Temple of The Grail (3 page)

I must have had a look of amazement
on my face because he laughed so loudly that others turned to look, but I eyed
him suspiciously, ‘Why did you not just say that you knew the way?’

‘Ahh . . .’ he smiled a broad, white
smile that wrinkled his brown face all the way to his eyes. ‘This is the
lesson, the lesson is this! Prudence, dear boy, prudence! To be too confident
of one’s own aptitude,’ he lowered his voice and I could hardly hear him, ‘especially
in the company of those whose tendencies are to bull-headed vanity, is
dangerous. Prudence begs that those whom we cannot instruct we must . . .
direct. In other words, it is essential for a man to be tranquil and obscure.’

I was suddenly filled with a great
admiration. ‘I see,’ I said proudly. ‘You had the knowledge while the others
had only opinions, but they could not blame you for showing them up.’

‘
Mashallah
! – what God
can accomplish! Now you have it! Know much, but disclose little – that’s
a good axiom. Remember this in days to come, this too could save your life, for
it is the usual case that those who hold opinions most strongly rarely know anything
of the things they hold opinions about.’

So saying, we continued in silence,
toiling for a long period in the worsening weather, and it was mid-afternoon and
almost dark before we finally neared our destination.

Above our heads we encountered
firstly the fortified battlements that ran along the exposed eastern side. In
the gloom, they seemed imposing and ominous. Behind this rampart, a fortress of
darkness was framed by a steep mountain whose gigantic snowy peaks were hidden
under a blanket of cloud, and whose cold formation – thrust out of the
earth perhaps by devils – loomed its stark, craggy walls over the
surrounding landscape. It communicated a solemn, fearful respect, and I decided
(thinking again of the untold symbols through which God speaks to us) that it
was a warning, a sign that we should turn back.

The air was turbulent and hugged the
walls of the abbey, rushing past us in whistles and whines. I felt small
looking to the pines that arched upwards forming a moving vault that was
cathedral-like, and I was glad when at last we neared the gatehouse.

To the right of the great gates, I
noticed that someone had started a small fire, and had constructed a crude
shelter of dead branches that had as its support the stone wall. Some moments
later, I saw the shape of a man gathering kindling not far from the encampment.
I asked my master why this pilgrim or beggar had not been received at the
abbey, thinking also how brave he was to be alone in the unwelcome shadow of
the battlements with the elements raging around him.

‘I do not know, Christian,’ he
replied and the wind stole it. ‘He does not seem to be a pilgrim, perhaps he is
an aspirant novice who must, as is the custom, wait for some days outside the
walls of the monastery before he is welcomed. The Apostle has said, ‘one must
try the spirits, whether they are of God.’’

I shivered, it was indeed a harsh
test.

We arrived at the monastery gates as
the service of nones echoed from the chapel. The captain of the archers
alighted, knocked hard on the doors of the great gates, and after some moments
a pair of elderly eyes appeared from behind a small opening. The monk peered at
us myopically and shouted, ‘Welcome in the name of the Lord God.’

An instant later the doors yielded,
revealing the compound, indistinct beneath wind-stirred dust that made our
animals irritable and nervous. And they were not the only ones, for as we
crossed the stone flags of the threshold, a black raven perched on the arch let
out three cries and I trembled, praying silently, trying to hide the fear that
must surely have been evident on my face.

The abbot was at the gateway, the
ascetic grey habit of his order flapping about him. He was a man of large
proportions, and I am glad to say, possessed (for I was coming to expect the
worst) of a pleasant face. He blessed each of us quickly in the customary
fashion, said a short prayer to frustrate the wiles of the Devil and told us to
follow him. ‘Storm!’ he shouted, pointing upwards at a blackened sky.

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.

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 question 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.’

‘The boy . . .’ the monk said to the
other, ‘does he not look like . . .?’

‘He looks like an angel. Youth is
angelic, brother, precisely because it is young . . .’ Having delivered himself
of this statement he directed the other man away from us and out of the church.

This strange encounter left me a
little unsettled and I began to look about me in the shadows. My master,
sensing my apprehension, diverted my mind with other considerations, showing me
the church, and telling me about the architecture of the Cistercians, but this
only soothed me a little.

‘That man . . . do you believe that
he speaks the truth?’

‘Perhaps there was something to what
he was saying,’ Andre said.

‘What? That the antichrist roams the
abbey? That there are men here who have been seduced by the Devil?’ I asked
incredulously.

‘No, of course not!’ he snapped. ‘I
believe he is frightened, but then it is also known that the old live in
constant fear. However, he mentioned a martyr and I did see the fresh grave.
Something has happened here and I begin to find myself curious. Come, let us
look about, let us see what we can see.’

So we left the sanctuary through a
door in the pulpitum and, once through the rood screen, we found ourselves in the
area reserved for the laity.

If the sanctuary was the head and
heart of a church then this before us was the main body, the limbs. My master
told me that this church, no doubt built before the times of master masons and
artisans, had been – like so many scattered all over Europe –
constructed by the monks themselves. It was a great achievement, though it was
indeed a curious church because of its peculiar orientation. I queried my
master on this point and he concluded that it may have been unavoidable,
considering the aspect and the mountain. One other church he knew of in the
area was built similarly, the monastery church at Arles-sur-Tech whose
sarcophagus of its patron saints Abdon and Sennen is said to fill mysteriously
with holy water. Even a tiny amount of this liquid, he told me, had been known
to cure the most vile disease. I thought, and said as much, that no matter what
vile disease I contracted, nothing could persuade me to drink the water from a
sarcophagus. He pointed out to me that if I were willing to drink the blood of
Christ to save my soul, why not the water of Abdon to save my body?