Temple of the Grail(35)

‘Maldita mierda – Cursed dung!’ he exclaimed with great annoyance, giving it chase. But the furry thing was swift, escaping moments before he reached it through a tiny gap in the stone. The cook became enraged, aiming a volley of insults and curses at the bewildered assistant who, standing in the corner, cowered in the wake of his temper. In this mood he threw the knife in the general direction of the rat’s exit, and spat a perfunctory wad of saliva at the stone floor.

‘Cursed be the breast milk that thou hast suckled!’ he bellowed, and the windows shook. I believe he then remembered me because he gave me a lame smile. ‘Por favor . . . I beg your pardon . . . I am the dung of a donkey! But they are, after all, so tasty . . .’ He picked up the knife and wiped it thoroughly on his shirt before placing it in my hands, ‘Estúpido!’ he said, pointing to one of the cooks. ‘Idiota!’ he snarled at another.

I glanced at the soup bubbling with purposeful anxiety on the great fire and wondered about the rat. Seeing my concern, the man laughed. ‘It was not for our food – qué cosa buena, eh? Good, very good. No, no, it was for the cat, you see?’ He pointed to a spot above the fires where in a little alcove a honey-coloured feline slept unperturbed by the activity and the smoke. ‘Don Fernando.’

‘Why does he not catch it himself?’

‘Oh, not Don Fernando!’ said the other incredulously. ‘He is afraid of them, él tiene un humor muy delicado, he is delicate, and lazy also. So, you come with the inquisitor, eh?’

I nodded.

‘Ahh, Templar! I have not seen a Templar for many years.’

I flushed, swallowing down the bread with a good measure of wine. ‘I am not yet a knight. When I turn eighteen I shall truly enter the order, for now I am a squire and a scribe.’

‘Ahh ... you learn to be un medico – un doctor, like your master, eh?’

I said that I hoped so.

‘Very good! Un médico Templario! Muy bien! Good, bueno.’ He clapped. ‘Is good to be young, no? Is yours the world, yes? El mundo es sujo, sí ? I was once strong like you,’ he said with a grin, and then, like a man who has not had much occasion to indulge in conversation, he set about telling me his life’s story.

‘I travel much! Oh! What I have seen with these eyes!

But,’ he lowered his voice in a circumspect manner, ‘it does a cook no good to talk such things . . . no good with the inquisitor sniffing around eh? No . . . Creo en el poder del papacy sí,’ he emphasised, ‘I believe in the pope, the holy mother, la madre the church, el Papa, the mouth of God!’ He crossed himself and kissed the crucifix that dangled over his dirty habit.

At one point the refectorian rushed in. ‘Rodrigo, the bread!’ he cried, then in a hushed tone, ‘The brothers are seated.’ On seeing me, he nodded solicitously, ‘I will send the assistants in.’

The cook did not move. He seemed to become even more indolent. He exclaimed an ‘Arrgh!’ under his breath and, waving a hand, continued enlightening me on various recipes and preparations. At one point one of the assistant cooks asked about the wine to be served at the table.

‘Not from the larder, fool, ignorante!’ he shouted and the man cowered, ‘I have told you, is not to be touched that one, on the old brother’s orders.’

The monk glared at me, in a strange way frightened. ‘But, Rodrigo, the boy’s wine?’

Rodrigo frowned and took the empty glass from me, shaking his head, ‘Idiota! Only for the old ones!’ then to me. ‘It has powers for the health, poderes curativos, not for young ones, eh?’ he laughed then, but I had detected a little nervousness in his voice.

Presently, once this little misunderstanding had been clarified to his satisfaction, and the assistant suitably reprimanded and sent to the church to perform penance for his carelessness, the cook continued, telling me that in Sicily one could procure many foods from the Africas and surrounding areas. He intrigued me with stories of fruits so sweet no honey could be sweeter and bitter herbs the likes of which burn the mouth and purge the senses. He told me that in countries beyond the scope of maps, the natives grew peculiar foods of unequalled aroma and taste. Strange herbs, he said, and even stranger wines, numbed the head and made one lose one’s senses after just a glass, but even more intriguing were the strange concoctions that, when burnt over a slow fire and smoked, or even eaten as a paste, caused one to make communion   with devils. I gasped as predicted and he laughed heartily.

‘What wonders . . .’ he told me in a husky voice, leaning his belly across the table. ‘Is your order brings such things in ships. Ahh, but you know, you have been in the Holy Land, no?’