We were informed that a legation was soon to leave Paris and that our mission was to accompany it. My master was to oversee the inquiry in a medical capacity and to ensure its equitable resolution. To this end we were given a letter with the king’s seal, and several archers were placed at our disposal, so that we might return with prisoners, if necessary.
The nature of our assignment, indeed our duty, became less clear to us, however, when the king drew my master aside and requested that we report to him before all others, even before our grand master, on our return from the monastery. Of course my master did not agree to this, for it would have been against the rule of our order. In his wisdom, however, he gave the impression that he would do as he was asked. Later, again, as we were leaving the palace, we were intercepted by the grand master, who appeared to be exceedingly anxious. He told us that it was most important that we not return to Paris at the conclusion of the hearings, but that we should await his orders . . .
What more can be said?
And so, I must confess that even this day I feel a flush of shame rise to my cheeks as I recall how I was taken by the Devil of curiosity. And as I sit here in my imposed exile, this shame is mingled also with another sentiment, that of longing. Longing for youth, excitement, and the smell of the mountains, and yes, a longing even for those feelings of uneasiness and foreboding.
So let us continue, patient reader, and digress no longer, for I must lend my unworthy faculties to angelic beings whose heavenly light illuminates the eons, and elucidates the dark annals of history. History is a temptress whose deception is food for the blind and comfort to the mercenary:
The story begins . . .
1
Capitulum
‘A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not; but knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth.’
Proverbs xiv 6
The journey from Paris to Languedoc was uneventful. The roads, built largely by the Romans, were well maintained because they were used by those merchants headed for the Provençal ports, and by the pilgrims making their way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.
Our party did not proceed directly, at times we diverged eastwards and once or twice it was possible to catch a glimpse of the sea. We reached Languedoc three weeks after our departure from Paris, and it was not a cheering sight that greeted us. It was a scarred and disfigured country and we travelled with watchful eye, wary of our own shadows, for even after so many years, the sword and the boot of the northern crusaders was evident.
Those not accustomed to these parts commented on the black remnants of burned farms, broken fences, crumbling bridges and deserted vineyards. They pointed at the weeds and thistles that overtook churches and everything of value. What people could be seen – miserable creatures, lean and scratching, wild as forest animals – would scatter on our approach, for our archers bore the flag of the inquisition. In their eyes I glimpsed the familiar terror, the sullen hopelessness, and dangerous desperation. They were truly men beyond hope, beyond heaven, and I prayed for their souls.
We travelled in a solemn, moody, silence, until we reached higher country, where there were fewer reminders of the devastation, and as we toiled through the landscape of steep gorges and narrow valleys, the retinue seemed to relax and my master began to ride a little ahead of me. His mount was a gallant Arabian horse Gilgamesh – named after the great Babylonian king. I travelled upon a mule whose name was Brutus because, as Plato tells us, names should show the nature of things as far as they can be shown – if they are to be real names.
Ahead, the prelates of the Papal Commission journeyed by carriage. I do not know which of us was more comfortable, for the awkward vehicle bounced on the stony road, throwing about its occupants. As we passed I dared to peer into its interior. Surrounded by cushions of satin and velvet sat firstly the inquisitor, hiding always behind his black cowl, suffering his discomfort in silence. Opposite him sat the Franciscan, with his head lolling from side to side and his thin lips emitting resonant snores. Bernard Fontaine, the Cistercian, sat next to him. As straight as the towers of Lebanon, his long face funereal, his unblinking eyes wide and staring, he seemed perfectly content in his misery. Only the Bishop of Toulouse, whose size made it exceedingly uncomfortable, attempted to relieve his distress by accompanying us upon his mule. I must confess to not being fond of him, for he was a man of volatile temper and boring conversation whose disposition was entirely dependent on the quantity of wine he consumed. Therefore, I cannot say that I was perturbed (God forgive me) when Brutus searched out the rump of his mule each time he neared us, going as far as giving it chase and consequently occasioning the bishop to topple off his saddle. I need not tell what commotion ensued, nor what terrible tempest of articulation was unleashed on all and sundry, whose only consolation was that it was followed (alas!) by the bishop’s return to the carriage, once and for all.
The hours passed slowly. Indeed I longed for the company of my friend the venerable Eisik, whom the bishop had authorised to accompany us by a special dispensation, now following behind the company because he was a Jew.
Observing him sitting atop his animal, stooping slightly as was his custom, his long grey beard and thinning hair blowing in the wind, one would have thought him of venerable age, but if one looked closer, one saw a much younger man in his brown, angled face, though it was indeed a face moulded by hardships endured, and years of persecution. I waved to him, but he did not see me, for between us numerous servants, notaries, scribes, and archers made up the entourage. They tagged along, talking among themselves in their vulgar tongues, laughing and jesting, making sure to keep well away from the Jew, united in their hatred.
This particular day had dawned crisp and clear after a bitterly cold night spent in a little priory at the foot of the mountains. The previous evening, after a sparse meal, the prior had told us the monastery of St Lazarus was troublesome to find. The road leading to it, he said in his dull slur, veered sharply through a tangled forest, and was impenetrable in the depths of winter due to the heavy falls of snow and subsequent avalanches. Similarly, in summer, the abundant rainfall, caused the access to become perilous; mud slides and other horrors were regular occurrences.
‘Who knows,’ whispered the drunken prior, ‘what heresies abound in the womb of secrecy? One dare not contemplate what abominations lurk behind its heinous walls.’ He directed a malevolent smile at me, pregnant with meaning, ‘Heresy!’
I slept little that night.
Early the following morning the inquisitor had made an announcement to the townspeople, seeking those with any information about the monastery and its practices to come forth on the date set for the inquiry. And so it was then, after all the arrangements had been made, that we set off for our long journey over the steep roads to the abbey.
We followed a lonely track, observing how ash, chestnut and beech trees were succeeded by oaks. Soon the strong scent of pines announced that we were approaching our destination. Above us, snow-covered peaks were lost in cloud, and not long before the sun had reached its highest point, a mist gathered around us, blocking out the thrilling blue of sky. Here and there patches of snow grew into a thick groundcover and presently we came to a junction dividing the road into four smaller roads that led in various directions.
The cavalcade came to a halt, with my master and others alighting from their horses for a better look around. Above and beyond, a milky haze obstructed our view. Of the four roads the middle road seemed the straightest, but what we could see looked thick with undergrowth covered by a deep layer of snow. To the right, another coursed its way perilously down the slope and disappeared below us. The left road was very steep and rocky. The last was no more than a track and headed directly up the incline.
There was terrible confusion among the various navigators (for there are always so many). The captain of the archers, a wise and usually sensible man, advised that we should take the lower road. The bishop, however, alighted from his carriage and demanded, since
he was an Italian and therefore more versed in the ways of mountains, that we should under no circumstance travel any other save the higher road. Others joined in and soon one man raised his voice against the other until there ensued an intense disagreement, with each voicing his opinion in a heated and discourteous manner.
The mountain is a changeable beast and without warning generated a wind that parted the mist and played with the ecclesiastical vestments of the retinue. Nervous and suspicious, the archers looked about them, having been taught to notice and react to the slightest thing, but the churchmen and the captain of the guard continued in argument, raising their voices higher and higher so as to be heard over the rustling of the trees. That was when, of a sudden, a gust swept our little party, taking the bishop’s skull cap from his head and sending it rolling forward into the middle road like a little wheel. Clutching at his exposed, tonsured head, the large man turned in dismay and took to running after the small black article, stumbling over the rocky ground, almost grasping the cap before another gust set it in motion.
From the corner of my eye I saw my master mount his Arabian. ‘It seems the bishop has taken matters into his own hand’, he said, signalling his animal forward in pursuit. Needless to say, in a general state of bewilderment, the retinue was forced to follow. Moments later the narrow path miraculously widened to a safe and level road, seemingly well kept despite a snow cover that, as it happened, turned out to be shallow.
‘A most astute choice,’ my master congratulated the bishop in his carriage.
The bishop’s round face peeped through the aperture and creased into an uncertain, pale smile, ‘Deus vult, deus vult,’ he nodded, ‘God wills it my son, God wills it.’
Presently Andre joined me at the back, allowing the captain of the guard to resume his position, and we rode in silence, hugging our cloaks for warmth. I refrained from asking any questions. It was he who spoke first, without turning in my direction.
‘Well . . . Have you learnt anything, Christian?’ he said.
I deliberated a moment. ‘That God works mysteriously, master?’
There was a long silence. The trees moved like living things around us and snow fell from the branches over our heads.
‘So this is what you have learnt?’ he said presently. ‘Ten years at my side and this is what you have learnt?’
‘Why?’ I retorted with indignation. ‘Is there more?’
He paused and his obedient animal paused also. He looked at me with mild irritation. ‘Have I not told you more times than I can count, Christian, that a good physician and a fine philosopher have much in common?’
‘But how does that . . .?’
‘That they both endeavour,’ he interrupted, ‘to establish a standard of perfection in their minds to which they can turn, and this I have been trying to teach you, but I can see it will require some attention. Would you like me to enlighten you?’
I sighed, knowing there was nothing else I could say, ‘I am ready, master.’
‘Good . . .’ He jiggled the reins and the horse obeyed. ‘Now firstly, what you should have learnt is the difference between knowledge and opinion. Knowledge and opinion . . .’
‘You infer that they are not always the same?’
‘An intelligent observation,’ he said smiling – though I suggest that he meant the opposite. ‘Knowledge we know to be eternal and immutable, am I right?’
‘And ignorance is the knowing of nothing,’ I added.
‘Precisely.’
‘All the same,’ I argued, ‘where does one place opinion?’
‘Opinion, Christian, fluctuates between the two states. Between what fully is and what absolutely is not, and so it is never reliable.’
‘But what has this to do with the wind and the road, master?’ I asked, exasperated, looking up at the strange clouds beyond the canopy of trees.
He popped some nuts into his mouth, chewed, and gazing upward shook his head, ‘At the cross-roads did we hear any expressions of knowledge? No, only opinions, estimations. Am I right?’
‘Yes, but I still do not understand what this has to do with –’
‘None of our esteemed colleagues, Christian, knew anything about these roads, never having travelled through this region before. And yet, each had so many fine opinions based on this and that, that and this . . . all erroneous.’
‘So it is lucky for us that the wind is wise, master,’ I said, knowing that the elements are celestial letters, signs through which God bespeaks his wisdom to man.
He gave me a sharp look, ‘And unfortunate for me that you are so stupid!’ I was glad the wind caught it before the others could hear. ‘You would try the patience of St Francis, boy! The wind had very little to do with it!’
‘No? Not even as an instrument of God?’
‘It was my own doing.’
‘It could be that you are his instrument,’ I answered.
‘Do not speak nonsense that is better left to senile theologians. I swear you are an exasperating boy! No. This morning before we left, while taking my usual walk I came across a merchant, a travelling man, whose knowledge of these roads is born of necessity. After a little polite and instructive conversation I learnt a little about the route we were about to undertake. He told me, and as we have seen quite rightly, to be on the lookout for a junction with only one possible course, the middle one. As it happens he had once found himself lost along this road and was given safe harbour by the very same monks of the monastery, of whom he spoke highly. Now do you see that there is no mystery to it? A good knight is always well informed, remember that, it may one day save your life. Where one finds one’s information is not important. What is important, however, is that one use the laws of observation, Christian, namely the God-given senses. Then one need never rely on opinion, or faith in miracles or any other such thing.’
‘I see . . . but tell me then, how did you know the wind would throw the bishop’s hat in the right path?’ I asked, trying to trip him up.
‘Christian . . .’ he sighed with impatience, but he was smiling for I believe he always felt a great pleasure in proclaiming his knowledge, ‘of course I did not know which way the hat would blow! Had it not been the wind I would have found some other pretext, that is all. That does not mean that we cannot thank the Lord for whatever aid he gives us.’
I must have had a look of amazement on my face because he laughed so loudly that others turned to look, but I eyed him suspiciously, ‘Why did you not just say that you knew the way?’
‘Ahh . . .’ he smiled a broad, white smile that wrinkled his brown face all the way to his eyes. ‘This is the lesson, the lesson is this! Prudence, dear boy, prudence! To be too confident of one’s own aptitude,’ he lowered his voice and I could hardly hear him, ‘especially in the company of those whose tendencies are to bull-headed vanity, is dangerous. Prudence begs that those whom we cannot instruct we must . . . direct. In other words, it is essential for a man to be tranquil and obscure.’
I was suddenly filled with a great admiration. ‘I see,’ I said proudly. ‘You had the knowledge while the others had only opinions, but they could not blame you for showing them up.’
‘Mashallah! – what God can accomplish! Now you have it! Know much, but disclose little – that’s a good axiom. Remember this in days to come, this too could save your life, for it is the usual case that those who hold opinions most strongly rarely know anything of the things they hold opinions about.’
So saying, we continued in silence, toiling for a long period in the worsening weather, and it was mid-afternoon and almost dark before we finally neared our destination.
Above our heads we encountered firstly the fortified battlements that ran along the exposed eastern side. In the gloom, they seemed imposing and ominous. Behind this rampart, a fortress of darkness was framed by a steep mountain whose gigantic snowy peaks were hidden under a blanket of cloud, and whose cold formation – thrust out of the earth perhaps by devils – loomed its stark, craggy
walls over the surrounding landscape. It communicated a solemn, fearful respect, and I decided (thinking again of the untold symbols through which God speaks to us) that it was a warning, a sign that we should turn back.
The air was turbulent and hugged the walls of the abbey, rushing past us in whistles and whines. I felt small looking to the pines that arched upwards forming a moving vault that was cathedral-like, and I was glad when at last we neared the gatehouse.
To the right of the great gates, I noticed that someone had started a small fire, and had constructed a crude shelter of dead branches that had as its support the stone wall. Some moments later, I saw the shape of a man gathering kindling not far from the encampment. I asked my master why this pilgrim or beggar had not been received at the abbey, thinking also how brave he was to be alone in the unwelcome shadow of the battlements with the elements raging around him.
‘I do not know, Christian,’ he replied and the wind stole it. ‘He does not seem to be a pilgrim, perhaps he is an aspirant novice who must, as is the custom, wait for some days outside the walls of the monastery before he is welcomed. The Apostle has said, ‘one must try the spirits, whether they are of God.’’
I shivered, it was indeed a harsh test.
We arrived at the monastery gates as the service of nones echoed from the chapel. The captain of the archers alighted, knocked hard on the doors of the great gates, and after some moments a pair of elderly eyes appeared from behind a small opening. The monk peered at us myopically and shouted, ‘Welcome in the name of the Lord God.’
An instant later the doors yielded, revealing the compound, indistinct beneath wind-stirred dust that made our animals irritable and nervous. And they were not the only ones, for as we crossed the stone flags of the threshold, a black raven perched on the arch let out three cries and I trembled, praying silently, trying to hide the fear that must surely have been evident on my face.
The abbot was at the gateway, the ascetic grey habit of his order flapping about him. He was a man of large proportions, and I am glad to say, possessed (for I was coming to expect the worst) of a pleasant face. He blessed each of us quickly in the customary fashion, said a short prayer to frustrate the wiles of the Devil and told us to follow him. ‘Storm!’ he shouted, pointing upwards at a blackened sky.
TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 2
