‘What is a proposition?’
‘A proposition is an expression signifying what is true or false.’
‘What is a question?’
‘A question is a proposition brought into doubt.’
‘And a conclusion? What is that?’
‘A conclusion is a proposition confirmed by argument.’
Clement nods. Yes! Well done, Pagan! That’s showing him. That’s showing the shrivelled old corpse. Thought you’d beat me, didn’t you, Master Needle-nose? Didn’t think I’d be able to answer your questions, did you?
‘ “A conclusion is a proposition confirmed by argument”,’ he repeats, slowly. Across the room, Raymond and the others are playing a psalm-game. One of them recites the first line of a psalm, and someone else has to 58 break in with the rest of it. Not much of a game, but it seems to keep them happy.
I just hope Roland is getting along all right.
‘But what is this argument that you refer to?’ Clement suddenly remarks. ‘Pagan? Look at me. What is an argument? Can you tell me that?’
An argument? Let’s see, now. I know this. I remember reading this. Just let me think . . .
‘Surely you haven’t forgotten?’
No I haven’t forgotten! Just get off my back, will you? An argument is . . . an argument is . . .
‘An argument is a reason producing belief regarding a matter that is in doubt.’
Hah! So there. You’ll have to do better than that, old man. He opens Boethius, and begins to leaf through it. Hope he doesn’t notice the lamp-oil that I spilt on the cover last night. Hope he doesn’t notice the faint smell of baked fish.
‘Here,’ he says, and hands the book to me. ‘Read the first three lines. In translation.’
The first three lines? Oh – up to here, you mean.
‘ “Of all arguments, some are readily believable and necessary; some readily believable and not necessary; some neces sary but not readily believable, and some neither readily believable nor necessary”.’ (What? What is this garbage? Boethius must have had a hangover when he wrote this.) ‘ “Something is readily believable if it seems true to everyone, or to most people, or to the wise . . .” ’ (You don’t say.) ‘ “. . . In this, the truth or falsity of the argument makes no difference, if only it has the appearance of truth.” ’
Hold on. What’s this? The appearance of truth? Look up at Clement: his expression is unreadable.
Well I’ll be damned. I’ll be double damned.
‘Master, you said something yesterday. You said that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.’
‘Those were not my words,’ he replies. ‘Those were the words of Solomon.’
‘But it says here that a lie is no more than a readily believable argument!’
A pause. There’s a glint in his eye, but I don’t know what it means.
‘And didn’t the scarlet-coloured beast have seven heads?’ he murmurs.
Pardon?
‘The Devil has many faces,’ he continues. ‘We must simply learn to recognise and master each one of them.’
What’s he saying? What’s he telling me? Peering into his wrinkled face, which is all dry and white and dusty like a piece of chalk, or a bowl of flour. But his eyes are as clear and sharp as rock-crystal.
Suddenly the door opens.
‘My lord!’ Clement lurches to his feet. So do all the novices. They bow very low to a medium-sized, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair.
Who must be the abbot, I suppose. Abbot Anselm. Someone said he was expected this morning.
‘Brother Clement . . .’ He advances with outstretched arms. Kisses Clement on both cheeks. ‘Brother Clement, how good it is to see you. Oleum effusum nomen tuum.
Clement smiles. He actually smiles! I thought he’d forgotten how.’
The abbot turns around. ‘Amiel,’ he says, in his dry, even voice, ‘how are you feeling? How is your chest?’
Amiel flushes. His pasty cheeks begin to glow a warm, healthy pink. ‘It’s much better, my lord,’ he wheezes.
‘It is? That’s good. Ah, Raymond. I saw your father when I was in Carcassone. He sends you his love.’ (Raymond lights up exactly like a candle.) ‘And here’s Durand. Have you mastered the Sixty-eighth Psalm yet, Durand?’
Durand grins shyly. Bernard and Raymond laugh out loud. (It must be a standing joke.) The abbot bends down and lays a cracked, weathered hand on Gaubert’s shoulder. ‘You’ve grown,’ he says, whereupon Gaubert beams all over his squashed little face.
‘Have I?’ he stammers. ‘Have I really?’
‘You look bigger to me. Heavier, too. Hello, Bernard. I brought back some new music for the precentor – music from the north. I can’t wait to hear you sing it.’
This is amazing. He really seems to know everyone. At Saint Joseph’s, Abbot Daimbert wouldn’t have recognised his own right foot, let alone a humble, snotty-nosed novice. Surely this can’t be genuine.
‘It’s Ademar, isn’t it?’ The abbot studies Ademar’s ravaged features closely. ‘We’ve met once before, I think. How are you settling in?’
A long pause. Ademar looks down at his feet. He makes a strangled, croaking sound.
Is he crying?
‘Ademar is making good progress,’ Clement suddenly remarks. ‘And here are our newest novices. Laymen, like Ademar. This is Roland Roucy de Bram –’
‘De Bram!’ the abbot exclaims. His voice is sharp with interest. ‘But you must be Lord Galhard’s son! His youngest!’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I heard you went off to Jerusalem.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Roland sounds very subdued. ‘But now I’ve come back.’
‘I’m glad you did. I must make some time to talk to you. So many strange things are being said about Jerusalem, although I’m sure that much of it has been distorted by distance.’ The abbot’s expression changes: he seems to be thinking hard. ‘Yes,’ he says pensively. ‘Yes . . . and with the crusade, too. It’s all very difficult. A clear account of the facts would be most useful. Most useful.’ All at once he brightens. He reaches up, and pulls Roland’s head down, and gives him the kiss of peace. ‘Welcome. Welcome, Roland, it is my joy and my privilege to welcome you into this brotherhood of worship. Welcome to Saint Martin’s. And now – who is this?’
‘This,’ says Clement, ‘is Pagan Kidrouk.’ (He doesn’t sound too happy about it.) ‘Pagan arrived with Roland. He was Roland’s squire. He grew up in a monastery.’
The abbot’s eyes are small and brown and very alert. His face is a mass of fine lines. He looks level-headed. Experienced.
Shrewd.
‘Kidrouk?’ he says softly. ‘That’s an Arab name, isn’t it?’ And suddenly his eyes widen. ‘But of course! I understand. You came with Roland. You must have been born in Jerusalem.’
‘No, my lord. In Bethlehem.’
‘Bethlehem!’ He laughs. ‘Even better! I’ll be expecting the very saintliest behaviour from you, my child.’ (A snort from Clement.) ‘But what’s this?’ the abbot continues. ‘What’s this you’re reading, Pagan?’
‘Boethius, my lord. De topicis differentiis.’
‘Boethius?’ He looks at Clement in a quizzical way. ‘What a very surprising choice.’
‘ “Look on every one that is proud, and bring him low”,’ Clement responds obscurely. The abbot absorbs this without comment: he just smiles a little, and shakes his head, and turns back to me.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ he asks.
‘My lord?’
‘Are you enjoying the book?’
You mean I’m supposed to enjoy it? Christ in a cream cheese sauce! I have to read it, I have to memorise it, I have to drag it around like a third leg, and now I’m supposed to enjoy it as well!
‘I don’t know, my lord. I prefer books with battles in them.’
For some reason this really tickles his fancy. He laughs his dry laugh, and pats me on the elbow.
‘Maybe the next one will have battles in it,’ he remarks. (Oh, right. And maybe my next bowel movement will turn to gold. Anything’s possible.) ‘Welcome to Saint Martin’s, Pagan. Welcome to this brotherhood of worship. I’m delighted that you’ve made your home with us.’
You are? Honestly? But you won’t be, when you hear what I’ve been up to. His lips feel like dead leaves, brushing against each cheekbone.
‘Unfortunately I can’t stay,’ he says, releasing my shoulders. ‘I’ve other people to visit, and there’s so much work piled up in my rooms that I can hardly get through the door. But I’ll see you all at Nones. And at supper, of course. I’m very happy to see you again. Very happy.’ He smiles at Clement. ‘It’s good to be home.’
Everyone’s silent as he makes his way out. Suddenly the room seems warmer. Friendlier. Even Clement looks a little softer around the edges.
So that’s Abbot Anselm. That’s the man in charge. What an unspeakably wonderful stroke of luck. A Good Abbot! I’ve never seen one before. I never would have believed that it was possible. If he stays around – if he doesn’t go away too often – just think what this place will be like! It won’t be like Saint Jerome’s. It will be like . . . well, like the kind of place it was meant to be. The kind of place Saint Benedict would have wanted it to be.
O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good: for His mercy endureth forever.
Maybe I’m going to make it here after all.