The Sixth Key(83)

The monastery was hung with low cloud and stood sequestered in the bosom of the mountains like a creature grown from out of the snow. So hidden was it from the world of ordinary men and so protected by false paths that, even with a guide, it took the four men and the child all day to reach the foot of it; and then it was long past compline before they knocked at the great gate.

The gatekeeper, having sat hours in the gatehouse awaiting their arrival, took no time in allowing them passage. The stable hand took the horses and a monk was fetched to lead them over the white-covered grounds towards the edificium, whose tall shape loomed under that low sky like a reproach from Heaven.

They entered through a portal leading into dark cloisters and the sound of their footfalls over those damp stones made a resonance that appeared to stir the sleeping creature of the monastery to wakefulness: with each step a candle was lit in the upper rooms and the sound of one more hushed voice was added to the hum of other voices coming from unseen corners.

Matteu walked behind the monk, hugging his cloak to him to keep out the bitter air, until they came to a large apartment warmed by a great fire. The flames yawned and spat and roared at the darkness.

A number of cowled shapes were grouped around a canopied bed; their shadows danced on the walls and ceiling to the sound of a low and mystic chant. When Matteu approached the bed, the monks parted like a black sea, allowing him access to a man whose bony frame was overwhelmed by coverlets and sheepskins. Numerous candles barely illuminated the head drowned beneath a skullcap, the face bloated and red with fever, the eyes closed and sunk deep into the lines around them.

Time passed. Matteu thought he had come too late. The old abbot would not return from his journey towards Heaven and Matteu’s heart gave a lurch then, rent by the weight of responsibility.

The infirmarian looked at Matteu and shook his head. There was nothing he could do, his face told him. He gestured for the priest to resume his prayers.

At that moment the soul of the old man made his eyes come open and an expression of recognition passed over the fever-worn face. ‘Matteu? Is that you?’ he said then. ‘Come . . . closer!’ He tried to raise his head and the exertion caused a strangled cough to erupt from his parched throat, leaving a streak of blood over the pale lips.

Matteu bent his head close, and when those infirm eyes focused on the form before them, they welled with tears and a gasp escaped from the feverish mouth. The old man raised a hand. The brothers, knowing the signal, gathered to them their prayers and moved out of the room in single file.

‘Tell it to me quickly – this carcass is impatient and will not last.’

Matteu leant close and his lips almost touched that hot ear. ‘He is here.’

‘Where, where?’ the dying man said, looking about with milky eyes.

Matteu went to fetch the boy and brought him to the bedside.

The abbot reached out a hand to touch the boy’s cheek. ‘Praise our Lord! This is Isobel’s child? Oh! He once stood beneath the cross! The reincarnation of Saint John!’

Matteu led the child back to the others.

‘You’ve done well, Matteu. Now, tell me of our cousins?’

‘They are all dead.’ Matteu found the words hard to say.

‘All? And cousin Marty?’

‘In one great pyre . . . at the foot of the château.’

The old man closed his eyes and began a quiet weeping. He looked away from Matteu and said, ‘Who are these others who have come with you?’

‘Four perfects, the guardians, the last of those taught by Marty.’

He nodded and lay back, exhausted. ‘They have a home here, if they wish it,’ he said.

‘I have something for safekeeping.’ Matteu reached into the sack he carried over his shoulder and brought out the scrolls Marty had given him.

The old man reached out a hand to grasp Matteu’s arm. ‘What is this?’

‘Written by brother Marty.’ He reached in again and brought out the treasure.

‘Is this . . .?’ The old man looked up and his eyes were full of fear. ‘But you must take it away from here!’ he cried.

Matteu was surprised. ‘I don’t understand. Where shall I take it?’

But the old man coughed so hard that he lost his grip on Matteu’s arm. He seemed to lose his breath and his eyes widened and loosened and took one last hold of Matteu’s own.

A moment later, the old man lay still.

Matteu waited. His heart fluttered in his chest like that of a frightened hare, his breathing stopped and the blood threaded through his veins in small degrees.

The old man said nothing more.

He put a hand to the centenarian’s mouth – no coming and going of breath. His head went into a fog. He must gather his thoughts together. He said a pater noster and took himself to the door of the chamber to call for the infirmarian.