Temple of The Grail (2 page)

There was to be a papal review of all
the monasteries in the area of Languedoc. The monastery of St Lazarus had been
singled out because it had conducted healings to which no physical cure could
be ascribed. The significant aspect of this inquiry, the king informed us, was
that it would be headed by one Rainiero Sacconi da Piacenza; a man who I later
learnt was an Italian inquisitor of some renown. It became clearer now that
both our order and the order of Cistercians were greatly concerned lest anything
be found in the abbey’s conduct which could be used by the Dominican inquisitor
for his own purposes, namely, the advancement of his career. The king, on the
other hand, was concerned that the inquiry provided the pontiff with an excuse
to recoup monies directly from any monastery found guilty of heresy, in lieu of
papal taxes, which Louis had promised, but had not delivered. He told us two
pious orders would suffer the pope’s wrath with the Dominicans of Italy being
the victors and the Italian Bishop of Toulouse – a Benedictine with
formidable family connections in Rome – taking possession of all the
abbey’s holdings with the
ratum facio
of the pope.

We were informed that a legation was
soon to leave Paris and that our mission was to accompany it. My master was to
oversee the inquiry in a medical capacity and to ensure its equitable
resolution. To this end we were given a letter with the king’s seal, and
several archers were placed at our disposal, so that we might return with
prisoners, if necessary.

The nature of our assignment, indeed
our duty, became less clear to us, however, when the king drew my master aside
and requested that we report to him before all others, even before our grand
master, on our return from the monastery. Of course my master did not agree to
this, for it would have been against the rule of our order. In his wisdom,
however, he gave the impression that he would do as he was asked. Later, again,
as we were leaving the palace, we were intercepted by the grand master, who
appeared to be exceedingly anxious. He told us that it was most important that
we not return to Paris at the conclusion of the hearings, but that we should
await his orders . . .

What more can be said?

And so, I must confess that even this
day I feel a flush of shame rise to my cheeks as I recall how I was taken by
the Devil of curiosity. And as I sit here in my imposed exile, this shame is
mingled also with another sentiment, that of longing. Longing for youth,
excitement, and the smell of the mountains, and yes, a longing even for those
feelings of uneasiness and foreboding.

So let us continue, patient reader,
and digress no longer, for I must lend my unworthy faculties to angelic beings
whose heavenly light illuminates the eons, and elucidates the dark annals of history.
History is a temptress whose deception is food for the blind and comfort to the
mercenary:

The story begins . . .

T
he journey from Paris to Languedoc was uneventful. The roads,
built largely by the Romans, were well maintained because they were used by those
merchants headed for the Provençal ports, and by the pilgrims making their way
to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

Our party did not proceed directly,
at times we diverged eastwards and once or twice it was possible to catch a
glimpse of the sea. We reached Languedoc three weeks after our departure from
Paris, and it was not a cheering sight that greeted us. It was a scarred and
disfigured country and we travelled with watchful eye, wary of our own shadows,
for even after so many years, the sword and the boot of the northern crusaders
was evident.

Those not accustomed to these parts
commented on the black remnants of burned farms, broken fences, crumbling
bridges and deserted vineyards. They pointed at the weeds and thistles that
overtook churches and everything of value. What people could be seen –
miserable creatures, lean and scratching, wild as forest animals – would
scatter on our approach, for our archers bore the flag of the inquisition. In
their eyes I glimpsed the familiar terror, the sullen hopelessness, and
dangerous desperation. They were truly men beyond hope, beyond heaven, and I
prayed for their souls.

We travelled in a solemn, moody,
silence, until we reached higher country, where there were fewer reminders of
the devastation, and as we toiled through the landscape of steep gorges and
narrow valleys, the retinue seemed to relax and my master began to ride a little
ahead of me. His mount was a gallant Arabian horse Gilgamesh – named
after the great Babylonian king. I travelled upon a mule whose name was Brutus
because, as Plato tells us, names should show the nature of things as far as
they can be shown – if they are to be real names.

Ahead, the prelates of the Papal
Commission journeyed by carriage. I do not know which of us was more
comfortable, for the awkward vehicle bounced on the stony road, throwing about
its occupants. As we passed I dared to peer into its interior. Surrounded by
cushions of satin and velvet sat firstly the inquisitor, hiding always behind
his black cowl, suffering his discomfort in silence. Opposite him sat the
Franciscan, with his head lolling from side to side and his thin lips emitting
resonant snores. Bernard Fontaine, the Cistercian, sat next to him. As straight
as the towers of Lebanon, his long face funereal, his unblinking eyes wide and
staring, he seemed perfectly content in his misery. Only the Bishop of
Toulouse, whose size made it exceedingly uncomfortable, attempted to relieve
his distress by accompanying us upon his mule. I must confess to not being fond
of him, for he was a man of volatile temper and boring conversation whose
disposition was entirely dependent on the quantity of wine he consumed.
Therefore, I cannot say that I was perturbed (God forgive me) when Brutus
searched out the rump of his mule each time he neared us, going as far as
giving it chase and consequently occasioning the bishop to topple off his
saddle. I need not tell what commotion ensued, nor what terrible tempest of
articulation was unleashed on all and sundry, whose only consolation was that
it was followed (alas!) by the bishop’s return to the carriage, once and for
all.

The hours passed slowly. Indeed I
longed for the company of my friend the venerable Eisik, whom the bishop had
authorised to accompany us by a special dispensation, now following behind the
company because he was a Jew.

Observing him sitting atop his
animal, stooping slightly as was his custom, his long grey beard and thinning
hair blowing in the wind, one would have thought him of venerable age, but if
one looked closer, one saw a much younger man in his brown, angled face, though
it was indeed a face moulded by hardships endured, and years of persecution. I
waved to him, but he did not see me, for between us numerous servants,
notaries, scribes, and archers made up the entourage. They tagged along,
talking among themselves in their vulgar tongues, laughing and jesting, making
sure to keep well away from the Jew, united in their hatred.

This particular day had dawned crisp
and clear after a bitterly cold night spent in a little priory at the foot of
the mountains. The previous evening, after a sparse meal, the prior had told us
the monastery of St Lazarus was troublesome to find. The road leading to it, he
said in his dull slur, veered sharply through a tangled forest, and was
impenetrable in the depths of winter due to the heavy falls of snow and
subsequent avalanches. Similarly, in summer, the abundant rainfall, caused the
access to become perilous; mud slides and other horrors were regular
occurrences.

‘Who knows,’ whispered the drunken
prior, ‘what heresies abound in the womb of secrecy? One dare not contemplate
what abominations lurk behind its heinous walls.’ He directed a malevolent
smile at me, pregnant with meaning, ‘Heresy!’

I slept little that night.

Early the following morning the
inquisitor had made an announcement to the townspeople, seeking those with any
information about the monastery and its practices to come forth on the date set
for the inquiry. And so it was then, after all the arrangements had been made,
that we set off for our long journey over the steep roads to the abbey.

We followed a lonely track, observing
how ash, chestnut and beech trees were succeeded by oaks. Soon the strong scent
of pines announced that we were approaching our destination. Above us,
snow-covered peaks were lost in cloud, and not long before the sun had reached
its highest point, a mist gathered around us, blocking out the thrilling blue
of sky. Here and there patches of snow grew into a thick groundcover and
presently we came to a junction dividing the road into four smaller roads that
led in various directions.

The cavalcade came to a halt, with my
master and others alighting from their horses for a better look around. Above
and beyond, a milky haze obstructed our view. Of the four roads the middle road
seemed the straightest, but what we could see looked thick with undergrowth
covered by a deep layer of snow. To the right, another coursed its way
perilously down the slope and disappeared below us. The left road was very
steep and rocky. The last was no more than a track and headed directly up the
incline.

There was terrible confusion among
the various navigators (for there are always so many). The captain of the
archers, a wise and usually sensible man, advised that we should take the lower
road. The bishop, however, alighted from his carriage and demanded, since he
was an Italian and therefore more versed in the ways of mountains, that we
should under no circumstance travel any other save the higher road. Others
joined in and soon one man raised his voice against the other until there
ensued an intense disagreement, with each voicing his opinion in a heated and
discourteous manner.

The mountain is a changeable beast
and without warning generated a wind that parted the mist and played with the
ecclesiastical vestments of the retinue. Nervous and suspicious, the archers
looked about them, having been taught to notice and react to the slightest
thing, but the churchmen and the captain of the guard continued in argument,
raising their voices higher and higher so as to be heard over the rustling of
the trees. That was when, of a sudden, a gust swept our little party, taking
the bishop’s skull cap from his head and sending it rolling forward into the
middle road like a little wheel. Clutching at his exposed, tonsured head, the
large man turned in dismay and took to running after the small black article, stumbling
over the rocky ground, almost grasping the cap before another gust set it in
motion.

From the corner of my eye I saw my
master mount his Arabian. ‘It seems the bishop has taken matters into his own
hand’, he said, signalling his animal forward in pursuit. Needless to say, in a
general state of bewilderment, the retinue was forced to follow. Moments later
the narrow path miraculously widened to a safe and level road, seemingly well
kept despite a snow cover that, as it happened, turned out to be shallow.

‘A most astute choice,’ my master
congratulated the bishop in his carriage.

The bishop’s round face peeped
through the aperture and creased into an uncertain, pale smile, ‘
Deus vult,
deus vult
,’ he nodded, ‘God wills it my son, God wills it.’

Presently Andre joined me at the
back, allowing the captain of the guard to resume his position, and we rode in
silence, hugging our cloaks for warmth. I refrained from asking any questions.
It was he who spoke first, without turning in my direction.

‘Well . . . Have you learnt anything,
Christian?’ he said.

I deliberated a moment. ‘That God
works mysteriously, master?’

There was a long silence. The trees
moved like living things around us and snow fell from the branches over our
heads.

‘So this is what you have learnt?’ he
said presently. ‘Ten years at my side and this is what you have learnt?’

‘Why?’ I retorted with indignation. ‘Is
there more?’

He paused and his obedient animal
paused also. He looked at me with mild irritation. ‘Have I not told you more
times than I can count, Christian, that a good physician and a fine philosopher
have much in common?’

‘But how does that . . .?’

‘That they both endeavour,’ he
interrupted, ‘to establish a standard of perfection in their minds to which
they can turn, and this I have been trying to teach you, but I can see it will
require some attention. Would you like me to enlighten you?’

I sighed, knowing there was nothing
else I could say, ‘I am ready, master.’

‘Good . . .’ He jiggled the reins and
the horse obeyed. ‘Now firstly, what you should have learnt is the difference
between knowledge and opinion. Knowledge and opinion . . .’

‘You infer that they are not always
the same?’

‘An intelligent observation,’ he said
smiling – though I suggest that he meant the opposite. ‘Knowledge we know
to be eternal and immutable, am I right?’

‘And ignorance is the knowing of
nothing,’ I added.

‘Precisely.’

‘All the same,’ I argued, ‘where does
one place opinion?’

‘Opinion, Christian, fluctuates
between the two states. Between what fully is and what absolutely is not, and
so it is never reliable.’

‘But what has this to do with the
wind and the road, master?’ I asked, exasperated, looking up at the strange clouds
beyond the canopy of trees.

He popped some nuts into his mouth,
chewed, and gazing upward shook his head, ‘At the cross-roads did we hear any
expressions of knowledge? No, only opinions, estimations. Am I right?’

‘Yes, but I still do not understand
what this has to do with –’

‘None of our esteemed colleagues,
Christian, knew anything about these roads, never having travelled through this
region before. And yet, each had so many fine opinions based on this and that,
that and this . . . all erroneous.’

‘So it is lucky for us that the wind
is wise, master,’ I said, knowing that the elements are celestial letters,
signs through which God bespeaks his wisdom to man.

He gave me a sharp look, ‘And
unfortunate for me that you are so stupid!’ I was glad the wind caught it
before the others could hear. ‘You would try the patience of St Francis, boy!
The wind had very little to do with it!’

‘No? Not even as an instrument of
God?’

‘It was my own doing.’

‘It could be that you are his
instrument,’ I answered.

‘Do not speak nonsense that is better
left to senile theologians. I swear you are an exasperating boy! No. This
morning before we left, while taking my usual walk I came across a merchant, a
travelling man, whose knowledge of these roads is born of necessity. After a
little polite and instructive conversation I learnt a little about the route we
were about to undertake. He told me, and as we have seen quite rightly, to be
on the lookout for a junction with only one possible course, the middle one. As
it happens he had once found himself lost along this road and was given safe
harbour by the very same monks of the monastery, of whom he spoke highly. Now
do you see that there is no mystery to it? A good knight is always well
informed, remember that, it may one day save your life. Where one finds one’s
information is not important. What is important, however, is that one use the
laws of observation, Christian, namely the God-given senses. Then one need
never rely on opinion, or faith in miracles or any other such thing.’

‘I see . . . but tell me then, how
did you know the wind would throw the bishop’s hat in the right path?’ I asked,
trying to trip him up.

‘Christian . . .’ he sighed with
impatience, but he was smiling for I believe he always felt a great pleasure in
proclaiming his knowledge, ‘of course I did not know which way the hat would
blow! Had it not been the wind I would have found some other pretext, that is
all. That does not mean that we cannot thank the Lord for whatever aid he gives
us.’