arm until my right ear’s almost level with her mouth. ‘Here it is,’ she breathes. ‘God bless you, Pagan.’ Suddenly, a stranglehold. Help! What’s she doing? Fierce hug – smacking kiss – and she disappears into the darkness.
God preserve us. God preserve us, that was . . . that was a shock. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. Right on the lips, too, I can still feel
But I won’t think about it. It’s pointless thinking about things like that. I’ll think about the letter, instead.
Chapter 15
‘E xcuse me, Master, but I seem to have lost Boethius.’ He swings around. Glares. Grinds his tooth.
‘What?’ he splutters.
‘I think I must have left Boethius in the kitchen.’
Here goes. Please God, make this work. Please don’t let him send someone with me. If he does, I’ll have to start all over again.
‘In the kitchen?’ he growls. ‘You left that valuable book in the kitchen? ’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
He glances around the dormitory. Bernard and Gaubert are collecting stools. Raymond is retrieving the big black psalter from the chest under the window. Amiel has collapsed onto the nearest bed.
He looks very blue today.
‘Imbecile!’ (Thwomp! Clement slams his stick down.) ‘Brainless fool! Simpleton! How could you lose a book?’
‘Master –’
‘Go and get it! Right now!’
Yes! Hooray! It worked! Bolting for the door as fast as my legs will carry me.
‘Pagan!’
Stop. Turn. He’s standing there in the middle of the room: hunched, glowering, ominous.
‘Come straight back,’ he growls, ‘or I’ll come and find you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Oh Pagan, you’re so brilliant. Sometimes I’m amazed at how quick you are. Although, to be fair, you shouldn’t forget Boethius. Credit where credit’s due, Pagan. Who would have thought old Boethius would prove to be such an asset?
Across the herb garden. Turn left. Passing Elias in the corridor: his limp’s gone but his eyes are all gummed up. What’s wrong with him now, I wonder? Looks bad, whatever it is. Sharp right into the refectory, which still smells of last night’s eggs. Bernard Surdellus, sweeping up the dirty rushes.
It’s all right, Father, don’t look at me like that. I’m here to collect Boethius. Pausing to bow, on my way to the kitchen. Feeling his eyes on my back as I cross the threshold.
Rostand the cook is chopping up carrots.
‘Yes?’ he mutters, peering through the steam. ‘What do you want?’
‘I left my book.’
‘Your what?’
‘I was here before. With the novices.’ (Remember? That huddle of pasty mutes, left in one corner to watch the beans 116 soak while Clement was in chapter with the rest of the monks? You must remember. One of them was so excited, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.) ‘I put my book behind that hand-screen, so it wouldn’t get splashed. But I forgot it.’
Pointing at the folded hand-screen propped up against the northern wall. Rostand grunts, and returns to his vegetables. He looks rather like a peeled vegetable himself: moist, sticky, with raw features that seem to have been hacked out of his face with a blunt kitchen knife. His big hairy paws are covered in flour.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Go and get it. But don’t you touch those chestnuts, or I’ll skin you alive.’
Don’t worry. It’s not the chestnuts I’m after. Slipping past his sweat-soaked back, kicking my way through the vegetable peelings. Lingering by the fireplace, where something is simmering over a pile of red-hot embers. Soup, is it? Smells like dirty socks.
And there, on the hearthstone – a piece of charcoal, long and straight and perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.
‘What’s this in here?’ (Stooping, as if to sniff at the pungent fumes. Down – down – got it!) ‘Is it for supper?’ ‘Leave that stuff alone. That belongs to Father Elias.’
‘It smells like somebody died.’
‘ You’ll be dead if you don’t get out.’ Waving his knife at me.
God preserve us. God preserve us, that was . . . that was a shock. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. Right on the lips, too, I can still feel
But I won’t think about it. It’s pointless thinking about things like that. I’ll think about the letter, instead.
Chapter 15
‘E xcuse me, Master, but I seem to have lost Boethius.’ He swings around. Glares. Grinds his tooth.
‘What?’ he splutters.
‘I think I must have left Boethius in the kitchen.’
Here goes. Please God, make this work. Please don’t let him send someone with me. If he does, I’ll have to start all over again.
‘In the kitchen?’ he growls. ‘You left that valuable book in the kitchen? ’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
He glances around the dormitory. Bernard and Gaubert are collecting stools. Raymond is retrieving the big black psalter from the chest under the window. Amiel has collapsed onto the nearest bed.
He looks very blue today.
‘Imbecile!’ (Thwomp! Clement slams his stick down.) ‘Brainless fool! Simpleton! How could you lose a book?’
‘Master –’
‘Go and get it! Right now!’
Yes! Hooray! It worked! Bolting for the door as fast as my legs will carry me.
‘Pagan!’
Stop. Turn. He’s standing there in the middle of the room: hunched, glowering, ominous.
‘Come straight back,’ he growls, ‘or I’ll come and find you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Oh Pagan, you’re so brilliant. Sometimes I’m amazed at how quick you are. Although, to be fair, you shouldn’t forget Boethius. Credit where credit’s due, Pagan. Who would have thought old Boethius would prove to be such an asset?
Across the herb garden. Turn left. Passing Elias in the corridor: his limp’s gone but his eyes are all gummed up. What’s wrong with him now, I wonder? Looks bad, whatever it is. Sharp right into the refectory, which still smells of last night’s eggs. Bernard Surdellus, sweeping up the dirty rushes.
It’s all right, Father, don’t look at me like that. I’m here to collect Boethius. Pausing to bow, on my way to the kitchen. Feeling his eyes on my back as I cross the threshold.
Rostand the cook is chopping up carrots.
‘Yes?’ he mutters, peering through the steam. ‘What do you want?’
‘I left my book.’
‘Your what?’
‘I was here before. With the novices.’ (Remember? That huddle of pasty mutes, left in one corner to watch the beans 116 soak while Clement was in chapter with the rest of the monks? You must remember. One of them was so excited, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.) ‘I put my book behind that hand-screen, so it wouldn’t get splashed. But I forgot it.’
Pointing at the folded hand-screen propped up against the northern wall. Rostand grunts, and returns to his vegetables. He looks rather like a peeled vegetable himself: moist, sticky, with raw features that seem to have been hacked out of his face with a blunt kitchen knife. His big hairy paws are covered in flour.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Go and get it. But don’t you touch those chestnuts, or I’ll skin you alive.’
Don’t worry. It’s not the chestnuts I’m after. Slipping past his sweat-soaked back, kicking my way through the vegetable peelings. Lingering by the fireplace, where something is simmering over a pile of red-hot embers. Soup, is it? Smells like dirty socks.
And there, on the hearthstone – a piece of charcoal, long and straight and perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.
‘What’s this in here?’ (Stooping, as if to sniff at the pungent fumes. Down – down – got it!) ‘Is it for supper?’ ‘Leave that stuff alone. That belongs to Father Elias.’
‘It smells like somebody died.’
‘ You’ll be dead if you don’t get out.’ Waving his knife at me.
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