Pagan's Vows Read Online Free Page B

times. That’s because it’s not the church, or the cloister, or the dormitories.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘You’ll learn.’ He pats my arm. ‘You’re just new. If there’s anything you want to know, come to me. I can tell you everything.’
    Oh, sure. And my Auntie Eleanor was the Queen of Persia. But he babbles on with unshakeable confidence. (Seems to be uncommonly attached to the sound of his own voice.)
    ‘If you want to know about the rest of us, for example, I can tell you where we all came from,’ he says. ‘I’m one of the Mir family, of Carcassone. My father is Lord Bertrand Mir, the son of Lord Folcrand de Capendu. My father owns five mills and seven vineyards, as well as many fields and houses.’ (Ah. So that’s why this pullet is so pleased with himself. I was beginning to wonder.) ‘Bernard Incentor is the son of my father’s steward. Both his parents died when he was six. Gaubert is the son of the weaver Ernoul Daudet, of Cambiac. He’s been here the longest – his parents dedicated him to this abbey when he was only three years old.’ (No need to ask why. The big surprise is that they let him live at all, poor runt.) ‘Amiel is the son of Roger Barravus, a doctor in Narbonne. He has twelve brothers and seven sisters, and ten of them are in the church. Durand is the son of a priest from Saissac. He’s a bastard, of course.’ (Of course.) ‘There are many men of noble blood in this abbey. The abbot is one. So is the chamberlain. That’s why my father chose it.’ Raymond turns his head, and blinks his grey eyes at me. ‘Who is your father?’ he inquires.
    Who is my father? That’s easy. My father is the biggest heap of regurgitated pigs’ tripe east of Byzantium.
    ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know who my father is. He raped my mother. That’s why she got rid of me as soon as she could.’
    ‘Oh.’ That’s floored him. He looks away uncomfortably, and falls silent.
    I thought he’d never shut up.
    Glance over at Roland, to see what he’s doing. Seems to be getting along all right. Takes a handful of corn; picks out one grain; examines it; puts it in his bowl. Picks out another; throws it aside. Picks out a third; puts it in his bowl. Doesn’t look too difficult.
    ‘Which ones are the bad ones?’ I happen to be asking Roland, but of course it’s Raymond who replies. He just can’t keep his nose out of a conversation.
    ‘See how this one’s black?’ he says. ‘We don’t want the black ones. And see how this one’s soft? The soft ones are rotten. We don’t want those, either.’
    ‘What about this one?’
    ‘That’s all right. If it’s a good colour, and it’s firm, and it isn’t too small, you should put it in the bowl.’
    What a strange job this is. No wonder they get the novices to do it. Most monks probably can’t even see the grains, let alone distinguish between them. Little white hands, flutter ing over the golden heap of corn. Picking at it like chickens. Black robes covered in husks and meal.
    ‘Roland?’ It’s Gaubert. He has a squeaky, excited voice, much bigger than he is. Roland looks up.
    ‘Yes?’ he says, cautiously.
    ‘Father Clement told us that you were in Jerusalem.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you fight against the Infidels?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you kill any?’
    Roland drops his eyes. His face hardens into its Man of Marble expression: blank, stony, forbidding. He begins to examine the corn again.
    ‘Yes,’ he replies.
    ‘How many did you kill?’
    I wish they’d shut up. Dead Turks aren’t exactly what 31 Roland wants to talk about just now. But he makes a final effort.
    ‘Some,’ he says at last.
    ‘How many, though?’ This time it’s Bernard. His voice is thick and hoarse. ‘Five? Ten? A hundred?’
    ‘He can’t tell you.’ (Don’t worry, Roland. Let me take care of this.) ‘He can’t tell you how many, because there were too many to count.’
    An awestruck hiss from around the blanket. Poor things, stuck inside this