It was snowing again. The north wind sweeping through the deep gorges was as wild as the winds off the coast near Bayonne where I had lived as a young child. I remembered only turbulent seas, grey and frigidly cold, whipped up and churned by the icy currents from the north. I learnt to swim in those chilly waters. Now, as I neared the entrance to the cloisters, my ears aching, a gust nearly swept me off my feet, and I was greatly relieved to enter the relative shelter of the cloisters. I passed the scriptorium, observing the monks from below my cowl. Today, even the illuminators worked with gloves, pausing every now and then to slap their hands across their middle and stamp their feet to encourage the circulation. From the vicinity of the cookhouse delicious aromas hung in the air and the noise of industry filled me with cheer.
In the cookhouse proper, the assistant cooks were very busy. They stirred this pot, adding a herb to this cauldron, a pinch of salt to another pan. In the absence of their master, they tasted, slurped, and sniffed, and just to make sure, added more of everything. As I crossed the threshold of the vast hot room, I noticed that two brothers seemed engaged in a heated argument. The taller brother, of Italian origin, argued with the shorter one, whose accent I could tell was from the lands to the north, perhaps German. They argued as to how much rosemary should be in the sausage. The tall brother stated that in his country one could never have enough of this sainted herb, for the Virgin Mary herself had found it most pleasant when she sat on it on the way to Nazareth. The German brother stood stiffly, I believe using vulgar words in his native tongue, shouting that hyssop was also a holy herb, used in the Temple of Solomon, but one would rather die a thousands deaths in infernal hell than cook with it. Finally, when it seemed they would soon come to blows, they noticed my presence and invited me in.
The brothers asked me to taste the sausage, and this I found to be most delicious, much to the delight of the Italian monk, whose name I learned was Alianardo. He gave the other monk a smirk of self-satisfaction and showed me into the larder where he said I could eat whatever I desired. Perhaps I had learnt something of the diplomatic art from my master?
I entered the darkened room through a door to the right side of the great ovens and noticed only after a moment that above me smoked fish and curing sausages hung from hooks attached to the ceiling. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I saw that on shelves there were also stores of preserved fruit, olives, eggs, and rounds of cheese. Large urns of unknown substances that, in my relative ignorance, I guessed to be olive oil and vinegar, sat on the stone floor. Here some straw had been placed, no doubt to absorb unwanted moisture, but also affording a soft place on which to sit. I found a sheltered spot, amid baskets of beans, apples, and dried foods, and consumed – in concentrated gluttony – the generous plate brought me. There was melted cheese, olives, nuts, bread, throbbing sausages – whose juices ran down my chin – and smoked ham. Finally I ended it with a cup of warmed wine and, ipso facto, grew weary – as one is wont to do when one is satiated – and leant back on the pleasant, soft straw, using a bag of wheat for a pillow, the troubles of the monastery a million leagues away, the inquisitor with his wicked grin a point in a universe of points. I allowed my full stomach and the warmth from the fire that reached even into the larder, to lull me into a deep, contented sleep, in which I dreamt that I was flying into the arms of my beloved.
I must have been asleep a long time because when I awoke I could see that the light outside the larder had changed. Shadows stood where previously there had been light, and the kitchen, so lively with the activity of monks before I had succumbed to fatigue, now appeared to be very bare. It was then that I heard a strange voice whose owner was unseen to me. For a moment I was startled, but I heard only the sounds coming from the great fireplace, breaking the stillness with its crackling and spluttering. I sat up feeling dull and wondered drowsily how I had come to be here, as is usual in the case of daytime sleep. I slowly – and I must say shamefully – remembered first my gluttony, and then, in horror, my dream! It occurred to me that I may have missed the service of the dead, and not wanting to add this to my growing list of sins I hastily prepared to leave, when I heard the voice again.
My master would have been exceedingly proud of me, for I moved close to the door, remaining in the shadows so as not to be seen and there, crouched behind a barrel of ale, I listened. Lifting my head a little, I could only just see Rainiero Sacconi conducting a conversation with an unseen monk whose voice I at once recognised as belonging to Brother Setubar.
‘So tell me, old man,’ he said, ‘why you have dragged me to the basest of places?’
‘We are safest here. The walls of the abbey are the ears of the abbot, who is corrupt like all the others, but here in the cookhouse we are free to speak.’
I saw the inquisitor’s eyes gleam in the firelight, ‘Tell me everything!’
‘I will tell you only what you need to know,’ the old man said slowly with an authority that even the inquisitor could not deny. ‘Firstly, you must swear that you will stop them, for theirs is an unnatural design. It is very close, and soon they must be prevented from using what they have been hiding –’
‘Old man, you have brought me to this monastery on the pretext that you harbour Giacopo de la Chiusa, the murderer of Piero da Verona, now you must tell me where he is!’
‘I told you there was a man here of great interest to you, but I did not name names. He was an accomplice to the murders, I know this . . .’ There was a pause. ‘Do not ask me how . . .’
Oh Lord . . . By the tone of his voice I knew that Setubar had to have learnt these things under the seal of confession, and he was divulging them! I crossed myself devoutly, feeling the presence of the devil close at hand.
‘But this,’ Setubar said, in his gruff voice, ‘pales in significance in comparison with what I am about to tell you.’
‘I want to know his name, if it is not Giacopo de la Chiusa then who? Manfredo, Thomaso? Do not tell me about heretical doctrines!’ the inquisitor said. ‘There is enough of this going on in all abbeys of Christendom to fill the entire libraries of hell! This does not interest me.’
The old man laughed a hard raucous laugh the nature of which degenerated into a hacking that shook his entire body. ‘Heretical doctrines? More fool the pope whose ignorance is only bettered by his vice. If only that were all . . .’ He sighed, gaining his breath. ‘No heretical doctrine can compare with the heresy perpetrated by the monks of this abbey. This, inquisitor, is the source of the greatest heresy of all! Do you recall the siege at Montsegur? The four Cathars who escaped . . . I was one of them.’
‘What say you?’ the other man spat. ‘No Cathars escaped, all died purified on the pyre!’
‘You are ignorant!’ The old man began to laugh, his shoulders heaving so violently that he had to lean on the wall for support. Presently after a burst of coughing he continued, ‘And your ignorance will lead to your downfall! Do you believe that all those who offered their lives that day would have so willingly done so without first safeguarding the knowledge?’
‘So you were a Perfect?’ he asked as though the words were poison.
‘I and three others . . . but they are now dead . . . we brought down from that great height what was vouchsafed to us . . . Something that would greatly interest you and perhaps mark your name in the annals of history for all time,’ he smiled, nodding his head, ‘but I shall not tell too much. You need not know the rest . . .’
‘Do not waste my time, old man!’ he said. ‘Tell me the name, or I shall have you detained like the others.’
Setubar laughed once again. ‘You may do as you will with this sinful body. I am prepared to tell you what I know because I long for death, unlike the others who desire to live too long. You must enter the tunnels and find it before it is too late…before it is consummated! There you will find the greatest heretical doctrine of all. Think of it! The world will resound with your name, you, the man who discovered the most important symbol of heresy in th
e known world! The pope will make you a saint! Every book will spell the name of Rainiero Sacconi. You will do what no other inquisitor has ever done. You will put a stop to heresy for all times to come . . . and if you do this I will also give you his name, so that you may avenge the terrible event at Barlassina, for this man may know where all the other assassins are hiding.’
At this point I felt a strange feathery sensation near my right ankle. I looked down to see a fat, hairy rat, perhaps the same rat that the cook chased away that morning in the kitchen four days ago, nibbling at some stray grain near my foot. I jumped a little, shooing the thing away, trying to be quiet, but there were others, furry little bodies scurrying to and fro, and in my shock, I must have made some noise because the inquisitor paused, leaning his head in my direction, narrowing his eyes slightly.
‘Who is there?’ He walked slowly toward the larder and I crouched like a ball behind the barrel of ale, thanking God for the first time that I was born small. Thankfully, just at that moment we heard a rumbling, like the roar of a great lion, and I must say that I believed it to be the voice of God, the voice that in revelations spoke like many waters, carried on the sound of great thunder. Later I was to learn that it was an avalanche, but for the moment, dear reader, it seemed as though God had chosen to spare me, for the inquisitor and Setubar left the kitchen hastily, and I was able to leave undetected, but not before taking an apple for my master.
I ran through the cloisters and out to the courtyard, realising that it was late morning and that I had slept a good hour or two. In the pale diffused light I saw that a large mound of snow had fallen from above, covering the graveyard. Some had also fallen over the church, but not enough to damage it.
Everywhere monks headed for a gathering barely discernible through the fog and snow. The abbot, the inquisitor, and my master were standing at the great gate where I saw riders on horses entering the compound. One man was slumped over on the neck of his horse, as though he had lost his senses. I noticed blood running down his leg, dripping on the fresh snow and making a deep red well there. Another rider, an older man whose stout form was richly adorned with a fur-lined cloak the colour of vermilion, at once jumped down from his horse crying out in Langued’oc. ‘My son, my son . . .’ He rushed over to a third rider, who appeared to be a woman, and in an agitated way helped her down from her horse. I could not see her face for it was obscured by the green velvet hood of her vestments, however, I knew that she must be beautiful, what other reason could she have to cover herself? Chaste eyes may look upon ugliness, as Brother Setubar intimated, but beauty . . .? My heart sank.
Once he had made sure that the lady was all right, the older man assisted the others to retrieve the insensible body of his son from the saddle.
I asked a monk standing nearby what had happened, and who these people were, but he did not know, so I walked the short distance to my master’s side, and on seeing me, he grabbed me by the ear – not too harshly, but most embarrassingly – and said in a very loud whisper, ‘By my sword, boy! Where have you been? I have been very worried!’ To which I shrugged meekly, mustering a look I hoped would convey my deep contrition.
‘Later!’ he admonished, and left me to inspect the body of the man.
After a short, but decisive investigation, my master concluded that the young man had a broken leg. ‘I will need help. I will need the assistance of the infirmarian.’
‘He has been detained, and I will not allow it,’ the inquisitor answered emphatically.
My master looked up calmly from his kneeling position at the young man’s side. ‘I shall also need the services of my colleague, Eisik.’
Hearing this the stout noble, with the broad bony face whose son lay prostrate on the snow, scowled. ‘I will not allow a Jew to touch my son!’
‘Perhaps you’d rather see your son dead, my lord?’
The man made a gesture of irritation, but said nothing, and walked over to the woman, embracing her in a fatherly way, his face paler than the snow.
‘The bone here has been shattered.’ My master pointed to the young man’s left thigh, whose colour contrasted sickeningly with the gaping wound that exposed the two white protuberances of his femur. ‘We must hurry . . .’ he continued. ‘Wrap him in the blankets, and take him to the infirmary . . . I think he may yet have life in him. You,’ he pointed to a monk, ‘find Eisik, and the blacksmith, and get me a file, one with the finest tooth you have, and two strong, straight lengths of wood, as long as a man’s leg. We shall have to tidy those bones before we put them together.’
Two burly lay brothers wrapped the young man in thick woollen blankets, and carried him the long distance to the infirmary. Once inside, they laid his body on the table, where he was disrobed and once again covered. Andre ordered others to collect boiling water from the lavatory and to fill one-third of a bath in the infirmary with it, the other two-thirds with cold. It was at this point that the infirmarian, Brother Asa, entered the room, wearing a drained and weakened expression. Flanked by two guards, he looked shaken, but it was not until he came closer that we saw in his eyes that he had indeed suffered some measure of indignity.
‘Ah, my colleague!’ my master smiled, bringing him to the table. ‘There was an avalanche, the boy was buried, and as you can see broke his leg.’
The boy’s father, who was attempting to comfort the mysterious maiden, looked up. ‘We are travelling to Prats de Mollo, we lost our way and we saw the monastery . . .’ He paused, looking around him. His eyes were wide with images. ‘The avalanche . . . all our retinue . . . our carriages . . . my son was trapped under the snow for a short time . . . at the foot of the abbey!’
I wondered if the pilgrims in their shelter had been buried too? But I did not linger too long on such thoughts, for at that moment Eisik entered the infirmary, looking grim, his face grey and his eyes wide with fear. My master smiled, and said he was preparing to treat the patient. In one glance Eisik became transformed. His shoulders squared and his eyes filled with purpose. It was as if the misfortunes of another made him forget his own. Perhaps this was why he had become a physician.
Asa listened to the man’s chest ‘His heart is slow, but it beats. He will die if he is not warmed.’
‘Mon dieu! Hurry with that bath!’ my master cried impatiently. With gravity he said to Asa, ‘We shall have to fix his leg before we immerse him, otherwise he may bleed to death. Have you performed this procedure before?’
Asa shook his head. ‘Not many times, but I know the formula.’
‘Good,’ my master said, and with the swiftness of one used to such things, he prepared the wound. Momentarily, the blacksmith entered holding in his thick calloused hands the file and the wood that my master had earlier requested. He took the file, and also a large knife of Arabic design which I knew to be his, and placed the two over the flames in the fire for a time. After allowing the articles to cool a little, he gave the file to Eisik and motioned for Asa to hold the leg. He paused before beginning. ‘May the son of Apollo help us save this boy’s leg.’ He said this almost as a prayer, and I was instantly worried, for I could see the inquisitor’s eyes narrow and his thin lips contort in a grimace that was too discomforting. Shortly after, my master began to cut away at the skin and muscle with the knife to reveal the two bones, and taking the file from Eisik, began to file away the broken edges, so that they were smooth where they met.
‘Look at this thigh bone,’ my master said, demonstrating the bone. ‘Look how wonderfully it is constructed, the best craftsman could not make something so perfect. It is built with the minimum material, so that it is light and yet it is very strong.’
Those who had eagerly followed the party into the infirmary now took their leave, emptying the contents of their stomachs on the fresh snow outside.
The German cook called out rather loudly, ‘Too much rosemary! For the love of Christ . . . too much!’ as he ran out into the compound holding his stomach in his hands.
I began to feel unw
ell, remembering with distaste my earlier indiscretions. Somehow I managed to control these feelings by concentrating on the formidable skill of the two men.
Once the ends had been filed to my master’s satisfaction he motioned for the infirmarian to straighten the leg and the young boy uttered a faint sound, like the breath that escapes the mouth of a dying man. My master, in turn, kept the two sides of the wound together as Eisik (who remained conspicuously silent) began with great precision to stitch the wound with what looked like string or fine rope given to him by Asa.
‘Sheep’s entrails, dried in the sun?’ my master asked, obviously impressed.
Asa explained, as Eisik plunged the large needle deep into the man’s thigh, making me wince with each insertion. ‘Toughened with wax . . . better than string and kinder on the wound.’
Afterwards Asa retrieved a jar from the shelf to one side of his workbench from which he removed with his own hands a paste which he placed on the inside of a clean rag, doubling it, so that there was a layer of rag between the leg and the paste when he placed it deftly on the wound. I knew that it must be a poultice, for my mother had also used this curative method. He bound this firmly with a bandage of sorts, and said, ‘A mixture of garlic, fenugreek, and calendula essence made into a fine paste. Placed not directly on the wound but betwixt two layers of cloth . . . Do you agree, my colleagues?’ he asked amiably, some semblance of enthusiasm returning to his eyes.
‘Perfected from the flesh of marigolds!’ Eisik remarked, forgetting that all eyes were upon him.
‘A fine mixture,’ my master concurred, ‘we have used a similar paste on wounds in the Holy Land, have we not, Eisik? Very fine for preventing fermentation of the skin.’
TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 31