TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  The abbot looked disheartened and his usually ruddy cheeks paled. ‘But Asa tells me the examination was inconclusive, and revealed no evidence of foul play?’

  ‘And he was quite right, it was inconclusive.’

  ‘Then why do you . . .?’

  ‘There are only so many ways a person can die, your grace. Last night I was able to make an assumption on the basis of certain undeniable signs. Firstly, the nature of the old brother’s death was not from some violent external event, this is plain. Secondly, although he seems to have had an ailment for some time, his behaviour in the church – that is, the paralysis, the abdominal pain, and so on, point to other causes. It is my belief, having seen the effects of such things in the past, that he was poisoned and therefore murdered.’

  The other man looked a little amazed. ‘But the infirmarian was unable to tell me what substance could have occasioned death, if indeed you are correct in your summation of events.’

  ‘That is because there are an untold number of poisons or even combinations of poisons that leave no trace whatever.’

  ‘Brother Setubar believes otherwise. Strange that you seem to be at variance on such a simple matter.’

  ‘Simple things are often surprising in their complexity, your grace, but at this point, my personal opinion differs from his and nothing more. Moreover, if I may, there are other concerns . . . of a delicate nature, which we must now broach.’

  The abbot became tense, and a little vein over his eye bulged slightly. ‘Other concerns?’

  ‘I do not wish to cast a shadow of suspicion on the poor soul of the deceased, your grace, but these circumstances demand that I imagine the unimaginable, so I must ask the question, as painful as it is to utter the words, namely, had you any reason to doubt his faith?’

  The abbot looked at my master for a long time, then answered his question with another question, ‘Why would you think such a thing?’

  My master smiled a little, ‘It is never an easy thing, suspicion.’

  ‘What do you suspect, preceptor?’ he asked.

  ‘It is a delicate matter.’

  The abbot shook his head. ‘Brother Ezekiel was a man of pious confession, a dedicated, holy man . . .’ He looked at me with narrow eyes. ‘Might I speak with you alone?’

  ‘Dear abbot, my scribe is bound to me by oath, he is like a son, there is nothing that he will divulge without my permission.’

  The abbot huffed a begrudging assent, but I could see he was not convinced of my prudence.

  ‘Then I shall be frank with you,’ he continued quietly. ‘For some time now, it has become apparent, preceptor, that something sinister lurks in God’s house. And although I have not been able to discern its nature, I have been aware of its existence.’

  ‘The wisest thing then, your grace, might be to inform the inquisitor,’ my master answered.

  ‘You know what that could mean, preceptor. You are a man whose wisdom understands the delicate nature of our situation, and I seek your help, and your prudence, not only because it is your duty to place them at my disposal, but also because it is in your nature that you must do so.’

  My master’s face hardened, but his voice remained warm and solicitous. ‘My duty is to remain equitable and unbiased, to see that the inquiry is carried out with fairness. That is all.’

  ‘And yet have you not questioned why the king has sent a Templar on such a mission? Come now, a man of your estimative capacities?’

  ‘As a knight I have an autonomous disposition.’

  ‘And who better to blame if things go wrong? Come now, we both know the tide is turning against your order. We are not the only ones in peril, preceptor, and so I beseech you, do not go to the inquisitor with your suspicions, at least not until you have verification of their exactitude.’

  ‘If this is your wish, I shall endeavour to follow it.’

  The abbot led us out of the cloisters through the small aperture that opened out to the outer courtyard. The sky looked turbulent and grey now, and the sun could be discerned only vaguely, somewhere in the east.

  ‘It would be of benefit to all concerned if such things could be arrested before . . .’ he shook his head, ‘before . . . I dare not say it.’

  ‘But have you considered that I might, in the course of my investigations, uncover something that is in any case doubtful?’

  ‘That has occurred to me, and I admit that under other circumstances I would not desire such an intrusion. But with the inquisitor’s presence in our midst we are faced with difficult decisions. After all, we are brothers . . .’

  ‘We are all brothers since the fall of Adam, your grace, but I must point out that nothing can influence the course of justice.’

  ‘No, indeed it should not,’ the abbot agreed, ‘but a matter can be handled delicately or indelicately, preceptor.’

  We followed the abbot in uneasy silence, meditating on his last words. He led us to the highest point of the compound, near the graveyard. From this vantage one could see over the walls to the mountains that rolled eastward whose form could be seen faintly. We stood gazing out and for a brief moment the clouds above us parted, and through them a shaft of light descended over the abbey in a mystic blessing. For the first time since our arrival I saw the rugged mountains that towered above and beyond in majestic peaks and chasms. Undulating northward, they touched the sky’s vast canvas only a little where clouds, suddenly arrested by the unearthly stillness, reached down from the heavens to caress mortality.

  ‘From this great height,’ the abbot said, ‘one observes creation as a whole in all its generalities, raised above petty particulars to witness the boundless. Sometimes it is best to see things from a distance, to look at the whole rather than the part, the universal rather than the singular. We must look beyond ourselves and what we don’t understand, preceptor, in order to see things clearly.’

  ‘Sometimes that is so,’ my master answered.

  The sun disappeared then, behind the clouds, casting a gloom over us like a delicate shroud, and once again we were broaching dangerous things.

  ‘You and I, preceptor, have much in common, united by the divine light of St Bernard. That is why I come to you now. Not because I wish to distort the course of God’s heavenly justice (His authority will prevail despite our human machinations), but because there is much in the balance . . . You must not misunderstand me. Like you, I believe that to die in God’s name is perhaps the most glorified sacrifice, and if there is suffering all the more so! But it is not death that I fear, preceptor . . . because as Ecclesiastes tells us, we must praise the dead who are already dead more than the living who are yet alive. What I fear, I cannot tell you. Such words my mouth dare not utter. I request that you seek what must be sought, before even greater catastrophes befall us.’

  ‘Perhaps there is something else that impels you to seek my service in this desperate manner?’ My master paused a moment. ‘Perhaps this is not the first death under similar circumstances?’

  Suddenly the abbot was robbed of the composure suitable to a man of his station. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Why, you have told me yourself,’ my master said calmly to the measure of the other man’s distress.

  ‘Do not play games with me, brother!’

  ‘I do not mean to be impertinent, your grace, however yesterday you were clearly reserved when I asked if I could question the monks and inspect the abbey, and yet today you are most anxious that I do that very thing. In the first instance you behaved like a man who wished to hide something, in the second, like a man who knows there is no hope that it will not be discovered. My conclusions are only logical.’

  There was an uneasy silence.

  ‘But how could you know?’

  ‘It is simple. You see, I noticed the fresh grave in the cemetery from my cell window the day of our arrival. Later I saw that, inscribed on the small cross above it, was the name Samuel. When I mentioned it to Brother Ezekiel, he was very fearful, saying the words ‘The Dev
il will kill us all’. Your reaction, abbot, merely served to seal my hypothesis.’ My master cleared his throat. ‘In light of this I assume that you will give me permission to access the tunnels?’

  ‘Tunnels?’ The abbot was like a vessel assailed by one great wave after another.

  ‘The tunnels below the abbey, your grace .’

  ‘The catacombs beneath the church are not to be approached. The tunnels that lead to them are very old and perilous and I have forbidden their use.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that you do. As abbot of this monastery I absolutely forbid you to enter upon this subject again.’ His feathers truly ruffled, he tried to regain his composure by smoothing his grey habit over his ample belly. ‘In any case,’ he continued in a moderate tone, ‘the combinations have been forgotten, and so it is for the best. Let the bones of the dead lie unmolested, they can do nothing to help you in your search.’

  ‘May I at least attempt to . . .’

  ‘Brother . . . brother, please!’ he pleaded. ‘There you will only find rats, but you will not, I assure you, find murderers. In any event, let us not frighten this poor child with talk of old bones, and tunnels. Many monasteries have catacombs and ossuaries below their abbeys. These passages are old, and I fear for your safety.’

  ‘However, your grace,’ my master insisted, ‘I know of no monasteries where a murderer roams its hallowed halls, committing unspeakable acts against its community of monks.’

  Suddenly the abbot turned to me, without answering my master. ‘Do you like gems, my young and handsome scribe?’

  I admitted that I did.

  ‘Here then, you must have this as a gift.’ He handed me a most curious rock, warmed by his touch, obviously a favourite. ‘Have you not seen one before? It is a tiger’s eye, a most exquisite specimen from the alpine mountains. The sword of St Michael.’

  ‘The sword of St Michael?’ I asked, holding the stone in the palm of my hand, appreciating its smooth texture.

  ‘Yes, dear boy.’ The abbot bestowed his smile on me from his great height. ‘The yellow colour comes from the content of iron in the stone. The iron sword of St Michael that will one day vanquish the Devil, and banish him to the bowels of the earth!’

  I became so thoroughly shaken that I dropped the gemstone to the ground. Why I should have felt this way I cannot say. My master gave me a bewildered look, and scooping it up in his large, powerful hand, returned it to me.

  ‘Yes, by heavens!’ The abbot laughed. ‘It has startled you. Hold it tightly, for there is a power that lies hidden within, concealed until the day it can be revealed. But we must not forget that nature intends this to be so. Her secrets are not be divulged without a great effort. God commands that in order to see the heavenly, one must acquire heavenly eyes. And so it is the foundation of our life that we speak only when necessary, and like nature, remain prudently silent about those things not yet to be revealed. Like a stone by the wayside.’ He smiled warmly at me. ‘You will not divulge our conversation to the members of the legation, will you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I assure you that my squire is loyal.’

  ‘Ahh, but the young are filled with great enthusiasm for noble deeds, preceptor, and this means that sometimes they are not discriminating. Dissimulation is a virtue taught at the school of experience; why should a young man have acquired it when he is only too eager to trust anyone because he has not himself been deceived by others? But I am not saying that we must be deceitful, no. Only that we must draw an honest veil over things meant for the ears of gods and not for the ears of those who would distort their essence. As a Templar you appreciate my position. Your order guards its secrets zealously. Also, having survived the ill-fated battle of Mansourah, the consequences of which have seen your order under some suspicion, you must know how easily things can be distorted. Such things can only result in nothing less than tragedy.’

  ‘And as a Templar,’ my master said, ‘I give you my word that I will see to it that this is a fair inquiry, your grace.’

  ‘Come now, preceptor, the purpose of an ecclesiastical trial is not to establish the objective truth, we both know that it only exists to obtain a confession and to mete out punishment.’

  Was there truth in his words? I sensed that my master felt there was. ‘Lord abbot, you ask for my help, but if I am to help you, I must know everything, I must have access to the entire monastery.’

  ‘Impossible! I have told you all I can. I believe you are a capable man, and what you know should be enough. Do not ask me any more questions. There is a seal over my lips no earthly man may break. You must remember that without death one cannot rejoice in the living, without the one perfect work, one cannot reach the final conclusion. This is our main concern, dear brother, all the rest is meaningless.’ There was a momentary flash of defiance in his eyes and he turned, headed for the church, a grey figure in the vast greyness of the compound.

  After this conversation, we followed in the abbot’s footsteps but only as far as the graveyard. Here, my master became seized by a demon of motion. He paced between the crosses with his short legs, making little gestures with his hands, nodding now and then. I had seen him like this before and I knew he was in turmoil, caught in the chaos of opposing winds, so I waited for this mood to pass, watching him from the steps that led to the graves. It was very cold and I drew my cowl low over my face, huddling, shivering in my draughty attire. To keep from freezing, I drew my chin inside the collar of my scapular and blew warm air into my vestments, but this almost immediately turned to ice. I placed my hands deep into the wide sleeves, hugging my arms, but the wind had picked up and found its way to my bones through any unguarded opening. I considered a casual comment about the state of the weather, but thought better of it. Indeed, I feared my master’s icy glare more than the icicles collecting on my nose. I looked up instead, at the sky’s milky grey, only a patch here and there of very faint blue. It smelt like snow, I could almost taste it. Soon my feet would turn purple, indeed they were very numb. Oh, misery, I thought while I waited. Why couldn’t my master think equally well in the warmth of the kitchen with a hot glass of milk in his hands? Further off, in the direction of the stables, I noticed the inquisitor shadowed by the bishop. They were going about the monastery asking questions of the monks. They stole glances in our direction and I wished that they were not seeing my master pacing up and down among the graves like a madman, for I believe they grinned, both shaking their heads as they walked off. A moment later Andre paused, remaining very still, and then walked resolutely in my direction.

  ‘It is decided,’ he said finally.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘I have made a decision, God help me, not an easy one, but a decision, nonetheless.’

  ‘May I ask what it is concerning?’

  ‘No, you may not. Now, I want you to go and find some refreshment in the kitchen, bring me an apple or something. In the meantime I will find the dead brother’s room. I want to inspect it before the start of the hearing.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll find anything significant? Surely the inquisitor’s men must have conducted their own search?’

  ‘Therefore it is my hope that I will find something insignificant,’ he said, ‘because it annoys me to keep reminding you that it is the insignificant thing – that which may have escaped the eyes of the inquisitor’s men – that may prove very significant to you and me.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘Good. I shall see you soon. Do not eat excessively . . . and do not be late!’

  Thus he left me in contemplation of his foul temper, and the wisdom that directed my mother to leave me in the care of a madman. And yet, I consoled myself, I was given a moment of liberty, so I headed for the cookhouse, deciding that I would take the entrance from the garden. As I rounded the body of the cloister buildings tantalising aromas immediately assailed me and suddenly I forgot all my previous inconveniences and thought how good and kind my mas
ter was.

  The cook, Rodrigo Dominguez de Toledo, was a giant, with big hands, and feet so enormous they poked through his ill-fitting sandals. He was a Spaniard of cheerful countenance, and of friendly disposition. So it was that as I entered the threshold of the kitchen he greeted me with a deep resonant voice and led me to an enormous table in the centre of the room where, amid a bustle of activity, he bade me to sit down and promised to prepare me a fine repast.

  ‘Nothing but the best of foods for a guest!’ he said, slapping me very hard on the back.

  While I waited, I observed as numerous assistants under his vigilant eye prepared the meal. I mused that they looked much like infantry about to launch a cavalry charge on a mighty enemy, hence the preponderance of nervous energy, the quick pallid exchanges, and the sudden quiet loss of temper.

  The kitchen was rectangular, with its two storeys buttressed by surmounting arches on all sides. The massive fire, dominated by a stone chimney, stood at the northern end, and this was the source of the delicate aromas that escaped through the adjacent door to the cloisters. A large hatch on the west wall opened onto the refectory whose strange position at right angles to the cloister was characteristic of Cistercian monasteries. The larder and buttery both had hatches on the eastern side, and the brew house, which ran north–east, had a bolted door near the east corner. Along this eastern side there were windows placed very high, capturing a good morning light that even on sunless days illuminated the entire room without the need of torches. The windows were fixed and the only ventilation came from the door through which I had entered, situated on the southern end. I was to learn that this was always left open through the day, allowing for a moderate flow of air to enter the kitchen in strange bursts, so that one felt chilled one moment, and very hot the next.

  I watched the cook with fascination. The air was thick with smoke and Rodrigo fired his orders like a commander, for an atmosphere of activity followed him as though it emanated as much from his own being as from necessity, ‘More salt! Less water! Stir that pot!’ he shouted in a mixture of Latin and the vulgar tongue of the Spanish. Luckily I was acquainted with Spanish because as a boy my father had taught it to me, saying that a Spaniard is a true gentleman, and that if one is to speak anything other than Latin – the tongue blessed by God – then Spanish was a fair alternative.