Pagan's Scribe by Catherine Jinks

announces. Oh, of course. All the monks will be at Vespers.
    The Archdeacon waves his hand. ‘It’s of no consequence. I don’t need any assistance, Brother.’
    ‘ Sed – ’
    ‘Thank you, Brother, I know my way.’
    Poor Brother Beraldus. Doesn’t even get to finish his sentence. As for the Archdeacon, he shoots through the gates like an eagle that hasteth to eat. What’s the rush? Are we late for an appointment? (It’s so hard to keep up, when your knees aren’t functioning properly.) Beyond the gate-house stands the church, large and simple, with three carved pillars on either side of its western door. The cloisters are built against its southern flank: they’re a mismatched collection of stone walls, wooden shutters and smoking chimneys. The only entrance seems to be that one, way over there.
    The Archdeacon heads straight for it.
    ‘This is where we’ll stay,’ he says, pushing me across the threshold. ‘It’s the abbey guest-house. Woof! Something smells a bit ripe. Those rushes need changing.’
    I can hardly see a thing. Will we be sleeping in here? There seems to be a table, and a hallway off to the right. The floor is strewn with soggy rushes.
    ‘This is where I lost my front tooth,’ the Archdeacon observes. ‘It was knocked out in a fight, twenty-odd years ago.’ He sniffs, and pokes at the rushes with the toe of his boot. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was still here, somewhere. They obviously haven’t swept this place out since the turn of the century.’
    ‘Father?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I can walk by myself now.’
    ‘Good.’ He lets me go. ‘I wonder where they keep the candles. There was a storage chest, the last time I was here . . .’
    ‘Is this where we’ll be sleeping?’
    ‘Oh no. This is the common room. There are bedrooms down the hall. Ouch!’ (A crack.) ‘God curse it!’
    ‘Are you all right, Father?’
    ‘I hit my hand on the – Oh, damn this. I’m not sitting around in this belly of hell waiting for the Abbot to show up. Come on, Isidore.’ And suddenly there’s light – more light – as he flings open another door. I can see his silhouette, dark against the brightness of the cloister-garth. ‘We’ll go and wait by the southern exit,’ he says. ‘They’ll be finishing Vespers soon, and that’s the best place to catch them when they leave the church.’
    The words are barely out of his mouth before the bells start to ring. They’re so loud that I can feel their vibrations through the paving-stones. ‘There!’ he says. ‘What did I tell you?’ And he scurries across the cloister-garth, which is very well designed, with a covered walkway built all around it. There are seats, and flowers, and five big book-presses, off to the left. Book-presses! O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.
    ‘Here they come,’ says the Archdeacon, pointing at a modest little door in the southern wall of the church. A monk emerges, robed in black, his cowl pulled over his face and his hands concealed in his sleeves. Another monk follows, and another, and another. They move in single file along the eastern walkway. One of them is limping.
    ‘They’ll be going to the refectory, for a drink,’ the Archdeacon murmurs. His breath tickles my ear. ‘It’s a Silent Time, now, but we don’t have to worry about that. We’re guests.’ Suddenly he stiffens: he’s looking at a tall, thin monk with stooped shoulders, who has to duck as he passes through the door. Could that be Lord Roland? I can’t see his face.
    ‘Roland!’
    The Archdeacon’s voice echoes like a thunderclap. Every head turns. Every foot falters. The tall monk stops abruptly, frozen in mid-step.
    ‘Pagan . . .?’ he gasps.
    So it is Lord Roland.
    The Archdeacon is laughing. He bounds across the cobbles and flings himself at Lord Roland – actually flings himself, like a dog or a ball – and Lord Roland catches him, and hugs him, and kisses him, and they’re both