13
Capitulum
Before Lauds
When I woke, the light in the church seemed brighter. I rubbed my eyes, and resolved to find Andre. Perhaps, I thought in dismay, he was dead, a victim of the antichrist! Would I come by his twisted, poisoned body outside the church? I could see him now, drenched in sweat and blood (for he would have fought the Devil like a valiant knight) with his face distorted in that now all-too-familiar way of poisoned cadavers. Alas! I once again wondered at the wisdom of a mother who leaves her only child in the care of so careless a caretaker! And yet if I found him alive I told myself with a shiver I would soon forgive him, not only because I loved him, but also through relief at not being left alone in this terrible place of murder and of evil. Thinking these things, filled with a deep anxiety, trembling at the knees, I stepped out of the choir enclosures and through the aperture in the pulpitum to the other side of the screen, but I was not prepared for the light whose sharp rays assaulted my eyes.
At first I thought that it must be the great burning star of heaven which John calls ‘wormwood’, whose poison kills the iniquitous, but after a moment of blindness, I realised that it was the daystar rising over the eastern buildings, storming through the east door, and invading the temple. I then remembered the orientation of the church with some relief and watched it move (as though controlled by some invisible hand) beyond me and upward to the crucifix . . . and, oh, what magnificence did I behold! Whose majestic splendour, even now I am pressed to relate, dear reader, using words that are inept and unsuited to describe things sublime! That moment was possessed of a beauty whose dwelling is the light of rising suns that now breaks, or now directs its rays to chase away the dead of gloom. Scaling the heavens it recalls the resurrection, the beginning. It is the blossoming of innocence that urges the flowers to awaken, and man to prayer. So caught was I in this mood that I did not notice the brothers return to their stalls, and begin to sing ‘Deus qui est sanctorum splendor mirabilis. Iam lucis orto sidere’ – expressing the beauty of light that is God, so that it reverberated sweetly in the nave, magically disembodied.
My meditation disturbed, I re-entered the chamber between the rood and pulpitum, expecting to see my master seated at his usual place, for the sun had risen and with it came hope. I searched among the brothers in their stalls, passing their matching shadows with my eyes, until they fell upon that empty spot and my heart sank. He had not returned. I was seized by a sudden panic, excited perhaps by a lack of sleep, the events of these last days, and my still burgeoning mysticism. So I ran. I ran from the church and out into the compound and headed in the direction of my master’s cell. Thinking a great number of terrible things, I burst through his door and found him lying on his pallet.
I thought him dead, for he lay very still. However, I realised that he was breathing and, with a measure of trepidation, I ventured closer. Had he, too, been poisoned? I thought in dismay. Did someone suspect that we knew about the entrance to the tunnels? Was it the inquisitor? The librarian? Or the Devil himself? I said a shaky paternoster, possibly omitting words, before placing a trembling hand on his shoulder. That was when he bounded from the bed with such swiftness that I let out a loud and immodest yell, having been scared out of my wits.
‘By the curse of Saladin, let me get at them!’ he bellowed. Placing a hand on his head then, he moaned and sat back down.
‘Are you hurt, master?’
‘Who are you?’ he asked, gazing at me myopically. ‘Are you a heathen? I will smite you . . . where is my sword!’ He reached out with his hands and then, I suspect because of the pain in his head, he came to his senses. ‘Christian? Is that you? I can barely see . . . someone . . . my head . . .’ He handed me a parchment that lay crushed in his right hand, whose contents were written once again in Greek.
‘Except the Lord build the house: their labour is but lost that build it,’ I said out loud.
‘Help me up, for God’s sake, boy . . .’ He sat up wincing. I could see a very large bruise on his forehead, and a graze on his cheek.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, feeling a little weak myself.
‘How say you? A knight who survives the battle of Mansourah in which so many good knights died can surely survive a small blow to the head.’ He growled in very bad humour.
‘Did you get a glimpse of who did this to you, master?’
‘No, by Saladin! I came here to fetch my compass in case we should need it, and when I entered my cell I saw a shadow; something struck my head. I must have lain here for a long time. What hour is it?’