Temple of The Grail (10 page)

‘Nonsense, you fool!’ The old man
waved a hand impatiently.

‘I believe,’ my master ignored him, ‘that
if our brother had died of this disease, he would have died peacefully, as many
do, perhaps after a seizure or two, but he would not have experienced the
violent spasms and other symptoms we witnessed tonight. And so I’m afraid that
we still have a problem, a stubborn one.’

‘Yes . . . his condition may have
been incidental.’ Asa frowned, washing his hands.

‘And chance is incidental cause,’ the
old man quoted Aristotle.

‘But if he was poisoned, master,’ I
said and was thrown a sharp look by Setubar, ‘it is not likely that it was by
chance, is it? The disease, as you have said, could have been incidental, but
not the poison.’

‘Christian,’ my master answered me
more patiently than was his custom, ‘it could also be that the poison was
incidental, or accidental, but we must take care not to suppose that purpose is
not present because we do not observe the agent deliberating it.’

The old man stood, but he may as well
have remained seated, for his back was so bent that he only gained a few
inches. ‘Stop all this absurdity, and let the body of our dear old friend rest
in peace!’ he cried, raising the stick he used to steady himself. ‘He is the
happy one now. Resting in the bosom of our Lord, in the arms of the mother
whose milk will nourish him for all eternity. He prayed each day that it might
be his last, and his prayers have been answered. You are young.’ He looked at
us with malice. ‘You know nothing of the suffering of the old whose bones are
brittle and whose teeth are gone, who piss all night and who cannot keep awake
all day! The old smell death in their nostrils as young men smell flowers,
their youthful form withers before the eyes, and the mind! The mind, once a
joyous manifestation of erudition and wisdom, becomes a playground for
delusions and deceptions. The old forget what they should know, instead of
knowing what they should forget, and because of this they see the things that
God reveals only
per speculum et in aenigmate,
that is to say, through a
glass darkly, and call it wisdom. No . . .’ he shook his head. ‘Physicians want
to cure every illness, bestowing long life to their patients. I know. I was
once filled with such delusions, but now I understand this is merely the wiles
of a vanity that cloaks its true intentions with the artifice of charity. The
body is evil and so it must be endured until it can be shunned. To be rid of it
is a blessing. Concern yourselves with the living. Our dead brother was old,
and so he died, that is all!’

‘On two points I am at variance with you,
venerable Setubar,’ my master replied, to the old man’s surprise. ‘Firstly I do
not believe that the body is sinful, for it is only an instrument by which we
make manifest the will that resides within and without it. Corinthians tells
us, ‘Know ye not that your bodies are the members of Christ?’ And further,
‘Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you?’
and lastly, ‘Therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit’. And
secondly, that it is our holy duty as physicians to preserve this temple, this
vehicle of higher truths, and to keep it healthy.’

‘But you are wrong!’ Setubar
exclaimed in a shrill voice. ‘The body is evil, evil! And easily seduced by
sin, compelled by desires whose captains are the infernal legions of hell!
Matthew tells us that it would have been good for man if he had not been born
into the body, for only in his soul is he truly God-like. Only in death can man
find the fulfilment of his true nature, preceptor. When he is alive, and
particularly when he has become old and useless, he is nothing more than an
animal, driven by hunger, cold and pain, like a child dribbling the food from
his lips that others, who are young, deign to serve him!’

‘I prefer to look at it as a return
to a state of innocence, for Matthew also tells us that we must become like
little children if we wish to enter the kingdom of Heaven.’

The old man gave a grunt, his bitter
face stone-like. Only his melancholy eyes betrayed the intensity of his
feeling, and these he directed menacingly at my master. ‘Because I am old and
too am nearing my own ultimate and blissful end, I can say with authority, ‘Oh
wretched man that I am!’’

A heavy silence descended over us.
The infirmarian dared to break it, though I sensed a quiver in his voice.

‘Thank you for your assistance,
preceptor.’

‘It was a most enlightening
discussion,’ my master replied, and turning to the older man said, ‘I hope I
have not offended you, venerable brother, for this was not my intention. I am
merely a seeker of truth, as we all must be.’

He pointed a twisted finger at my
master. ‘Beware of the truth, preceptor, for it wears many faces, as you may
already know, but you have not come by it this evening. There is no conclusion
to be drawn here, only suppositions and speculations that may lead us all into
the pit of inquisition!’

‘Perhaps you are correct,’ my master
said humbly. ‘If you will pardon us, we will retire. It has been a very long
day.’

Thus we left the infirmary and
hurried to our lodgings. The weather once again turned disagreeable, with a
cold wind sweeping up the gorges. My master retired to his cell, and I to mine,
so tired that I did not light my lamp, falling onto my pallet fully clothed, as
was our custom, but I found that I was unable to sleep, tossing and turning
until a late hour. The old monk’s death and Setubar’s words coursing through my
troubled mind, it was only after I drank a small draft of wine that peace
finally overtook me, and consequently it was the sound of the night bell
announcing matins, and the gentle intonation of the choir wafting through the
compound, that finally woke me from an uneasy sleep. I thanked God once again
for the wisdom of a rule that allows for the opening psalm to be recited
somewhat slowly! I was able to join my master in the stalls at the saying of
the words, ‘Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will declare what he
hath done for my soul,’ before the closing of the great doors, and the reciting
of the Gloria.

Thus this remarkable day would have
come to an end in blissful contemplation of those dark hours just before dawn,
if I did not first need to narrate something that occurred between the hour of
my troubled sleep and the hour of the Holy Office. The first of many such
experiences that, to this day, remains as vivid as it did that cold night in my
cell at the monastery of St Lazarus.

THE FIRST TRIAL

A
woke flushed with perspiration, a strange feeling, not
exactly fear and yet quite close to it, radiating to my every limb. It was
cold, but from my cell window I could see that it had not snowed, higher in the
night sky it was clear, and across to the east a starry script written
indelibly in God’s hand promised an answer to all my questions . . . but alas I
did not, in my ignorance, understand its mysterious language. By the position
of the moon I guessed that it must be sometime before midnight. Soon, the bell
would toll matins. Down below, a light burnt and I wondered if the pilgrim was
awake gazing up at the moon as I was. He had been in my dream, the pilgrim. I
should go down, I told myself, and make his acquaintance.

I lay back on my pallet, pulling the
sheepskin very high against my face, and told myself that I must sleep. I
imagined the bitter cold outside. I would shortly have to rise and attend the
services. What kind of scribe would I be if I were seen to fall asleep during
the proceedings tomorrow? And yet, I felt an impulse to rise, and threw myself
out of bed, annoyed – for it is never pleasant to lose an argument with
oneself – and opened the door to my cell, venturing out into the cold.

Outside the moon offered me a little
solace, illuminating the compound. I walked with quick steps past the
graveyard, pulling the cowl over my head against the wind, hiding from the
eerie light that made the gleam of the white crosses unearthly. I was relieved
to see the
circa
’s light making another round high up in the dormitorium,
but I pressed on, not wishing to be seen. As I rounded the east face of the
church I was taken by an unknown force and suddenly, without explanation, I
found myself facing the great gate just as the doors opened before me. Outside,
there was the scent of pine, and the ground was icy against my bare feet, but I
found that it did not disturb me. How strange this all seemed! I followed the
road through the battlements, and out into the forest, moving with the agility
of a goat down a narrow path, which led through coarse vegetation. Then I was
standing at the entrance to that little shelter I had seen on the day of our
arrival. Inside I saw a man, a little short of thirty springs and of stocky
build, and also another a little younger, though thin and tall, sitting beside
him. They appeared to be in deep contemplation, little noticing my presence
until I spoke.

‘Happy night,’ I ventured.

The younger man looked up from his
dreamy world with the eyes of a doe assailed by a wolf. ‘Who comes hither?’

‘I come in peace,’ I soothed, ‘from
yonder abbey.’ I pointed upwards in the direction of the monastery bathed in
moonlight.

The older of the two glanced up and
fixed me with wisdom-filled eyes. ‘You may sit with us for a moment, and share
a little warmth before the bells.’

I felt large and awkward – and
I was only of a slight build – entering their modest shelter. In the
centre, sheepskins covered the earth encircling a little fire that provided
only adequate warmth. It smelt of animals and smoke and incense.

‘May we know the name of he who
disturbs our pater noster, and our credo?’ the man asked presently.

‘My name is Christian de St Armand
and I am a Templar squire visiting the abbey with my master in the name of the
king,’ I answered, finding that I was boasting.

‘I see,’ he nodded his head. ‘Miserable
sinners we may be, but we follow the canonical hours, as should a Templar
squire!’

‘Yes, at any moment we will hear the
bell,’ I found myself saying. ‘I would have already left for the great gates,
but . . .’

‘Do not let us keep you from your
duty, but you have some moments. Sit,’ he said, making room for me. He had a
broad sanguine face with thick eyebrows and tufts of brown hair framing his
tonsure. His eyes were a honey-brown, the same as those of a young calf, and as
they fell upon me they bestowed instant calmness. The younger monk was paler,
and his face had the quality of chiselled stone, though he spoke animatedly,
blinking very often. He appeared as excitable as the other was calm.

After an awkward moment in which the
two sat in silence watching me and nodding, I ventured to speak. ‘Would you
like me to ask the abbot if he will admit you as pilgrims? Certainly you must
be suffering the cold.’

The younger man smiled, fluttering
his eyelids. ‘One cannot feel cold whose heart has been enkindled with the fire
of the spirit, but we thank you for your charity.’

‘Are you on a pilgrimage to Santiago
de Compostela? Jerusalem, as you must know, has been taken long ago.’

The older smiled, nodding his head as
though I had said something mildly amusing. ‘The Jerusalem we seek is not
physical, but spiritual. I have come with my devout companion Reginald to find
peace!’

‘Oh, peace.’

‘There is no peace in Paris, only
disputation,’ he continued, looking a little weary.

‘Paris?’ I was intrigued.

Reginald interjected, ‘Thomas was
asked to give lectures in Paris on the Book of Sentences.’

‘These two years in Paris have been
difficult,’ Thomas continued, sitting forward and gazing clearly into my eyes. ‘There
has been strife and discord in the universities. The students and professors
protest the powers of the chancellor, and there is a growing antagonism towards
us . . . Our good abbot of St Jacques, being the wisest of men, has sent us on
a journey away from these disturbances . . .’

‘You are monks?’

He did not answer.

‘But you are very far from Paris!’ I
exclaimed. ‘Is there a Dominican house in these parts? And what of your habits?

Once more he did not answer me
exactly, ‘Yes, we are a long way from Paris, we have travelled on foot for many
days, as did our beloved and sainted founder, called by a spirit voice. We
needed no directions, no maps, we simply followed our hearts and the spirit has
guided our sinful souls to this very place. Is it not wondrous? And since our
arrival, I have had one dream that lasts even as the daystar rises in the sky!’
he looked at me in awe. ‘Even now I am within this dream, as you are within
this hut. I see him . . . In this dream he leads me to the waters . . .
Sometimes he is an eagle, sometimes he is a man. He says that he will lead me
to the Temple, and there I will gain the knowledge that will allow me to
proceed with my life’s work, to reconcile Aristotle and Christianity.’ He noted
the interest in my eyes. ‘You have heard of the Greek philosophers?’

‘I thought everyone knew about them?’
I answered truthfully.

The man smiled, ‘They will . . . they
will. Now I must write my Summa, and yet it is not always possible to say what
one must say, you know . . . There is so much to do, and so many forces working
contrary to the purposes of God! And yet here, I can be one with the eternal
light that rules the world, and I can dream of a time when the minds of men
will not be clouded by fear, a time when the mind will be free . . .’ After
saying these things Thomas became quite dull, as though he had lost his
faculties.

Reginald moved closer, whispering to
me, ‘He has been this way since we arrived some days ago . . . He is in the
throes of an ecstatic vision!’ he beamed with deep admiration. ‘On his face one
sees sadness alternate with joy (there are moments in which his despair appears
to be very deep, and other times he becomes joyful like a little child). He has
passed these last days without eating or drinking and I must confess to having
despaired that he was suffering from some terrible illness of the mind, for his
estimative virtues have been disrupted; he cannot remember the day or the hour,
at times he does not even recognise the face of his friend. And yet in moments
of lucidity he assures me that he is quite well, and that he will soon return
from the worlds which he frequents. Here there is peace for his work,’ he
affirmed.

I was astonished. This man Thomas,
whose face was now filled with a saintly fire, had travelled here to find
peace? I wondered what he would think if he knew of the events occurring behind
the great gates.

‘The brother needs to rest, you must
leave.’ Reginald stood.

Feeling very perplexed, I emerged
from the hut, and almost immediately I heard the bell toll matins.

‘Christian de Saint Armand,’ a voice
called out after me, ‘life takes us on many divergent paths, and yet we shall
meet one more time! Not in the flesh, but in the sun, man’s home,
homo
hominem generat et sol! In the sun . . .’

I awoke as I have said, to the sound
of the bells, still in my pallet. I had dreamed that I had dreamt.