Free Pagan's Vows by Catherine Jinks Page A

their cowls, their hands very pale against their ebony-black robes. Among them, Aeldred. There he is, sitting there, staring into space. Preoccupied.
    ‘. . . Tu mandasti , mandata tua custodiri nimis . . . ’
    And now the First Psalm. Carried on deep bass voices like foundation stones, with the pure, sweet sound of the children’s chorus floating above. Soaring and dying and soaring again. Lifting our thoughts to heaven. Blessed art Thou, O Lord: teach me Thy statutes.
    ‘ Benedictus es , Domine , doce me justificationes tuns . . . ’
    But I can’t concentrate on this, just now. I have to think. I really have to think. If I was Aeldred, what could I possibly be spending my embezzled money on? You can’t spend it in the abbey. You can’t even buy things outside the abbey, and bring them back: someone would be sure to notice.
    You could, however, give the money to someone else.
    ‘. . . Sederunt principes et adversum me loquebanter . . . ’
    That’s it. That’s what he’s doing. He’s giving the money to his widow friend, I’m sure of it. But in that case, what should I do? Should I tell someone? If the abbot was here I’d tell him, because it’s his abbey, and I know he wouldn’t like this business at all. He’d believe me, too, I know he would. Damn, damn, damn. Why’s he always wandering off to councils and debates and general chapters? The bishops can’t possibly need him as much as we do.
    ‘ Ambulate in dilectione . . . ’
    Whoops! It’s a hymn. What is it? ‘Walk in Love’? Yes. ‘Walk in Love’. That’s all right, I know ‘Walk in Love’. Sicut et Christus oblationem et hostiam . . . easy. No problem. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Telling someone.
    The prior?
    Oh Lord, not old bladder-brain. I know what he’d do. He’d just look at me with those boiled eyes and tell me to talk to Brother Clement. Too worried about quotas, and how many lambs we should be getting in tithes, and whether the serfs should be paying one sextarius of wine for each day’s work, or one-and-a-half. I’ve heard him in the cloister, muttering to himself. His mind’s just too small to fit one more nugget of information. Try to insert another fact in there and his skull would explode.
    ‘ Ad Dominum cum tribularer clamavi . . . ’
    Help! Are we on the psalms again? Glancing around, but Clement didn’t see me stumble. He’s too busy glaring at Roland. Poor old Roland, must have made a mistake. He’s always making mistakes. I wish there was something I could do to help him. As for Clement – one of these days I’m going to shove that old man’s walking-stick right up his left nostril.
    Look at him, standing there. Growling his way through the psalms. Talk about the beast that spake as a dragon. I couldn’t possibly tell him: he’d bite my head off. No, I’ll go to someone else. Someone like . . .
    Rainier?
    Oh no. Curse it! I can’t talk to him, either, he’s gone off to Carcassone to thrash out a property dispute. Oh, why does he have to be away right now? He’d be just the person. Didn’t Clement say he was in charge of the abbey finances? Although, when you come to think about it, he delegates quite a lot to Bernard Magnus.
    Bernard Magnus. Should I –? No, I can’t talk to that quivering mound of blubber. He’s the mean-minded pig who’s always slowing down in corridors when you want to get past. He’s the one who ate so many jam pancakes that none of the poor oblates got any. No, I can’t talk to him. I couldn’t be civil.
    Silence falls. Are we at the lesson, already? Who’s reciting it today? The cellarer, Montazin. Well that’s a relief. At least it’s not Bernard Blancus. Bernard’s nose is always so 86 blocked, he sounds as if he’s speaking through a faceful of fish-guts.
    ‘. . . Qui susceperit unum parvulum . . . ’
    Montazin’s a good speaker. You need a nice powerful voice if you’re going to speak. And Montazin really works at it, too: he doesn’t just drone into his cowl,