Temple of the Grail(111)

‘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.