Pagan in Exile by Catherine Jinks Page A

his voice. ‘Someone might hear you.’
    ‘Really? I hope so. Because I’m beginning to think that they must have forgotten us.’
    No comment from Esclaramonde. She’s been very quiet. In fact she’s hardly said a word during the entire trip. Not that she’s had very much in the way of encouragement: Roland can’t have addressed six words to her since we left Bram. I daresay he wouldn’t have talked to her at all, if I’d been allowed to speak to her myself.
    This is so stupid. I mean she’s obviously about as dangerous as a dead duckling.
    ‘It’ll be time for supper, soon. Do you think they’ll bother feeding us? Or will they just let us sit here and starve?’
    ‘Pagan.’
    All right, all right, I get the message. Sudden snort from Esclaramonde. Look around, and she’s vigorously rubbing her nose with her cuff.
    Was it a sneeze or a laugh, I wonder?
    ‘Lord Roland. Deo gratias. ’ Hooray! It’s the rescue party. And that must be the Abbot. An old, old man, leaning on a stick. Totally bald. Skin like the membrane beneath the shell of a hard-boiled egg.
    Behind him, a handful of monks in black robes. You can hardly tell one from the other. (All monks look the same, to me.) One of them carrying a towel and a basin.
    ‘My lord Abbot.’ Roland rises. ‘May God bless you for your gracious hospitality.’
    ‘God’s blessings on you, my son,’ the Abbot gurgles; he’s got some kind of nasty chest complaint. Roland stoops, and they exchange the kiss of peace. Up comes the basin; a splash of water; the Abbot wipes Roland’s hands with his towel. ‘ Suscepimus Deus misericordiam tuam in medio templi tui ,’ he mutters, without much enthusiasm. Cough, cough, cough. That old man should be in bed.
    ‘This is my squire, Pagan Kidrouk,’ Roland announces. ‘He came with me from Jerusalem.’
    A rustle of wool as the monks react. Here we go again. Everyone stares at the funny-coloured foreigner.
    ‘He is welcome,’ the Abbot croaks.
    ‘And this is . . . this is Esclaramonde Maury.’
    No response from the Abbot. He doesn’t even look in her direction. Some of the monks cross themselves.
    ‘We are here on a matter of some importance,’ Roland continues. ‘It concerns my father’s lands at Lavalet.’
    The Abbot nods. His fingers are stiff and swollen. ‘Then we shall speak, of course. Are you refreshed? Have you eaten?’
    ‘No, my lord.’ Roland shakes his head.
    ‘You haven’t?’
    ‘No, my lord.’
    The Abbot turns, his jowls quivering. One of the monks whispers in his ear. They both look at Esclaramonde.
    ‘Yes, I see.’ (Cough, cough. That Abbot sounds like a pair of old bellows with water in them.) ‘Well, later perhaps. If you would just come this way, my lord? There is a reception room, through here.’ He waves his crippled hand at his attendants, who scatter like crows. Only one remains, a sour, jaundiced monk with scaly red patches on his skin. It must be his job to keep the Abbot from failing over. ‘This way, Lord Roland, if you please.’
    Shuffle, scrape, shuffle, scrape. It’s painful to watch the old man limp along. Passing from the dim, grey ante-room into an equally dim, equally grey, but slightly larger reception room. Some kind of mural painted on the wall, up near the ceiling. Cold stone tiles underfoot. A selection of mismatched furniture: folding stool, high-backed chair, stone bench, carved ebony table. A gilt cross hanging above the window.
    ‘Please be seated.’
    The smell of cooking food, somewhere. We must be near the Abbey kitchens. Or maybe the Abbot has his own kitchens. Back in the monastery of Saint Joseph, we used to have a special wing for the Abbot and his guests. Just to make sure that none of the monks talked to visitors.
    Looks as if they might have the same arrangement here.
    ‘My lord Abbot, this is a very joyful occasion for me.’ (Roland, getting things started.) ‘Before my journey to Jerusalem, I spent many happy days under the roof of your