and his silent beatings.
Blood on the blankets.
Why not ?
‘No girls, my lord. And no jokes, either.’
Another long silence. Not so much as a rustle. Wonder what time it is? Must be very early. Probably an hour or so to matins. Still enough of the night left to get a reasonable amount of sleep . . .
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Pagan.’
God preserve us. Here’s trouble.
‘I’ve been thinking that I have never met anyone like you before. And I think I understand why, now. It seems to me that you have been given only one thing in your entire life, and that is your education. No saint gave you his name, so you have no saint’s day. No family. No property. No place in the world. And no loving friends to watch over you, unless I’m mistaken. You have nothing except your learning. But most people with nothing don’t even have that. So I think your learning is what makes you so different.’
Different in what way? Don’t know if I want to ask.
‘My lord, with all respect, you shouldn’t take my learning too seriously. It might look impressive to be able to read, but that’s because you can’t read yourself. When you learn to read, all you can do is read. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘No, Pagan. You’re wrong. I’m quite sure you’re wrong. Because people who read, they are always – they are always a little like you.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘You can’t just tell them. You have to tell them why.
’ Clear as mud.
‘I don’t understand, my lord. Are you saying that’s a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘I don’t know. I used to think it was a bad thing. It can be very dangerous. But now I don’t know . . .’
All at once it’s hard to concentrate. He’s speaking very softly, and his voice is like the sound of doves cooing. Like a gentle wind in the treetops. Like Father Arniel droning on through the Book of Numbers, chapter twenty-six.
Yawn.
‘But what I want to say to you, Pagan, is that you’re not like me.’ ( No. Really? What a revelation.) ‘All my life God has showered me with blessings. Because of His infinite love, the people around me have bestowed on me all manner of gifts. So my purpose in life is to ask: what can I do to repay my benefactors? How can I use this fortunate life of mine to the benefit of others?
‘But you have been given nothing – or next to nothing. So you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. You are free to build your own life, to your own advantage.
‘Pagan? Do you understand me? I’m saying that in giving you nothing else, God has given you the gift of freedom. And that is a very precious gift.
‘Pagan? Are you listening?’
‘Yes, my lord . . . freedom . . . right . . .’ (Yawn.)
‘Think about it.’
Think about it. Sure. Think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow. There’s a special service on, tomorrow. Prayers for deliverance – Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Have to be there, bright and early. Have to be there. Bright and early, with a clear head.
Have to get some sleep . . .
It must be the greatest church in the world. Massive dome, marble floor, golden mosaics, pillars like the legs of giants, three-storeyed walls, jewelled lamps, silver-gilt trimmings, prophets on the vault, everything.
Trouble is, it’s always full of pilgrims. Or priests. Or hundreds and hundreds of noisy, filthy, stinking, fighting, sweating, brainless, vicious, uncontrollable worshippers.
‘Well?’
Rockhead’s arrived: God knows how he managed to force his way through the multitudes. By punching little old ladies’ heads in, probably.
‘It’s a mess out there, my lord.’ (Gasping.) ‘The crowds – they’re piled up as far as the abbey. Thousands of them. And they’re all trying to get in here.’
‘I see.’
Lord Roland surveys the situation. Cretins to the left of him, cretins to the right. Standing head and shoulders above them all, like a cedar in a bed of parsley. The Patriarch still hasn’t appeared.
‘This has to be dealt with,’
Blood on the blankets.
Why not ?
‘No girls, my lord. And no jokes, either.’
Another long silence. Not so much as a rustle. Wonder what time it is? Must be very early. Probably an hour or so to matins. Still enough of the night left to get a reasonable amount of sleep . . .
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Pagan.’
God preserve us. Here’s trouble.
‘I’ve been thinking that I have never met anyone like you before. And I think I understand why, now. It seems to me that you have been given only one thing in your entire life, and that is your education. No saint gave you his name, so you have no saint’s day. No family. No property. No place in the world. And no loving friends to watch over you, unless I’m mistaken. You have nothing except your learning. But most people with nothing don’t even have that. So I think your learning is what makes you so different.’
Different in what way? Don’t know if I want to ask.
‘My lord, with all respect, you shouldn’t take my learning too seriously. It might look impressive to be able to read, but that’s because you can’t read yourself. When you learn to read, all you can do is read. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘No, Pagan. You’re wrong. I’m quite sure you’re wrong. Because people who read, they are always – they are always a little like you.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘You can’t just tell them. You have to tell them why.
’ Clear as mud.
‘I don’t understand, my lord. Are you saying that’s a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘I don’t know. I used to think it was a bad thing. It can be very dangerous. But now I don’t know . . .’
All at once it’s hard to concentrate. He’s speaking very softly, and his voice is like the sound of doves cooing. Like a gentle wind in the treetops. Like Father Arniel droning on through the Book of Numbers, chapter twenty-six.
Yawn.
‘But what I want to say to you, Pagan, is that you’re not like me.’ ( No. Really? What a revelation.) ‘All my life God has showered me with blessings. Because of His infinite love, the people around me have bestowed on me all manner of gifts. So my purpose in life is to ask: what can I do to repay my benefactors? How can I use this fortunate life of mine to the benefit of others?
‘But you have been given nothing – or next to nothing. So you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. You are free to build your own life, to your own advantage.
‘Pagan? Do you understand me? I’m saying that in giving you nothing else, God has given you the gift of freedom. And that is a very precious gift.
‘Pagan? Are you listening?’
‘Yes, my lord . . . freedom . . . right . . .’ (Yawn.)
‘Think about it.’
Think about it. Sure. Think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow. There’s a special service on, tomorrow. Prayers for deliverance – Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Have to be there, bright and early. Have to be there. Bright and early, with a clear head.
Have to get some sleep . . .
It must be the greatest church in the world. Massive dome, marble floor, golden mosaics, pillars like the legs of giants, three-storeyed walls, jewelled lamps, silver-gilt trimmings, prophets on the vault, everything.
Trouble is, it’s always full of pilgrims. Or priests. Or hundreds and hundreds of noisy, filthy, stinking, fighting, sweating, brainless, vicious, uncontrollable worshippers.
‘Well?’
Rockhead’s arrived: God knows how he managed to force his way through the multitudes. By punching little old ladies’ heads in, probably.
‘It’s a mess out there, my lord.’ (Gasping.) ‘The crowds – they’re piled up as far as the abbey. Thousands of them. And they’re all trying to get in here.’
‘I see.’
Lord Roland surveys the situation. Cretins to the left of him, cretins to the right. Standing head and shoulders above them all, like a cedar in a bed of parsley. The Patriarch still hasn’t appeared.
‘This has to be dealt with,’
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