God, how I hate monasteries.
It’s the smell that really gets to me. That awful smell of old books and incense. And the silence, like being shut up in a tomb. And the echo of shuffling feet down long, long corridors. I hate the way no one ever runs, in monasteries. I hate the way no one ever shouts. It’s all whisper, whisper, whisper, like a bunch of dead leaves in a cross-draught.
Speaking of cross-draughts, it’s damned cold in here. That’s another thing I hate about monasteries: they’re always as cold as a crypt. Cold and miserable. I remember what it used to be like at the Nocturnes service, before sunrise, when your knees used to freeze to the floor and your breath came out in great, white clouds when you sang.
A bell rings nearby. That sounds like the end of Vespers.
‘Maybe he’s had an attack of dysentery’
‘Pagan –’
‘Well why is he taking so long, then?’
‘Be quiet, Pagan, please.’ Roland lowers his voice. ‘Someone might hear you.’
‘Really? I hope so. Because I’m beginning to think that they must have forgotten us.’
No comment from Esclaramonde. She’s been very quiet. In fact she’s hardly said a word during the entire trip. Not that she’s had very much in the way of encouragement: Roland can’t have addressed six words to her since we left Bram. I daresay he wouldn’t have talked to her at all, if I’d been allowed to speak to her myself.
This is so stupid. I mean she’s obviously about as dangerous as a dead duckling.
‘It’ll be time for supper, soon. Do you think they’ll bother feeding us? Or will they just let us sit here and starve?’
‘Pagan.’
All right, all right, I get the message. Sudden snort from Esclaramonde. Look around, and she’s vigorously rubbing her nose with her cuff.
Was it a sneeze or a laugh, I wonder?
‘Lord Roland. Deo gratias.’ Hooray! It’s the rescue party. And that must be the Abbot. An old, old man, leaning on a stick. Totally bald. Skin like the membrane beneath the shell of a hard-boiled egg.
Behind him, a handful of monks in black robes. You can hardly tell one from the other. (All monks look the same, to me.) One of them carrying a towel and a basin.
‘My lord Abbot.’ Roland rises. ‘May God bless you for your gracious hospitality.’
‘God’s blessings on you, my son,’ the Abbot gurgles; he’s got some kind of nasty chest complaint. Roland stoops, and they exchange the kiss of peace. Up comes the basin; a splash of water; the Abbot wipes Roland’s hands with his towel. ‘Suscepimus Deus misericordiam tuam in medio templi tui,’ he mutters, without much enthusiasm. Cough, cough, cough. That old man should be in bed.
‘This is my squire, Pagan Kidrouk,’ Roland announces. ‘He came with me from Jerusalem.’
A rustle of wool as the monks react. Here we go again. Everyone stares at the funny-coloured foreigner.
‘He is welcome,’ the Abbot croaks.
‘And this is . . . this is Esclaramonde Maury.’
No response from the Abbot. He doesn’t even look in her direction. Some of the monks cross themselves.
‘We are here on a matter of some importance,’ Roland continues. ‘It concerns my father’s lands at Lavalet.’
The Abbot nods. His fingers are stiff and swollen. ‘Then we shall speak, of course. Are you refreshed? Have you eaten?’
‘No, my lord.’ Roland shakes his head.
‘You haven’t?’
‘No, my lord.’
The Abbot turns, his jowls quivering. One of the monks whispers in his ear. They both look at Esclaramonde.
‘Yes, I see.’ (Cough, cough. That Abbot sounds like a pair of old bellows with water in them.) ‘Well, later perhaps. If you would just come this way, my lord? There is a reception room, through here.’ He waves his crippled hand at his attendants, who scatter like crows. Only one remains, a sour, jaundiced monk with scaly red patches on his skin. It must be his job to keep the Abbot from failing over. ‘This way, Lord Roland, if you please.’
Shuffle, scrape, shuffle, scrape. It’s painful to watch the old man limp along. Passing from the dim, grey ante-room into an equally dim, equally grey, but slightly larger reception room. Some kind of mural painted on the wall, up near the ceiling. Cold stone tiles underfoot. A selection of mismatched furniture: folding stool, high-backed chair, stone bench, carved ebony table. A gilt cross hanging above the window.
‘Please be seated.’
The smell of cooking food, somewhere. We must be near the Abbey kitchens. Or maybe the Abbot has his own kitchens. Back in the monastery of Saint Joseph, we used to have a special wing for the Abbot and his guests. Just to make sure that none of the monks talked to visitors.
Looks as if they might have the same arrangement here.
‘My lord Abbot, this is a very joyful occasion for me.’ (Roland, getting things started.) ‘Before my journey to Jerusalem, I spent many happy days under the roof of your most venerable and holy foundation. I have also listened many times, with the most profound humility and respect, to the words of your predecessor, Father Cyprien, may God have mercy on his soul.’
‘Gloria Patri. He was a grievous loss to us.’
‘I can imagine. A most worthy servant of Christ, most dutiful and devout. His guidance was always a blessing.’
‘He that handleth a matter wisely shall find good; and whoso trusteth in the Lord, happy is he.’
‘Amen.’
Ho hum. What a bore. Glance at Esclaramonde: her head is bowed, her hands are folded. She looks exactly like a nun.
‘Lord Abbot, you must forgive us for this intrusion, but my father felt that we should settle a certain matter which affects many people, including yourself.’ Roland’s treading carefully: there’s no emotion in his voice at all. ‘It concerns a man called Clairin; I believe he is a resident of this Abbey?’
‘We have a servant by that name.’
‘Only the one?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘And does he often enter my father’s forest at Lavalet, to collect wood?’
The Abbot stiffens.
‘Never,’ he declares. ‘This Abbey has no right or claim to any produce from that land.’
‘Then I must tell you that Brother Clairin appears to have dishonoured your authority, and assaulted a free man known as Garnier of Lavalet, while collecting wood in my father’s forest.’
There. That’s done it. No more compliments. No more courtesies. Now we’re getting down to business.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ the Abbot retorts. ‘Have you any proof of such a thing?’
‘My lord, this woman lives and works in the same community as the injured man. She has seen his wounds. She has spoken to his son, who witnessed the assault, 64 and who identified Clairin.’ Roland gestures towards Esclaramonde. ‘I believe there may be grounds for some sort of inquiry.’
The Abbot’s face puckers. His jaw begins to move. His fingers twitch on the head of his cane.
‘I do not agree,’ he snaps.
‘My lord Abbot –’ ‘This . . . this woman . . .’ (Scowling at Esclaramonde.)
‘This woman, or should we say demon, is a false witness and a foul perverter of the truth. Her tongue is polluted. Her house is the way to hell. This woman is like the whore of Babylon, drunk with the blood of saints, and no good Christian should bear witness to her filthy deceits.’
Uh-oh.
‘My lord Abbot –’
‘Go back to your father, Lord Roland, and tell him not to defile himself, but to shut his ears to the profane counsel of Lucifer, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and whose tongue is a sharp sword.’
‘I am not a liar.’ Esclaramonde leaps to her feet. ‘I am not a liar. I am not a false witness. You are unjust.’ Her dark eyes blazing, her voice sharp and strong. ‘You are like Saul, when the evil spirit came upon him!’
God preserve us. The Abbot tries to speak, but his words are swallowed by a fit of coughing. Esclaramonde turns to go. Roland grabs her arm, and pulls her back.
‘Sit down,’ he hisses.
‘You are like Jezebel!’ (The Abbot’s found his breath, again.) ‘You are like the beast with seven heads and the names of blasphemy on them! You have defiled this house with your corruption, and filled this man’s ears with lies!’
‘I will not stay here!’
‘No, you will not stay here. You will leave the Abbey grounds at once. You are an evil woman, not welcome in this holy place.’
And off she goes. As fast as a flea. ‘Pagan! Stay with her!’ Yes, my lord, that’s just what I was thinking. She’s so hampered by the length of her skirts that she doesn’t get far before I’ve caught up. Barely manages to clear the first corner.
‘Wait. Hold on. Don’t run away, Mistress.’ Catching her arm. ‘I know it wasn’t pleasant, but he’s probably senile.’
‘He is unjust!’
‘I know, I know he is. And incontinent too, I’ll bet.’
She can’t help laughing. It’s a reluctant kind of laugh, but it’s a laugh.
‘I was foolish,’ she mutters. ‘They were only words. That was very foolish.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think you were pretty restrained. If it had been me, I would have shoved his walking stick up his left nostril.’
Another smile. But it doesn’t last long. She’s obviously a serious-minded person.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I’ve ruined everything. What should I do? Is there anything I can do?’
‘I think the best thing you can do is keep quiet. Let Lord Roland take care of things.’ Looking about, just to see where we are. Seems to be a cloister: arches on all four sides, and a cobbled square in the middle. ‘We’ll sit down here and wait for him. I don’t suppose he’ll be long.’
There are stone benches set around the cloister garth, most of them speckled with bird droppings. Who’s supposed to be cleaning these? Because whoever they are, they’re not doing a very good job of it. At Saint Joseph’s I’d have been beaten bloody, for leaving the benches in this state. It’s hard to find a clear spot that’s big enough for a single backside.
‘Is it true – what Lord Roland said – are you really from Jerusalem?’ (Oh Lord. I should have known. Didn’t even give me time to sit down.) ‘I’ve never met someone who was born in the Holy Land.’
‘There are quite a few of us, you know.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She sounds faintly apologetic. ‘You must be tired of people asking questions. But it’s hard to imagine what it must be like.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I had a friend, once. She went there on pilgrimage. She said it was wonderful.’
‘It isn’t that wonderful.’ Sudden memory of the view from the Mount of Olives. Dust and loose gravel under your toes. White roofs in the sunlight. The Golden Gate, the spire of Saint Anne’s, the gleaming dome of the Temple. The flocks in the valley. The burning, arching sky. ‘But it’s better than this.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her gentle voice. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll see it again. Perhaps you’ll go back.’
‘Oh, we’ll be going back, all right. As soon as the armies of Christendom are raised, we’ll be going back to run the Turks out of the kingdom. We’re only in Languedoc to find more troops.’
‘You mean you’re doing that now?’ She seems concerned. ‘Raising an army?’
‘Well, yes. In a way.’
‘But are you sure it’s the right thing to do?’
The right thing to do? What a bizarre question. ‘Of 67 course it is. It’s a Crusade. Against the Infidels.’
‘But there will be so much killing. So much blood. Must all those people lose their lives, just for another piece of earth?’
‘It’s for Jerusalem!’
‘Jerusalem is a piece of earth. It’s not a piece of heaven.’
‘Jerusalem is the birthplace of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ (Roland’s voice. God help us. He nearly scared me to death, sneaking up like that.) ‘Jerusalem is the Lord’s footstool.’
‘Jerusalem is where Christ came to earth in the shape of a man,’ Esclaramonde rejoins, craning her neck to look up at him. ‘But earth is our prison and the realm of the Evil One. Not a single mile of it is worth killing for.’
Well I’ll be damned. ‘Is that what you believe? That the whole world is the work of Satan?’ (No wonder she’s in trouble.)
‘I believe that the world is part of the kingdom of darkness, governed by the Devil, just as heaven is the kingdom of light, governed by God,’ she replies. ‘I believe that the world is hell, and that human souls are fragments of the kingdom of light, trapped in earthly bodies which will not rise again at the Last Judgement, because they are part of the kingdom of darkness. And I believe that Jesus Christ, who was not a real man but God’s spirit from heaven, showed us how we might free our souls from the earthly prisons they inhabit by living a holy life –’
‘Be silent.’ Roland cuts her off. His tone is harsh; anxious; flustered. ‘I don’t want you talking like this in front of Pagan. You must not talk of these things again, do you understand? Never. Or you must go away at once.’
Oh, leave the poor woman alone. She’s harmless enough. She just thinks she’s a speck of light in a kingdom of darkness. And she certainly hasn’t convinced me.
‘What happened, my lord?’ (Trying to distract him.) ‘Did you talk to the Abbot? Did you calm him down?’
‘Who? Oh, the Abbot.’ Roland shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid the Abbot is unconvinced, although I told him about the axe. Tomorrow morning, when he’s had time to reflect, I will approach him again. It seems to me that the best thing would be to have one of his monks visit Lavalet, and see Garnier, and talk to Garnier’s family.’
‘You mean they’re going to let us stay here? Overnight?’ (I don’t believe it.)
‘There is nowhere else for us to go,’ he replies. ‘I pointed this out to the Abbot, when he – when he talked of expelling Mistress Maury. I pointed out that we couldn’t, in Christian charity, let her sleep in the forest by herself.’ His solemn glance shifts to Esclaramonde, and back to me again. ‘You and I are always welcome, the Abbot said, but she must return home as soon as possible, tomorrow morning.’
Esclaramonde lifts her chin.
‘I will do that willingly,’ she declares. ‘I have no wish to stay longer.’
Hear, hear. I’m with the lady. This place makes my skin crawl.