TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  The weather had not improved. An ominous greyness had descended over the abbey, befitting the mood of the community. Soon the bell would toll the little hour of sext, and about us monks sought refuge in the comfort of daily affairs. To the scriptorium, or the stables, long, sombre figures moved. Everywhere monks would raise their cowls a little to steal glances at one another, perhaps seeking recognition and justification for an anxiety felt, but never expressed. My master and I sought out the infirmarian. We knew that he had left earlier in the direction of the infirmary. As we walked with quick steps past the graveyard, I saw two monks digging Ezekiel’s grave, its dark depths contrasted starkly with the purity of the snow. Tomorrow, after the office of the dead, the old man’s mortality would be immersed in the cold ground, to sleep the eternal dreamless sleep in which the silence of divinity resides in the chalice of peace, and I pondered on the words of Job, ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery’, and I was caught between despair for the monastery, and a grave fear of the antichrist.

  We entered the infirmary where there was a good fire in the hearth, and as we stepped across the threshold, we saw that Brother Asa was hurriedly replacing something of large proportions in a velvet pouch.

  ‘Preceptor . . . you have been injured . . .’ he said, frowning a little, holding the pouch behind him. ‘I see that you have dressed the wound.’

  ‘Just a little graze. I should be more careful getting out of bed,’ he smiled, fixing the infirmarian with one of his silent stares until the man began to look about him nervously.

  ‘I wanted to tell you, but . . .’

  ‘What did you want to tell me, Asa,’ he asked him, ‘about Brother Samuel’s death? That you saw him dying, but did nothing?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ The infirmarian became distressed.

  ‘At the inquiry you said Brother Samuel was found in the church, gasping for air, but when we spoke to Brother Daniel, he said that when he found the monk he was already dead. So logically we must assume that you came across the poor man before Brother Daniel. Am I right!’

  The man fell to his knees, ‘No! I . . . that is, I did not . . . you have to believe me!’ he cried.

  ‘That you did not kill the brother? Or that you were the first to see him and did nothing to save his life?’

  ‘I will tell you . . .’ Asa sobbed into one hand, but my master did not wait for him to regain his composure, and pressed him to go on by helping him roughly to his feet.

  ‘I went to see Brother Ezekiel,’ he pleaded, ‘on the matter of a book. Being the translator and possessing a very good memory, Brother Macabus suggested that I see him. I was told that prior to nones he was always to be found at the foot of the Virgin, so I went there, but he was not alone. He was having a heated argument with Brother Samuel. Lord forgive them, they were raising their voices in the Chapel of the Lady of our sorrows. Not wishing to intrude, I waited in the ambulatory.’

  ‘What you mean to say is that you waited in the shadows, hoping to hear their argument.’ The man was silent, lowering his eyes, and my master waved him on.

  ‘For the most part I did not understand their conversation,’ he continued, ‘then I heard something which drew my interest.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They were discussing something . . . they called it a ‘final conclusion’. Brother Samuel said he must go down, and see for himself, Brother Ezekiel disagreed vehemently, saying that it was not the right time, he was not sure that any of them were pure enough . . . that it would depend on the others . . . I do not know what he meant by this . . .’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Brother Samuel then said that Daniel had given him the formulas.’

  ‘What were they discussing? Tell me!’ my master cried, his eyes ablaze.

  ‘I don’t know, I swear to you!’

  ‘Now you swear!’ There was a pause. ‘What is this place they should not visit? The tunnels, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I do know it has something to do with the boy.’

  ‘The boy?’

  ‘The novice, they mentioned him.’

  ‘What novice, Anselmo or Jerome?’

  He looked surprised, even shocked. His lips began to quiver and a faint perspiration appeared on his brow. ‘No, not them, but another . . .’

  We were both bewildered. ‘What other . . .? Tell me about him.’

  ‘I cannot . . . I don’t know . . . no one has seen him, not since he has fallen ill.’

  ‘Tell me who he is.’

  ‘He came to this monastery as an oblate of no more than seven. But no one has ever seen him. They say he is down with the ghosts, but no one goes there! No one! It is forbidden.’

  ‘In the tunnels? Come now, there are rules that apply to monks, and others that apply to the abbot and his obidientiaries.’

  ‘But it is not the abbot’s regulation, preceptor, that prevents monks from venturing there . . .’

  ‘Whose then, Setubar’s?’

  ‘No,’ the man looked about him circumspectly, ‘it is the admonition of the spirits!’

  ‘Come now, brother –’

  ‘There are spirits in the tunnels. It is their admonition.’

  ‘And yet I have heard that someone has broken the interdict,’ my master said, ‘did he return?’

  The infirmarian shook his head, and lowered his eyes once again, tears flowing down his face. ‘He disappeared a few days ago, Jerome is his name, he has not yet been found. You see, preceptor? It is infernal. Here above, we sing like the choirs of heaven, and yet down below us, the maws of hell are open.’ The poor man trembled with fear.

  My master looked puzzled. So there were three novices!

  ‘Could Jerome not have absconded?’ my master ventured, ‘this has been known to happen in monasteries.’

  ‘No, no. I do not believe it. Absolutely not! He was my apprentice, a fine student,’ the man broke down in sobs. ‘He and Anselmo were the only novices at our monastery apart from . . . they were good friends, always together . . .’

  ‘I see . . . and what of this boy? Were they friends with him?’

  ‘Oh, no . . . he was kept apart from all the others. Treated with special care . . . please, brother!’ The man cried suddenly stricken with emotion. ‘I am afraid . . . Brother Setubar will not be pleased that I have spoken to you.’

  ‘It seems all are more fearful of Brother Setubar than they are of the Devil?’

  The man pulled his cowl over his face, perhaps ashamed of his fear, perhaps so that we might not see, and therefore judge, his expression.

  ‘Tell me what happened after the argument,’ my master said, giving me a strange look.

  ‘Brother Ezekiel left, seeking his way through the church, for he knew it well despite his bad eyes, walking straight past me saying something about Setubar overhearing their conversation, but he did not see me. I was about to follow him, but I was intrigued by Brother Samuel’s behaviour. He took a candle from beneath the Virgin, and disappeared behind the red curtains, but after a few moments I saw him return struggling to gain his breath. He was convulsing and coughing, and that was when I rushed to him, but there was nothing I could do!’

  ‘Why did you not raise the alarm? Why did you walk away and leave someone else to find him?’

  ‘I was afraid . . .’ he pleaded, ‘but I must tell you of something that did not immediately occur to me until the night of Brother Ezekiel’s death. Before brother Samuel inspired his last breath, he said . . .’

  Alas, at that moment the door flew open and a burst of frozen air and snow rushed in, violating the warmth of the infirmary.

  It was Regino of Naples who, in an agitated state, hurried into the room pointing to the cloister buildings and exclaiming

  between gasps.

  ‘Fire! Fire in the cookhouse! The cook! The cook is dead!’

  I saw Brother Asa place the velvet pouch in a drawer before leaving.

  When we entered the cookhouse the fire had alre
ady been put out by various monks with buckets. The cook lay prostrate on the muddy floor, and there was a smell of burning oil and fish that in my anxiety I mistook for burning flesh. Asa reached the man before us, carried by his supple legs, and we found him kneeling over him. He inspected the cook for burns or any other injury and produced from a pouch around his middle a small vial. He removed the lid and passed the vessel beneath the cook’s nose – later I was to learn from my master that it was fennel juice – in any case, the man was instantly aroused. He opened his eyes, and with the face of a little child – a look that contrasted sharply with his great size – said from out of his moist mouth, ‘Madre mia! La Virgen! La Virgen!’

  My master moved closer and the cook wrenched at his habit hysterically. ‘I saw la madre santa, in the flames . . . she was beautiful! She said Rodrigo! Yes . . . she said my name! She said Rodrigo this is the sign!’

  There was agitation in the crowd that by now had gathered in the doorway to the refectory.

  ‘The sign!’ someone shouted, ‘for the fire hath devoured the pastures of the wilderness, and the frame hath burnt all the trees of the field!’

  ‘No! No!’ cried another.

  There was confusion. Some were saying anxiously that the age of advent had come and that Joachim of Calabria had been right, even though, by his calculation, it should be the year 1260.

  ‘Brother cook, were you cooking fish?’ my master asked loudly, adding his voice of reason to the matter.

  The man looked up at my master incredulously. What did it matter if he was cooking fish, his eyes said, he had seen the Virgin! My master repeated the question, and the cook said that yes, he had been cooking fish. Andre then walked over to the great fireplace beside the large oven. The fire had caused little damage because of the stone wall that surrounded it, but when he looked down, he noticed, as I did, a lump of charred hairy flesh, barely recognisable. ‘What is this?’ Andre asked, poking at it with a stick.

  The cook looked in the direction of my master’s gaze. At first uncomprehending, he realised suddenly, and gave out a loud, painful bellow. ‘Fernando!’ he cried, weeping into his hands. My heart sank. It was the cat.

  After inspecting the surrounds, my master said, ‘Now everything is clear.’

  He asked the cook if the cat regularly rested in the alcove above the fire. Even I knew the answer to this question, but the cook was weeping into his burly hands and saying in soft whispers, ‘Fernando . . . Fernando.’

  Others joined in until many were weeping for the unfortunate cat.

  It was then that Andre noticed something else, a dry, brown bunch of burnt leaves, perhaps herbs, hanging from a string above the fire. My master crumpled some of the charred remains in his hand, and bringing it to his nose, sniffed lightly. He nodded, returning to question the cook once more when, at that very moment, the abbot entered the cookhouse, followed by the inquisitor and the other members of the legation.

  Surveying the scene, the inquisitor approached the giant on the floor who, in his present state of grief, did not notice him.

  Rainiero gave my master a disdainful look and slapped the cook hard across the face. There was a collective gasp. The man’s head turned from side to side, and he looked up wide-eyed as though he did not comprehend what had just happened.

  ‘Mi poor Fernando,’ he said shocked. ‘He, too, saw la Virgen Santa!’

  The inquisitor ignored this and turned to the other cook for satisfaction, but before the man could speak, my master broke in with his usual alacrity.

  ‘It is simple, Rainiero, the man accidentally spilt oil over the fire while immersing fish for the meal. It ignited the herbs drying above the fire. Understandably he stepped away from the flames but, in so doing, he slipped on the floor, whereby he fell, knocking his head. The unfortunate cat,’ he pointed to the burnt remains, ‘in his surprise, leapt from its abode above the fire – a natural place for a cat, as they are known to hate the cold. It should have escaped misfortune, as we know cats land only on their feet. In this instance, however, it was its undoing, for one of its legs caught the side of the cauldron and it landed in the fire. Most unfortunate,’ he concluded, and finding a radish hanging from a basket took a bite out of it.

  Someone behind me said, ‘What a marvel.’ Another whispered, ‘It is the Templar acumen.’

  And as one might expect this did not please the inquisitor who looked on at my master’s casual manner with incredulity. ‘Very well!’ he exclaimed, enraged. ‘You seem to have things in hand. However, as I am the inquisitor, and not you, preceptor, I demand that you allow me to continue my investigations without interruption!’

  ‘By all means,’ said my master, stepping aside as a sign of submission. Rainiero raised his chin and looked down his nose at the cook. ‘Now then,’ he began, noting, however, that my master had stolen his thunder. ‘Cook, what say you?’

  ‘It was la Virgen!’ answered the man beaming, ‘She came out of the fire to take me to heaven. I was flying! Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen! – Deliver us from evil. Amen!’

  The inquisitor came forward until he stood very close to the cook. ‘So, you saw the Virgin! The Virgin appeared to you? I see . . . a greasy cook has a beatific vision? Should we venerate you as a saint? Or perhaps as the devil that you are!’

  ‘He visto a la Virgen. I have seen her . . .’ the cook said softly.

  ‘Or was it that perhaps you were casting a diabolical spell on the fish with some poisonous herb with the intention of harming this legation and those who seek the truth about this abbey? Come now, we all know the body of Satan is comprised of several plants! That his evil eye is henbane, his beard is the snapdragon, his claws the orchid, bindweed is his gut, mandrake his testicles! You have conjured up the Devil disguised as the sainted mother by sacrificing a cat. You see! All of you are witnesses! All of you know that the cat is the embodiment of Satan, whose urine is said to bring about the death of those who drink it. Whose ashes, when ingested, secure a man’s soul! It is you that I suspect of being the killer of two monks, whom you have poisoned at the bidding of the Devil! Guards! Seize this man!’

  There were confused cries of ‘No!’

  My master then, thankfully, interjected.

  ‘Rainiero, I am certain this incident is an innocent one. The man hit his head and has become stupefied, that is all. Murder has not been established, Rainiero. I believe there is another agent responsible . . .’

  ‘Really?’ The other man was angry now, and his face was turning the colour of my master’s radish. ‘Pray enlighten us all, preceptor, perhaps I should defer to your wisdom, for you seem more adept in such matters than I.’

  My master ignored him and continued, vegetable in hand, ‘I believe the cook has somehow partaken of a poisonous herb, perhaps the same that killed Brother Ezekiel .’

  ‘Why then is he not dead?’ the other man argued, turning blue.

  ‘I have not figured it all out yet, but perhaps it is because he did not ingest it, he only inhaled it when the herbs were set alight.’

  The cook merely gazed from one man to the other. ‘No! No! La Virgen!’

  ‘And so how is it that you know what poisonous herb was used, preceptor? That is, unless you are in collusion with heretics!’ he cried, ‘The wolf and the fox are cunning, but the lamb is wise!’

  ‘You are the wolf!’ the cook exclaimed. ‘Death to the wolves!’

  And then he howled like a madman.

  Rainiero’s mouth twisted in an evil grin. ‘Aha! Now we see the true nature of the beast! Death to the wolves! The cry of a Ghibelline!’ He turned to the abbot. ‘Not only do you harbour men who deal with infernal powers, but you also protect imperialists!’

  The abbot frowned, lost for words. Once again my master ventured his opinion, ‘The man does not know what he is saying, he is still under the influence of the herb and the blow to his head. You fail to see that there is more here than meets the eye.’

  The inq
uisitor laughed a terrible laugh. ‘Tomorrow we shall see what he says under oath! Guards, seize this vermin and take him to the room provided us by the abbey.’

  The guards took the cook brutally by both arms. He cried in sudden desperation, realising the gravity of his situation. They dragged him out of the kitchen through the door to the gardens in the time it took to say one amen, and I felt a terrible sense of powerlessness.

  ‘Infirmarian, you are to stay in your infirmary until I learn what part you have played in this terrible business, a guard will be posted at your door with orders to allow no one in without my sanction. And you . . .’ He glared at my master, ‘I’ll have no more of your intrusions in the affairs of the inquisition, preceptor, your duty lies as a watchful servant of the king and nothing more. If I catch you sniffing about I shall have no other recourse but to have you and your apprentice seized until the conclusion of this dreadful inquiry which is fast running a straight course toward inquisition.’ Turning towards the captain of the guards, he ordered that he post archers at all known exits out of the monastery. No one was to enter or to leave without his orders. He also ordered that all food prepared for the members of the legation must first be tasted, and that this included all the wine. After this he left, amid the wails and moans of monks.

  15

  Capitulum

  The storm came, not suddenly, but quietly. We were sitting in my master’s cell, Eisik, my master and I. Having heard the commotion Eisik was unable to contain his curiosity, and had made his way stealthily to the pilgrims’ hospice where we sat, deep in thought, as the wind began to rage outside the window. In the beginning it was nothing more than a gust, slowly, however, it became violent, pounding on the stone walls of the building with enough strength, it seemed, to carry a man. The sky, nearly black now, looked heavy with snow clouds that sequestered the mountain, and announced a heavy fall. Soon, up in the higher reaches, the peaks would become dangerously congested, like a pregnant woman longing to give birth to its excess – I fervently hoped, not on the abbey.