Temple of The Grail (4 page)

It was a good question.

So we stood, our eyes leading us down
a central aisle or nave, whose flanking colonnades supported arches, curving to
meet across the ceiling vault. The rood screen became its central point, and
standing in front of it, I had the impression that numerous and converging
arches were rushing towards me in fast succession. Like waves of water, they
seemed to defy the earthly forces of attraction, rising with an unbridled
momentum before collapsing upon the calm and quiet shores of a delicate
crucifix.

I remembered fondly our visit to
Reims where my master had shown me the marvellous carved reliefs on the
capitals of the columns and I recalled being spellbound and I confess that I
very nearly risked worshipping the creation more than the creator, having to
remind myself of what St Bernard tells us about this very sin. For I could have
spent a whole day gazing at such details in preference to meditating upon God’s
laws! St Bernard believed, as do many others, that the murals and statues, so
often employed by the Benedictines in their churches, interfered with sound
meditation and training in religious gravity. And yet here in this fine
Cistercian model, my eyes sorely missed the statues, individual in their grace
and pose, they missed the fantastic murals where artists, armed with powders
and tinctures of unequalled perfection, added flesh to gods and saints. Where
were the golden candlesticks? Nowhere did I see ornate tripods of silver,
lovingly encrusted with gemstones of brilliant hues!

‘A Cistercian monastery,’ my master
said, reading my thoughts, ‘must adhere strictly to the ideal of poverty, to
the ideal of the universal that shuns the individual. Even their habit, if you
are attentive, Christian, will illustrate this point, for these monks can
abandon differentiation from those things that surround them by the use of
grey, which allows them to diffuse into the stone of the walls, into the dirt
of the floor, indistinct even from the grey mist that descends downward from a
grey sky whose milky blanket comes to rest on the greyness of the compound.’

I took a moment to reflect on my
master’s wisdom, seeing that indeed it was a world that shunned the particular
for the homogeneously universal. It seemed to me a quiet peaceful world, if not
a little dull. However, as we walked down the central nave, we became immediately
aware of the windows that, in their nature, were the only departure from the
strict rule.

The long windows illuminated the five
bays on either side of the nave with brilliant light, casting resplendent
reflections in a play of colour – more effective perhaps, because of the
grey background onto which it fell. All ten windows, with their exquisite plate
tracery, depicted in a glorious concordance of transparency the four
temptations of Christ, the ascension, the twelve apostles, but it was the Madonna
and child between four angels that especially caught my attention. High above
the second bay the Virgin sat enthroned, her violet robes simply draped over
her pubescent body, cradling the Jesus child to her plump bosom. I paused in
reflection, for the Virgin, dear reader, was black! I thought that my eyes and
the dim light had been the cause of this strange illusion. I turned, but my
master was already near the east door.

I walked to him and waited. He did
not like to be interrupted while deep in thought, this could unleash a
tempestuous mood that many have innocently, though unequivocally, come to know,
so I waited. Moments later he turned to me.

‘To appreciate the art of
architecture I am told that one must learn to see it with different eyes. You
must first learn to follow the contours as they rise.’ He traced the journey of
a vault, following the curves, which flow to meet a column in holy communion. ‘In
doing so, you will be lifted high into the heavenly vaults!’

I remained silent, waiting impatiently.

‘It is as important,’ he continued, ‘to
appreciate art as it is to create it. Architecture raises us above all temporal
things . . . It is also a fair shelter from the elements.’ He then looked at me
squarely. ‘You wish to ask a question? Come . . . come . . .’

I asked him if he had noticed the
Virgin, showing him where it was. He stood staring at it for long moments in
silence, before remarking in an ambiguous way.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you not think it strange, master?’
I asked, thinking that it was surely out of the ordinary.

‘It is remarkable, but strange, no,’
he said, and walked away.

‘But what of the Virgin?’

‘Ahhh! The Virgin. Yes . . . Let me
show you something.’

He led me the short distance to the
east door, through which a wind thrust its cold hands.

The entrance spanned approximately
ten feet, and was lit by two great torches whose flames licked and yawed and
threatened to go out. They were attached to the stone wall on either side of a
great oak door, left open throughout the day. Accompanying the proportions and
bound to the very body of the two columns that flanked the entrance were two
unnaturally tall figures. My fascinated eye fell firstly upon the image of the
Archangel Michael who stood to the right of the door, and I was curious to find
that he was dressed in knight’s mail and armour. On the left side, as one would
expect, stood Gabriel, gazing upward with a smile of perennial praise, almost
kneeling, preparing for a prayer that would last for all time. Above the
doorway, and surmounting the arch – the area called the tympanum –
there was an intricate working of Christ on his throne, surrounded by his
twelve apostles.

‘What are you looking at?’ Andre
broke through my speculations. In my enthusiasm for the door’s impressive
sculptures, I had not noticed him pointing to a place above the Christ figure
where there was a large cross intersected by a circlet of roses.

I felt my master’s breath on my
cheeks as he whispered excitedly into my ear. ‘The Rose Cross! I saw it on our
way to the cloisters.’

I frowned, ‘Rose Cross?’

‘Yes . . .’ he trailed off
pensively.

‘But master . . . what of the black
virgin?’

‘The black Madonna is not so strange.’
He shook his head. ‘There is a black Mary at Notre-Dame in Dijon, and also at
Chartres, on its stained glass windows. It is the combination of rose and
cross, Christian, which makes this abbey’s ornamentation interesting, it harks
back to . . .’

I was about to risk a reprimand by
asking more questions, when we were interrupted by a voice behind us.

It was the abbot, trying to keep his
hood over his head in the inclement air, accompanied by another monk. ‘
Domine
dilexi decorem domus tuae, et locum habitationis gloriae tuae
... Lord I
have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honour
dwelleth . . . You are admiring our door.’

My master smiled wryly. ‘He found it
wood and left it marble.’

‘Poor abbot Odilo of Cluny . . .’ the
abbot continued with good humour. ‘He built a beautiful fortress of
gold-mounted reliquaries, more admired for its beauty than venerated for its

sanctity . . . Here we only have a
door.’

‘A most beautiful door, your grace,’
my master bowed.

‘Perhaps a little indulgent . . . In
any event, I would like you to meet our infirmarian, brother Asa.’

The other monk removed his cowl to
reveal a very thin face, darkened by the sun. The bluster swung the thin, lank
hair about his tonsure but his brown eyes showed a keenness, as though little
fires burnt behind them. I liked him instantly.

‘Our dear brother,’ the abbot
continued, shouting slightly, ‘was very excited to learn that you have graced
our abbey. And he is most anxious to discuss with you many things of a
medicinal nature.’

Brother Asa nodded his head, a broad
smile lighting up his features, but he seemed tongue-tied, and it was some
moments before he spoke with timidity.

‘I would be most grateful for any
exchange of knowledge, preceptor. We are very removed from worldly things here,
and I have not had occasion to hear of any advancement in the medicinal arts.’

‘I am always happy to converse on
this most holy of topics.’

‘Thank you, preceptor. Perhaps
tomorrow then?’ he asked no one in particular, and drew his cowl leaving us
with the abbot.

The abbot watched his monk walk away
with paternal affection. ‘He is a very fine physician,’ he said with pride. ‘I
believe one of the best this abbey has known, though our brother Setubar taught
him everything that he knows. He has never attended a university . . . all his
learning comes from books.’

‘Yes . . .’ my master said in an
offhand way that signalled his deep interest. ‘We met Brother Setubar inside
the church, with Brother Ezekiel. You say he learned everything from books?

Your abbey must have a very fine
medical library then, your holiness?’

The abbot became serious, ‘It is
adequate, though not in the same league, perhaps, as others you’ve seen in your
travels. Now then, you must let me know, preceptor, if you are in need of
anything. Your accommodation is suitable?’

‘In every aspect, your holiness.’

‘Good! That is good. And so I must
take my leave, and prepare for the holy service. You will, of course, join us
in the choir?’

‘Of course.’

As the abbot was about to enter the
church, my master added, ‘May I have your permission, your grace, to make some
inquiries?’

The abbot turned, a wary smile
dawning over his singular features. ‘I thought this was the duty of the
inquisitor, preceptor?’

‘Yes, of course,’ my master conceded
very quickly. ‘However, two men, your holiness, not working together, and bound
by different natures, will inevitably see things differently as Augustine tells
us. In other words,’ my master continued, marking every word, ‘one eye may see
something that the other does not, or on the other hand, one eye may choose . .
.
not
to see, by virtue of its faithful – or indeed unfaithful
– service. And as this inquiry delves into the medical practices of your
abbey, it may be in your favour to have a physician overseeing . . . matters .
. .’ he trailed off.

The abbot raised both eyebrows in an
unspoken question. I too wondered at my master’s meaning. As if to instruct us
further then, which had been my master’s intention all along, he proceeded. ‘It
is the king’s wish that I observe the conduct of this inquiry with the utmost
care, and this means that I must hear what the inquisitor hears, and I must
also see what he sees, or perhaps even what he does not hear and see. In this
capacity, I will need your permission to question the brothers.’

I felt the abbot’s uncertainty. ‘There
has been so much disturbance . . .’

‘I will remain mindful of the
delicate nature of these matters, your holiness.’

‘And what does the inquisitor say to
this?’

‘My authority comes directly from the
king, and as we are these days on French soil . . .’

‘Yes, but the inquisitor has his
authority directly from the pope! And so, I believe, we are to be caught like a
fish between two rocks. Between the pope and King Louis, as we have been in the
past between the King of Aragon and the Count of Toulouse?’

‘And yet it is indeed in such a spot
that a fish can best elude the wiles of the fisherman, your holiness, as you
perhaps already know.’

‘Yes . . .’ He smiled a little but it
did not reach his eyes, ‘but who, in this case, is the fisherman, preceptor?’

‘Ahhh . . .’ my master nodded his
head, but said nothing more.

There was a long pause and I assumed
the abbot was debating the wisdom of his forthcoming decision. ‘You have my
permission to ask what questions you deem necessary, preceptor. However, I
cannot allow you to wander about the abbey at any hour of your choosing,
especially at night. No one should, indeed, no one must.’

‘But if you will forgive me, it is
often at night, away from the distractions of everyday life, that one gains a
true impression of . . . things, your grace.’

The abbot became annoyed. ‘Your
impressions can surely wait for the appropriate hour. I would like you to
conform to our simple rules. In this way we can best prevent this tiresome
inquiry from trespassing unnecessarily on the life of the community.’ He gave
my master a pointed look. ‘I trust a Templar’s vows of obedience are as sacred
as ours . . .?’

My master bowed. ‘Without obedience,
your holiness, there is precious little.’

‘Having said this, obedience begs
that I must leave, for the bell will soon toll the hour.’

‘One last thing, your holiness?’ my
master added, once again demurely, but I could see how brightly his steely eyes
were shining. ‘May I ask who is the oldest member of your community?’

The other man hesitated, perhaps
wondering what my master was up to. ‘Why, the brother whom you met in the
church, Brother Ezekiel of Padua. But I will not have him disturbed, do you
understand? He is very frail, needing constant care. His mind is . . . shall we
say detached. After all he is very old.’