Temple of the Grail(29)

I lay back on my pallet, pulling the sheepskin very high against my face, and told myself that I must sleep. I imagined the bitter cold outside. I would shortly have to rise and attend the services. What kind of scribe would I be if I were seen to fall asleep during the proceedings tomorrow? And yet, I felt an impulse to rise, and threw myself out of bed, annoyed – for it is never pleasant to lose an argument with oneself – and opened the door to my cell, venturing out into the cold.

Outside the moon offered me a little solace, illuminating the compound. I walked with quick steps past the graveyard, pulling the cowl over my head against the wind, hiding from the eerie light that made the gleam of the white crosses unearthly. I was relieved to see the circa’s light making another round high up in the dormitorium, but I pressed on, not wishing to be seen. As I rounded the east face of the church I was taken by an unknown force and suddenly, without explanation, I found myself facing the great gate just as the doors opened before me. Outside, there was the scent of pine, and the ground was icy against my bare feet, but I found that it did not disturb me. How strange this all seemed! I followed the road through the battlements, and out into the forest, moving with the agility of a goat down a narrow path, which led through coarse vegetation. Then I was standing at the entrance to that little shelter I had seen on the day of our arrival. Inside I saw a man, a little short of thirty springs and of stocky build, and also another a little younger, though thin and tall, sitting beside him. They appeared to be in deep contemplation, little noticing my presence until I spoke.

‘Happy night,’ I ventured.

The younger man looked up from his dreamy world with the eyes of a doe assailed by a wolf. ‘Who comes hither?’

‘I come in peace,’ I soothed, ‘from yonder abbey.’ I pointed upwards in the direction of the monastery bathed in moonlight.

The older of the two glanced up and fixed me with wisdom-filled eyes. ‘You may sit with us for a moment, and share a little warmth before the bells.’

I felt large and awkward – and I was only of a slight build – entering their modest shelter. In the centre, sheepskins covered the earth encircling a little fire that provided only adequate warmth. It smelt of animals and smoke and incense.

‘May we know the name of he who disturbs our pater noster, and our credo?’ the man asked presently.

‘My name is Christian de St Armand and I am a Templar squire visiting the abbey with my master in the name of the king,’ I answered, finding that I was boasting.

‘I see,’ he nodded his head. ‘Miserable sinners we may be, but we follow the canonical hours, as should a Templar squire!’

‘Yes, at any moment we will hear the bell,’ I found myself saying. ‘I would have already left for the great gates, but . . .’

‘Do not let us keep you from your duty, but you have some moments. Sit,’ he said, making room for me. He had a broad sanguine face with thick eyebrows and tufts of brown hair framing his tonsure. His eyes were a honey-brown, the same as those of a young calf, and as they fell upon me they bestowed instant calmness. The younger monk was paler, and his face had the quality of chiselled stone, though he spoke animatedly, blinking very often. He appeared as excitable as the other was calm.

After an awkward moment in which the two sat in silence watching me and nodding, I ventured to speak. ‘Would you like me to ask the abbot if he will admit you as pilgrims? Certainly you must be suffering the cold.’

The younger man smiled, fluttering his eyelids. ‘One cannot feel cold whose heart has been enkindled with the fire of the spirit, but we thank you for your charity.’

‘Are you on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela? Jerusalem, as you must know, has been taken long ago.’

The older smiled, nodding his head as though I had said something mildly amusing. ‘The Jerusalem we seek is not physical, but spiritual. I have come with my devout companion Reginald to find peace!’

‘Oh, peace.’

‘There is no peace in Paris, only disputation,’ he continued, looking a little weary.

‘Paris?’ I was intrigued.

Reginald interjected, ‘Thomas was asked to give lectures in Paris on the Book of Sentences.’

‘These two years in Paris have been difficult,’ Thomas continued, sitting forward and gazing clearly into my eyes. ‘There has been strife and discord in the universities. The students and professors protest the powers of the chancellor, and there is a growing antagonism towards us . . . Our good abbot of St Jacques, being the wisest of men, has sent us on a journey away from these disturbances . . .’