Temple of the Grail(2)

I slept little that night.

Early the following morning the inquisitor had made an announcement to the townspeople, seeking those with any information about the monastery and its practices to come forth on the date set for the inquiry. And so it was then, after all the arrangements had been made, that we set off for our long journey over the steep roads to the abbey.

We followed a lonely track, observing how ash, chestnut and beech trees were succeeded by oaks. Soon the strong scent of pines announced that we were approaching our destination. Above us, snow-covered peaks were lost in cloud, and not long before the sun had reached its highest point, a mist gathered around us, blocking out the thrilling blue of sky. Here and there patches of snow grew into a thick groundcover and presently we came to a junction dividing the road into four smaller roads that led in various directions.

The cavalcade came to a halt, with my master and others alighting from their horses for a better look around. Above and beyond, a milky haze obstructed our view. Of the four roads the middle road seemed the straightest, but what we could see looked thick with undergrowth covered by a deep layer of snow. To the right, another coursed its way perilously down the slope and disappeared below us. The left road was very steep and rocky. The last was no more than a track and headed directly up the incline.

There was terrible confusion among the various navigators (for there are always so many). The captain of the archers, a wise and usually sensible man, advised that we should take the lower road. The bishop, however, alighted from his carriage and demanded, since he was an Italian and therefore more versed in the ways of mountains, that we should under no circumstance travel any other save the higher road. Others joined in and soon one man raised his voice against the other until there ensued an intense disagreement, with each voicing his opinion in a heated and discourteous manner.

The mountain is a changeable beast and without warning generated a wind that parted the mist and played with the ecclesiastical vestments of the retinue. Nervous and suspicious, the archers looked about them, having been taught to notice and react to the slightest thing, but the churchmen and the captain of the guard continued in argument, raising their voices higher and higher so as to be heard over the rustling of the trees. That was when, of a sudden, a gust swept our little party, taking the bishop’s skull cap from his head and sending it rolling forward into the middle road like a little wheel. Clutching at his exposed, tonsured head, the large man turned in dismay and took to running after the small black article, stumbling over the rocky ground, almost grasping the cap before another gust set it in motion.

From the corner of my eye I saw my master mount his Arabian. ‘It seems the bishop has taken matters into his own hand’, he said, signalling his animal forward in pursuit. Needless to say, in a general state of bewilderment, the retinue was forced to follow. Moments later the narrow path miraculously widened to a safe and level road, seemingly well kept despite a snow cover that, as it happened, turned out to be shallow.

‘A most astute choice,’ my master congratulated the bishop in his carriage.

The bishop’s round face peeped through the aperture and creased into an uncertain, pale smile, ‘Deus vult, deus vult,’ he nodded, ‘God wills it my son, God wills it.’

Presently Andre joined me at the back, allowing the captain of the guard to resume his position, and we rode in silence, hugging our cloaks for warmth. I refrained from asking any questions. It was he who spoke first, without turning in my direction.

‘Well . . . Have you learnt anything, Christian?’ he said.

I deliberated a moment. ‘That God works mysteriously, master?’

There was a long silence. The trees moved like living things around us and snow fell from the branches over our heads.

‘So this is what you have learnt?’ he said presently. ‘Ten years at my side and this is what you have learnt?’

‘Why?’ I retorted with indignation. ‘Is there more?’

He paused and his obedient animal paused also. He looked at me with mild irritation. ‘Have I not told you more times than I can count, Christian, that a good physician and a fine philosopher have much in common?’

‘But how does that . . .?’

‘That they both endeavour,’ he interrupted, ‘to establish a standard of perfection in their minds to which they can turn, and this I have been trying to teach you, but I can see it will require some attention. Would you like me to enlighten you?’

I sighed, knowing there was nothing else I could say, ‘I am ready, master.’

‘Good . . .’ He jiggled the reins and the horse obeyed. ‘Now firstly, what you should have learnt is the difference between knowledge and opinion. Knowledge and opinion . . .’