Free Pagan's Vows by Catherine Jinks Page B

he throws back his head and delivers. He uses his voice like a musical instrument. You can tell that he’s actually thinking about what he says.
    You can also tell that he fancies himself, a little.
    ‘. . . Non est voluntas apud Patrem vestrum . . . ’
    Wait a moment. Montazin! Of course! I can tell Montazin! He looks intelligent enough. And he also knows something about the way things work around here, being the cellarer. Oh yes, Montazin’s the one. He’s bound to know what to do.
    He finishes with a ringing flourish, his voice echoing around the carved stone heads of the prophets. But now it’s time for a versicle. Patience, Pagan, not much longer. And when we’re done, I’ll just dash across and ask Montazin if I could have a word. Let’s see, now: how would I get that message across, in sign language? I (point at myself) wish (hands crossed on heart) speak (make a duck’s beak) you (point at him). I–wish–speak–you. That should do it.
    ‘ Kyrie eleison. ’ It’s Gerard, intoning. The Kyrie? Good. Joining in the chorus: ‘Kyrie eleison.’
    ‘ Christe eleison. ’
    ‘Christe eleison.’
    And now it’s Guilabert’s turn; he finishes up with the Lord’s Prayer. Not doing it half as well as the abbot would have done it, if he’d been available. Come on, Guilabert, hurry up, will you? I have to speak to Montazin.
    ‘. . . Et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’
    ‘Amen.’
    Now! Leaping out of line, pushing past the tightly packed bodies. Excuse me. Excuse me, everyone. Squeezing. Wriggling. Let me through! Astonished looks from a couple of oblates. Angry looks from Elias and Aeldred.
    Just you wait, Aeldred. You’re going to be a lot angrier by the time I finish with you.
    Catching up with Montazin. Tugging his sleeve. He turns and glances down, his eyes a clear, cold hazel.
    I – wish – speak – you.
    He seems to understand. His right hand makes the sign for ‘now’. Now? Yes, please, now.
    Nodding at him vigorously in agreement.
    He points at the door. The northern door, not the southern door. Are we going outside, then? Into the graveyard? But I suppose we have to find somewhere to talk. We certainly can’t do it in the cloister.
    Across the milling heads, Montazin makes a sign to Clement. Novice – with – me. Clement replies by clenching his fist with the thumb raised. I know well. He doesn’t look too happy, because he doesn’t like us to talk to other monks. Whoops! Don’t lose Montazin, Pagan. Scurrying after him: out of the northern transept, through the garden, into the graveyard. Trying to keep up. He – has a chiselled face and elegant hands, with long, bony fingers. He stops near one of the more recent graves.
    ‘Well?’ he says. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Please, Father, it’s Father Aeldred.’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘I think he’s stealing money.’
    Montazin’s expression changes. It becomes very intent. He narrows his eyes.
    ‘What do you mean?’ he says.
    ‘I was in the almonry, washing feet – twelve feet – when I heard Father Aeldred tell Father Bernard that there were eight paupers. So Father Bernard gave him eight coins. But there were only six paupers, which means that Father Aeldred must have kept the other two coins. He was lying, Father.’
    Montazin seems to be thinking. His face is unreadable.
    ‘Brother Aeldred may have made a mistake,’ he says at last, very slowly. ‘Or you may have.’
    ‘No, Father, I don’t think so. You see, I think he’s visiting someone in town. A widow.’ (Forgive me, Roquefire, but I never made any promises.) ‘I think that’s where the money might be going. To the woman in town.’
    Montazin blinks. This time he really seems startled. ‘How do you know about that?’ he exclaims.
    ‘Someone told me.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Well . . . if you don’t mind, I can’t tell you who told me. But it’s true, I swear it is.’
    A long pause. Everything’s very quiet and peaceful out here, now