Temple of The Grail (12 page)

I shook my head.

‘I assure you that my
squire is loyal.’

‘Ahh, but the young are
filled with great enthusiasm for noble deeds, preceptor, and this means that
sometimes they are not discriminating. Dissimulation is a virtue taught at the
school of experience; why should a young man have acquired it when he is only
too eager to trust anyone because he has not himself been deceived by others?
But I am not saying that we must be deceitful, no. Only that we must draw an
honest veil over things meant for the ears of gods and not for the ears of
those who would distort their essence. As a Templar you appreciate my position.
Your order guards its secrets zealously. Also, having survived the ill-fated
battle of Mansourah, the consequences of which have seen your order under some
suspicion, you must know how easily things can be distorted. Such things can
only result in nothing less than tragedy.’

‘And as a Templar,’ my master said, ‘I
give you my word that I will see to it that this is a fair inquiry, your grace.’

‘Come now, preceptor, the purpose of
an ecclesiastical trial is not to establish the objective truth, we both know
that it only exists to obtain a confession and to mete out punishment.’

Was there truth in his words? I
sensed that my master felt there was. ‘Lord abbot, you ask for my help, but if
I am to help you, I must know everything, I must have access to the entire
monastery.’

‘Impossible! I have told you all I
can. I believe you are a capable man, and what you know should be enough. Do
not ask me any more questions. There is a seal over my lips no earthly man may
break. You must remember that without death one cannot rejoice in the living,
without the one perfect work, one cannot reach the final conclusion. This is
our main concern, dear brother, all the rest is meaningless.’ There was a
momentary flash of defiance in his eyes and he turned, headed for the church, a
grey figure in the vast greyness of the compound.

After this conversation, we followed
in the abbot’s footsteps but only as far as the graveyard. Here, my master
became seized by a demon of motion. He paced between the crosses with his short
legs, making little gestures with his hands, nodding now and then. I had seen
him like this before and I knew he was in turmoil, caught in the chaos of
opposing winds, so I waited for this mood to pass, watching him from the steps
that led to the graves. It was very cold and I drew my cowl low over my face,
huddling, shivering in my draughty attire. To keep from freezing, I drew my chin
inside the collar of my scapular and blew warm air into my vestments, but this
almost immediately turned to ice. I placed my hands deep into the wide sleeves,
hugging my arms, but the wind had picked up and found its way to my bones
through any unguarded opening. I considered a casual comment about the state of
the weather, but thought better of it. Indeed, I feared my master’s icy glare
more than the icicles collecting on my nose. I looked up instead, at the sky’s
milky grey, only a patch here and there of very faint blue. It smelt like snow,
I could almost taste it. Soon my feet would turn purple, indeed they were very
numb. Oh, misery, I thought while I waited. Why couldn’t my master think
equally well in the warmth of the kitchen with a hot glass of milk in his
hands? Further off, in the direction of the stables, I noticed the inquisitor
shadowed by the bishop. They were going about the monastery asking questions of
the monks. They stole glances in our direction and I wished that they were not
seeing my master pacing up and down among the graves like a madman, for I
believe they grinned, both shaking their heads as they walked off. A moment
later Andre paused, remaining very still, and then walked resolutely in my
direction.

‘It is decided,’ he said finally.

‘Master?’

‘I have made a decision, God help me,
not an easy one, but a decision, nonetheless.’

‘May I ask what it is concerning?’

‘No, you may not. Now, I want you to
go and find some refreshment in the kitchen, bring me an apple or something. In
the meantime I will find the dead brother’s room. I want to inspect it before
the start of the hearing.’

‘Do you think you’ll find anything
significant? Surely the inquisitor’s men must have conducted their own search?’

‘Therefore it is my hope that I will
find something insignificant,’ he said, ‘because it annoys me to keep reminding
you that it is the insignificant thing – that which may have escaped the
eyes of the inquisitor’s men – that may prove very significant to you and
me.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘Good. I shall see you soon. Do not
eat excessively . . . and do not be late!’

Thus he left me in contemplation of
his foul temper, and the wisdom that directed my mother to leave me in the care
of a madman. And yet, I consoled myself, I was given a moment of liberty, so I
headed for the cookhouse, deciding that I would take the entrance from the
garden. As I rounded the body of the cloister buildings tantalising aromas
immediately assailed me and suddenly I forgot all my previous inconveniences
and thought how good and kind my master was.

The cook, Rodrigo Dominguez de
Toledo, was a giant, with big hands, and feet so enormous they poked through
his ill-fitting sandals. He was a Spaniard of cheerful countenance, and of
friendly disposition. So it was that as I entered the threshold of the kitchen
he greeted me with a deep resonant voice and led me to an enormous table in the
centre of the room where, amid a bustle of activity, he bade me to sit down and
promised to prepare me a fine repast.

‘Nothing but the best of foods for a
guest!’ he said, slapping me very hard on the back.

While I waited, I observed as
numerous assistants under his vigilant eye prepared the meal. I mused that they
looked much like infantry about to launch a cavalry charge on a mighty enemy,
hence the preponderance of nervous energy, the quick pallid exchanges, and the
sudden quiet loss of temper.

The kitchen was rectangular, with its
two storeys buttressed by surmounting arches on all sides. The massive fire,
dominated by a stone chimney, stood at the northern end, and this was the
source of the delicate aromas that escaped through the adjacent door to the
cloisters. A large hatch on the west wall opened onto the refectory whose
strange position at right angles to the cloister was characteristic of
Cistercian monasteries. The larder and buttery both had hatches on the eastern
side, and the brew house, which ran north–east, had a bolted door near
the east corner. Along this eastern side there were windows placed very high,
capturing a good morning light that even on sunless days illuminated the entire
room without the need of torches. The windows were fixed and the only
ventilation came from the door through which I had entered, situated on the
southern end. I was to learn that this was always left open through the day,
allowing for a moderate flow of air to enter the kitchen in strange bursts, so
that one felt chilled one moment, and very hot the next.

I watched the cook with fascination.
The air was thick with smoke and Rodrigo fired his orders like a commander, for
an atmosphere of activity followed him as though it emanated as much from his
own being as from necessity, ‘More salt! Less water! Stir that pot!’ he shouted
in a mixture of Latin and the vulgar tongue of the Spanish. Luckily I was acquainted
with Spanish because as a boy my father had taught it to me, saying that a
Spaniard is a true gentleman, and that if one is to speak anything other than
Latin – the tongue blessed by God – then Spanish was a fair
alternative.

The cook told me as he went about his
business that he was honoured to have me share his table. Remarking with a
generous air, ‘
Es muí bueno!
Good, good
, sabes qué tengo debilidad
por las órdenes militares
. . . I very much like the military orders, very
full of courage!
Tenéis a petito?
Hungry? Some fresh bread?’ He went
into the larder and came out holding a great golden loaf that he placed before
me, along with a cup of warmed wine that I drank almost immediately, and a
generous slab of cheese.

The man smacked his lips, ‘
Bendita
Santa Divino!
’ he said, looking at the bread. I dared not ask him why, I
merely ate it, and soon realised that it was indeed divine.

‘The
miel
oh what honey! Is
muy
deliciosa
...
!
’ he sighed. ‘Our bees very much like the mountain,
and this makes the honey light . . . sweet! Is like a good woman, yes?’ he
laughed, winking hideously and reached up with one long arm to a shelf near the
fire from whence he brought a substantial earthenware pot to the table. A
disturbed rodent scurried down from its hiding place behind the honey and fled
across the room. This sent the cook into an instant agitation.

‘
Maldita mierda –
Cursed
dung!’ he exclaimed with great annoyance, giving it chase. But the furry thing
was swift, escaping moments before he reached it through a tiny gap in the
stone. The cook became enraged, aiming a volley of insults and curses at the
bewildered assistant who, standing in the corner, cowered in the wake of his
temper. In this mood he threw the knife in the general direction of the rat’s
exit, and spat a perfunctory wad of saliva at the stone floor.

‘Cursed be the breast milk that thou
hast suckled!’ he bellowed, and the windows shook. I believe he then remembered
me because he gave me a lame smile. ‘
Por favor . . .
I beg your pardon .
. . I am the dung of a donkey! But they are, after all, so tasty . . .’ He
picked up the knife and wiped it thoroughly on his shirt before placing it in
my hands, ‘
Estúpido!
’ he said, pointing to one of the cooks.
‘Idiota!
’
he snarled at another.

I glanced at the soup bubbling with
purposeful anxiety on the great fire and wondered about the rat. Seeing my
concern, the man laughed. ‘It was not for our food –
qué cosa buena,
eh?
Good, very good. No, no, it was for the cat, you see?’ He pointed to a
spot above the fires where in a little alcove a honey-coloured feline slept
unperturbed by the activity and the smoke. ‘Don Fernando.’

‘Why does he not catch it himself?’

‘Oh, not Don Fernando!’ said the
other incredulously. ‘He is afraid of them,
él tiene un humor muy delicado,
he
is delicate, and lazy also. So, you come with the inquisitor, eh?’

I nodded.

‘Ahh, Templar! I have not seen a
Templar for many years.’

I flushed, swallowing down the bread
with a good measure of wine. ‘I am not yet a knight. When I turn eighteen I
shall truly enter the order, for now I am a squire and a scribe.’

‘Ahh ... you learn to be
un medico
–
un
doctor, like your master, eh?’

I said that I hoped so.

‘Very good!
Un médico Templario!
Muy bien!
Good,
bueno
.’ He clapped. ‘Is good to be young, no? Is
yours the world, yes?
El mundo es sujo, sí ?
I was once strong like you,’
he said with a grin, and then, like a man who has not had much occasion to
indulge in conversation, he set about telling me his life’s story.

‘I travel much! Oh! What I have seen
with these eyes!

But,’ he lowered his voice in a
circumspect manner, ‘it does a cook no good to talk such things . . . no good
with the inquisitor sniffing around eh? No . . .
Creo en el
poder
del
papacy
sí
,’ he emphasised, ‘I believe in the pope, the holy mother,
la
madre
the church,
el Papa,
the mouth of God!’ He crossed himself and
kissed the crucifix that dangled over his dirty habit.

At one point the refectorian rushed
in. ‘Rodrigo, the bread!’ he cried, then in a hushed tone, ‘The brothers are
seated.’ On seeing me, he nodded solicitously, ‘I will send the assistants in.’

The cook did not move. He seemed to
become even more indolent. He exclaimed an ‘Arrgh!’ under his breath and,
waving a hand, continued enlightening me on various recipes and preparations.
At one point one of the assistant cooks asked about the wine to be served at
the table.

‘Not from the larder, fool,
ignorante!
’
he shouted and the man cowered, ‘I have told you, is not to be touched that
one, on the old brother’s orders.’

The monk glared at me, in a strange
way frightened. ‘But, Rodrigo, the boy’s wine?’

Rodrigo frowned and took the empty
glass from me, shaking his head, ‘
Idiota
! Only for the old ones!’ then
to me. ‘It has powers for the health,
poderes curativos
, not for young
ones, eh?’ he laughed then, but I had detected a little nervousness in his
voice.

Presently, once this little
misunderstanding had been clarified to his satisfaction, and the assistant
suitably reprimanded and sent to the church to perform penance for his
carelessness, the cook continued, telling me that in Sicily one could procure
many foods from the Africas and surrounding areas. He intrigued me with stories
of fruits so sweet no honey could be sweeter and bitter herbs the likes of
which burn the mouth and purge the senses. He told me that in countries beyond
the scope of maps, the natives grew peculiar foods of unequalled aroma and
taste. Strange herbs, he said, and even stranger wines, numbed the head and
made one lose one’s senses after just a glass, but even more intriguing were
the strange concoctions that, when burnt over a slow fire and smoked, or even
eaten as a paste, caused one to make communion with devils. I gasped as predicted
and he laughed heartily.