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clearly.’
    Oh hell. Now we’re caught. What are we going to do? Roland shakes off my hand, and steps out of the shadows. The circator moves forward with his lantern raised.
    It’s Aeldred, the almoner. Reddish hair, snub nose, narrow shoulders. I’ve seen him in church.
    ‘Who are you?’ he says. ‘I don’t know you.’
    ‘I am Roland Roucy de Bram. A new novice. This is Pagan Kidrouk.’
    ‘Oh yes, of course. I remember now. The new novice.’
    He looks half asleep: his pale eyes are bleary, his thin hair tousled. His face is creased into lines of irritation and discontent. But I suppose the night watch must be a pretty unpleasant job, even if it only falls to you once or twice a season.
    ‘What are you doing out here at this time of night?’ he says. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
    Roland opens his mouth to reply. Oh no you don’t, Roland. This is where I cut in.
    ‘He was taking me to the infirmary.’ Cough, cough. Swaying a little. Think sick, Pagan. Think cow manure and rotten cabbage. ‘I’m feeling ill, Father. I think I’m going to vomit.’
    The almoner steps back a pace. ‘Is that true?’ he asks Roland, eyeing me warily. Roland hesitates.
    ‘No,’ he says at last.
    No? No ? Roland, what are you doing?
    ‘Pagan is not ill,’ he continues. ‘We were just having a talk.’
    ‘You should both be in bed.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘I’ll have to report this to Brother Clement.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    Roland! In God’s name, are you mad? It would have worked, I tell you! The man’s half asleep!
    ‘Well then, back to your dormitory. And don’t come out again until the bell rings.’
    ‘No, Father.’
    ‘And no more talking.’ He puts his hand over his own mouth, a little guiltily. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking myself. Misereri mei, Domine. Go in peace.’
    Roland! Wait! Following him to the door. Catching up on the doorstep. Grabbing his arm.
    He stops, turns, shakes his head. Makes the sign for silence: forefinger on the lips, drawn up and down. Oh you fool, you fool! Now we’re going to be cooked on a spit! But he won’t talk. He won’t even listen. He hurries back to bed and climbs under the covers.
    In God’s name, Roland, where do you think you are? Do you really believe that a monastery is so different from anywhere else? Do you really believe that monks don’t lie? Of course they lie, when they have to. Especially when it’s not going to do any harm!
    Christ in a cream cheese sauce, don’t you understand? No matter where you might be, you’ve simply got to look out for yourself.
    Because no one else is going to.

Chapter 6
    W ell, this is fun. This is a great way to spend a morning. So, Pagan, how exactly did you learn to be a monk? Oh, I spent a lot of time lying face down on the church floor with my arms stretched out. Really? And what was that supposed to teach you? Oh, it was supposed to teach me not to sneak around the abbey at night.
    But no, that’s not quite true. Enforced silence was supposed to teach me not to sneak around the abbey. Lying flat on the floor was supposed to teach me not to tell falsehoods. Roland got away with a day of silence because he told the truth. But liars like me belong flat on the floor with our arms stretched out.
    Anyway, I’m glad Roland isn’t doing this. I’m glad he escaped this particular little lesson. After all, I was the one who dragged him outside.
    Footsteps approaching. Who’s this? I thought all the monks were at chapter. Turn my head and – whoops! Look out!
    ‘Oaagh!’ The feet stop, just in time. They’re not monk’s feet, either, because I can see brown stockings above the boots. ‘By the bees of Saint Ambrose! What are you doing down there?’
    Craning my neck to see who it is. Yes, it’s a servant. Young and grubby, with long black hair and a ripe-looking nose squashed all over his face. Blackheads the size of fortified hill-towns.
    Probably safe to speak.
    ‘I’m hugging the floor, what does it