Temple of the Grail(34)

‘It is decided,’ he said finally.

‘Master?’

‘I have made a decision, God help me, not an easy one, but a decision, nonetheless.’

‘May I ask what it is concerning?’

‘No, you may not. Now, I want you to go and find some refreshment in the kitchen, bring me an apple or something. In the meantime I will find the dead brother’s room. I want to inspect it before the start of the hearing.’

‘Do you think you’ll find anything significant? Surely the inquisitor’s men must have conducted their own search?’

‘Therefore it is my hope that I will find something insignificant,’ he said, ‘because it annoys me to keep reminding you that it is the insignificant thing – that which may have escaped the eyes of the inquisitor’s men – that may prove very significant to you and me.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘Good. I shall see you soon. Do not eat excessively . . . and do not be late!’

Thus he left me in contemplation of his foul temper, and the wisdom that directed my mother to leave me in the care of a madman. And yet, I consoled myself, I was given a moment of liberty, so I headed for the cookhouse, deciding that I would take the entrance from the garden. As I rounded the body of the cloister buildings tantalising aromas immediately assailed me and suddenly I forgot all my previous inconveniences and thought how good and kind my master was.

The cook, Rodrigo Dominguez de Toledo, was a giant, with big hands, and feet so enormous they poked through his ill-fitting sandals. He was a Spaniard of cheerful countenance, and of friendly disposition. So it was that as I entered the threshold of the kitchen he greeted me with a deep resonant voice and led me to an enormous table in the centre of the room where, amid a bustle of activity, he bade me to sit down and promised to prepare me a fine repast.

‘Nothing but the best of foods for a guest!’ he said, slapping me very hard on the back.

While I waited, I observed as numerous assistants under his vigilant eye prepared the meal. I mused that they looked much like infantry about to launch a cavalry charge on a mighty enemy, hence the preponderance of nervous energy, the quick pallid exchanges, and the sudden quiet loss of temper.

The kitchen was rectangular, with its two storeys buttressed by surmounting arches on all sides. The massive fire, dominated by a stone chimney, stood at the northern end, and this was the source of the delicate aromas that escaped through the adjacent door to the cloisters. A large hatch on the west wall opened onto the refectory whose strange position at right angles to the cloister was characteristic of Cistercian monasteries. The larder and buttery both had hatches on the eastern side, and the brew house, which ran north–east, had a bolted door near the east corner. Along this eastern side there were windows placed very high, capturing a good morning light that even on sunless days illuminated the entire room without the need of torches. The windows were fixed and the only ventilation came from the door through which I had entered, situated on the southern end. I was to learn that this was always left open through the day, allowing for a moderate flow of air to enter the kitchen in strange bursts, so that one felt chilled one moment, and very hot the next.

I watched the cook with fascination. The air was thick with smoke and Rodrigo fired his orders like a commander, for an atmosphere of activity followed him as though it emanated as much from his own being as from necessity, ‘More salt! Less water! Stir that pot!’ he shouted in a mixture of Latin and the vulgar tongue of the Spanish. Luckily I was acquainted with Spanish because as a boy my father had taught it to me, saying that a Spaniard is a true gentleman, and that if one is to speak anything other than Latin – the tongue blessed by God – then Spanish was a fair alternative.

The cook told me as he went about his business that he was honoured to have me share his table. Remarking with a generous air, ‘Es muí bueno! Good, good, sabes qué tengo debilidad por las órdenes militares . . . I very much like the military orders, very full of courage! Tenéis a petito? Hungry? Some fresh bread?’ He went into the larder and came out holding a great golden loaf that he placed before me, along with a cup of warmed wine that I drank almost immediately, and a generous slab of cheese.

The man smacked his lips, ‘Bendita Santa Divino!’ he said, looking at the bread. I dared not ask him why, I merely ate it, and soon realised that it was indeed divine.

‘The miel oh what honey! Is muy deliciosa ...!’ he sighed. ‘Our bees very much like the mountain, and this makes the honey light . . . sweet! Is like a good woman, yes?’ he laughed, winking hideously and reached up with one long arm to a shelf near the fire from whence he brought a substantial earthenware pot to the table. A disturbed rodent scurried down from its hiding place behind the honey and fled across the room. This sent the cook into an instant agitation.