland’s awful family life? Dammit, dammit, dammit!
‘I’m sorry, my lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’ Please don’t be angry, Roland. ‘Sometimes I just – my tongue moves faster than my head. Especially when they’re all so – when they – well how were you supposed to know about putting your hands in your sleeves during the ‘Gloria’? Nobody told you, did they? I only knew it myself because we used to do it at Saint Joseph’s.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does! It’s not fair! You’re only new – you can’t be expected to know when to bow, and when to genuflect, and when to put your hands in your sleeves. You don’t even know the psalter, yet.’
‘Hush. Quiet, Pagan, keep it down.’
‘But the way he talks to you! The way he talks . . .’ (That Clement. That needle-nosed maggot-bag.) ‘I swear, if he calls you pauper sensu one more time, I’m going to stick my pes in his festering old faciem. ’
‘Pagan.’ Gently. ‘I don’t care what he says. Why should I? I don’t even know what it means.’
‘It means ‘poor simpleton’. And I’m damned if I’m going to sit there and let him call you names.’
‘Pagan, stop it. Listen to me.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘A poor simpleton is exactly what I am –’
‘You’re not! You’re better than all of them! They just don’t know what you’ve done –’
‘The only thing I’ve done in my whole life is kill people.’
‘But you’ve saved them, too! You’ve saved more people than you’ve killed!’
‘Let me finish, please,’ he says, and gives me a little shake. ‘Pagan, you must forget what has gone before. Do you understand? I am not a knight of the Temple now. I am the humblest servant of God in this entire abbey. I know nothing of prayer or worship. I am seeking God in the darkness, and I will take my guidance as it comes. Do you think a few harsh words are going to hurt me? You know there are things that hurt far more.’ He puts a hand on my head; it feels warm against my tonsure. ‘What does hurt me is seeing you snap at people like a chained dog, in my defence. I don’t need that. Do you understand? You must forget about me, and look to yourself. You have your own path to follow. Pagan? Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you say? Are you going to follow your own path?’
I’d rather follow yours. Mine will probably lead me straight into a dung-pit. But I suppose, if it’s really what you want –
‘Oi! You, there! Who’s that?’
God save us. It’s the circator.
‘Come here!’ A voice from across the garden. ‘Who is it? Don’t try to hide, I can see you quite
‘What is?’
‘This is. Doing this.’
‘No it isn’t. Not really.’
‘Well whatever it is, it’s not sensible. We should go back.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ His face hovers above his robe, as pale as the moon. It’s so hard to see, in the dimness. ‘Don’t you want to talk to me?’
‘Oh Pagan, of course I do. But I don’t want you to get into trouble. You’ve already –’
‘Trodden on toes? I realise that.’
‘You must learn to remember why we’re here. We must both learn. We’re not here to fight, we’re here to love God.’
‘But I do love God.’ (Most of the time.) ‘It’s just some of His monks I can’t stand.’
‘Pagan –’
‘Well can you? Can you honestly tell me that you like Clement? Or Guilabert? Or that stupid fat monk who’s always blocking doorways and slows right down whenever you want to get past?’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ he says, knitting his brows at me. ‘We must learn to love them. Like brothers.’
‘The way you love your brothers, you mean?’
Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. And now he’s thinking about Jordan. Now he’s remembering how he almost killed his own brother with an iron lamp-stand. How could I have brought that up again, when we agreed to forget Roland’s awful family life? Dammit, dammit, dammit!
‘I’m sorry, my lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’ Please don’t be angry, Roland. ‘Sometimes I just – my tongue moves faster than my head. Especially when they’re all so – when they – well how were you supposed to know about putting your hands in your sleeves during the ‘Gloria’? Nobody told you, did they? I only knew it myself because we used to do it at Saint Joseph’s.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does! It’s not fair! You’re only new – you can’t be expected to know when to bow, and when to genuflect, and when to put your hands in your sleeves. You don’t even know the psalter, yet.’
‘Hush. Quiet, Pagan, keep it down.’
‘But the way he talks to you! The way he talks . . .’ (That Clement. That needle-nosed maggot-bag.) ‘I swear, if he calls you pauper sensu one more time, I’m going to stick my pes in his festering old faciem. ’
‘Pagan.’ Gently. ‘I don’t care what he says. Why should I? I don’t even know what it means.’
‘It means ‘poor simpleton’. And I’m damned if I’m going to sit there and let him call you names.’
‘Pagan, stop it. Listen to me.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘A poor simpleton is exactly what I am –’
‘You’re not! You’re better than all of them! They just don’t know what you’ve done –’
‘The only thing I’ve done in my whole life is kill people.’
‘But you’ve saved them, too! You’ve saved more people than you’ve killed!’
‘Let me finish, please,’ he says, and gives me a little shake. ‘Pagan, you must forget what has gone before. Do you understand? I am not a knight of the Temple now. I am the humblest servant of God in this entire abbey. I know nothing of prayer or worship. I am seeking God in the darkness, and I will take my guidance as it comes. Do you think a few harsh words are going to hurt me? You know there are things that hurt far more.’ He puts a hand on my head; it feels warm against my tonsure. ‘What does hurt me is seeing you snap at people like a chained dog, in my defence. I don’t need that. Do you understand? You must forget about me, and look to yourself. You have your own path to follow. Pagan? Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you say? Are you going to follow your own path?’
I’d rather follow yours. Mine will probably lead me straight into a dung-pit. But I suppose, if it’s really what you want –
‘Oi! You, there! Who’s that?’
God save us. It’s the circator.
‘Come here!’ A voice from across the garden. ‘Who is it? Don’t try to hide, I can see you quite
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