by Unknown
“If you can leave your bags, I will show you the dining hall.”
The monk took them to the nearby dining room, which was being prepared for a buffet lunch by two laywomen. Then he showed them a small lounge with a few books and some reading chairs and that was the extent of the tour. They were free to wander in all the public areas of the monastery but were prohibited from entering the private areas reserved for the monks. If they needed further information, there was a sheet in their room with the times of masses, several books in the lounge, and more in the gift shops.
Arthur thanked him for his time and added, “You must be quite busy here.”
“We have much to occupy us. We pray five times a day, we receive and counsel visitors, we work in many vocations, the one best known to the outside world being our choir school, L’Escolania, one of the oldest boy choirs in the world.”
Then with a bow, Brother Oriol politely explained he had to be on his way.
They took a walk in the sunshine, mingling with the polyglot tourists, and then went to the shops to buy some English-language books on the monastery. When it was time for lunch they returned to the guest dining room now filling with earnest-looking middle-aged and elderly visitors, most of them men. Perhaps because they were new to the group and were youngest, they attracted attention and conversation. The guests were from all over the world, many of them avid monastery travelers who liked to “pray and stay,” as they put it. For their part, Arthur and Claire told their companions that they too were interested in a few days of quiet prayer and contemplation in this beautiful spot.
At 12:30 the diners began to disperse to attend midday mass in the basilica. Arthur and Claire were told they absolutely must attend since the famous boy choir would sing some hymns.
As they were heading back to their room, Arthur’s mobile phone rang from a UK number he didn’t recognize. It was Sandy Marina calling from Oxford. She sounded peculiar and somber.
“Are you on the continent?” she asked.
“Yes, Spain.”
“I could tell by the dial tone. It probably explains why you haven’t called. You don’t know, do you?”
“What’s happened, Sandy?”
She began to cry. “It’s lightning striking twice. It’s Tony. I’ll just come out and say it, Arthur. He’s been killed.”
She told him how he’d been found that morning, in his office at UCL, shot dead. His wallet was missing, his watch. It was thought to have been a robbery. There’d been some drug-related crimes in the area of late.
Claire saw his ashen face and asked in a whisper if something was wrong. He nodded and she unlocked the room door.
He sat on the bed and heard Sandy say, “First Holmes, now Tony. It’s too much to bear. It’s almost as if our little group is cursed.”
“I saw Tony yesterday morning, Sandy. I was at UCL showing him something. I found what Holmes found.”
“What was it?”
“I’m not going to tell you. It’s too dangerous. These people who want the Grail are killers. They killed Holmes and they probably killed Tony. They’re after me too.”
“Surely the police will believe you now.”
“I can’t trust the police.”
“Jesus! Are you on the hunt? In Spain? Arthur, are you in Montserrat?”
“Please don’t ask me more questions. I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Until then, just tell the Loons I’m far away and can’t get back for the funeral. Christ, Sandy, I wish I could give you a big hug right now.”
Claire had heard enough of the conversation. She looked scared.
He held her and murmured, “It’s going to be all right … no one knows we’re here.”
“How can you be sure?”
“No one followed us from baggage claim to the rental car. No one followed us from Barcelona. No one followed us up the mountain.”
“What should we do?”
“Let’s go to the church and say a prayer for Tony.”
The basilica was cool and dark, a Gothic jewel sparkling with gilded wood and gold-toned mosaic. High above the altar through an open balcony the gilded Black Madonna of Montserrat—a virgin and child with faces blackened from ancient ebony-toned wood—gleamed in a shaft of light that pierced the church through a towering window.
Arthur and Claire sat in a middle pew in sad contemplation as one of the priests celebrated mass in Latin and Catalan. Then the choir appeared, boys in white scapulars, marching into position, flanking the altar. Their choirmaster conducted them through three hymns, sweet soprano voices melding and soaring through the cathedral, bringing Claire to tears.
The mass over, the crowd began leaving, some exiting to the sunlit courtyard, others joining the queue to climb a narrow stairway to see the Black Madonna. Arthur and Claire blinked at the sunshine.
A large man with a beard and a wide-brimmed tropical hat held back, lurking in the shadows inside the cathedral entrance. When he saw Arthur and Claire cross the courtyard and enter the dormitory building Griggs stepped into the light, slipped on sunglasses and calmly sauntered toward the Hotel Abat de Cisneros.
23
In the dormitory Arthur heard footsteps from behind. He nervously looked over his shoulder to see a monk overtaking them. He had a smooth youthful face and a serious expression and he apologized for the narrow corridor. Arthur recognized him as the choirmaster.
“Your choir was beautiful,” Arthur said.
The monk stopped to thank them, taking notice of their guest badges and Claire’s tear-streaked face.
His English was even better than Brother Oriol’s. He introduced himself as L’Escolania’s headmaster, Brother Pau.
“You’re crying,” he said to Claire. “I didn’t think the boys were that good today.”
She wiped her eyes. “We just learned that someone we know died. We’re still in shock.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Tell me your friend’s name and I will pray for him.”
“Tony,” Arthur said.
“Very well, I will pray for Tony’s soul.”
Arthur shook his hand in thanks.
“Are you doing something just now?” Brother Pau asked. “If not, perhaps I can show you a few special places. I have a free half hour before I have to teach.”
“You’re very kind,” Claire said, and when she smiled the serious young monk smiled too.
He escorted them on a brisk tour of the ornate chapel house, a capacious vaulted room with seating in the round where the monks prayed together, listened to their abbot read from the St. Benedict’s Book of Rules, and discussed community matters. A large mural that depicted the monks of Montserrat being martyred during the Spanish Civil War loomed over them. The library was on the floor above guest quarters, its central room an achingly beautiful two stories with an open gallery and skylights set into a barrel-vaulted ceiling. The library, which housed some 300,000 books and manuscripts, was built in the nineteenth century—though, according to Brother Pau, there was some evidence of a library here as far back as the eleventh century.
Arthur seized on the opportunity to ask questions. The quest was more urgent than ever. He imagined Tony and Holmes urging him on.
“Everything I’ve read about Montserrat suggests the earliest structures were from the early part of the tenth century. Is it possible there were even earlier religious communities here?”
“It is difficult to say,” the monk answered. “There are no documents to shed light on this. My own belief is that this was a holy site from almost the time of Christ. If there were hermitages here going back centuries before the accepted dates, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“The basilica isn’t very old, is it?” Arthur asked.
“Not so old, late nineteenth, early twentieth century. The original Romanesque church was lost to fire during the Napoleonic Wars.”
“The crypts below the basilica aren’t old then?”
“No, they are relatively recent, though quite inte
resting. You may visit them on your own.”
“What are the oldest remaining parts of the monastery?” Claire asked.
“There is a small twelfth-century crypt, the Crypt of the Clericates, adjacent to the music library inside the choir school; and, of course, the Hermitage of Sant Iscle, a chapel that is mentioned in a ninth-century text.”
Arthur had been gazing at the spines of ancient books. At once he looked up. “Could it be older?”
“It is possible, at least the foundation, but this has never been studied. Let me show you some fascinating nineteenth-century photographs we have on display in the next room.”
As they walked, Arthur asked more about the collection. “I imagine you have some important ancient manuscripts and letters here?”
“Indeed yes. Some of the earliest Catalan texts in existence, though I am sorry to say much material was lost when the monastery was burned by Napoleon.”
“I apologize for that,” Claire said.
“This is not your cross to bear, I think.”
Arthur continued, “A friend of mine, a professor of medieval studies, recently was permitted to do research here.”
“Ah, yes, we have scholars visiting from around the world.”
“He found an interesting twelfth-century letter concerning the Holy Grail.”
“Always an interesting topic,” the monk said, checking his watch. “I have time to show you one more room, the sacristy. Come along.”
The sacristy was adjacent to the basilica, a frescoed vault with rich mahogany cabinetry for sacramental vestments. While Brother Pau was describing the architectural details, Arthur’s eye was drawn to a fresco on the far end of the long room, a depiction of the Last Supper. In it, a rather young and handsome Jesus had his left hand on a loaf of bread and his right hovering over a large simple chalice.
Arthur pointed to it. “That’s quite beautiful.”
“Yes it is. The mural is by Josep Obiols.”
“The Grail is painted quite prominently. Tell me, what do you think about the legends that say the Grail is here at Montserrat?”
The monk seemed irritated by the question. “You know, this is a tiresome subject for us. There is no basis for it. It has no relevance for us. You are not a Grail tourist, are you, Arthur?”
“I don’t know what a Grail tourist is but I don’t think I’m one of them,” Arthur said as dismissively as he could.
The monk must have realized his sharp tone because he then said apologetically, “I have to return to the school now. You may walk with me if you wish.”
The choir school was in a long rectangular four-story building at the far end of the complex. As they made their way, Brother Pau told them about the school and a recent tour they had made to Russia that was a great success and had yielded their latest music CD. His pride was palpable and on Claire’s prodding about his own background he revealed that in his youth he too had been one of the choirboys. At the entrance to the school he wished them well then pointed toward a walled garden lined by needle-thin Italian Cypresses.
“The old chapel of Sant Iscle is located down there.”
“May we see it?” Arthur asked.
“I’m afraid not. It’s private, for the monks.”
#
In the afternoon they visited the crypt under the basilica and satisfied themselves that it was a relatively modern affair with no relevance to the early medieval period. The nineteenth-century basilica wasn’t even built on the original site of the Romanesque church; even if one could take a jackhammer to its floor, they likely would find nothing of importance.
The queues now thinning, they ascended with the faithful onto the balcony to see the Black Madonna. Although there were perhaps thousands of such statues worldwide, either blackened with age or deliberately by the artist, none were more revered than the Madonna of Montserrat, which had become a cultural symbol of Catalonia.
According to legend, the statue had been found a short distance from the monastery when shepherds saw celestial lights and heard heavenly music, which led them to a mountain cave. The bishop of Manressa was summoned and suggested moving the virgin and child to his church on a pallet; but as the villagers progressed down the mountain trail, the pallet grew heavier and heavier until they reached the site of the old hermitage, whereupon they could move it no further. Thus the Madonna had shown her insistence to remain at Montserrat.
Now at the top of the narrow stairs, Arthur watched Claire drop to her knees before the statue. Claire began to silently pray until a glance at those behind her in the queue prompted her to rise and move along.
That night they ate communally, read their guidebooks in the guest lounge and made plans. Others chatted amiably, worked on jigsaw puzzles, and read the Bible—gentle, contemplative pursuits perfect for the time and place. Claire briefly excused herself to call her parents and when she returned declared that all was well on the home front.
They were tired. It had been only two days since their all-nighter in Stoneleigh and they hadn’t yet caught up with their sleep; and Tony’s death was a heavy yoke. They retired at nine.
The bed was indeed narrow. They lay on their sides facing each other, inches away.
“You seemed taken by the Black Madonna,” he said.
“It was very beautiful.”
“You’re Catholic?”
“Of course. I’m French.”
“I watched you pray. You seemed, well, ardent.”
“A good word for it. I am ardent. I believe in God without reservation.”
“You must be in a minority: physicists who are believers.”
“Maybe, but a minority in good company: Max Planck, Arthur Compton, George Lemaître—who was a priest, you know; Werner Heisenberg, Freeman Dyson, Christopher Isham, many others. Even Einstein, who maybe didn’t believe in a personal God, thought a noncreated universe impossible. Tell me, Arthur, what are your beliefs?”
“We Church of England types are a bloodless lot when it comes to religion. We don’t wear it on our sleeves. But I believe more than I don’t believe, if that makes sense.”
“Yes, it makes sense … and if you find the Grail? Will that change anything?”
“Well, it would be a tangible connection to Christ, but a connection to a man named Jesus, not necessarily the Son of God.”
“You don’t believe in the Resurrection?”
“Do you?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“And how does the physicist in you explain the phenomenon?”
“There’s a lot we don’t understand. I’m not sure that physics and spirituality are incompatible.”
“I’d like to hope your faith is well-founded. I’d like to believe that Tony Ferro and Andy Holmes are having a celestial pint together around about now. Listen, Claire, I’ve been thinking about this all day. I think you should go back to France tomorrow. I’m worried about your safety. I’ve got to do this but you don’t.”
She leaned forward the small distance that separated them and kissed him. “The answer is no. I feel perfectly safe with you. Now tell me, what time are you setting the alarm?”
He returned the kiss. “Two A.M.”
#
Griggs lightly tapped the door of the adjoining room at the Hotel Abat de Cisneros. Hengst opened it. He was dressed in black like Griggs.
Hengst saw that Griggs had his tactical bag. “What do you need that for?”
“I don’t want to leave it in the room.”
Hengst shrugged at the explanation. “What makes you sure they’ll go roving tonight?”
“I’m not. But they might.”
The two men crept across the deserted moonlit plaza and took a position a hundred yards away from the dormitory doors behind a parked utility van. Griggs unzipped his bag and removed the rifle.
“What are you doing?” Hengst whispered.
“Relax. I’m just using its nightscope.”
“Tell me why I should believe you.”
“Because I’m your boss.”
“Harp gave specific orders,” Hengst said.
“I’ve been following those orders. I could have killed him in Wokingham but I didn’t, did I?”
“Maybe he was too fast for you.”
Griggs was steaming up. “Your balls aren’t in a vice. Mine are. I never ever leave loose ends. I’ve done three for Harp now. How many have you done? That’s right, zero. So zip it. I’m tired of being second-guessed, mate.”
#
Arthur’s phone alarm beeped them awake and they groggily dressed in the lamplight. They dressed in their darkest clothes and pocketed small LED flashlights.
The mountain air was sweet and cool. The monastery grounds and surrounding buildings were dark and empty. Guests, monks, and choirboys were all asleep. Under a moon three quarters full, they were easily able to find their way into the walled garden.
The twin rows of Italian Cypresses were like runway lights to a pilot. They followed the cloistered strip of garden directly to the wooden door of the small stone chapel.
The chapel was simple and ancient, no bigger than most sunrooms attached to suburban homes. It was made of irregular, rough-hewn limestone blocks at one time plastered over, though much of that plaster was gone. A gently sloped tile roof and small open belfry was topped by a diminutive cross. The brown door was arched and decorated with wrought iron scrolls. There was no visible lock.
“Here goes,” Arthur said, giving it a push. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to force the door and he didn’t. It swung open and they were in.
They both clicked on their flashlights and explored the space. It was a single rectangular room with an apse at the farthest end. A chunky limestone altar, within the apse, stood on a platform of the same blocks as the chapel walls. The altar was flanked by pair of chest-high candlesticks, and above it stood a very simple, very ancient black iron cross. The walls were plastered, pale green and unadorned. One modest grated window graced the apse. A modern space heater was against one wall, unnecessary now but no doubt welcome on a winter day. The floor was fashioned from large stone tiles smooth with antiquity and mostly covered by a sisal mat so the monks could prostrate themselves without too much discomfort.
