Free Pagan's Vows by Catherine Jinks

the Last Judgement. Poor girl. She’s wrapped in a shapeless, ragged cloak, the colour of manure.
    ‘But are you really certain about this?’ Carefully, so as not to offend. ‘Can you really be sure?’
    She stares at me, round-eyed. ‘About what?’ she says. ‘About Roquefire. You could do a lot better.’
    ‘Better than what?’
    ‘Better than Roquefire.’
    ‘How?’
    How? Good question. Oh, I don’t know, it’s too complicated. I can’t get involved in this. It’s none of my business.
    ‘Saurimunda – I’m sorry – I’ve got to get back. I can’t stay here, or I’ll be punished. So take care of yourself and – um – thanks, and – and maybe I’ll see you again.’
    ‘Goodbye, Father Pagan.’
    ‘Don’t call me Father. I’m not a Father.’ Emptying the bucket. ‘Go on, go home. Before somebody sees you.’
    Escaping back into the almonry. I hope no one heard. The last thing I need is another round of foot-baths. The paupers are all still sitting there, waiting for their pay-out. The little old woman is shuffling along with her loaves. She snarls at me as I brush past.
    Probably thinks I want to steal them.
    Up to the almoner’s office. The door’s half shut. Inside, Aeldred is facing Bernard Magnus, who’s holding a small leather purse in his hand. (Wonder how he managed to squeeze through that door?) Bernard seems to be asking something.
    ‘ Pauperes quit suet hodie? ’
    ‘ Octo. ’
    ‘ Et onus denarius per unum hominem – ’

‘Wait!’ Aeldred’s voice cuts across Bernard’s, sharp and furious. (He’s caught sight of me.) ‘What do you want? What are you skulking around there for?’
    ‘I wanted to know where to put the bucket –’
    ‘Just leave it there! Leave it! Faciens stultitiam – ! ’
    Faciens stultitiam yourself, dog-breath! Dropping the bucket with a bang. Heading for the front door. Striding into the herb garden.
    Pausing halfway to the dormitory.
    Wait a moment. Hold it just a moment. What’s going on here?
    He didn’t want to be heard. He was angry at me because he didn’t want anyone to hear what he was saying. But what was he saying?
    Let me think, now. Bernard asked him how many paupers there were today. And he said eight. And Bernard said: ‘And one denarius for one pauper –’
    Eight? Eight paupers? But I only washed twelve feet!
    All right. All right, Pagan, let’s look at this calmly. Twelve feet make six paupers. At one coin per pauper, that’s six coins. But Aeldred asked for eight. Which means . . .
    Which means that he’s pocketing the other two coins.
    So that’s why he was angry. That’s why he didn’t want anyone to hear him. Anyone like me, that is: anyone who could speak Latin, and who knew how many feet had been washed.
    Because he’s embezzling abbey funds.
    ‘Pagan.’
    Look up. It’s Clement, lurking under Saint Catherine like a dog at a gate.
    ‘What are you standing around for?’ he grumbles. ‘I told you to come straight back. Have you finished your act of penance?’
    ‘Yes, Master.’
    ‘In here, then. You’ve got work to do.’
    Oh numb your gums, Clement, I’m trying to think. Think, Pagan, think! But it’s impossible. He’s yapping away, yap, yap, yap, and I just can’t get it straight in my head.
    ‘. . . I hope this has taught you not to use oaths, Pagan. Remember, the Twenty-seventh Instrument of Good Works is not to swear at all, lest one forswear. Because Christ our Lord said: “Swear not at all, neither by heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by the earth, for it is His footstool . . .” ’
    Later. I’ll think about it later.

Chapter 11
    ‘D eus in adjutorium meum intende . . . ’
    The slow chant begins. Calm and strong, deep and mellow, rising to the vaulted roof like a bird.
    ‘ Domine labia mea aperies , et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam. ’
    Sunlight washing through coloured glass, staining the pillars blue and green and purple. Rows of motionless monks, their faces half-hidden by