Pagan's Vows by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online

this down to here.’
    What?
    ‘You can start reading now,’ he continues, ‘and I’m going to ask you questions about it tomorrow.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘You will have some reading time until Sext, and another spell of reading after supper. That will be ample.’
    He slams the book shut, and pushes it into my hands. Oof! The size of it! The weight of it! All those hundreds and hundreds of words!
    ‘But Father –’
    ‘No excuses.’ He bares his withered gums at me. (Is it a smile, or is he gnashing his tooth?) ‘I know that a brilliant scholar like you won’t have any trouble,’ he says. ‘And if you do, remember what it tells us in Chapter Sixty-eight of Saint Benedict’s Rule: “If anything hard or impossible be enjoined on a brother, let him receive the injunctions in all obedience”.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘No excuses, Pagan.’

Chapter 7
    C ome on, Boethius, we’re going for a little stroll. Quietly, now. Quietly. Let’s not disturb any of the sleepers. Past Roland’s bed. Past Raymond’s. Past the snoring Clement. All the way to the door.
    Carefully pulling it open. Slowly, slowly . . . A little creak. (Please don’t wake up!) Holding my breath as we slip through the narrow space: just me, myself and Boethius. It’s a tight fit, but we manage somehow.
    God preserve us, I can’t see a thing! Where’s this damned gate? Off to the right, somewhere. Follow the path . . . and here it is. Groping around for the bar, which is as big as a battering ram. By the balls of Baal, I’m going to break my back, lifting this thing! Damn you, Boethius, why do you have to be so big? If you were a nice quick read I wouldn’t have to risk a rupture.
    Dropping Boethius. Struggling with the bar, as Boethius lounges there by the footpath, watching. Squeak. Scrape. Crunch. Please God, don’t let anybody hear. Laying the bar on a bed of mint, under the leaves where the circator won’t see it. Picking up Boethius and squeezing through the gate.
    Let’s see, now. Where am I? That big, dim lump over there must be the stables. (Stay away from those.) Striking out to the left, hugging the wall, hugging Boethius, looking for the kitchens. Almost running head first into the almonry. God, but it’s dark! I feel just like a cockroach.
    If it wasn’t for you, Boethius, I’d be snuggled up in bed, right now. But I’m not going to let old Needle-nose get the better of me. I’m going to learn this text off by heart, even if I have to kill myself doing it. Wait a moment. What’s that up there? Some kind of light . . .
    Ah, of course. That must be the infirmary window. So if I turn the next corner, and keep to the wall, I’ll end up on the kitchen doorstep. Perfect. I knew I could do it. Let’s just hope Roquefire isn’t a heavy sleeper.
    Past the almonry door, past a scented rose bush. Stubbing my toe on a rock, God curse it. And what’s that noise? What’s that noise, up ahead? It sounds like – it sounds like
    – Someone slipping out of the kitchen.
    Who in the world could it be? A dim form in long skirts, holding a flickering candle. A face, bent over the candle-flame: smooth, round, with small features and a high forehead.
    A woman’s face.
    ‘Hoi! Woman!’
    She stops. She’s terrified. Is she going to faint? Yes. No. She’s clutching something against her chest, and whimpering like a puppy.
    On second thoughts, she’s not a woman. She’s just a girl.
    ‘Who are you?’ Stepping forward to block her path. ‘What are you doing, here? You shouldn’t be here.’
    She shrinks back. ‘S-Saurimunda,’ she whispers.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Saurimunda. I am Saurimunda.’
    ‘What’s that you’re holding?’ (Something to eat, I’ll bet.) Her face crumples; she begins to cry.
    ‘I didn’t steal it,’ she groans. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t steal it–’

‘What is it?’
    ‘Sugar.’ Roquefire’s voice, low and husky. He’s standing just inside the kitchen door, with a lamp in his hand. ‘It’s loaf sugar. I