Pagan's Vows by Catherine Jinks

‘Read the first three lines. In translation.’
    The first three lines? Oh – up to here, you mean.
    ‘ “Of all arguments, some are readily believable and necessary; some readily believable and not necessary; some neces sary but not readily believable, and some neither readily believable nor necessary”.’ (What? What is this garbage? Boethius must have had a hangover when he wrote this.) ‘ “Something is readily believable if it seems true to everyone, or to most people, or to the wise . . .” ’ (You don’t say.) ‘ “. . . In this, the truth or falsity of the argument makes no difference, if only it has the appearance of truth.” ’
    Hold on. What’s this? The appearance of truth? Look up at Clement: his expression is unreadable.
    Well I’ll be damned. I’ll be double damned.
    ‘Master, you said something yesterday. You said that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.’
    ‘Those were not my words,’ he replies. ‘Those were the words of Solomon.’
    ‘But it says here that a lie is no more than a readily believable argument!’
    A pause. There’s a glint in his eye, but I don’t know what it means.
    ‘And didn’t the scarlet-coloured beast have seven heads?’ he murmurs.
    Pardon?
    ‘The Devil has many faces,’ he continues. ‘We must simply learn to recognise and master each one of them.’
    What’s he saying? What’s he telling me? Peering into his wrinkled face, which is all dry and white and dusty like a piece of chalk, or a bowl of flour. But his eyes are as clear and sharp as rock-crystal.
    Suddenly the door opens.
    ‘My lord!’ Clement lurches to his feet. So do all the novices. They bow very low to a medium-sized, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair.
    Who must be the abbot, I suppose. Abbot Anselm. Someone said he was expected this morning.
    ‘Brother Clement . . .’ He advances with outstretched arms. Kisses Clement on both cheeks. ‘Brother Clement, how good it is to see you. Oleum effusum nomen tuum.
    Clement smiles. He actually smiles! I thought he’d forgotten how.’
    The abbot turns around. ‘Amiel,’ he says, in his dry, even voice, ‘how are you feeling? How is your chest?’
    Amiel flushes. His pasty cheeks begin to glow a warm, healthy pink. ‘It’s much better, my lord,’ he wheezes.
    ‘It is? That’s good. Ah, Raymond. I saw your father when I was in Carcassone. He sends you his love.’ (Raymond lights up exactly like a candle.) ‘And here’s Durand. Have you mastered the Sixty-eighth Psalm yet, Durand?’
    Durand grins shyly. Bernard and Raymond laugh out loud. (It must be a standing joke.) The abbot bends down and lays a cracked, weathered hand on Gaubert’s shoulder. ‘You’ve grown,’ he says, whereupon Gaubert beams all over his squashed little face.
    ‘Have I?’ he stammers. ‘Have I really?’
    ‘You look bigger to me. Heavier, too. Hello, Bernard. I brought back some new music for the precentor – music from the north. I can’t wait to hear you sing it.’
    This is amazing. He really seems to know everyone. At Saint Joseph’s, Abbot Daimbert wouldn’t have recognised his own right foot, let alone a humble, snotty-nosed novice. Surely this can’t be genuine.
    ‘It’s Ademar, isn’t it?’ The abbot studies Ademar’s ravaged features closely. ‘We’ve met once before, I think. How are you settling in?’
    A long pause. Ademar looks down at his feet. He makes a strangled, croaking sound.
    Is he crying?
    ‘Ademar is making good progress,’ Clement suddenly remarks. ‘And here are our newest novices. Laymen, like Ademar. This is Roland Roucy de Bram –’
    ‘De Bram!’ the abbot exclaims. His voice is sharp with interest. ‘But you must be Lord Galhard’s son! His youngest!’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘I heard you went off to Jerusalem.’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’ Roland sounds very subdued. ‘But now I’ve come back.’
    ‘I’m glad you did. I must make some time to talk to you. So many strange things are being