Temple of The Grail (39 page)

‘Yes, I suppose it was forty-four,
does it interest you?’

‘I am intrigued to know who the
original founders of the abbey were.’

‘Oh . . . well, we are told that nine
brothers from many distant lands and four from France were called to this place,
it is said, by a spiritual voice. Legend tells how they arrived here
independently, and yet within days of each other, each calling out the other’s
name as if they had known one another all their lives.’

‘Indeed. And did they live long?’

‘I do not know,’ he answered with a
frown, ‘I think they died shortly after the completion of the abbey. There is a
grave with a headstone . . . one of our oldest . . . In any case by that time
there were enough members to continue their work and an abbot was appointed.’

‘And what was his name?’

‘Nicholas of Aragon, a Spanish monk
who lived many years in the Holy Land,’ he turned his gaze to Eisik, ‘the land
of your forefathers! And yes, he was a wonderful translator. I did not know
him, for he died before I came here.’

‘I see . . . so are all the abbots
translators then?’

‘Oh, yes, it is a tradition. The next
to succeed Abbot Nicholas was Abbot Otto of Troyes, and then of course Abbot
Bendipur, who is himself a fine scholar and knows many languages including
Aramaic and Greek, but more importantly Egyptian Coptic.’

The abbot knew Greek! So many
thoughts were now coursing through my mind.

‘And so before Brother Bendipur
became Abbot, he too worked in the scriptorium?’

‘No . . . not the scriptorium, but
the library,’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘Brother Ezekiel took the abbot’s
place as head translator when he was elected, and the secrets of the library
were passed to him.’

‘So the abbot was the librarian?’

‘No.’

‘How so?’

‘The head translator is not always
the librarian, and the librarian is not usually the head translator . . . you
see, in most smaller monasteries it is usual for the master of music to look
after the books and library, but as you see it is far too difficult in a larger
one. So we have a librarian who looks after the day-today running of the
scriptorium, but the library proper is the domain of the head translator. He
and only he may enter its confines. You may find this strange, preceptor, but
monks should not be allowed easy access to books, it distracts them from their
work and meditation. Also, books are fragile and old and must be kept away from
light and moisture, books that are handled constantly do not last. It is the
acidic nature of sweat, so I am told, that causes deterioration. In any case, Abbot
Bendipur was head translator, and when he became abbot, Brother Ezekiel. But
Ezekiel was very old and his sight was weak, there was a need to find his
replacement before now.’

‘So Brother Ezekiel was grooming
Anselmo for the position?’

‘Who told you that, preceptor?’ he
asked, amazed.

‘Brother Macabus mentioned that
brother Ezekiel had taken Anselmo to the library on a few occasions. He did not
seem too happy about it.’

‘And one can see why.’ He looked
about him and moved closer. ‘Anselmo is very young. None so young has ever been
given such a privilege . . . and yet, preceptor, we must remember our vow of
obedience, an obedience that is prompt and unquestioning. We must not follow
our will, neither must we obey our own desires and pleasures, but follow the
commands and directions of the abbot and his obedientiaries. If Anselmo was the
abbot’s choice, then Brother Macabus should have been happy that a fine
translator could be found in the monastery and not procured elsewhere. In any
case Brother Macabus is not a great translator, mediocre so I’m told, though I
do not mean this in an unkind way. Anselmo was the better choice, but he proved
too young and . . . petulant.’

‘So Brother Ezekiel changed his mind
about him?’

‘Naturally, that is, when he went about
boasting of the things he had seen in the library, what else could he do? It is
also rumoured that Anselmo was not satisfied with the work that Brother Ezekiel
was giving him, but that he wanted more, to see more, to do more . . . but this
is monkish gossip.’

‘Has Anselmo expressed to you his
anger at being rejected?’

‘To the contrary. He told me that it
was a good lesson in humility and also in obedience.’

‘And what of the other novice, the
young Jerome?’

Brother Sacar’s face darkened. ‘He
has disappeared . . . some say he sneaked away in the middle of the night, all
for the better I say. He was a strange one.’

‘How do you mean strange, brother?’

‘There was something unnatural about
him . . . a feminine quality . . . but he was good in the medicinal arts. A
natural healer, the infirmarian told me once, though he also mentioned that the
boy was a little too . . . enthusiastic.’

‘Come now, brother, how can a
physician be too enthusiastic?’

He lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘All
I can say is that Brother Asa had admonished his desire to know too much too
soon on more than one occasion. There are certain things one must learn
gradually, preceptor, as one’s maturity dictates.’

‘Did he say what these things were?’

‘Not exactly, for I believe he did
not know many things himself. Poor Brother Asa.’ He sighed. ‘In his master’s
eyes he would always be a student. I do not believe Setubar would part with
many of his secrets and this led to a rift between them. In any case, it was
not his belief that a physician should interfere with nature . . .’

‘And Brother Asa was seeking to do
so?’

‘Oh no!’ he cried aghast and his hand
flew to his mouth, perhaps fearing that the devil might access an indiscreet
portal with greater ease. ‘I do not believe . . . I do not know.’

‘I see . . .’

‘But he is innocent of all these
insinuations of sorcery. Of that I am sure.’

My master must have been satisfied
because he changed the subject. ‘So this is a monastery not only of fine music
but also of translators?’

‘Since the beginning,’ smiled the master
of music, suddenly relaxed.

‘I thank you for your insightful
observations. We must not keep you further, brother, I can see that you are
busy.’

‘I hope that I have been useful to
you, though I am indeed limited in the affairs of gossip . . . You do not think
that the Devil of jealousy is responsible for these terrible events do you,
preceptor?’ he asked a little anxiously.

‘I do not know, Brother Sacar, but I
am making it my aim to find out. One last thing, the organ, how does one
operate it, is there a code perhaps?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he answered with
reluctance, ‘and I shall take that secret to my deathbed, preceptor, where I
shall whisper it into the ear of my successor, as it was whispered into mine.’

‘But surely if Brother Samuel died
suddenly, as we have heard from all accounts, how could he have told you?’

He was momentarily caught off guard. ‘Yes,
it is strange. He came to me the night before he died and told me, as if he
knew his end was near . . .’

‘This begs another question, do you
have an oblate to replace you? Perhaps now that he is free of his obligations
in the library . . . Anselmo?’

‘Perhaps . . .’ The other man fell
silent.

‘So you, too, will keep secrets from
your acolyte, just as Setubar did with Asa, and Samuel with you?’

‘Oh, it is only tradition,’ he
shrugged. ‘What more can a good monk do than follow tradition?’

‘I thank you again,’ my master said
with a bow, and the master of music left us for the church.

‘Things are a little clearer,
inshallah!
’
Andre said, carefully adding the precautionary exclamation (if God please)
after the monk was out of earshot, the infidel in his nature momentarily
surfacing like a hydra.

‘How so, master?’ Frankly, I found
that hard to believe. There were further suspicions to confuse us and I was
speculating on the abbot’s motives, and even on those of Sacar!

‘There is now little doubt this
monastery has two functions; it operates on the surface as any monastery of its
kind and below the surface as a centre for the translation of secret texts.
Moreover, the four old brothers had only been here ten years and this date
coincides with another event of interest.’

‘The year of the siege at Montsegur,’
Eisik added.

‘It proves that Setubar was not lying
to the inquisitor. The Cathar castle is some distance away, but not too far to
discount its connection to this place. I am convinced that the old brothers
were indeed the heretics of Montsegur, all four of them. Let us look at what we
know. Firstly, the abbey was established the year before the fall of Jerusalem.
Brother Sacar said nine of the founders were monks from distant lands, he did
not say they were Cistercian monks. Four were from France. All the abbots had
either lived in the Holy Land or knew the most important Eastern languages for
translating. Each abbot was head translator before becoming abbot. We have seen
one Templar grave in the cemetery, the first abbot of the monastery. Sacar told
us this in his own way. There may be more unmarked ones that we have not seen.’

‘Are you saying that the founding
monks were Templars?’ I asked.

‘I told you, Andre! I could smell
them,’ Eisik waved a threatening finger at him, ‘but you did not listen.’

‘That may explain . . .’ my master
said absently, as though he had not heard Eisik, ‘why the grand master was
present at our meeting with the king and also why we have been sent here.

This is only an assumption, a
hypothesis, and we must bear in mind what a dangerous thing it is to
hypothesise because it may limit us to one idea when there may be others just
as worthy of our attention.’

‘Why would nine knights establish a
Cistercian monastery so far from the Holy Land? Why not a preceptory?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps to carry out some arcane
translations, with the sanction of St Bernard, away from ecclesiastic scrutiny,
and that may explain why the abbots of this monastery have never attended a
meeting of the general chapter. Perhaps our order in those days found the eternal
gospel hidden in the bowels of Temple of Solomon . . .’

As we walked past the stables, my
master said, ‘Whatever it is the monks of this monastery are doing, we must
above all stop the inquisitor from getting his vulturous claws on the original
copy of the gospel.’

‘But Netsamur!’ Eisik exclaimed, his
eyes fairly popping out of his bony skull. ‘From what the boy says, Setubar may
have already told him everything!’

‘Yes, but I do not think Setubar
knows the formulas of orientation . . . unless he dragged them out of Daniel .
. . We must see him and question him ourselves.’ He looked around him
reflectively. ‘Where would the old man be? What time is it?’

‘Almost sext, master,’ I answered.

‘We must also figure out what the
strange numerical code on the organ means.’ He looked a little distracted. ‘The
inner room . . . the sanctuary perhaps where a young boy brought here by the
four brothers is sequestered . . . along with original sacred texts . . .’

‘We had best sharpen our wits!’ Eisik
whispered harshly, afraid. ‘Stop musing, Andre! The living are becoming rare in
this monastery! Look around you, the corpses are piling up!’

‘Yes, Eisik, that too worries me.’

‘It seems to me you worry more about
your puzzles,’ he reproached, saying aloud what I had been thinking all along.
However, I too had been seduced by the mystery and had forgotten that lives
were in peril.

As we rounded the stables Eisik
departed to his cell above the animals, shaking his head and mumbling dire
omens under his breath, and we continued in the silence of our own misgivings.
Upon nearing the blacksmith’s workroom, however, our meditations were
interrupted by a terrible sound. My master immediately left me alone for a
moment at the entrance to the building while he inspected its source, and as I
waited for his return, feeling a great deal of uneasiness under the stare of
many eyes, I saw the bishop coming out of the cookhouse carrying something
under his arm.

His haste and the folds of his habit
hid whatever it was, and I could not see it, only that it was substantial. The
friar, who was on his way to the service, almost bumped into him, as he rounded
the church. There followed an angry exchange between them and the bishop
continued through the aperture to the cloisters, while the friar looked on with
malice. At that moment the Cistercian joined him, and they had a moment of
conspiracy, each man looking around with suspicion, it seemed, before entering
the church.

Also on the way to the holy office
were the maiden and her father, making their way from the pilgrim hospice.
Partially hidden as I was behind an old tree, I was able to observe her without
being noticed. Her face, revealed by an imprudent wind that swept back her
hood, was that of a young woman whose complexion was exquisitely fair, with
noble features, and lofty demeanour. I saw the brilliance of her eyes, the
perfect form of her teeth. With a casual air she tossed very slightly the sable
tresses that, in little curls, fell upon her lovely shoulders . . . I was mute,
as I should have been! Transfixed by her loveliness, I found my eyes riveted to
the area of purest softness where her slender neck met the curvature of her
shoulders. Here a large gold clasp brought together the folds of a crimson robe
that hung loosely over a velvet gown of the same colour, and yet not concealing
the form beneath . . . Thankfully, she soon entered the church, away from my
sinful eyes. For a moment she had been the woman in my dream, the Goddess
Natura, leaving the scent of jasmine in her step, and I felt myself blush
violently.