As soon as we were all seated, the inquisitor leant in the abbot’s direction and pointed to an empty chair on the dais. I heard the abbot say that the infirmarian, because of the distant location of his infirmary, was generally a little late for meals.
‘Indulgence,’ said the inquisitor, ‘leads to disobedience, stern discipline and obedience to the rule is the cornerstone of order, as you know dear abbot, to obey is better than a sacrifice,’ he concluded.
Who would argue further?
It was then in silence that we listened to the weekly reading which continued devoutly, even as the refectorian and his assistants placed dishes of unsurpassed variety before us, whose qualities I have since contemplated on more than one occasion. With each dish – and indeed there were many – I was transported to distant lands; Italy, Spain, Portugal, perhaps even unknown places of which old travellers speak. And the guests, particularly those with good appetites, praised the cook and complimented the abbot on a fare that far surpassed the modest meals usually served in monasteries of those times – especially so close to Lent, when one ate almost nothing.
We ate roast pheasant stuffed with red peppers; terrines of pigeon; goose eggs in a sauce of goat’s cheese and various delicious herbs. There were black olives stuffed with anchovies, and green olives in a garlic marinade, and on each table, little vases contained golden honey, so light and sweet that even the inquisitor could not help smothering everything he ate in it. All partook of the fare in quiet thankfulness, all except the friar, who behaved in a manner typically Franciscan – because they are of humble birth and so often poorly educated – letting out loud resonant belches.
Afterwards, there was fragrant bread, cooked with cinnamon and almonds, then honeyed dumplings – like those found in Florence. Finally, they brought in the wine, a small flask for each of us, and the abbot told us, because abbeys are known to take pride in their abilities, that it was a delicious mixture of balm leaves and the abbey’s own honey. When he saw that my master was declining he told him that it was also said to have wonderful curative and calming properties, because bees were a virtuous insect, as was well known.
The inquisitor made a gesture of disapproval. ‘Wine is a mocker, it induces even the wise to apostasy.’
‘In that you are quite right!’ added the Franciscan yawning.
The Cistercian agreed, casting his unblinking eye over us, ‘Wine is not proper for monks.’
The bishop alone said nothing, but filled his glass and downed the lot without taking a breath. ‘Ahh . . .’ he said at last in his throaty voice. ‘Our Lord found it agreeable and I, his simple servant, cannot find it otherwise.’
My master smiled and thanked the abbot graciously, conceding that it did indeed possess a fine colour and was no doubt delicious, but refused his portion.
On hearing this, Brother Ezekiel edged closer to me, and because of his poor vision reached out his hand, searching for the flask. ‘Give it to me! By Mary and all her saints, I shall drink it!’ he exclaimed loudly, and the server placed it in his hand.
The abbot motioned to stop Ezekiel when Asa, the infirmarian, entered the refectory looking flushed. Hastily finding his seat at the end of the table under the glare of many eyes, he begged his abbot’s pardon in inaudible whispers.
The inquisitor muttered, ‘I shall put a curb upon my mouth!’ but no one else heard him, they were far too preoccupied with their meal, as yet another course of cheeses was brought before them.
When a man eats well, the world appears not only more pleasing to his eye, but he feels gladdened and cheered, and perhaps a little indolent. My master attributed this to the illusion of digestion. He said that the internal organs borrow from the heart and head the energy with which to accomplish this wonderful work and, as was his custom, indulged in eating as much as possible in order to rest his mind. Whatever the cause, however, it had a pleasant effect on all those seated at the table. Even the inquisitor’s voice was gradually tempered, and soon he was forgetting his own admonition concerning the silence.
‘I see you live contrary to the fifty-seventh capital of your rule, preceptor, namely, Ut fratres non participent cum excommunicatis. That is to say, that you are in communication with the excommunicated.’
My master remained surprisingly silent. The pause seemed to last too long, however, and the inquisitor, not about to miss his opportunity, glared in Eisik’s direction and in a voice that carried well in the large hall, continued. ‘He is a Jew and therefore diabolical. What is your order coming to, preceptor, when it allows into its ranks infidels, and condones communication with Jews?’