We headed with rapid steps for the main courtyard that led to the abbatial church. Here the compound was shaped in the form of a crescent, following the curve of the mountain. To the left of the church and facing south-east stood the cloister building, an imposing rectangular structure surmounted by a series of square battlements of austere stone. In it were housed the abbot’s rooms, cloisters and other facilities with the dormitories above. Further along I surveyed the stables rounding the curve of the compound’s perimeter, and a little ahead of this, nestled on the southerly side, sheltered from the northern squalls, was a patch of ground that I later learnt was the garden. To the north of the church, and spanning to the point where the mountain met the north-eastern wall, I observed the graveyard, appropriately in shadow for most of the year, and situated, wisely, near a building that could only be the infirmary.
The abbot led us through an aperture in the main building and we found ourselves in the cloisters where, away from the wind, he welcomed our party by quoting the words,
‘We have received, O Lord, in the midst of your temple.’
He made the sign of the cross, smiled and embraced us, and each man kissed the other, albeit timidly, in peace, he then accepted the pontiff’s letter, sealed with the papal seal, from Rainiero Sacconi.
He signalled his assistant to bring forth the jug and bowl and proceeded to wash the inquisitor’s hands and dry them carefully. ‘Your fame, my lord, has reached even as far our modest abbey, and we are honoured to have you as our guest.’
To which the inquisitor from the folds of his cowl replied, ‘We come in peace, in search of truth, for it is great and it prevails – Magna est veritas, et praevalet.’
The abbot turned to my master and sprinkled water over his hands. With a warm smile, as though meeting an old friend, he said almost in a whisper, ‘May the brotherhood dwell in you, preceptor,’ and in a louder voice, ‘I am always elated at seeing a member of the Templar Order, especially one whose skill in the medicinal arts precedes him. Our infirmarian will be delighted. No doubt many erudite conversations will ensue in the coming days. Also, I am bound to ask you if the king is well? I hear his health has been compromised by the infidel?’
‘To the contrary,’ my master answered jovially, ‘he seems to be in good spirits and appears to be enjoying fine health, your grace.’
‘Oh! How I am gladdened!’ the abbot exclaimed with genuine warmth. ‘He is a good man and a fine knight . . . Even in our seclusion we hear things of importance . . . You are welcome to remain with us as long as is your wish.’
Finally, the abbot also washed Eisik’s hands, an action that impressed me a great deal, but caused the inquisitor and the bishop to bless themselves and exchange looks of disbelief, the Cistercian to glare with indignation, and the Franciscan to say a paternoster.
So it was that after the ritual the abbot entrusted us to the care of the hospitaller who was to take us to our quarters.
The hospitaller told us that our cells were situated in the pilgrims’ hospice, connected to the infirmary by another building, all facing the main courtyard, and merging with the body of the eastern wall. The inquisitor and his colleagues would be housed in the main cloister building, closer to the abbot’s own quarters, and thankfully some distance away from us.
My cell had a window overlooking the compound. My master’s, on the other hand, faced east and had a wonderful view over the mountains and the valleys beyond. To my surprise he seemed unhappy with this arrangement, and asked to change cells with me. I agreed readily, but the hospitaller was a little concerned.
‘I have been instructed,’ he shook his head. ‘This is most unusual –’
‘My dear brother,’ my master answered, a little irritated, ‘it concerns me not if the cell is smaller and other such things, I merely wish to have my window face the compound and not the external world, which I find a distraction.’
The hospitaller nodded his approval. ‘So it is, so it is . . . If one could only ignore external things, oh!’ he sighed. ‘What a blissful place the world would be then, preceptor,’ adding hastily, ‘but the wine?’
‘The wine?’ My master raised a brow.
‘Yes . . . the honey wine, our specialty. Every room is graced with one flask, that is, with the exception of the novices, of course, though we only have two, and that is a good thing’, he gave me a sideways glance, ‘for the young have no control over their urges; they drink wine as if it were water, they eat too much, and they are filled with pride.’
‘I see,’ my master smiled with amusement. ‘I do not partake of liquor, dear brother, so you may take it away.’
He stared at my master as if he had not understood him. ‘No liquor?’ he said with a vacuous mouth. ‘None at all, preceptor?’
‘Not a drop these days.’ He patted his middle, the circumference of which had increased of late.
The man hesitated a moment longer and left us with a frown, returning again in a mood of agitation because he had omitted to advise us that after the service there would be a dinner in the refectory, in honour of the legate. Having said this, he rushed off into the cold night, talking to himself as old men do.
My room was sparse, but comfortable. My pallet was constructed of wood, fashioned into a crude frame and filled with clean, fragrant straw. I had one sheepskin for warmth, and the only light came from a lantern attached to the wall by iron clasps, a luxury extended only to guests. The abbey monks would have no light in their cells.
In the centre of the small room a large vessel had been filled with warm water. This, too, was a rare pleasure, and I must admit that the thought of it made one instantly glad. I said a small prayer thanking the Lord that this abbey did not follow that aspect of the Benedictine rule which forbade regular bathing, for I had become very accustomed to it in the East.
I sat heavily on my pallet, feeling an overwhelming weariness. From my cell window I could see only a strange greyness. I stood and found that I could look down on the forest, now almost completely in shadow, to see directly below my window smoke coming from the fire at the encampment we had seen on our way to the abbey. I shuddered with cold, thinking of the poor pilgrim as I prepared for my bath. I said a short prayer that this night would not be too cold for him, shed my road-soiled clothes, and immersed my broken body into the grateful warmth. And, having resolved that I must be exceedingly tired, I set out to prove my hypothesis by falling into a deep and contented sleep.
2
Capitulum
Prior to Vespers
I awoke to the sound of a loud knock. Still in the bath, my head dull, I realised that I was very nearly frozen. I dressed in the habit provided me by the fine monks of the abbey, and in haste opened the door to reveal my master standing before me, his foot tapping the ground and his face contorted into a scowl.
‘Come, boy,’ he remonstrated. ‘What have you been doing? You look like a plucked chicken. Have you been sleeping?’ He searched my face, and I nodded, uncertain of his response.
‘Well, good for you.’ He smiled then, and slapped me on the back. ‘There will be little sleep these coming nights, for we must be prepared to make our inquiries at the oddest hours, at the same time attempting to follow the customs of the abbey. Come, we must conduct our preliminary inspections before dark.’
‘But where are we going, master?’ I asked, following him outside, unaccustomed to the long habit that, because of the wind, became entangled around my legs with each step. ‘Must I wear this . . .?’
‘Is your head a sieve, boy?’ he spoke as he so often did, loudly. ‘What did I just say?’
‘That we must follow the customs of the abbey,’ I answered. Not mentioning, of course, that he, on the other hand, continued to wear the uniform of the order. Instead, I merely followed him, trying to keep up with his short, though exceedingly brisk strides, as we walked past the graveyard.
‘Just one moment.’ He paused, casting his gaze over the graves. Having satisfied some unspoken que
stion he continued as before, and I followed him as we came upon the body of the cloisters. He said something, and I did not at first realise that he was speaking to me, for he was looking away, as though addressing an unseen person.
‘The rere dorter . . .’
‘Master?’
‘In answer to your previous question, Christian, before anything else, I need to attend to the call of nature and so our first hunt will be for the rere dorter, the latrines . . .’ He looked up at the building. ‘The dormitories are likely to be situated on the second level, and following the Cistercian model, so too the lavatory. However, it will not surprise me if we find that there is another lavatory on the ground level, that is, somewhere just off the cloisters and close to the refectory, for old monks have weakened bladders . . . now where is the aperture? Here we are . . .’
We emerged from the same arched doorway through which we had earlier entered the cloisters with the abbot, situated on the left side of the church, just after a small architectural projection. In the dimly lit east walk, a monk with a taper was lighting the great torches that here and there provided some relief from gloom.
‘Benedicamus Domino,’ the brother intoned as we passed.
My master answered, ‘Deo gratias.’
The cloisters, usually a hive of activity, were deserted. With the exception of the brother – who we later learnt was the master of music – we seemed to be alone. We made our way around the central garth or courtyard whose low walls were surmounted by arches. It had snowed only a little these last days, and here and there one could see a patch of dead ground around the fountain which, as was customary, marked the garth’s central point.
We walked hastily past the scriptorium and the numerous carrels housed in the northern cloister alley, and at the apex, where the west aisle met the south walk, we found the rere dorter, just where my master had said it would be. Here we entered into a long central passage with individual cabinets on one of its sides for privacy. The other side housed the baths. Both led to a great fire whose warmth was a comfort to my cold bones. And as he relieved himself my master told me that cleanliness was very important to Cistercians. They always built near a good source of water, he said, which they redirected to suit their purposes in much the same way as the Romans. As was the custom, the stream or body of water was diverted to run beneath the cookhouse or kitchen, and downstream it would flow beneath the rere dorter, carrying the refuse out of the monastery into the great unknown. I thought this an exceedingly wise plan, until my master also added. ‘But you don’t want to be a cook when the wind changes, my boy!’
My master also noted that in this abbey the monks must have made use of an underground stream fed by snows from the towering mountains. And as we re-entered the cloisters, he concluded in a whisper, ‘Now we know there is a web of tunnels and channels running beneath the abbey, because if the rere dorter is situated here, in the south-west, and the kitchen . . .’ he pointed in the direction of delicious smells, ‘is situated there in the south-east and, of course, downstream . . . it stands to reason that there must be more than one channel with more than one exit out of the abbey. Otherwise you would have a stream running uphill.’
‘And what significance do you apply to this?’ I asked.
‘Where there is smoke there is a pyre. Or more importantly, where there are channels there must also be tunnels . . . naturally. Come . . . next we must inspect the church.’
Still trying to understand the relevance of his statement I found myself leaving the cloisters and entering the church through the south transept door. Immediately, the sweet pungent smell of incense assailed my nostrils and, God forgive me, I sneezed.
Inside a young acolyte was attending to the sacred vessels and church ornaments, in preparation for the forthcoming service. He turned, searching for the source of the disruption, and upon seeing us, returned to his work, but not before giving us a look of disdain. We were, after all, part of a legation sent here to condemn their community. I would no doubt feel the same if I were he.
We walked past the high altar, crossing ourselves devoutly, and paused for a moment before the rose window as a beautiful shaft of afternoon light pierced the gloom. It illuminated infinite indissoluble particles that, aroused by the daystar’s caress, swirled around us in a dance of joy and gladness. For light we know not only chases away darkness but also death, and so I felt a little better than I had felt all week, following this light which even now waned slightly, directing us, it seemed, to the pulpitum – or screen, that sequestered the sanctuary from the eyes of the lay community. It was behind it, unseen, that monks took their places during the services, in the choir stalls that were made of carved wood on bases of stonework, with high ornamented canopied backs. Inside there were hinged seats, wisely constructed so as to enable a tired monk to sit, thankfully (though unofficially), through a long service. At the eastern end there was a lectern of brass in the shape of an eagle with spread wings on which music books were placed. Here there was also a seat for the master of music and beside it a more ornate seat for the officiating priest or abbot. To the west of the stalls were the presbytery and the high altar, and the shrine. There on the floor before the sacred space a monk, we realised, was speaking to us, but his voice was muffled for he was lying face down as though dead, his arms spread out so that his body formed the shape of a cross. We had not discerned his form when we had stood at the altar, for his habit was grey like the floor, and we had been taken by the daystar’s blessing, and so I was startled.
‘Is somebody there?’ we heard his muffled inquiry. ‘If you are the Devil, be on your way. If you are goodly men help this poor old monk up from this cursed floor!’
My master went to the man, and helped him easily to his feet. He seemed ancient, with a dry wrinkled face whose pale eyes would have been very frightening if they did not also exude a certain gentle warmth.
‘Ohh! My bones ache!’ He squinted, sniffing us. ‘I am brother Ezekiel . . . who, in God’s name, are you?’ ‘I am the Templar preceptor, venerable Ezekiel, and to your right is my young apprentice, Christian.’
He sought me with his hands and, finding my face, at once began to explore it with cold fingers. I tried not to recoil at his touch but was startled out of my wits when he gasped suddenly, feeling for his heart with one hand and reaching into his scapular with the other, retrieving something from it, which he placed in his toothless mouth. It must have had some beneficial effect, for he wiped the sticky residue from his lips, and continued a little calmer than before.
‘A Templar preceptor . . . you say?’ he blinked, peering at me. ‘Your boy is remarkably like . . . Are we in the . . .? No . . . during . . .? Oh!’ he cried exasperated. ‘Where is Setubar?’ Very slowly then, in a circumspect tone, ‘I suppose you have come about the antichrist whose countenance lurks within these lamentable walls?’
My master smiled, ‘No, venerable Ezekiel, we have come to advise the inquiry.’
‘Oh! Inquiry?’ He drew even closer, grabbing my master’s vestments, his sweet breath making feathery phantoms in the cold air. ‘Where is Setubar? Is he about?’
My master narrowed his eyes, ‘Who is Setubar?’
‘Is he about? ‘ the man pressed, wringing his hands.
‘We are alone, brother,’ my master answered.
‘Then I can tell you. That is, if you are a Templar . . .’ He felt for the cross stitched to my master’s habit and brought his eyes very close to it. Immediately he smiled with satisfaction and his eyes filled with tears. ‘It has been many years . . . There is little time, so listen to my words . . . in these sacred walls there are men who . . .’ he paused, squeezing his eyes shut as though to say these words caused him pain. ‘There are men who are wedded to error, men seduced by the Devil! Yes, impossible, you say? But it is true, the days of the antichrist are finally at hand, preceptor . . . We have seen our first martyr.’
‘I saw the new grave,’ my master remarked.
The old man
winced and placed both hands over his eyes. ‘The Devil will kill us all!’
At that moment, from out of the shadows of the south ambulatory, the figure of a cowled monk appeared whose bent form moved toward us in a peculiar fashion. After some moments he reached us, and taking the old man’s hand in his he spoke, in a gruff German accent, ‘Brother Ezekiel, you have graced the Lord with your prostrations long enough.’
‘Setubar . . .!’ Ezekiel gasped. ‘I was telling the preceptor about . . . about . . . the antichrist . . .’
‘I see . . .’ the man nodded his head, ‘but he has existed, my friend, for thousands of years, and we have only moments to ready for the service, now come,’ he said. Then, placing the man’s hand on his arm and turning in our direction, so that we only caught sight of a wrinkled chin and toothless smile, he added, ‘If we let him, dear guests, he would lie prostrate all day . . . so dedicated to our Lord is our dear brother.’
‘Ahh!’ the old man was suddenly irritated. ‘The floor was colder than the crypts at Augustus. The Lord is not with us today. As you know, the antichrist roams the abbey.’
‘The antichrist is everywhere, dear brother, that is precisely why he is so formidable an opponent . . . now come,’ Setubar coaxed paternally.
‘No . . . no . . . you must tell the preceptor about him . . . tell him!’ He coughed then as though something had caught in his throat. ‘He is a Templar, Setubar . . . they are here!’ There was a desperation in his voice that the German brother tried to mask, by placing an arm over Ezekiel’s shoulders and directing him away from us hastily. ‘Come, you are tired. I shall take you to your cell.’
TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 3
