‘In the tunnels? Come now, there are rules that apply to monks, and others that apply to the abbot and his obidientiaries.’
‘But it is not the abbot’s regulation, preceptor, that prevents monks from venturing there . . .’
‘Whose then, Setubar’s?’
‘No,’ the man looked about him circumspectly, ‘it is the admonition of the spirits!’
‘Come now, brother –’
‘There are spirits in the tunnels. It is their admonition.’
‘And yet I have heard that someone has broken the interdict,’ my master said, ‘did he return?’
The infirmarian shook his head, and lowered his eyes once again, tears flowing down his face. ‘He disappeared a few days ago, Jerome is his name, he has not yet been found. You see, preceptor? It is infernal. Here above, we sing like the choirs of heaven, and yet down below us, the maws of hell are open.’ The poor man trembled with fear.
My master looked puzzled. So there were three novices!
‘Could Jerome not have absconded?’ my master ventured, ‘this has been known to happen in monasteries.’
‘No, no. I do not believe it. Absolutely not! He was my apprentice, a fine student,’ the man broke down in sobs. ‘He and Anselmo were the only novices at our monastery apart from . . . they were good friends, always together . . .’
‘I see . . . and what of this boy? Were they friends with him?’
‘Oh, no . . . he was kept apart from all the others. Treated with special care . . . please, brother!’ The man cried suddenly stricken with emotion. ‘I am afraid . . . Brother Setubar will not be pleased that I have spoken to you.’
‘It seems all are more fearful of Brother Setubar than they are of the Devil?’
The man pulled his cowl over his face, perhaps ashamed of his fear, perhaps so that we might not see, and therefore judge, his expression.
‘Tell me what happened after the argument,’ my master said, giving me a strange look.
‘Brother Ezekiel left, seeking his way through the church, for he knew it well despite his bad eyes, walking straight past me saying something about Setubar overhearing their conversation, but he did not see me. I was about to follow him, but I was intrigued by Brother Samuel’s behaviour. He took a candle from beneath the Virgin, and disappeared behind the red curtains, but after a few moments I saw him return struggling to gain his breath. He was convulsing and coughing, and that was when I rushed to him, but there was nothing I could do!’
‘Why did you not raise the alarm? Why did you walk away and leave someone else to find him?’
‘I was afraid . . .’ he pleaded, ‘but I must tell you of something that did not immediately occur to me until the night of Brother Ezekiel’s death. Before brother Samuel inspired his last breath, he said . . .’
Alas, at that moment the door flew open and a burst of frozen air and snow rushed in, violating the warmth of the infirmary.
It was Regino of Naples who, in an agitated state, hurried into the room pointing to the cloister buildings and exclaiming
between gasps.
‘Fire! Fire in the cookhouse! The cook! The cook is dead!’
I saw Brother Asa place the velvet pouch in a drawer before leaving.
When we entered the cookhouse the fire had already been put out by various monks with buckets. The cook lay prostrate on the muddy floor, and there was a smell of burning oil and fish that in my anxiety I mistook for burning flesh. Asa reached the man before us, carried by his supple legs, and we found him kneeling over him. He inspected the cook for burns or any other injury and produced from a pouch around his middle a small vial. He removed the lid and passed the vessel beneath the cook’s nose – later I was to learn from my master that it was fennel juice – in any case, the man was instantly aroused. He opened his eyes, and with the face of a little child – a look that contrasted sharply with his great size – said from out of his moist mouth, ‘Madre mia! La Virgen! La Virgen!’
My master moved closer and the cook wrenched at his habit hysterically. ‘I saw la madre santa, in the flames . . . she was beautiful! She said Rodrigo! Yes . . . she said my name! She said Rodrigo this is the sign!’
There was agitation in the crowd that by now had gathered in the doorway to the refectory.
‘The sign!’ someone shouted, ‘for the fire hath devoured the pastures of the wilderness, and the frame hath burnt all the trees of the field!’
‘No! No!’ cried another.
There was confusion. Some were saying anxiously that the age of advent had come and that Joachim of Calabria had been right, even though, by his calculation, it should be the year 1260.