Temple of The Grail (42 page)

‘If Asa had told us that little piece
of information earlier we would have come by our conclusions sooner . . . No
matter . . . we must find Setubar!’ He walked to the door that led to the
infirmary chapel. ‘Anselmo intimated that there was some clue here . . .’ It
was bolted shut, but my master, in one of his moments of physical exuberance,
managed to prise it open with an iron poker that he found by the fire.

Behind the door, steps led down to a
dark rectangular chapel whose long and narrow nave drew the eye to a beautiful
crucifix made from precious stones. There were no aisles, and no windows, only
torches as we had elsewhere seen in these places, bracketed to the wall.
Moments later my master discovered behind the altar that a little curtain
obscured some small steps that led down once again, no doubt, to another
tunnel.

‘But I did not notice any dirt under
Asa’s shoes, master.’

‘No, but by now he could have cleaned
them. He knew that we would be looking for it.’

‘Shall we go down?’

‘What for, boy? What shall we find
but more tunnels? No we are best to head for the chapter house, lest we incur
suspicion, but now my dear Christian many things are clearer. This may explain
why Asa was late to dinner that first night, perhaps he was in the tunnels
looking for Jerome?’

‘So Asa could have left the infirmary
via this exit at any time. He could have killed Setubar and Daniel, even with
guards at the door.’

‘Yes, though Setubar may not be dead,
Christian. Perhaps it is he who has been taking the food down to the brothers
in the tunnels in the absence of the cook. Asa may have nothing to do with it
and our dear Anselmo is putting two and two together and making three . . .
then again perhaps he has everything to do with it. We must not be fooled,
however, merely because we are sympathetic to him. Remember, never allow
sympathies and antipathies to rule your reasoning.’

As we re-entered the infirmary once
again we heard a muffled sound. It was the young man. We found him sitting up
in his pallet, his black curls plastered to his skull and a bead of sweat
framing his feverish lips. On seeing us his eyes widened and he said in the
rough whisper of the infirm, ‘He is here . . . I have seen him.’

My master moved to his side and
placed the palm of his hand over his brow. ‘You have a fever, my son, you must
rest.’

The young man said something
inaudible and my master knelt by his side, in order to hear him better, ‘What
did you say?’

‘My name is Trencavel…before I die,’
he said, ‘I must have the
consolamentum!
You understand? I must see my
father…hurry!’

My master’s darkened brow showed me
that he knew something about what the boy had just intimated, but he said
nothing.

He stood, peeled back the sheets, and
a sickly smell assailed our nostrils.

We left the boy in Eisik’s care, and
as we stepped out into the cheerless afternoon Andre said, ‘His leg is rotting
. . . gangrene. The meat will soon be ‘off the bones’ as they say, though every
precaution was taken. I am afraid his only hope now is cauterisation or
amputation.’

The snow was wet, churned to mud by
hail. My master ordered the guard standing outside to find the boy’s father,
for his death was imminent.

‘But, master,’ I said, ‘we must do
something!

‘But we cannot, dear boy.’ He looked sad.

‘Why not? In God’s name!’

‘Because he is a Cathar, he is a
Trencavel.’

‘A Trencavel?’

‘The house of Trencavel was well
known for its heresy during the Albigensian Crusade. He is ready for death, he
has asked for the
consolamentum
.’

‘But how do you –’

‘
Consolamentum
is last rite
given by a
perfect
or a pure one, to a believer before death. A ritual
of purification. He is in effect asking to die.’

‘But he may yet live!’

‘You do not understand. To a Cathar
death is a release from the bonds of the Devil. If he does not receive the
consolamentum
he believes he will die impure . . . His father must be a
perfect
.’

‘What makes one
perfect
?’

‘One who has taken the
consolamentum
and has lived a pure life, a very strict and austere life. You see the life
of a
perfect
is so austere, Christian, so taxing on the mind and body,
that few are able to live it. That is why most are given the
consolamentum
on
their death bed, that way they can live life as they choose to and when the
time comes they may go to God cleansed of sin . . .

it is a matter of convenience,’ he
remarked.

‘Not unlike our extreme
unction, master.’

‘No, not unlike it.’

‘So they are heretics. What about
what he said? A face behind the outward one?’

‘Hush, Christian, do you want the
world to hear? Our main concern now is saving our own carcasses. This whole
thing may end up in the lap of our order with you and me as convenient pawns.’

My master looked pale, his eyes
troubled, his shoulders weighed down with responsibilities. For the first time
I realised how much he suffered because of his erudition. Knowledge, I now
realised, did not afford much pleasure. It was a painful thing. For a wise man
bears the great cross of honour, integrity, and principle. His every word is a
certainty haunted by the possibility of error. I wondered how many nights he
lay awake wondering, had his thoughts become deeds, would they have been good
ones? Now I was more than ever in awe of him, as I looked up at his knitted
brows, the unsettled movements of his dark green eyes, his beard whose tip was
moulded to a point by the stroking of his hand. I wished that I knew him better.
And yet, I wondered if he knew himself, as Plato has commanded us, or whether
Eisik was right. Was he becoming hopelessly lost in the universe of his ideas?
I shivered, hugging my cold tired self, and noting the apple I had taken for
him in the repository of my habit, I handed it to him. He shook his head, he
did not want it. My heart sank. I wished there were something noble or clever
that I could say to help him. What could I say? I may not have been as erudite
as he was, but I knew that as we prepared to set foot in the chapter house we
were indeed preparing to enter into the mouth of the dragon.

T
he tribunal occupied the dais as before, but this time
archers were posted at every exit, and men at arms flanked the legation. This
was now
inquisitio
.

We walked in late, under the stare of
Rainiero who, at that moment, stood and drew his cowl back as a signal that the
proceedings should begin. I thought I could almost see a smile of
self-gratification. After all, he was about to perform a part that he not only
enjoyed, but for which his temperament was eminently suited.

A psalm chosen by him commenced the
affair, and I could hear his voice above all other voices, intoning with
profound concentration the words, ‘Blessed is the man who walketh not in the
counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the
seat of the scornful . . . therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the
judgement, nor sinner in the congregation of the righteous. For the lord
knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the ungodly shall perish!’

The solemn sound of so many masculine
voices rising and falling in deep, prolonged notes would have been pleasing if
it did not, at the same time, convey the singular sadness and resolution of men
reconciled to their fate.

When there was silence once more, the
man glanced his eye about the assembly, and after pronouncing the various
opening formulas, ordered the archers to bring in the cook.

The giant entered the room flanked by
two archers and though he seemed to have halved his size, the air vibrated
around him. His vestments were covered in blood and excreta and his face showed
his subjugation. He came to a halt before Rainiero, who shuffled some papers
and straightened his habit. All expected him to begin. Yet, he remained silent.
Long, anxious moments passed. The congregation held its breath. Still he made
no move to start. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he turned his back on the
congregation, raising his arms so that his body made the shape of a cross. For
some time he remained as though lost in the contemplation of prayer. The cold
air hung colder, the stillness became audible.

The cook looked as though he would
soon collapse, when finally the inquisitor turned and with solemn tone ordered
the interrogation of the cook to begin.

‘These have been difficult days,’ he
paused, surveying the congregation of shaven heads and upturned faces. ‘We have
been witness to disturbing events that have seen the grievous loss of three
lives, perhaps four, to the powers of darkness. Here in the house of God, we
have heard the Devil. His voice communicated to us through his instruments, through
his bloody deeds. Unfortunately we are not all strong. Not all of us are
suitably constituted in mind and body to battle with demons. These are matters
that threaten the quiescence of our souls, the very fibre of our beings, and so
our beloved colleague the Bishop of Toulouse is found to be . . . feeling
unwell. A condition that, although not a serious one, is such that will not
allow him to accompany me in this odious task as inquisitor.’ I thought I saw
the slightest, almost imperceptible smile dawn over the faces of the Franciscan
and the Cistercian.

My master whispered into my ear, ‘What
is this? He was present during lauds, and did not look any worse than usual.’

‘I saw him leave the cookhouse, while
I was waiting outside the blacksmith’s, he was carrying something inside his
vestments,’ I whispered back.

‘By God’s bonnet!’ Andre hissed, and
seemed to be on the verge of further elucidating this, when he was interrupted
by the inquisitor.

‘And so it is that we must appoint
another to take his place,’ his eyes fell on my master, ‘as set out by the
learned doctors of the church who, in their wisdom, saw the need for two minds
to work together against the evil of Sathanus, whose minions are many. And so
it is that I shall ask the Preceptor of Douzens, our esteemed and valiant
Templar knight brother to take his place on the dais to perform this sad and
gruesome task. So stand, dear brother, whose warlike achievements are well
known, champion of the holy sepulchre. This day your God commands that you fight
another battle, perhaps less fatiguing to the body, but infinitely more
lamentable to the spirit.’

My master whispered in my ear, ‘Remember
the organ and the catacombs. If something should happen . . .’ He looked
pointedly at me. ‘You can escape!’ With firm voice and steady eye he stood and
answered with remarkable calmness, ‘I am deeply honoured, your grace, by your
request, but I am not an expert on the finer points of theology as are those
whose life is dedicated to this calling. And so, I fear that I am sorely
qualified to a position that requires many years of serious devotion to canon
law and scriptural interpretation. Perhaps this assembly should adjourn until a
suitable candidate can be found.’

The inquisitor smiled a little. ‘There
is no need for adjournment, all I require from you, dear preceptor, as a
socius
in these awful, though necessary, matters, is that you hear the evidence
with calmness of spirit. You may ask a question if you so wish, otherwise you
might allow me to proceed as I have done so many times, relying on my
experience as one would rely on the experience of an older and wiser brother.
It is not necessary to be an expert in theological matters, it is enough to be
a seeker after truth, for in the end, God will recognise his own.’

Having no other recourse, my master
joined the assembly on the dais, and I was filled with dread.

‘Now we begin . . . what is your
name?’ he asked the cook.

The cook raised his big head a little
way from his chest and with a choked voice answered, ‘Rodrigo Dominguez de
Toledo, your grace.’

‘Rodrigo Dominguez de Toledo, tell
this assembly in your own words your history.’

He seemed confused, a terrible
vagueness in his eyes. The archer standing on his left side poked him in the
ribs and stunned him to his senses. ‘
Sí...sí ...
a young boy . . . I was
in the care of Benedictines at the convent of St Miguel.’ He paused vaguely and
the inquisitor waved him on impatiently. ‘In Gerona . . . I did not want to be
a monk, instead,
un cocinero
. . . a cook.’

‘Why did you not become a monk, as
was the desire of your family?’ the inquisitor inquired mildly.

‘I . . .’ He paused looking around, ‘I
was not . . .’ He swayed a little, and an archer steadied him roughly.

‘Come now, is it not,’ the inquisitor
smiled, ‘because even as a young man you had a nature predisposed to the
distortions of the Devil?’

‘No!’ the cook denied weakly, ‘I
wanted to see the world, I came to France to Toulouse, and worked at a
monastery.’

‘But it is not your time in Toulouse
that interests this
inquisitio
, but your time in Italy when you
conspired against the pope by serving the excommunicated serpent, Frederick!
Tell me your history from the time you arrived in Italy.’

Slowly he returned from wherever he
had been in his mind to answer thus, ‘I came to know people . . . followers of
a Cathar.’

‘You see! A heretic! As I have said!’
he exclaimed hotly. ‘We see a man touched by the foul enemy whom we defy with
every breath of our being!’ he thundered. ‘This history should be enough to
convict you!’

The cook then straightened his back,
and this made him appear doubled in size. The archers were immediately dwarfed
and a look of discomfort settled on their faces. They did not know, however,
that for this poor wretch, size was no longer a measure of strength. ‘But the
man was you, Rainiero Sacconi . . .!’

There was a loud stir in the
audience. The inquisitor blanched and his face hardened into a hideous mask. ‘What
say you?’

‘You were my leader . . . you Cathar!’

There was a pause. ‘I do not know
you.’

‘No! You forget me because
mi
nombre
, my name, was another . . .’ He looked directly into the eyes of the
inquisitor, whose face looked a little incredulous. ‘Don’t you remember me? Do
you not remember your vows, your confessions?’ He stopped, gasping for air.

‘Stay your mouth you devil!’ the
inquisitor cried. ‘See how the Devil binds a man! How the distortions of
Beelzebub enter into the soul? Not only did this poor wretch commit numerous
heresies that he freely confesses, allowing himself to be the accursed
instrument of the evil emperor who seeks to destroy the church and to replace
the pope in his own throne. But also following those other heinous enemies of
the church, whose corruptions are too various for a holy man to utter from his
lips. Now he seeks to bring the judge to judgement! The champion of truth he
accuses! However, I know that the enemy tempts us to exalt our own deeds and
worship our own qualities, and so I shall not be forced to do so to a confessed
heretic whose debauchery and dissipation has, by his own admission, led him to
a life of sin!’

The cook fell to his knees.

My master stood then and said, ‘But
you strayed from the narrow path, Rainiero, and you were forgiven! This man has
confessed and performed penance.’

‘Peace, brother!’ the inquisitor
exclaimed harshly. ‘I have returned to the flock, while this man became a
conspirer and a heretic! We see here before us the Devil incarnate, by whose
hand three good men, perhaps four, have died!’

‘But I see no evidence!’ Andre
answered assertively.

Sacconi ignored this and continued, ‘Stand,
you devil, instrument of Satan!’

The cook stood unaided, though with
much effort.

‘Did you conspire with the Devil to
kill the three brothers?’

‘No!’ the cook said, almost in a
whisper.

‘As God is your judge if you do not
answer the truth, I will condemn this entire monastery for having colluded with
you to prevent the course of justice!’

The cook was stunned. He looked
behind him at the anxious faces, and there followed a long pause in which one
could see his whole body tremble under the weight of these matters then with a
great measure of courage, summoned from the depths of some unknown corner of
his soul he raised his square chin and said:

‘No! I stand alone. It was I!’

My master, frowning, interjected, ‘By
what means, cook, did you kill these men?’

The cook glanced unwaveringly at my
master. ‘Satan told me, he whispered to me ‘Rodrigo, kill the old brothers, use
the evil herbs in the wine which you will find in the
herbarium.
And
when you have killed the old ones . . . kill them all!’’

There was a loud murmur. Confusion
reigned.

‘Kill them all, God will know his
own!
María Santísima, María Santa! Pecador de mí
. . . sinner that I am
. . .
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!
’ He sobbed then, into his
deformed hands.

‘Peace! Peace!’ yelled the inquisitor
at him and at the congregation.

When the room had quietened and order
was restored he continued, ‘So we have it! By his own admission! Tell me, you
wretched dog, did the infirmarian aid you in committing these ferocious crimes?
Answer me in the name of God!’

The man looked up, suddenly confused,
perhaps he had not anticipated that his confession might also implicate others.
‘No . . . no!’

‘You say this to protect the
scoundrel, for how could an ignorant cook know which herb was poisonous and
which was not?’

‘I . . .’ he looked around him.

‘You see? I am right! Archers, bring
forth the infirmarian!’

‘No! I have told you, Satan told me
which herbs to use.’ He struggled to his feet.

‘You lie!’ the inquisitor growled, pointing
his pale finger at the man, looking all around him. ‘This is a convent of
fiends, united through their worship of Belial! They protect each other like a
nest of serpents. I do not believe you! Where there is one devil, it is certain
there are others. Bring the infirmarian here!’

The infirmarian took his place beside
the poor cook. His head was raised with a calm dignity.

‘How say you to this charge?’

Asa squinted myopically. ‘What
charge, your grace?’

‘The charge of colluding with this
sorry scoundrel by means heretical or diabolical, to murder three brothers of
your own order!’

‘Which shall I answer to first, your
grace, the charge of heresy, or the charge of murder?’ he asked mildly.

‘Do not double your tongue with me,
you garrulous devil, it matters not which one you answer first, but that you do
so without dissimulation!’

‘I have neither colluded with this
poor cook to murder nor to heresy.’

‘But here I have a statement . . .’
He produced a parchment, that he ceremoniously handed to my master and he to
the other prelates, ‘made by a woman whose child you cured of an incurable
illness! Here she states that you gave the child some infernal substance, after
which you further compounded your sin by pronouncing words in some hellish
tongue over him as you made the sign of the cross!’ There was a stir like a low
hum in the room. Rainiero waited until there was silence before continuing, ‘She
said that you also ordered her to give the child some unlawful and magical
pharmacopoeia! You call yourself a man of God!’ He crossed himself.