Temple of The Grail (11 page)

T
he sun had only risen a half-hour before, and as we walked
the cloisters in quiet meditation, we could see only a little sky that, through
the arches, echoed its brilliance.

One had to appreciate these moments
of rare stillness and beauty, for I was learning that at this altitude the
climate was never constant or predictable, but in perpetual transformation.
Even now one could see clouds chasing away the indigo blue, stirred by a high
impetuous wind that signalled a storm.

My master sniffed the air pensively.
We had so much to contemplate. Aside from the strange dream that I had not the
occasion to mention, there were other considerations. The more we examined the
unsettling course of events since our arrival, the more confounding they
became. Not only because we were witness to the untimely death of a poor monk,
but also because the rose cross, for instance, and the black Madonna in the
church, signalled that this was indeed no ordinary abbey.

We walked, observing the monks
engaged in various contemplative pursuits. How could they seem so untouched by
events? Like the seasons, that irrespective of human vicissitudes continue to
grace the earth with regularity, bringing order to chaos. I wondered what they
thought of us. What else could they think of us, I answered myself, but that we
were the messengers of their misfortune? I shuddered a little from the cold.
Soon they would prepare to leave for the dormitories, to change into day shoes
before a wash in the lavatory. And we, too, observing their custom, but for now
we continued in silence, respecting the rule, until finally the bell rang and
we were alone.

I determined to tell him of my
nocturnal sojourn, though I knew my master gave little importance to such
things, but I was interrupted by the good abbot, Bendipur, whose pursed lips
and furrowed brows signalled his displeasure.

‘I have just spoken to the
infirmarian,’ he said as he drew nearer. ‘He tells me that it is your opinion
that our brother died in . . . unnatural circumstances, and I must tell you
that this is simply not possible.’

My master nodded his head. ‘I see
your point. But the facts remain as they are, abbot.’

The abbot looked disheartened and his
usually ruddy cheeks paled. ‘But Asa tells me the examination was inconclusive,
and revealed no evidence of foul play?’

‘And he was quite right, it was
inconclusive.’

‘Then why do you . . .?’

‘There are only so many ways a person
can die, your grace. Last night I was able to make an assumption on the basis
of certain undeniable signs. Firstly, the nature of the old brother’s death was
not from some violent external event, this is plain. Secondly, although he
seems to have had an ailment for some time, his behaviour in the church –
that is, the paralysis, the abdominal pain, and so on, point to other causes.
It is my belief, having seen the effects of such things in the past, that he
was poisoned and therefore murdered.’

The other man looked a little amazed.
‘But the infirmarian was unable to tell me what substance could have occasioned
death, if indeed you are correct in your summation of events.’

‘That is because there are an untold
number of poisons or even combinations of poisons that leave no trace whatever.’

‘Brother Setubar believes otherwise.
Strange that you seem to be at variance on such a simple matter.’

‘Simple things are often surprising
in their complexity, your grace, but at this point, my personal opinion differs
from his and nothing more. Moreover, if I may, there are other concerns . . .
of a delicate nature, which we must now broach.’

The abbot became tense, and a little
vein over his eye bulged slightly. ‘Other concerns?’

‘I do not wish to cast a shadow of
suspicion on the poor soul of the deceased, your grace, but these circumstances
demand that I imagine the unimaginable, so I must ask the question, as painful
as it is to utter the words, namely, had you any reason to doubt his faith?’

The abbot looked at my master for a
long time, then answered his question with another question, ‘Why would you
think such a thing?’

My master smiled a little, ‘It is
never an easy thing, suspicion.’

‘What do you
suspect,
preceptor?’
he asked.

‘It is a delicate matter.’

The abbot shook his head. ‘Brother
Ezekiel was a man of pious confession, a dedicated, holy man . . .’ He looked
at me with narrow eyes. ‘Might I speak with you alone?’

‘Dear abbot, my scribe is bound to me
by oath, he is like a son, there is nothing that he will divulge without my
permission.’

The abbot huffed a begrudging assent,
but I could see he was not convinced of my prudence.

‘Then I shall be frank with you,’ he
continued quietly. ‘For some time now, it has become apparent, preceptor, that
something sinister lurks in God’s house. And although I have not been able to
discern its nature, I have been aware of its existence.’

‘The wisest thing then, your grace,
might be to inform the inquisitor,’ my master answered.

‘You know what that could mean,
preceptor. You are a man whose wisdom understands the delicate nature of our
situation, and I seek your help, and your prudence, not only because it is your
duty to place them at my disposal, but also because it is in your nature that
you must do so.’

My master’s face hardened, but his
voice remained warm and solicitous. ‘My duty is to remain equitable and
unbiased, to see that the inquiry is carried out with fairness. That is all.’

‘And yet have you not questioned why
the king has sent a Templar on such a mission? Come now, a man of your
estimative capacities?’

‘As a knight I have an autonomous
disposition.’

‘And who better to blame if things go
wrong? Come now, we both know the tide is turning against your order. We are
not the only ones in peril, preceptor, and so I beseech you, do not go to the
inquisitor with your suspicions, at least not until you have verification of
their exactitude.’

‘If this is your wish, I shall
endeavour to follow it.’

The abbot led us out of the cloisters
through the small aperture that opened out to the outer courtyard. The sky
looked turbulent and grey now, and the sun could be discerned only vaguely,
somewhere in the east.

‘It would be of benefit to all
concerned if such things could be arrested before . . .’ he shook his head, ‘before
. . . I dare not say it.’

‘But have you considered that I
might, in the course of my investigations, uncover something that is in any
case doubtful?’

‘That has occurred to me, and I admit
that under other circumstances I would not desire such an intrusion. But with
the inquisitor’s presence in our midst we are faced with difficult decisions.
After all, we are brothers . . .’

‘We are all brothers since the fall
of Adam, your grace, but I must point out that nothing can influence the course
of justice.’

‘No, indeed it should not,’ the abbot
agreed, ‘but a matter can be handled delicately or indelicately, preceptor.’

We followed the abbot in uneasy
silence, meditating on his last words. He led us to the highest point of the
compound, near the graveyard. From this vantage one could see over the walls to
the mountains that rolled eastward whose form could be seen faintly. We stood
gazing out and for a brief moment the clouds above us parted, and through them
a shaft of light descended over the abbey in a mystic blessing. For the first
time since our arrival I saw the rugged mountains that towered above and beyond
in majestic peaks and chasms. Undulating northward, they touched the sky’s vast
canvas only a little where clouds, suddenly arrested by the unearthly
stillness, reached down from the heavens to caress mortality.

‘From this great height,’ the abbot
said, ‘one observes creation as a whole in all its generalities, raised above
petty particulars to witness the boundless. Sometimes it is best to see things
from a distance, to look at the whole rather than the part, the universal
rather than the singular. We must look beyond ourselves and what we don’t
understand, preceptor, in order to see things clearly.’

‘Sometimes that is so,’ my master
answered.

The sun disappeared then,
behind the clouds, casting a gloom over us like a delicate shroud, and once
again we were broaching dangerous things.

‘You and I, preceptor, have much in
common, united by the divine light of St Bernard. That is why I come to you now.
Not because I wish to distort the course of God’s heavenly justice (His
authority will prevail despite our human machinations), but because there is
much in the balance . . . You must not misunderstand me. Like you, I believe
that to die in God’s name is perhaps the most glorified sacrifice, and if there
is suffering all the more so! But it is not death that I fear, preceptor . . .
because as Ecclesiastes tells us, we must praise the dead who are already dead
more than the living who are yet alive. What I fear, I cannot tell you. Such
words my mouth dare not utter. I request that you seek what must be sought,
before even greater catastrophes befall us.’

‘Perhaps there is something else that
impels you to seek my service in this desperate manner?’ My master paused a
moment. ‘Perhaps this is not the first death under similar circumstances?’

Suddenly the abbot was robbed of the
composure suitable to a man of his station. ‘Who told you?’

‘Why, you have told me yourself,’ my
master said calmly to the measure of the other man’s distress.

‘Do not play games with me, brother!’

‘I do not mean to be impertinent,
your grace, however yesterday you were clearly reserved when I asked if I could
question the monks and inspect the abbey, and yet today you are most anxious
that I do that very thing. In the first instance you behaved like a man who
wished to hide something, in the second, like a man who knows there is no hope
that it will not be discovered. My conclusions are only logical.’

There was an uneasy silence.

‘But how could you know?’

‘It is simple. You see, I noticed the
fresh grave in the cemetery from my cell window the day of our arrival. Later I
saw that, inscribed on the small cross above it, was the name Samuel. When I
mentioned it to Brother Ezekiel, he was very fearful, saying the words ‘The Devil
will kill us all’. Your reaction, abbot, merely served to seal my hypothesis.’
My master cleared his throat. ‘In light of this I assume that you will give me
permission to access the tunnels?’

‘Tunnels?’ The abbot was like a
vessel assailed by one great wave after another.

‘The tunnels below the abbey, your
grace .’

‘The catacombs beneath the church are
not to be approached. The tunnels that lead to them are very old and perilous
and I have forbidden their use.’

‘I see.’

‘No, I don’t think that you do. As
abbot of this monastery I absolutely forbid you to enter upon this subject
again.’ His feathers truly ruffled, he tried to regain his composure by
smoothing his grey habit over his ample belly. ‘In any case,’ he continued in a
moderate tone, ‘the combinations have been forgotten, and so it is for the
best. Let the bones of the dead lie unmolested, they can do nothing to help you
in your search.’

‘May I at least attempt to . . .’

‘Brother . . .
brother
,
please!’ he pleaded. ‘There you will only find rats, but you will not, I assure
you, find murderers. In any event, let us not frighten this poor child with
talk of old bones, and tunnels. Many monasteries have catacombs and ossuaries
below their abbeys. These passages are old, and I fear for your safety.’

‘However, your grace,’ my master
insisted, ‘I know of no monasteries where a murderer roams its hallowed halls,
committing unspeakable acts against its community of monks.’

Suddenly the abbot turned to me,
without answering my master. ‘Do you like gems, my young and handsome scribe?’

I admitted that I did.

‘Here then, you must have this as a
gift.’ He handed me a most curious rock, warmed by his touch, obviously a
favourite. ‘Have you not seen one before? It is a tiger’s eye, a most exquisite
specimen from the alpine mountains. The sword of St Michael.’

‘The sword of St Michael?’ I asked,
holding the stone in the palm of my hand, appreciating its smooth texture.

‘Yes, dear boy.’ The abbot bestowed
his smile on me from his great height. ‘The yellow colour comes from the
content of iron in the stone. The iron sword of St Michael that will one day
vanquish the Devil, and banish him to the bowels of the earth!’

I became so thoroughly shaken that I
dropped the gemstone to the ground. Why I should have felt this way I cannot
say. My master gave me a bewildered look, and scooping it up in his large, powerful
hand, returned it to me.

‘Yes, by heavens!’ The abbot laughed.
‘It has startled you. Hold it tightly, for there is a power that lies hidden
within, concealed until the day it can be revealed. But we must not forget that
nature intends this to be so. Her secrets are not be divulged without a great
effort. God commands that in order to see the heavenly, one must acquire
heavenly eyes. And so it is the foundation of our life that we speak only when
necessary, and like nature, remain prudently silent about those things not yet
to be revealed. Like a stone by the wayside.’ He smiled warmly at me. ‘You will
not divulge our conversation to the members of the legation, will you?’