TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘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?

  It was a good question.

  So we stood, our eyes leading us down a central aisle or nave, whose flanking colonnades supported arches, curving to meet across the ceiling vault. The rood screen became its central point, and standing in front of it, I had the impression that numerous and converging arches were rushing towards me in fast succession. Like waves of water, they seemed to defy the earthly forces of attraction, rising with an unbridled momentum before collapsing upon the calm and quiet shores of a delicate crucifix.

  I remembered fondly our visit to Reims where my master had shown me the marvellous carved reliefs on the capitals of the columns and I recalled being spellbound and I confess that I very nearly risked worshipping the creation more than the creator, having to remind myself of what St Bernard tells us about this very sin. For I could have spent a whole day gazing at such details in preference to meditating upon God’s laws! St Bernard believed, as do many others, that the murals and statues, so often employed by the Benedictines in their churches, interfered with sound meditation and training in religious gravity. And yet here in this fine Cistercian model, my eyes sorely missed the statues, individual in their grace and pose, they missed the fantastic murals where artists, armed with powders and tinctures of unequalled perfection, added flesh to gods and saints. Where were the golden candlesticks? Nowhere did I see ornate tripods of silver, lovingly encrusted with gemstones of brilliant hues!

  ‘A Cistercian monastery,’ my master said, reading my thoughts, ‘must adhere strictly to the ideal of poverty, to the ideal of the universal that shuns the individual. Even their habit, if you are attentive, Christian, will illustrate this point, for these monks can abandon differentiation from those things that surround them by the use of grey, which allows them to diffuse into the stone of the walls, into the dirt of the floor, indistinct even from the grey mist that descends downward from a grey sky whose milky blanket comes to rest on the greyness of the compound.’

  I took a moment to reflect on my master’s wisdom, seeing that indeed it was a world that shunned the particular for the homogeneously universal. It seemed to me a quiet peaceful world, if not a little dull. However, as we walked down the central nave, we became immediately aware of the windows that, in their nature, were the only departure from the strict rule.

  The long windows illuminated the five bays on either side of the nave with brilliant light, casting resplendent reflections in a play of colour – more effective perhaps, because of the grey background onto which it fell. All ten windows, with their exquisite plate tracery, depicted in a glorious concordance of transparency the four temptations of Christ, the ascension, the twelve apostles, but it was the Madonna and child between four angels that especially caught my attention. High above the second bay the Virgin sat enthroned, her violet robes simply draped over her pubescent body, cradling the Jesus child to her plump bosom. I paused in reflection, for the Virgin, dear reader, was black! I thought that my eyes and the dim light had been the cause of this strange illusion. I turned, but my master was already near the east door.

  I walked to him and waited. He did not like to be interrupted while deep in thought, this could unleash a tempestuous mood that many have innocently, though unequivocally, come to know, so I waited. Moments later he turned to me.

  ‘To appreciate the art of architecture I am told that one must learn to see it with different eyes. You must first learn to follow the contours as they rise.’ He traced the journey of a vault, following the curves, which flow to meet a column in holy communion. ‘In doing so, you will be lifted high into the heavenly vaults!’

  I remained silent, waiting impatiently.

  ‘It is as important,’ he continued, ‘to appreciate art as it is to create it. Architecture raises us above all temporal things . . . It is also a fair shelter from the elements.’ He then looked at me squarely. ‘You wish to ask a question? Come . . . come . . .’

  I asked him if he had noticed the Virgin, showing him where it was. He stood staring at it for long moments in silence, before remarking in an ambiguous way.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you not think it strange, master?’ I asked, thinking that it was surely out of the ordinary.

  ‘It is remarkable, but strange, no,’ he said, and walked away.

  ‘But what of the Virgin?’

  ‘Ahhh! The Virgin. Yes . . . Let me show you something.’

  He led me the short distance to the east door, through which a wind thrust its cold hands.

  The entrance spanned approximately ten feet, and was lit by two great torches whose flames licked and yawed and threatened to go out. They were attached to the stone wall on either side of a great oak door, left open throughout the day. Accompanying the proportions and bound to the very body of the two columns that flanked the entrance were two unnaturally tall figures. My fascinated eye fell firstly upon the image of the Archangel Michael who stood to the right of the door, and I was curious to find that he was dressed in knight’s mail and armour. On the left side, as one would expect, stood Gabriel, gazing upward with a smile of perennial praise, almost kneeling, preparing for a prayer that would last for all time. Above the doorway, and surmounting the arch – the area called the tympanum – there was an intricate working of Christ on his throne, surrounded by his twelve apostles.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Andre broke through my speculations. In my enthusiasm for the door’s impressive sculptures, I had not noticed him pointing to a place above the Christ figure where there was a large cross intersected by a circlet of roses.

  I felt my master’s breath on my cheeks as he whispered excitedly into my ear. ‘The Rose Cross! I saw it on our way to the cloisters.’

  I frowned, ‘Rose
Cross?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ he trailed off pensively.

  ‘But master . . . what of the black virgin?’

  ‘The black Madonna is not so strange.’ He shook his head. ‘There is a black Mary at Notre-Dame in Dijon, and also at Chartres, on its stained glass windows. It is the combination of rose and cross, Christian, which makes this abbey’s ornamentation interesting, it harks back to . . .’

  I was about to risk a reprimand by asking more questions, when we were interrupted by a voice behind us.

  It was the abbot, trying to keep his hood over his head in the inclement air, accompanied by another monk. ‘Domine dilexi decorem domus tuae, et locum habitationis gloriae tuae ... Lord I have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honour dwelleth . . . You are admiring our door.’

  My master smiled wryly. ‘He found it wood and left it marble.’

  ‘Poor abbot Odilo of Cluny . . .’ the abbot continued with good humour. ‘He built a beautiful fortress of gold-mounted reliquaries, more admired for its beauty than venerated for its

  sanctity . . . Here we only have a door.’

  ‘A most beautiful door, your grace,’ my master bowed.

  ‘Perhaps a little indulgent . . . In any event, I would like you to meet our infirmarian, brother Asa.’

  The other monk removed his cowl to reveal a very thin face, darkened by the sun. The bluster swung the thin, lank hair about his tonsure but his brown eyes showed a keenness, as though little fires burnt behind them. I liked him instantly.

  ‘Our dear brother,’ the abbot continued, shouting slightly, ‘was very excited to learn that you have graced our abbey. And he is most anxious to discuss with you many things of a medicinal nature.’

  Brother Asa nodded his head, a broad smile lighting up his features, but he seemed tongue-tied, and it was some moments before he spoke with timidity.

  ‘I would be most grateful for any exchange of knowledge, preceptor. We are very removed from worldly things here, and I have not had occasion to hear of any advancement in the medicinal arts.’

  ‘I am always happy to converse on this most holy of topics.’

  ‘Thank you, preceptor. Perhaps tomorrow then?’ he asked no one in particular, and drew his cowl leaving us with the abbot.

  The abbot watched his monk walk away with paternal affection. ‘He is a very fine physician,’ he said with pride. ‘I believe one of the best this abbey has known, though our brother Setubar taught him everything that he knows. He has never attended a university . . . all his learning comes from books.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ my master said in an offhand way that signalled his deep interest. ‘We met Brother Setubar inside the church, with Brother Ezekiel. You say he learned everything from books?

  Your abbey must have a very fine medical library then, your holiness?’

  The abbot became serious, ‘It is adequate, though not in the same league, perhaps, as others you’ve seen in your travels. Now then, you must let me know, preceptor, if you are in need of anything. Your accommodation is suitable?’

  ‘In every aspect, your holiness.’

  ‘Good! That is good. And so I must take my leave, and prepare for the holy service. You will, of course, join us in the choir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As the abbot was about to enter the church, my master added, ‘May I have your permission, your grace, to make some inquiries?’

  The abbot turned, a wary smile dawning over his singular features. ‘I thought this was the duty of the inquisitor, preceptor?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ my master conceded very quickly. ‘However, two men, your holiness, not working together, and bound by different natures, will inevitably see things differently as Augustine tells us. In other words,’ my master continued, marking every word, ‘one eye may see something that the other does not, or on the other hand, one eye may choose . . . not to see, by virtue of its faithful – or indeed unfaithful – service. And as this inquiry delves into the medical practices of your abbey, it may be in your favour to have a physician overseeing . . . matters . . .’ he trailed off.

  The abbot raised both eyebrows in an unspoken question. I too wondered at my master’s meaning. As if to instruct us further then, which had been my master’s intention all along, he proceeded. ‘It is the king’s wish that I observe the conduct of this inquiry with the utmost care, and this means that I must hear what the inquisitor hears, and I must also see what he sees, or perhaps even what he does not hear and see. In this capacity, I will need your permission to question the brothers.’

  I felt the abbot’s uncertainty. ‘There has been so much disturbance . . .’

  ‘I will remain mindful of the delicate nature of these matters, your holiness.’

  ‘And what does the inquisitor say to this?’

  ‘My authority comes directly from the king, and as we are these days on French soil . . .’

  ‘Yes, but the inquisitor has his authority directly from the pope! And so, I believe, we are to be caught like a fish between two rocks. Between the pope and King Louis, as we have been in the past between the King of Aragon and the Count of Toulouse?’

  ‘And yet it is indeed in such a spot that a fish can best elude the wiles of the fisherman, your holiness, as you perhaps already know.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ He smiled a little but it did not reach his eyes, ‘but who, in this case, is the fisherman, preceptor?’

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ my master nodded his head, but said nothing more.

  There was a long pause and I assumed the abbot was debating the wisdom of his forthcoming decision. ‘You have my permission to ask what questions you deem necessary, preceptor. However, I cannot allow you to wander about the abbey at any hour of your choosing, especially at night. No one should, indeed, no one must.’

  ‘But if you will forgive me, it is often at night, away from the distractions of everyday life, that one gains a true impression of . . . things, your grace.’

  The abbot became annoyed. ‘Your impressions can surely wait for the appropriate hour. I would like you to conform to our simple rules. In this way we can best prevent this tiresome inquiry from trespassing unnecessarily on the life of the community.’ He gave my master a pointed look. ‘I trust a Templar’s vows of obedience are as sacred as ours . . .?’

  My master bowed. ‘Without obedience, your holiness, there is precious little.’

  ‘Having said this, obedience begs that I must leave, for the bell will soon toll the hour.’

  ‘One last thing, your holiness?’ my master added, once again demurely, but I could see how brightly his steely eyes were shining. ‘May I ask who is the oldest member of your community?’

  The other man hesitated, perhaps wondering what my master was up to. ‘Why, the brother whom you met in the church, Brother Ezekiel of Padua. But I will not have him disturbed, do you understand? He is very frail, needing constant care. His mind is . . . shall we say detached. After all he is very old.’

  ‘I see,’ Andre answered, a frown darkening his brow.

  ‘However, you must not tax him with unnecessary questions.’

  ‘Of course, your holiness, we will only disturb him for the most important of reasons.’

  The abbot hesitated, perhaps a little unsure of my master’s sincerity, then he blessed us and disappeared into the grey void of the church.

  ‘Very well,’ my master whispered to me, in heightened spirits, ‘now we know three things.’

  ‘Do we?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘Naturally, haven’t you been listening? We know firstly that when this abbey was built, its architects used underground tunnels to divert running water. We also know that the abbot is most anxious that we do not inspect the abbey by night, and also that he is not comfortable with us asking the old brother questions. A man who may know with accuracy the abbey’s history! I should think this is enough for one afternoon.’

  ‘If you ask me, master, I say we still do not know anything at all!’ />
  ‘Patience, patience! Knowledge does not consist of what one knows, but rather, knowing what one does not know, as Plato tells us.’

  ‘What do we do next?’

  ‘We disobey the abbot, and inspect the monastery by night.’

  ‘Disobey? But, master –’

  ‘Hush, Christian, in this case God will forgive us.’

  I hesitated, observing how the shadow of dusk was settling over the compound. ‘And what about the antichrist?’

  ‘The only devil, Christian, exists in ignorance and folly, as I have told you, don’t look for Satan behind every shadow, rather learn to distinguish his form in the eyes of a man. Now to vespers!’

  It was only later, after the holy office, as I lay on my pallet that memories of Mansourah returned with vividness. I had no wish to cast my mind back to those days. I tried rather to forget (if only it were possible!) the crazed blood of battle, the anguished cries and tortured faces, the clatter and thunder of hoofs stirring up grit, the rattle of armoured bodies charging, pressing. Yet in my ears the groans still echo with such clarity that I almost feel the pain of wounds that gape and fester. I watch as though I am standing, once again wide-eyed, as the standards are raised and the banners unfurled. I hear the wild snorting of animals on the spur, the cries of the young captains. I observe the carnage, and note everything on parchments for future chroniclers. I see the bits of bodies flung about, discarded, and I watch as others lose their stomachs, or cry silently. Everywhere life-blood, sweet and metallic, and the suffocating smoke that settles to reveal the charred flesh of Greek fire. I witness my master’s devotion as he stitches up flesh, stuffs bowels back into abdomens, cauterises or uses his fist in a vain attempt to stop the rush of blood . . . hours and hours, too many bloody days with his arms to the elbows, his white mantle stained with carmine, wading through the fields of bodies.

  I remember now, old man that I am, how a cloud of scourge struck those of us who survived in waves of fever and dysentery, sending mucus spilling from the nostrils and spasms wrenching the gut. I see my master, so clearly, cutting out the lower parts of his drawers and continuing his work in a camp that is no longer filled with the stench of blood, but excrement and doom.