It might be that the Merovingians were ultimately of Judaic origin, but if this were so it seemed to us essentially incidental. Whatever the real secret underlying our investigation, it appeared to be inextricably associated not with Old Testament Judaism, but with Christianity. In short, the Tribe of Benjamin—for the moment at least—seemed to be a red herring. However important it might be, there was something of even greater importance involved. We were still overlooking something.
Part Three
THE BLOODLINE
11
The Holy Grail
What might we have been overlooking? Or alternatively, what might we have been seeking in the wrong place? Was there perhaps some fragment that had been before our eyes all along, which for one reason or another we had failed to notice? As far as we could determine, we had overlooked no item, no data of accepted historical scholarship. But might there be something else—something that lay "beyond the pale" of documented history, the concrete facts to which we had endeavored to confine ourselves?
Certainly there was one motif, admittedly fabulous, which had threaded itself through our investigation, recurring repeatedly with insistent and intriguing consistency. This was the mysterious object known as the Holy Grail. By their contemporaries, for example, the Cathars were believed to have been in possession of the Grail. The Templars, too, were often regarded as the Grail’s custodians; and the Grail romances had originally issued from the court of the count of Champagne, who was intimately associated with the foundation of the Knights Templar. When the Templars were suppressed, moreover, the bizarre heads they supposedly worshiped enjoyed, according to the official Inquisition reports, many of the attributes traditionally ascribed to the Grail—providing sustenance, for example, and imbuing the land with fertility.
In the course of our investigation we had run across the Grail in many other contexts as well. Some had been relatively recent, such as the occult circle of Joseph Péladan and Claude Debussy at the end of the nineteenth century. Others were considerably older. Godfroi de Bouillon, for instance, was descended according to medieval legend and folklore from Lohengrin, the Knight of the Swan; and Lohengrin, in the romances, was the son of Perceval or Parzival, protagonist of all the early Grail stories. Guillem de Gellone, moreover, ruler of the medieval principality in southern France during the reign of Charlemagne, was the hero of a poem by Wolfram von Eschenbach, most important of the Grail chroniclers. Indeed, the Guillem in Wolfram’s poem was said to have been associated in some way with the mysterious "Grail family."
Were these intrusions of the Grail into our inquiry merely random and coincidental? Or was there a continuity underlying and connecting them—a continuity which, in some unimaginable way, did link our inquiry to the Grail, whatever the Grail might really be? At this point we were confronted by a staggering question. Could the Grail be something more than pure fantasy? Could it actually have existed in some sense? Could there really have been such a thing as the Holy Grail? Or something concrete, at any rate, for which the Holy Grail was employed as a symbol?
The question was certainly exciting and provocative—to say the least. At the same time it threatened to take us too far afield, into spheres of spurious speculation. It did, however, serve to direct our attention to the Grail romances themselves. And in themselves the Grail romances posed a number of perplexing and distinctly relevant conundrums.
It is generally assumed that the Holy Grail relates in some way to Jesus. According to some traditions it was the cup from which Jesus and his disciples drank at the Last Supper. According to other traditions it was the cup in which Joseph of Arimathea caught Jesus’ blood as he hung on the cross. According to other traditions still the Grail was both of these. But if the Grail was so intimately associated with Jesus, or if it did indeed exist, why was there no reference to it whatever for more than a thousand years? Where was it during all that time? Why did it not figure in earlier literature, folklore, or tradition? Why should something of such intense relevance and immediacy to Christendom remain buried for as long as it apparently did?
More provocatively still, why should the Grail finally surface precisely when it did—at the very peak of the Crusades? Was it coincidence that this enigmatic object, ostensibly nonexistent for ten centuries, should assume the status it did at the very time it did— when the Frankish kingdom of Jerusalem was in its full glory, when the Templars were at the apex of their power, when the Cathar heresy was gaining a momentum that actually threatened to displace the creed of Rome? Was this convergence of circumstances truly coincidental? Or was there some link between them?
Inundated and somewhat daunted by questions of this kind, we turned our attention to the Grail romances. Only by examining these "fantasies" closely could we hope to determine whether their recurrence in our inquiry was indeed coincidental or the manifestation of a pattern—a pattern that might in some way prove significant.
THE LEGEND OF THE HOLY GRAIL
Most twentieth-century scholarship concurs in the belief that the Grail romances rest ultimately on a pagan foundation—a ritual connected with the cycle of the seasons, the death and rebirth of the year. In its most primordial origins it would appear to involve a vegetation cult, closely related in form to, if not directly derived from, those of Tammuz, Attis, Adonis, and Osiris in the Middle East. Thus, in both Irish and Welsh mythology there are repeated references to death, rebirth, and renewal, as well as to a similar regenerative process in the land—sterility and fertility. The theme is central to the anonymous fourteenth-century English poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. And in the Mabinogion, a compilation of Welsh legends roughly contemporary with the Grail romances though obviously drawing on much earlier material, there is a mysterious "cauldron of rebirth" in which dead warriors, thrown at nightfall, are resurrected the following morning. This cauldron is often associated with a giant hero named Bran. Bran also possessed a platter, and "whatever food one wished thereon was instantly obtained"—a property also sometimes ascribed to the Grail. At the end of his life, moreover, Bran was supposedly decapitated and his head placed, as a sort of talisman, in London. Here it was said to perform a number of magical functions—not only ensuring fertility of the land but also, by some occult power, repelling invaders.
Many of these motifs were subsequently incorporated into the Grail romances. There is no question that Bran, with his cauldron and platter, contributed something to later conceptions of the Grail. And Bran’s head shares attributes not only with the Grail but also with the heads allegedly worshiped by the Knights Templar.
The pagan foundation for the Grail romances has been exhaustively explored by scholars, from Sir James Fraser in The Golden Bough up to the present. But during the mid to late twelfth century the originally pagan foundation for the Grail romances underwent a curious and extremely important transformation. In some obscure way that has eluded the investigation of researchers, the Grail became very uniquely and specifically associated with Christianity— and with a rather unorthodox form of Christianity at that. On the basis of some elusive amalgamation the Grail became inextricably linked with Jesus. And there seems to have been something more involved than a facile grafting of pagan and Christian traditions.
As a relic linked mystically with Jesus, the Grail engendered a voluminous quantity of romances, or lengthy narrative poems, which even today tease the imagination. Despite clerical disapprobation these romances flourished for nearly a century, becoming a fully fledged cult of their own—a cult whose life span, interestingly enough, closely paralleled that of the Order of the Temple after its separation from the Prieuré de Sion in 1188. With the fall of the Holy Land in 1291 and the dissolution of the Templars between 1307 and 1314, the Grail romances also began to vanish from the stage of history, for another two centuries or so at any rate. Then, in 1470, the theme was taken up again by Sir Thomas Malory in his famous La Morte d’Arthur; and it has remained more or less prominent in Western culture ever since. Nor has its context
always been wholly literary. There seems to be abundant documentary evidence that certain members of the National Socialist hierarchy in Germany actually believed in the Grail’s physical existence, and excavations for it were actually undertaken during the Second World War in the south of France.1
By Malory’s time the mysterious object known as the Grail had assumed the more or less distinct identity ascribed to it today. It was alleged to be the cup of the Last Supper, in which Joseph of Arimathea later caught Jesus’ blood. According to certain accounts the Grail was brought by Joseph of Arimathea to England—more specifically, to Glastonbury. According to other accounts it was brought by the Magdalen to France. As early as the fourth century legends described the Magdalen fleeing the Holy Land and being set ashore near Marseilles—where, for that matter, her purported relics are still venerated. According to medieval legends she carried with her to Marseilles the Holy Grail. By the fifteenth century this tradition had clearly assumed immense importance for such individuals as King René d’Anjou, who collected "Grail cups."
But the early legends say that the Magdalen brought the Grail into France, not a cup. In other words, the simple association of Grail and cup was a relatively late development. Malory perpetuated this facile association, and it has been a truism ever since. But Malory, in fact, took considerable liberties with his original sources. In these original sources the Grail is something much more than a cup. And the mystical aspects of the Grail are far more important than the chivalric, which Malory extols.
In the opinion of most scholars the first genuine Grail romance dates from the late twelfth century, from around 1188-that crucial year that witnessed the fall of Jerusalem and the alleged rupture between the Order of the Temple and the Prieuré de Sion. The romance in question is entitled Le Roman de Perceval or Le Conte du Graal. It was composed by one Chrétien de Troyes, who seems to have been attached, in some indeterminate capacity, to the court of the count of Champagne.
Little is known of Chrétien’s biography. His association with the court of Champagne is apparent from numerous works composed before his Grail romance—works dedicated to Marie, countess of Champagne. Through this corpus of courtly romances—including one dealing with Lancelot, which makes no mention of anything resembling a Grail—by the 1180s Chrétien had established an imposing reputation for himself. And given his earlier work, one might have expected him to continue in a similar vein. Toward the end of his life, however, Chrétien turned his attention to a new, hitherto unarticulated theme; and the Holy Grail, as it has come down to us today, made its official debut in Western culture and consciousness.
Chrétien’s Grail romance was dedicated, not to Marie de Champagne, but to Philippe d’Alsace, count of Flanders.2 At the beginning of his poem Chrétien declares that his work has been composed specifically at Philippe’s request and that it was from Philippe that he heard the story in the first place. The work itself furnishes a general pattern, and constitutes a prototype, for subsequent Grail narratives. Its protagonist is named Perceval, who is described as the "Son of the Widow Lady." This appellation is, in itself, both significant and intriguing. It had long been employed by certain of the dualist and Gnostic heresies—sometimes for their own prophets, sometimes for Jesus himself. Subsequently it became a cherished designation in Freemasonry.
Leaving his widowed mother, Perceval sallies forth to win his knighthood. During his travels he comes upon an enigmatic fisherman—the famous "Fisher King"—in whose castle he is offered refuge for the night. That evening the Grail appears. Neither at this point nor at any other in the poem is it linked in any way whatever with Jesus. In fact, the reader learns very little about it. He is not even told what it is. But whatever it is, it is carried by a damsel, is golden and studded with gems. Perceval does not know that he is expected to ask a question of this mysterious object—he is expected to ask ’whom one serves with it." The question is obviously ambiguous. If the Grail is a vessel or a dish of some kind, the question may mean "who is intended to eat from it." Alternatively the question might be rephrased: "Whom does one serve (in a chivalric sense) by virtue of serving the Grail?" Whatever the meaning of the question, Perceval neglects to ask it, and the next morning when he wakes, the castle is empty. His omission, he learns subsequently, causes a disastrous blight on the land. Later still he learns that he himself is of the "Grail family" and that the mysterious Fisher King who was "sustained" by the Grail was in fact his own uncle. At this point Perceval makes a curious confession. Since his unhappy experience with the Grail, he declares, he has ceased to love or believe in God.
Chrétien’s poem is rendered all the more perplexing by the fact that it is unfinished. Chrétien himself died around 1188, quite possibly before he could complete the work; and even if he did complete it no copy has survived. If such a copy ever existed, it may well have been destroyed in a fire at Troyes in 1188. The point need not be labored, but certain scholars have found this fire, coinciding as it did with the poet’s death, vaguely suspicious.
In any case Chrétien’s version of the Grail story is less important in itself than in its role as precursor. During the next half century the motif he had introduced at the court of Troyes was to spread through western Europe like a brush fire. At the same time, however, modern experts on the subject agree that the later Grail romances do not seem to have derived wholly from Chrétien, but seem to have drawn on at least one other source as well—a source that in all probability predated Chrétien. And during its proliferation the Grail story became much more closely linked with King Arthur—who was only a peripheral figure in Chrétien’s version. And it also became linked with Jesus.
Of the numerous Grail romances that followed Chrétien’s version, there were three that proved of special interest and relevance to us. One of these, the Roman de l’Estoire dou Saint Graal, was composed by Robert de Boron sometime between 1190 and 1199. Justifiably or not, Robert is often credited with making the Grail a specifically Christian symbol. Robert himself states that he is drawing on an earlier source—and one quite different from Chrétien. In speaking of his poem, and particularly of the Grail’s Christian character, he alludes to a "great book," the secrets of which have been revealed to him.3
It is thus uncertain whether Robert himself Christianized the Grail or whether someone else did so before him. Most authorities today incline toward the second of these possibilities. However, there is no question that Robert de Boron’s account is the first to furnish a history of the Grail. The Grail, he explains, was the cup of the Last Supper. It then passed into the hands of Joseph of Arimathea, who, when Jesus was removed from the cross, filled it with the Savior’s blood—and it is this sacred blood that confers on the Grail a magical quality. After the Crucifixion, Robert continues, Joseph’s family became the keepers of the Grail. And for Robert the Grail romances involve the adventures and vicissitudes of this particular family. Thus, Galahad is said to be Joseph of Arimathea’s son. And the Grail itself passes to Joseph’s brother-in-law, Brons, who carries it to England and becomes the Fisher King. As in Chrétien’s poem, Perceval is the "Son of the Widow Lady," but he is also the grandson of the Fisher King.
Robert’s version of the Grail story thus deviates in a number of important respects from Chrétien’s. In both versions Perceval is a "Son of the Widow Lady," but in Robert’s version he is the grandson, not the nephew, of the Fisher King—and thus even more directly related to the Grail family. And while Chrétien’s narrative is vague in its chronology, set sometime during the Arthurian age, Robert’s is quite precise. For Robert the Grail story is set in England, and is contemporary not with Arthur but with Joseph of Arimathea.
There is another Grail romance that has much in common with Robert’s. Indeed, it would seem to draw upon the same sources, but its utilization of these sources is very different and decidedly more interesting. The romance in question is known as the Perlesvaus. It was composed around the same time as Robert’s poem, between 1190 and 1212, by an a
uthor who, contrary to the conventions of the time, chose to remain anonymous. It is odd that he should have done so, given the exalted status accorded poets, unless he was involved in some calling—a monastic or military order, for example— that would have rendered composition of such romances unseemly or inappropriate. And in fact the weight of textual evidence concerning the Perlesvaus suggests this to be the case. According to at least one modern expert, the Perlesvaus may actually have been written by a Templar.4 And there is certainly evidence to support such a conjecture. It is known, for instance, that the Teutonic Knights encouraged and sponsored anonymous poets in their ranks, and such a precedent could well have been established by the Templars. What is more, the author of the Perlesvaus reveals, in the course of the poem, an almost extraordinarily detailed knowledge of the realities of fighting— of armor and equipment, strategy and tactics, and weaponry and its effects on human flesh. The graphic description of wounds, for example, would seem to attest to a first hand experience of the battlefield—a realistic, unromanticized experience uncharacteristic of any other Grail romance.
If the Perlesvaus was not actually composed by a Templar, it nevertheless provided a solid basis for linking the Templars with the Grail. Although the order is not mentioned by name, its appearance in the poem would seem to be unmistakable. Thus, Perceval in his wanderings happens upon a castle. This castle does not house the Grail, but it does house a conclave of "initiates" who are obviously familiar with the Grail. Perceval is received here by two "masters"— who clap their hands and are joined by thirty-three other men. "They were clad in white garments, and not one of them but had a red cross in the midst of his breast, and they seemed to be all of an age." 5 One of these mysterious "masters" states that he has personally seen the Grail—an experience vouchsafed only to an elect few. And he also states that he is familiar with Perceval’s lineage.
Holy Blood, Holy Grail Page 32
