‘But where are we going, master?’ I asked, following him outside, unaccustomed to the long habit that, because of the wind, became entangled around my legs with each step. ‘Must I wear this . . .?’
‘Is your head a sieve, boy?’ he spoke as he so often did, loudly. ‘What did I just say?’
‘That we must follow the customs of the abbey,’ I answered. Not mentioning, of course, that he, on the other hand, continued to wear the uniform of the order. Instead, I merely followed him, trying to keep up with his short, though exceedingly brisk strides, as we walked past the graveyard.
‘Just one moment.’ He paused, casting his gaze over the graves. Having satisfied some unspoken question he continued as before, and I followed him as we came upon the body of the cloisters. He said something, and I did not at first realise that he was speaking to me, for he was looking away, as though addressing an unseen person.
‘The rere dorter . . .’
‘Master?’
‘In answer to your previous question, Christian, before anything else, I need to attend to the call of nature and so our first hunt will be for the rere dorter, the latrines . . .’ He looked up at the building. ‘The dormitories are likely to be situated on the second level, and following the Cistercian model, so too the lavatory. However, it will not surprise me if we find that there is another lavatory on the ground level, that is, somewhere just off the cloisters and close to the refectory, for old monks have weakened bladders . . . now where is the aperture? Here we are . . .’
We emerged from the same arched doorway through which we had earlier entered the cloisters with the abbot, situated on the left side of the church, just after a small architectural projection. In the dimly lit east walk, a monk with a taper was lighting the great torches that here and there provided some relief from gloom.
‘Benedicamus Domino,’ the brother intoned as we passed.
My master answered, ‘Deo gratias.’
The cloisters, usually a hive of activity, were deserted. With the exception of the brother – who we later learnt was the master of music – we seemed to be alone. We made our way around the central garth or courtyard whose low walls were surmounted by arches. It had snowed only a little these last days, and here and there one could see a patch of dead ground around the fountain which, as was customary, marked the garth’s central point.
We walked hastily past the scriptorium and the numerous carrels housed in the northern cloister alley, and at the apex, where the west aisle met the south walk, we found the rere dorter, just where my master had said it would be. Here we entered into a long central passage with individual cabinets on one of its sides for privacy. The other side housed the baths. Both led to a great fire whose warmth was a comfort to my cold bones. And as he relieved himself my master told me that cleanliness was very important to Cistercians. They always built near a good source of water, he said, which they redirected to suit their purposes in much the same way as the Romans. As was the custom, the stream or body of water was diverted to run beneath the cookhouse or kitchen, and downstream it would flow beneath the rere dorter, carrying the refuse out of the monastery into the great unknown. I thought this an exceedingly wise plan, until my master also added. ‘But you don’t want to be a cook when the wind changes, my boy!’
My master also noted that in this abbey the monks must have made use of an underground stream fed by snows from the towering mountains. And as we re-entered the cloisters, he concluded in a whisper, ‘Now we know there is a web of tunnels and channels running beneath the abbey, because if the rere dorter is situated here, in the south-west, and the kitchen . . .’ he pointed in the direction of delicious smells, ‘is situated there in the south-east and, of course, downstream . . . it stands to reason that there must be more than one channel with more than one exit out of the abbey. Otherwise you would have a stream running uphill.’
‘And what significance do you apply to this?’ I asked.
‘Where there is smoke there is a pyre. Or more importantly, where there are channels there must also be tunnels . . . naturally. Come . . . next we must inspect the church.’
Still trying to understand the relevance of his statement I found myself leaving the cloisters and entering the church through the south transept door. Immediately, the sweet pungent smell of incense assailed my nostrils and, God forgive me, I sneezed.
Inside a young acolyte was attending to the sacred vessels and church ornaments, in preparation for the forthcoming service. He turned, searching for the source of the disruption, and upon seeing us, returned to his work, but not before giving us a look of disdain. We were, after all, part of a legation sent here to condemn their community. I would no doubt feel the same if I were he.