The Tenth Chamber

by Glenn Cooper

  Pierre forbade him from travelling on and confined him to bed. He obtained from Rome a mitigation of the sentence and even got Bernard to stand down when he passed word to him that Abelard was dying. Was not further earthly persecution of the monk pointless and cruel, he asked, and Bernard had sighed deeply and agreed.

  Past the new year and into the spring, Abelard grew weaker. Pierre believed a sister house to Cluny, The Priory of St Marcel, was a quieter venue with more tender hands, and that is where Abelard was sent to die.

  A procession of nuns on horseback snaked into the clearing. It was a windy evening in April. The men in the camp stopped their cooking and rose to their feet. There was a murmur. A gust blew the hood back from a woman who rode straight in the saddle and took the veil with it. She had long grey hair in a single braid.

  One monk ran to fetch the veil and helped her dismount.

  ‘Welcome, Abbess,’ he said, as if they had met many times.

  ‘Do I know you, Brother?’ she asked.

  ‘I am a friend of your friend,’ he said. ‘I am Barthomieu, of Ruac Abbey.’

  ‘Ah, from years ago.’ She looked at him curiously but said no more.

  ‘Would you like me to take you to him?’ Barthomieu asked.

  She exhaled. ‘Then I am not too late.’

  A coverlet was drawn to Abelard’s chin. He was asleep. Even though the consumption had melted the flesh from his face, Heloise whispered he looked better than she had expected, then kneeled at his bedside and placed her hands together in prayer.

  Abelard opened his eyes. ‘Heloise.’ From his weak lips the utterance sounded more like a breath than a name.

  ‘Yes, my dear one.’

  ‘You came.’

  ‘Yes. To be with you.’

  ‘To the end?’

  ‘Our love will never end,’ she whispered into his ear.

  Despite the whisper Barthomieu heard her, and he excused himself so the two of them could be alone.

  Barthomieu waited outside the hut all evening and all night, like a sentry. Heloise stayed until the first light of morning, excused herself for a short while then returned, as fresh and determined as ever to maintain her vigil. When Barthomieu asked if she needed the assistance of the infirmarer, she brushed him off and said she was perfectly capable of attending to all his needs.

  Later in the day, there was a commotion when a group of men, King’s soldiers aggressively rode into the Priory. Barthomieu met them, had a word with their captain, and blanched.

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s not far behind us. Maybe an hour. And you are?’

  ‘His brother,’ Barthomieu muttered. ‘I am Bernard of Clairvaux’s brother.’

  A soldier opened the door for him and Bernard emerged from his fine, covered carriage looking pale and drawn. He was fifty-two but could have been mistaken for an older man. The pressures of high office and the years of spartan living conditions had turned his skin lax and sallow and rendered him arthritic and stiff-limbed. He took stock of the ragged conditions of the camp, a pilgrims’ enclave, and the assemblage of clerics and scholars, men and women.

  Will I engender as much adulation at the time of my death, he thought. Then he called out, imperiously, ‘Who will take me to see Abelard?’

  Barthomieu approached. The two men briefly locked eyes, but Bernard shook his head and looked elsewhere for a moment before refocusing on the man.

  ‘Hello, Bernard.’

  He was momentarily angered by the informality. He was the Abbot of Citeaux. Papal legates sought his counsel. He had sat by the side of popes and the current Holy Father valued his advice over any man. He was the founding benefactor to the Knights Templar. His name was uttered by Crusaders. He had healed great schisms within the Church. Who was this monk to simply call him Bernard?

  He looked into those eyes again. Who is this man?

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ Barthomieu said.

  ‘Barthomieu? It cannot be you. You are young.’

  ‘There is one, younger still.’ He called over to the camp fire. ‘Nivard, come here.’

  Nivard came running out. Bernard had not seen him for half a lifetime, but his youngest brother Nivard would be well into his forties by now, not this strapping fellow he saw before him.

  The three men embraced, but Bernard’s hugs were tentative and wary.

  ‘Do not fret. All will be explained, brother,’ Barthomieu said. ‘But be quick, come and see Abelard while he still draws breath.’

  When Bernard and Barthomieu entered the sick house, Heloise turned to hush the intruders, then realised the great man of the Church had entered.

  She rose and made her intentions clear to kiss Bernard’s ring but he shooed her back and bade her keep at Abelard’s side.

  ‘Your Excellency, I am-’

  ‘You are Heloise. You are Abbess of Paraclete. I know of you. I know of your intellect and piety. How is he?’

  ‘He is slipping away. Come. There is still time.’

  She touched Abelard’s pointy shoulder. ‘Wake up, my dear. Someone is here to see you. Your old…’ She looked to Bernard for guidance.

  ‘Yes, call me his old friend.’

  ‘Your old friend, Bernard of Clairvaux, has come to be with you.’

  A weak huffing cough signalled his wakening. Bernard appeared shocked at the sight of the man, not because he looked like skin and bones, but because he looked so young. ‘Abelard too!’ he hissed.

  Barthomieu was standing in the corner with his arms tightly folded around his chest. He nodded.

  Abelard managed to smile. In order to speak without inducing a paroxysm he had learned to whisper, using his throat more than his diaphragm. ‘Have you come to drop a heavy weight upon my head and finish me off?’ he joked.

  ‘I have come to pay my respects.’

  ‘I was not aware you respected me.’

  ‘As a person, you have my utmost respect.’

  ‘What about my views?’

  ‘That is another matter. But we are finished with those arguments.’

  Abelard nodded. ‘Have you met Heloise?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘She is a good abbess.’

  ‘I am sure she is.’

  ‘She is a good woman.’

  Bernard said nothing.

  ‘I love her. I have always loved her.’

  The abbot shifted uncomfortably.

  Abelard asked that Bernard and he be left alone and when Heloise and Barthomieu withdrew, he beckoned Bernard closer. ‘Can I tell you something, as one friend might say to another?’

  Bernard nodded.

  ‘You are a great man, Bernard. You perform all the difficult religious duties. You fast, you watch, you suffer. But you do not endure the easy ones – you do not love.’

  The old man slumped into a bedside chair and tears filled his eyes. ‘Love.’ He said the word as if it were foreign to his tongue. ‘Perhaps, old friend, you are right.’

  Abelard gave him a sly wink. ‘I forgive you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bernard answered with a touch of amusement. ‘Would you like to confess to me?’

  ‘I am not sure I have the time left to confess all my sins. We have not seen each other since that night in Ruac when we drank some tea together.’

  ‘Yes, the tea.’

  Abelard had a coughing fit and stained his mouth cloth red. When his breathing was under control he said, ‘Let me tell you about the tea.’

  Two days later, Abelard was dead.

  Heloise took his body back to Paraclete and buried him in a grave on a small knoll near the chapel.

  She lived to be an old woman and in 1163, according to her wishes, she herself was buried next to him, certain in the knowledge the two of them would rest side by side for eternity.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thursday, Midday

  The taxi ride to the Palais-Royal was a brief one and didn’t give Luc much time to reflect on what he had just heard.

 
Was it possible there was a connection between the Ruac manuscript and the chaos and carnage of the present? How could a twelfth-century monk’s fanciful tale of infusions and monastic intrigue ripple through the centuries to affect his life?

  When Isaak had finished translating the Latin he became excited, saying, ‘You know, Luc, I don’t know about this concoction, this brew, Barthomieu keeps writing about, but the independent first-person account of the affair and the coda to the romance between Abelard and Heloise is priceless. I have to put on my commercial hat. If the manuscript is recovered I’d love to broker the sale to a museum or the State.’

  ‘I hope it is. But anyway that would be up to the abbey to decide. It’s their property.’

  Isaak nodded and promised Luc he’d contact him as soon as the next email arrived from the decoder. But they’d see each other again over dinner. They would eat and drink to Hugo that night. Both of them wanted that closure.

  He tried Sara by phone one more time in what had become an obsessive and futile routine. The midday traffic was fairly light. The Place de Concorde was wide open and magnificent as always. He glanced absently at his knuckles. They were less red; the new pills were definitely working. He’d almost felt guilty taking them. People were dead. Sara was missing and he was attending to a mundane hand infection. He got angry with himself and in the flick of a physiological switch, the anger turned to melancholy. He put his hands to his face and literally shook his head, trying to shake out the demons. But he couldn’t permit himself to wallow. He had work to do.

  Maurice Barbier had agreed to see him on short notice. Here was a man who had grown into his affectations. While Einstein hair and a cravat had marked him throughout middle age as somewhat of a dandy, it suited him as an older man. His office too, in the ministry, was an exercise in unselfconscious ornateness, an overstuffed assortment of archaic artefacts and pre-classical art on loan from the storage cabinets of the Louvre, an extravagant spectacle that seemed less ridiculous the older he became.

  Barbier was sedate and serious. He guided Luc by the shoulder over to his gilded drinks cabinet.

  Luc relaxed when he saw they were going to be alone.

  ‘You thought I’d ask Marc Abenheim to sit in?’ Barbier asked.

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘I have too much respect for you to play the tricks of a politician. He doesn’t even know you’re here.’

  ‘I need your help,’ Luc said.

  ‘Anything I can do, I will do.’

  ‘Give me my cave back.’

  Barbier took a delicate sip of sherry and looked at an oversized Etruscan urn in the corner as if seeking strength from its spear-clad warriors. ‘That, unfortunately, I cannot do.’

  Then and there, Luc knew he’d lost. Though saddened, Barbier seemed resolute. But he couldn’t just give up, finish his drink and walk away. He had to fight. ‘Surely, Maurice, you don’t buy into the nonsense that the things which have happened during the excavation represented a dereliction of duty or a failure of leadership!’

  ‘I want you to know that I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Because we have here the problem of perception versus reality. The image of Ruac has been sullied before we can even define it. There won’t be a magazine or newspaper article written about it which will not mention the deaths. There will be idiotic Internet postings about the Curse of Ruac. The mishaps are over-shadowing the importance of the archaeology and this is hard for me to bear. The Minister herself has ordered a health and safety assessment of the conditions of the dig and by the way, you will be questioned by more lawyers and functionaries than you can imagine. What I’m saying is that perception has become reality. You’re in an untenable position.’

  ‘I’m sure Abenheim shaped the discussion within these halls,’ Luc said with disgust.

  ‘Of course he did. I won’t lie to you about that, and I tell you, whether or not you trust my word, that I fought for you – until the pendulum of opinion had swung too far. So yes, I voted, in the end, for your removal. I’m worried about future funding. The cave is more important than one man, even its discoverer.’

  ‘Let’s not confound one tragedy with another. My heart’s already been broken. Losing Ruac will tear it out.’

  More sherry, then the glass came down hard on the table. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Luc rose and picked up his case. ‘Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?’

  ‘It would take a miracle.’

  Luc was back in his hotel room with more time to kill before dinner than he would have liked. He sprawled on the bed and pulled out the notes he’d jotted down during Isaak’s translation.

  The mentions of the red tea.

  Gooseberries, barley grass and possession weed.

  Over and over.

  Like an amnesic coming out of the fog, he remembered the last conversation on Monday morning before his life came completely unglued. In the corridors of Nuffield Hospital, by the Radiology Department. Fred Prentice. They’d been talking about barley grass and some kind of fungus. Then the call from Abbot Menaud. Then hell.

  What else had Prentice learned about their plants?

  The general number of Nuffield Hospital was on his prescription bottles of antibiotics. He rang through and asked to be connected to Dr Prentice’s room. Judging from the extent of his injuries, Luc reasoned that he had to be hospitalised still.

  ‘Prentice, you say?’ the hospital operator asked.

  ‘Yes, Dr Fred Prentice.’

  ‘May I ask if you’re family?’

  He lied. ‘Yes, his brother-in-law.’

  After a long wait, the phone was ringing again. A woman identified herself as the ward sister in Orthopaedics and asked if he was inquiring about Dr Prentice.

  The protective tone of her voice alarmed him. She asked him again if he was a relative.

  ‘Brother-in-law.’

  ‘I see. It’s your French accent. We can’t talk to just anyone.’

  ‘Of course. His sister married a Frenchman. It happens in the best of families.’

  She didn’t chuckle at that. ‘I must have met you on Monday night when he was admitted.’

  ‘No. I only saw him in Casualty.’

  ‘It’s just that there was a French gentleman who came to see him Monday night, that’s all.’

  ‘Not me. There’s more than one of us. So, may I speak with him?’

  ‘Has your wife not been in touch?’

  ‘No. She’s in Asia. She asked me to call.’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry to have to inform you but Dr Prentice passed away in the early hours of Tuesday.’

  His mind garbled most of the rest of what she had to say. A suspected pulmonary embolus. Not uncommon in patients with leg injuries and immobilisation. Seemed like a nice man.

  He managed to ask if the nurse had seen an American woman named Sara Mallory on the ward, but no, she couldn’t recall an American.

  He hung up and tried all of Sara’s numbers again, punching numbers by memory, he’d called so many times. He felt panic in his throat.

  Prentice.

  Another death.

  Another unrelated, disconnected death?

  Who was this ‘Frenchman?’

  Where the hell was Sara?

  He hadn’t checked his emails since the morning. Maybe there’d be one from her, explaining everything innocently. She needed to get away. She went to visit her family in America. Anything.

  His inbox was bursting with unopened messages, none of them from Sara or her friend from Ossulston Road. Then he saw one from her boss, Michael Moffitt, the Director of the Institute of Archaeology. He opened it excitedly.

  Moffitt had received Luc’s message. He hadn’t a clue where Sara was but had been relieved, no end, that her name hadn’t surfaced on the Ruac victims’ list reported in the press. He was as concerned as Luc and would make inquiries amongst the Institute staff.

  So, nothing.


  Luc scanned the rest of his messages. One was from Margot. The subject read H UGO ’ S PHOTOS. He couldn’t bear to click on it.

  Or any of them. Except just when he was going to log off, one message line caught his attention in an irresistible way. A BIT OF GOOD NEWS TO BREAK THE GLOOM. It was from Karin Weltzer.

  It was about the tiny human bone they had found in the Chamber of Plants. An infant’s distal phalanges. They had sent it to a palaeontologist at Ulm, one of her colleagues. She apologised for even writing when the sense of loss was so fresh and great among the surviving members of Team Ruac but she couldn’t keep the news to herself, even though she admitted she’d been instructed by Marc Abenheim to communicate official matters directly to him. Professor Schneider had completed his examination and had a most unexpected finding. He was certain, as she put it, absolutely, one-hundred-and-ten-per-cent-certain, that this was not a Cro-Magnon infant.

  It was Neanderthal.

  The rest of the email was Schneider’s point-by-point differential between the morphology of phalanges from Homo neanderthalensis and Homo sapiens. All the check marks from their bone were in the neanderthalensis column.

  Neanderthal?

  Luc was momentarily swept back to the world he loved – the Paleolithic. This was an Aurignacian cave. A Cro-Magnon cave. This was the art of Homo sapiens. What was a Neanderthal infant doing in the tenth chamber?

  The two species certainly co-existed in the forests and savannas of the Upper Paleolithic Perigord but there was not one single example of a mixing of their artifacts or human remains in the archaeological record. Could it have been scavenged elsewhere, carried into the cave by a predator, like a bear? All the way into the furthest chamber? Perhaps, but unlikely.

  Ruac was unique in many ways. This was another example of its singularity.

  A phone call interrupted his musings.

  It was Colonel Toucas with his smooth, cultured voice.

  ‘Are you in Bordeaux?’ he asked, and seemed disappointed when he heard otherwise. ‘I’m in Bordeaux on business and was hoping to drop by to discuss something.’

  ‘I’ll be back midday tomorrow,’ Luc said. ‘I have a dinner in Paris. Can’t you tell me what it is?’