Temple of the Grail(110)

In the cookhouse proper, the assistant cooks were very busy. They stirred this pot, adding a herb to this cauldron, a pinch of salt to another pan. In the absence of their master, they tasted, slurped, and sniffed, and just to make sure, added more of everything. As I crossed the threshold of the vast hot room, I noticed that two brothers seemed engaged in a heated argument. The taller brother, of Italian origin, argued with the shorter one, whose accent I could tell was from the lands to the north, perhaps German. They argued as to how much rosemary should be in the sausage. The tall brother stated that in his country one could never have enough of this sainted herb, for the Virgin Mary herself had found it most pleasant when she sat on it on the way to Nazareth. The German brother stood stiffly, I believe using vulgar words in his native tongue, shouting that hyssop was also a holy herb, used in the Temple of Solomon, but one would rather die a thousands deaths in infernal hell than cook with it. Finally, when it seemed they would soon come to blows, they noticed my presence and invited me in.

The brothers asked me to taste the sausage, and this I found to be most delicious, much to the delight of the Italian monk, whose name I learned was Alianardo. He gave the other monk a smirk of self-satisfaction and showed me into the larder where he said I could eat whatever I desired. Perhaps I had learnt something of the diplomatic art from my master?

I entered the darkened room through a door to the right side of the great ovens and noticed only after a moment that above me smoked fish and curing sausages hung from hooks attached to the ceiling. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I saw that on shelves there were also stores of preserved fruit, olives, eggs, and rounds of cheese. Large urns of unknown substances that, in my relative ignorance, I guessed to be olive oil and vinegar, sat on the stone floor. Here some straw had been placed, no doubt to absorb unwanted moisture, but also affording a soft place on which to sit. I found a sheltered spot, amid baskets of beans, apples, and dried foods, and consumed – in concentrated gluttony – the generous plate brought me. There was melted cheese, olives, nuts, bread, throbbing sausages – whose juices ran down my chin – and smoked ham. Finally I ended it with a cup of warmed wine and, ipso facto, grew weary – as one is wont to do when one is satiated – and leant back on the pleasant, soft straw, using a bag of wheat for a pillow, the troubles of the monastery a million leagues away, the inquisitor with his wicked grin a point in a universe of points. I allowed my full stomach and the warmth from the fire that reached even into the larder, to lull me into a deep, contented sleep, in which I dreamt that I was flying into the arms of my beloved.

I must have been asleep a long time because when I awoke I could see that the light outside the larder had changed. Shadows stood where previously there had been light, and the kitchen, so lively with the activity of monks before I had succumbed to fatigue, now appeared to be very bare. It was then that I heard a strange voice whose owner was unseen to me. For a moment I was startled, but I heard only the sounds coming from the great fireplace, breaking the stillness with its crackling and spluttering. I sat up feeling dull and wondered drowsily how I had come to be here, as is usual in the case of daytime sleep. I slowly – and I must say shamefully – remembered first my gluttony, and then, in horror, my dream! It occurred to me that I may have missed the service of the dead, and not wanting to add this to my growing list of sins I hastily prepared to leave, when I heard the voice again.

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!’