Temple of the Grail

1


Capitulum

‘A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not; but knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth.’

Proverbs xiv 6


The 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!’