Temple of The Grail (37 page)

My master would have been exceedingly
proud of me, for I moved close to the door, remaining in the shadows so as not
to be seen and there, crouched behind a barrel of ale, I listened. Lifting my
head a little, I could only just see Rainiero Sacconi conducting a conversation
with an unseen monk whose voice I at once recognised as belonging to Brother
Setubar.

‘So tell me, old man,’ he said, ‘why
you have dragged me to the basest of places?’

‘We are safest here. The walls of the
abbey are the ears of the abbot, who is corrupt like all the others, but here
in the cookhouse we are free to speak.’

I saw the inquisitor’s eyes gleam in
the firelight, ‘Tell me everything!’

‘I will tell you only what you need
to know,’ the old man said slowly with an authority that even the inquisitor
could not deny. ‘Firstly, you must swear that you will stop them, for theirs is
an unnatural design. It is very close, and soon they must be prevented from
using what they have been hiding –’

‘Old man, you have brought me to this
monastery on the pretext that you harbour Giacopo de la Chiusa, the murderer of
Piero da Verona, now you must tell me where he is!’

‘I told you there was a man here of
great interest to you, but I did not name names. He was an accomplice to the
murders, I know this . . .’ There was a pause. ‘Do not ask me how . . .’

Oh Lord . . . By the tone of his
voice I knew that Setubar had to have learnt these things under the seal of
confession, and he was divulging them! I crossed myself devoutly, feeling the
presence of the devil close at hand.

‘But this,’ Setubar said, in his
gruff voice, ‘pales in significance in comparison with what I am about to tell
you.’

‘I want to know his name, if it is
not Giacopo de la Chiusa then who? Manfredo, Thomaso? Do not tell me about
heretical doctrines!’ the inquisitor said. ‘There is enough of this going on in
all abbeys of Christendom to fill the entire libraries of hell! This does not
interest me.’

The old man laughed a hard raucous
laugh the nature of which degenerated into a hacking that shook his entire
body. ‘Heretical doctrines? More fool the pope whose ignorance is only bettered
by his vice. If only that were all . . .’ He sighed, gaining his breath. ‘No
heretical doctrine can compare with the heresy perpetrated by the monks of this
abbey. This, inquisitor, is the source of the greatest heresy of all! Do you
recall the siege at Montsegur? The four Cathars who escaped . . . I was one of
them.’

‘What say you?’ the other man spat. ‘No
Cathars escaped, all died purified on the pyre!’

‘You are ignorant!’ The old man began
to laugh, his shoulders heaving so violently that he had to lean on the wall
for support. Presently after a burst of coughing he continued, ‘And your
ignorance will lead to your downfall! Do you believe that all those who offered
their lives that day would have so willingly done so without first safeguarding
the knowledge?’

‘So you were a Perfect?’ he asked as
though the words were poison.

‘I and three others . . . but they
are now dead . . . we brought down from that great height what was vouchsafed
to us . . . Something that would greatly interest you and perhaps mark your
name in the annals of history for all time,’ he smiled, nodding his head, ‘but
I shall not tell too much. You need not know the rest . . .’

‘Do not waste my time, old man!’ he
said. ‘Tell me the name, or I shall have you detained like the others.’

Setubar laughed once again. ‘You may
do as you will with this sinful body. I am prepared to tell you what I know
because I long for death, unlike the others who desire to live too long. You
must enter the tunnels and find it before it is too late…before it is
consummated! There you will find the greatest heretical doctrine of all. Think
of it! The world will resound with your name, you, the man who discovered the
most important symbol of heresy in the known world! The pope will make you a
saint! Every book will spell the name of Rainiero Sacconi. You will do what no
other inquisitor has ever done. You will put a stop to heresy for all times to
come . . . and if you do this I will also give you his name, so that you may
avenge the terrible event at Barlassina, for this man may know where all the
other assassins are hiding.’

At this point I felt a strange
feathery sensation near my right ankle. I looked down to see a fat, hairy rat,
perhaps the same rat that the cook chased away that morning in the kitchen four
days ago, nibbling at some stray grain near my foot. I jumped a little, shooing
the thing away, trying to be quiet, but there were others, furry little bodies
scurrying to and fro, and in my shock, I must have made some noise because the
inquisitor paused, leaning his head in my direction, narrowing his eyes
slightly.

‘Who is there?’ He walked slowly
toward the larder and I crouched like a ball behind the barrel of ale, thanking
God for the first time that I was born small. Thankfully, just at that moment
we heard a rumbling, like the roar of a great lion, and I must say that I
believed it to be the voice of God, the voice that in revelations spoke like
many waters, carried on the sound of great thunder. Later I was to learn that
it was an avalanche, but for the moment, dear reader, it seemed as though God
had chosen to spare me, for the inquisitor and Setubar left the kitchen
hastily, and I was able to leave undetected, but not before taking an apple for
my master.

I ran through the cloisters and out
to the courtyard, realising that it was late morning and that I had slept a
good hour or two. In the pale diffused light I saw that a large mound of snow
had fallen from above, covering the graveyard. Some had also fallen over the
church, but not enough to damage it.

Everywhere monks headed for a
gathering barely discernible through the fog and snow. The abbot, the
inquisitor, and my master were standing at the great gate where I saw riders on
horses entering the compound. One man was slumped over on the neck of his
horse, as though he had lost his senses. I noticed blood running down his leg,
dripping on the fresh snow and making a deep red well there. Another rider, an
older man whose stout form was richly adorned with a fur-lined cloak the colour
of vermilion, at once jumped down from his horse crying out in Langued’oc. ‘My
son, my son . . .’ He rushed over to a third rider, who appeared to be a woman,
and in an agitated way helped her down from her horse. I could not see her face
for it was obscured by the green velvet hood of her vestments, however, I knew
that she must be beautiful, what other reason could she have to cover herself?
Chaste eyes may look upon ugliness, as Brother Setubar intimated, but beauty .
. .? My heart sank.

Once he had made sure that the lady
was all right, the older man assisted the others to retrieve the insensible body
of his son from the saddle.

I asked a monk standing nearby what
had happened, and who these people were, but he did not know, so I walked the
short distance to my master’s side, and on seeing me, he grabbed me by the ear
– not too harshly, but most embarrassingly – and said in a very
loud whisper, ‘By my sword, boy! Where have you been? I have been very worried!’
To which I shrugged meekly, mustering a look I hoped would convey my deep
contrition.

‘Later!’ he admonished, and left me to
inspect the body of the man.

After a short, but decisive
investigation, my master concluded that the young man had a broken leg. ‘I will
need help. I will need the assistance of the infirmarian.’

‘He has been detained, and I will not
allow it,’ the inquisitor answered emphatically.

My master looked up calmly from his
kneeling position at the young man’s side. ‘I shall also need the services of
my colleague, Eisik.’

Hearing this the stout noble, with
the broad bony face whose son lay prostrate on the snow, scowled. ‘I will not
allow a Jew to touch my son!’

‘Perhaps you’d rather see your son
dead, my lord?’

The man made a gesture of irritation,
but said nothing, and walked over to the woman, embracing her in a fatherly way,
his face paler than the snow.

‘The bone here has been shattered.’
My master pointed to the young man’s left thigh, whose colour contrasted
sickeningly with the gaping wound that exposed the two white protuberances of
his femur. ‘We must hurry . . .’ he continued. ‘Wrap him in the blankets, and
take him to the infirmary . . . I think he may yet have life in him. You,’ he
pointed to a monk, ‘find Eisik, and the blacksmith, and get me a file, one with
the finest tooth you have, and two strong, straight lengths of wood, as long as
a man’s leg. We shall have to tidy those bones before we put them together.’

Two burly lay brothers wrapped the
young man in thick woollen blankets, and carried him the long distance to the
infirmary. Once inside, they laid his body on the table, where he was disrobed
and once again covered. Andre ordered others to collect boiling water from the
lavatory and to fill one-third of a bath in the infirmary with it, the other
two-thirds with cold. It was at this point that the infirmarian, Brother Asa,
entered the room, wearing a drained and weakened expression. Flanked by two
guards, he looked shaken, but it was not until he came closer that we saw in
his eyes that he had indeed suffered some measure of indignity.

‘Ah, my colleague!’ my master smiled,
bringing him to the table. ‘There was an avalanche, the boy was buried, and as
you can see broke his leg.’

The boy’s father, who was attempting
to comfort the mysterious maiden, looked up. ‘We are travelling to Prats de
Mollo, we lost our way and we saw the monastery . . .’ He paused, looking
around him. His eyes were wide with images. ‘The avalanche . . . all our
retinue . . . our carriages . . . my son was trapped under the snow for a short
time . . . at the foot of the abbey!’

I wondered if the pilgrims in their
shelter had been buried too? But I did not linger too long on such thoughts,
for at that moment Eisik entered the infirmary, looking grim, his face grey and
his eyes wide with fear. My master smiled, and said he was preparing to treat
the patient. In one glance Eisik became transformed. His shoulders squared and
his eyes filled with purpose. It was as if the misfortunes of another made him
forget his own. Perhaps this was why he had become a physician.

Asa listened to the man’s chest ‘His
heart is slow, but it beats. He will die if he is not warmed.’

‘
Mon dieu!
Hurry with that
bath!’ my master cried impatiently. With gravity he said to Asa, ‘We shall have
to fix his leg before we immerse him, otherwise he may bleed to death. Have you
performed this procedure before?’

Asa shook his head. ‘Not many times,
but I know the formula.’

‘Good,’ my master said, and with the
swiftness of one used to such things, he prepared the wound. Momentarily, the
blacksmith entered holding in his thick calloused hands the file and the wood
that my master had earlier requested. He took the file, and also a large knife
of Arabic design which I knew to be his, and placed the two over the flames in
the fire for a time. After allowing the articles to cool a little, he gave the
file to Eisik and motioned for Asa to hold the leg. He paused before beginning.
‘May the son of Apollo help us save this boy’s leg.’ He said this almost as a
prayer, and I was instantly worried, for I could see the inquisitor’s eyes
narrow and his thin lips contort in a grimace that was too discomforting.
Shortly after, my master began to cut away at the skin and muscle with the
knife to reveal the two bones, and taking the file from Eisik, began to file
away the broken edges, so that they were smooth where they met.

‘Look at this thigh bone,’ my master
said, demonstrating the bone. ‘Look how wonderfully it is constructed, the best
craftsman could not make something so perfect. It is built with the minimum
material, so that it is light and yet it is very strong.’

Those who had eagerly followed the party
into the infirmary now took their leave, emptying the contents of their stomachs
on the fresh snow outside.

The German cook called out rather
loudly, ‘Too much rosemary! For the love of Christ . . . too much!’ as he ran
out into the compound holding his stomach in his hands.

I began to feel unwell, remembering
with distaste my earlier indiscretions. Somehow I managed to control these
feelings by concentrating on the formidable skill of the two men.

Once the ends had been filed to my
master’s satisfaction he motioned for the infirmarian to straighten the leg and
the young boy uttered a faint sound, like the breath that escapes the mouth of
a dying man. My master, in turn, kept the two sides of the wound together as
Eisik (who remained conspicuously silent) began with great precision to stitch
the wound with what looked like string or fine rope given to him by Asa.

‘Sheep’s entrails, dried in the sun?’
my master asked, obviously impressed.

Asa explained, as Eisik plunged the
large needle deep into the man’s thigh, making me wince with each insertion. ‘Toughened
with wax . . . better than string and kinder on the wound.’

Afterwards Asa retrieved a jar from
the shelf to one side of his workbench from which he removed with his own hands
a paste which he placed on the inside of a clean rag, doubling it, so that
there was a layer of rag between the leg and the paste when he placed it deftly
on the wound. I knew that it must be a poultice, for my mother had also used
this curative method. He bound this firmly with a bandage of sorts, and said, ‘A
mixture of garlic, fenugreek, and calendula essence made into a fine paste.
Placed not directly on the wound but betwixt two layers of cloth . . . Do you
agree, my colleagues?’ he asked amiably, some semblance of enthusiasm returning
to his eyes.