‘Especially during such difficult times, preceptor,’ he said with a shy smile. ‘It is truly a blessing and a miracle that man imbibed with the spirit, can so humbly express it.’ He interrupted the singer, commenting on the inflection of a note with firm and yet kind authority, then waved the boy on and once again turned his attention to us.
‘You are the master of music?’ my master asked.
‘Yes. I am brother Sacar, and this,’ he gave his singing pupil a truly loving look, ‘is my finest student, though he be my only one. I have been humbled by the grace of our abbot, who has entrusted me with the music for our convent. I must tell you though that my predecessor was the most learned, and indeed inspired, master of music. If I know anything it has come from those venerated lips,’ his voice trembled a little.
‘I ask because I mean to express my admiration for your work,’ Andre said, ‘your music seems far more beautiful than any I have heard.’
‘Ah . . . you speak of our harmonious melodies . . . yes . . .’ he smiled, ‘our voices do not traditionally accompany the tenor voice as other choirs you may have heard. Our voices seek other harmonies through notes not following the cantus firmus.’ He moved closer to my master, animated, ‘We sometimes hear complex weaves of singular melody whose diverse but concordant strains cross and merge in waves of harmony! Oh yes . . . it is truly beautiful.’
‘You use notation, I see.’ My master was referring to a manuscript which the brother held loosely in his hand.
‘Indeed! Indeed!’ He showed us the strange figures. ‘The discovery of notation by our brother from Cologne was truly a miracle! And since the addition of the musical staff by the learned Guido – who should be sainted – music can be experienced with the eye! Yes, it is a triumph! My predecessor was the one who
introduced this abbey to such wonders.’
‘Very interesting. What was his name?’
The man’s pale face became paler. ‘Brother Samuel of Antioch.’
My master frowned, his eyes narrowing a touch, ‘Samuel of Antioch?’
‘Yes, a holy man from a holy land . . .’ He paused, perhaps remembering his master’s face with fondness, and his eyes became once again a little moist and I wondered if this was the monk Samuel, whose grave my master saw on our first day at the abbey.
‘I see also that you have an organ.’
‘Oh, yes . . . it is so like the voice, do you agree?’ He held both hands together in a gesture of praise.
‘A magnificent instrument. Is it operated by air or water?’
‘You think too highly of our little community, preceptor, we are not so fortunate as to have an air-operated instrument. This one is very old and operates by the aid of water whose flow works the pump. We are lucky to have the service of an underground spring which runs below the abbey and we are able to divert its energy to a heavenly purpose.’
‘So the abbey was constructed around the existing channel?’
‘Yes and no. We have had to alter its direction slightly. Our beloved forefathers constructed a wonderful arrangement of drains that follow a course beneath us.’
‘That is ingenious. And the water is diverted by what means, brother?’
The monk paused for a moment, seeming unsure of what to say. ‘I am told that it is a miracle of engineering.’
‘Surely from time to time these tunnels must be visited for practical purposes?’
‘All I know is that the abbot has forbidden it for reasons of safety. We are told they have become . . . unstable. One brother nearly lost his life many years ago during an inspection.’
‘So it has been visited in recent times?’
‘Many years ago, though that brother is now dead, and our general father, the abbot, has imposed a silence on the subject. I feel uncomfortable discussing it, preceptor.’
‘I am sorry, brother Sacar, it is merely that Abbot Bendipur has requested my help in the matter of Brother Ezekiel’s death –’
‘Do you think that the tunnels have any bearing on your investigations?’ he interrupted a little anxiously.
‘I must say that I do not know. I am by nature a curious man,’ my master answered with equanimity. ‘Curious things intrigue me. In any case your music is quite exceptional.’
Sacar was noticeably relieved to conclude the uncomfortable inquiry and to return to his beloved subject. ‘Thank you, preceptor, and yet it is the spirit that sings!’
‘I agree . . .’ my master acknowledged, ‘the voice is the bearer of the soul.’
Sacar beamed, his face almost radiant with pleasure, ‘I believe, dear brother, that everything natural has its supernatural counterpart, do you agree? Even here in our modest church . . . The door which faces east is none other than Christ, through whom we enter heaven, the pillars are the bishops and doctors who uphold the Church, the sacristy is the womb of Mary, where Jesus put on human flesh. You see everything physical, has its spiritual counterpart.’
‘A reflection of the order and number of the universe.’
‘Music,’ Sacar continued, lost in thought, ‘music and prayer, the marriage of two complementary gifts. Omnem horam occupabis, hyumnis psalmis, et amabis . . . Music, being the greatest expression of the diversity of God through man and prayer ... tenere silentium, super hoc orationem diliges et lectionem nutricem claustralium . . . the expression of man’s unity with the saints who, on our behalf, deliver our lamentations at the foot of the Christ and through him directly to God. Could there be anything holier?’
‘Indeed.’
My master seemed far too amiable, and it struck me that he was biding his time before tackling unpleasant matters.
‘Tanners invoke St Bartholomew, as we know. St John, plunged into a cauldron of burning oil, is the patron of candle-makers. Our St Sebastian is well known to be mighty in times of pestilence. St Apollinia heals toothaches, St Blaise cures sore throats, St Corneille protects the farmer’s oxen, St Gall his chickens, St Anthony his pigs!’
My master smiled. ‘Yes, though I have to wonder, dear brother, if these sainted men had intended their torment to be the vehicle by which a chicken lays a greater number of eggs, or indeed, the obesity of a pig is profitably increased.’
I knew my master frowned upon the ritual worship of saints which, in most instances, only replaced the worship of pagan gods, and tended to exceed veneration for the Lord himself.
The master of music seemed to miss Andre’s point, however, and looked around him, absently motioning his pupil to his side. The boy stepped down, and made his way to his teacher. He was no older than me, though shorter, with thick black hair encroaching upon his tonsure. He did not smile, but fixed me with an unusually intense stare; perhaps curiosity, perhaps dislike.
‘This is Anselmo de Aosta, our monastery’s voice.’
The boy bowed humbly, crossing himself devoutly with his left hand.
‘He is also not without talents as a translator. It is a fact that I may lose him to the library. Obedience . . .’
‘Anselmo,’ my master bowed his head with respect, ‘you are named after one of the finest doctors of the church, may you honour him. So you are not only a fine singer, but also a translator?’
‘I am also composing a new mass in honour of our Lady,’ he said in his lilting voice.
‘Exceptional!’ Andre exclaimed, obviously impressed and I, God forgive me, felt a twinge of jealousy.
‘I saw some of your works this morning. Your translation of Aristotle is enlightening! Where did you learn Greek?’ my master asked, cunningly.
‘My mother is Greek, and I have studied the classic pagans since I was old enough to read.’
‘I see.’
‘We have been fortunate to have had two young geniuses,’ Brother Sacar added.
‘Two! That is fortunate indeed, in such a small abbey. Who is the other?’
‘The other . . . is unwell I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, the novice! Yes of course.’
The monk gave him
a blank look, ‘Novice?’
‘The young boy who was not at the dinner last evening.’
‘Oh . . . yes, yes,’ he hesitated a moment.
‘Is he also a fine singer?’
‘Well . . .’ the brother trailed off, ‘he was a very special child, weak, but gifted.’
‘You say, was . . .?’ my master asked. ‘Has he died?’
‘Oh, no!’ Brother Sacar explained, in an anxious way, ‘I mean, he was special as a child. He is now a young man, not much older than your scribe, though his qualities remain exceptional, even as a young man. That is what I meant.’
‘Yes, I see,’ my master said, then hastened to add, ‘perhaps I might have a look at him in a medical capacity?’
‘Oh, that is indeed a most generous offer,’ he appeared ruffled, ‘one that is sure to be welcomed by Brother Asa of Roussillon.’
‘The infirmarian?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Of course, Asa. Well then, I shall seek him out,’ my master concluded, rubbing his hands together. ‘Where may we find him at this time of the day?’
‘In the infirmary or the herbarium. Sometimes he goes out in search of plants in the forests around the abbey. Other times you may see him tending his garden. Here in this abbey we are never idle, preceptor.’
‘Thank you, brother. I have enjoyed our conversation, and may I end it by saying once again that I believe your music to be truly remarkable.’ In a grave tone, ‘May God see fit to end this inquiry quickly and expediently in your favour.’
The monk nodded, ‘Thank you, preceptor. No one knows the ways of God, but God himself. However, I must tell you that your words soothe my uneasy spirit.’ He moved in the direction of the south ambulatory but something stopped him because he turned around as though he had forgotten something. ‘Preceptor,’ he said, ‘the death of our dear Brother Ezekiel has shaken our community, but there have been other things . . . no doubt the abbot has told you.’ At this point he sent the boy away, watching him leave before continuing more desperately than before. ‘Perhaps I am committing a sin against the rule, but I am afraid. I am afraid for the future of our community.’
My master was intrigued. ‘What is it, brother?’
‘Before you arrived, preceptor, another monk . . . in fact,’ he lowered his eyes, ‘my predecessor, Brother Samuel, was found in the church. He had been . . .’ he swallowed hard, as though these words were bitter in his throat, and his eyes welled with tears, but my master, whose interest had increased ten-fold,
cared little for sensitivity.
‘He had been what, brother? Murdered, perhaps?’
The other man blanched and his eyes widened as though he had seen a devil. ‘You know?’
‘Tell me!’
‘He was in the church. He was found dead.’
‘Who found him?’
‘Brother Daniel of Albi, they were inseparable.’
‘Another old monk?’
‘Yes, he found my master lying at the foot of the virgin, near the entrance to . . . Go speak to Brother Daniel, you may ask him anything about the abbey, he knows it very well.’ He looked down for a moment. ‘I have to go now, God bless you and keep you safe.’
With these words the master of music left us, with many questions unanswered.
I asked my master how he had known that the young novice had been missing from dinner.
‘If you will remember, the hospitaller told us on our first day that the abbey had only two novices, and since I could see only one at dinner I assumed that was whom he meant. I simply made a hypothesis, assuming the English and not the Greek interpretation of the word.’
‘The English interpretation?’
‘The English understand a hypothesis to be something that may be true, but needs testing whereas the Greek say it is something assumed for the purpose of argument.’
‘I remember now. The hospitaller was very suspicious of the novices, saying they drank too much and ate too much.’
‘Yes, it is the curse of the old that they conveniently forget they were ever young.’
‘And the curse of the young, master, that they don’t always remember what they should,’ I said a little dejected.
‘Very good, Christian! We’ll make a philosopher out of you yet, even if it kills you.’
9
Capitulum
Before Nones
He searched the abbey, but it was not until later in the afternoon that we found Brother Daniel in the north transept chapel. A slight figure in grey, he was almost indistinguishable from the stone around him. He lay in profound meditation at the foot of the Virgin of our sorrows, and did not turn at the sound of our footsteps as we approached. It was only after we had been kneeling beside him for a very long time that he raised his head and cast a bewildered gaze upon us, like a man alighting on the shores of some distant and unfamiliar place.
‘She is purity and serenity,’ he said finally.
‘The countenance of virtue, brother,’ my master answered.
‘You have good eyes! One whose eyes look upon the virgin with love and adoration will want for naught else! I am glad of your presence, preceptor, it has been many years . . . How are things in the holy land? Have we lost Jerusalem? Oh, I am a senile fool! I remember now . . . yes, perhaps better than I remember what I ate this morning.’ He smiled warmly, and taking my master’s hand in his, stood with difficulty. ‘Youth is beautiful . . .’ he touched my head only slightly with warm, nervous fingers, ‘but this world grows old with ugliness! Poor brother, he was a man who could see. There are so many who see and yet are blind. Am I the last now, I wonder?’
‘How do you mean the last, brother?’ my master asked.
‘The others are . . . but that is another matter. What year is it? No, do not answer, it does not concern me.’ He began to pray, ‘Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea, quem timebo? – The lord is the source of my light and my safety, whom should I fear? – but what was I saying? Oh my feeble, feeble mind . . .’ He shook his head.
‘You were about to tell us, venerable Daniel, in what way you were the last.’
‘Was I? Should I tell you? I am old, and I therefore distrust everyone and everything. Perhaps that is why I am old?’ He laughed a little. ‘I am the last of the first, and yet, no, I am wrong, Brother Setubar was also one of us, though much younger . . . thank God for Setubar, the milk of human kindness runs through his veins . . . Did you know he was a fine physician once? He cured me of phlegm! In any case, that is all you need know . . . shhh!’ He looked around him. ‘I sense his presence. Somewhere in this abbey he waits!’
‘Who? Brother Setubar?’
He looked aghast. ‘No, the antichrist, of course! He is everywhere . . . he is stubborn, and so he is patient.’
My master nodded gravely. ‘Where have you seen him in particular?’
‘Do you not know?’ he searched my master’s face closely. ‘Why, in the human soul, in the soul, my sons, and in our midst, in this abbey, though disguised.’
My master paused, wording his reply, ‘Is he in human form, venerable Daniel?’
‘Of course, how else? He has chosen a monk, perhaps there are two . . . tarnished with unmentionable crimes . . .’ in a soothing voice then, ‘Oh, now I have frightened you, my child. I know, I know, but do not fear unwisely, fear is only a good thing if it instructs us to be attentive and uneasy. Ease is his servant as you know, the love of comfort, his willing vassal.’
‘Who is he, venerable master?’ I asked because I saw in his kind eyes that he had given me this sanction.
‘He is old, older than time, and wiser still . . . he is infinitely persistent, he follows a design and is easily recognisable. Our dear brother, now gathered to God, had the arcanum! He knew the secret of the evil one who will come again in the second millennium.’ The old man placed a milky hand over his forehead as though this thought taxed his mind. ‘We must prepare, for the battle is nigh! But I am weary, so weary.’
&n
bsp; My master said humbly, ‘You mean the first millennium, brother, that is yet to come?’
The old man looked at him as though he had not understood his words. ‘No, not the first, but the second!’
‘Venerable master,’ Andre said softly, throwing me a look that conveyed his pity for the older man, ‘some days ago you found a brother dead in the chapel.’
The old man’s face creased with pain. ‘No! Must I speak of it? Who told you?’
‘Brother Sacar.’
‘Sacar has a good ear, but a loose tongue! Yes, he was choked, his face was blue – the Devil sucked out his soul. Oh . . .’ he convulsed, ‘mortify the flesh, rid it of sin and make your souls transparent for the love of Christ, or he will find you also.’
‘Where was Brother Samuel when you found him?’
‘Here, at the foot of the lady. Please, I do not wish to speak of it again, I am tired, so tired.’
My master continued with tenderness, ‘Before Brother Ezekiel died, he spoke of a holy one, whom he said the antichrist and his followers awaited, something about a sacred jewel?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, ‘they are cunning . . . but they will not find him. Oh, Lord! Have I not tried to escape the world beyond these sainted walls? Have I not sought freedom from the dominion of worldly things? And yet,’ he raised his eyes to heaven, ‘in penance, in exile, it continues to seek me out.’
My master changed his tack, ‘You have been at this abbey for many years?’
‘Years?’ he looked amazed. ‘ I do not remember years . . .’
‘Where did the first founding monks come from, brother?’
‘Founding monks?’
‘The ones who built the abbey?’
He shook his head. ‘We must not speak of such things.’
‘I only mean to praise their work, for this is indeed a fine abbey. Were they all Cistercians?’
‘Cistercians?’ He looked a little confused.
‘The brothers who built the abbey?’
‘Cistercians. Yes, white monks. Oh! They were brave men, but there are no longer brave men in this world, only cowards. In times long gone, men were full of wisdom, now they are filled with egoism, in the past they were vehicles of grace, now they are merely empty vessels.’ He sighed deeply, ‘The church falls into the pit with each new day, distorting the teachings of the sainted fathers, so that they have become a pale shadow of a brighter vision.’ He looked at me, his eyes veiled with tears. ‘The sun rises on the genius of man, but at the same time it sets on the living spirit, and my heart longs to be gone from this place. I remain only for him. When he departs this mortal prison, I will pray for the moment of death, be it quick and painless, or agonising and martyred, only death will be my final absolution.’
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