The Tenth Chamber Part 24

Once a week, sometimes twice, they would brew their Enlightenment Tea and retire to the solitude of their cells or, if the evening was fine, a blanket of ferns beneath a favourite oak. There they would drift away to another place, another time, another plane, one which they were certain, brought them closer to G.o.d.

For a time, Barthomieu had fretted over Bernard's hostility. His distant words were still fresh. 'The Devil visited evil upon us last night. Do you have any doubt of this?' 'The Devil visited evil upon us last night. Do you have any doubt of this?'

He had waggled an accusatory finger. Wicked! Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!

Bernard was a supremely learned man, infinitely more so than he. With Abelard he shared the honour as the most intelligent man Barthomieu had ever known. Popes turned to him to settle disputes. Kings. But in this matter, as Barthomieu ultimately convinced himself, he he was in the right it was Bernard who was short-sighted. was in the right it was Bernard who was short-sighted.

Nothing about the tea robbed Barthomieu of his ardour for Christ. Nor did it sap his resolve to pray and work towards spiritual purity. In fact, it increased his physical and spiritual vitality. He awoke every morning to the timbre of chapel bells with love in his heart and a spring in his step. And they bore their forays into distemper stoically enough, taking the bad with the good, and endeavouring not to cause each other harm.

He and Jean the infirmarer and herbalist preached the virtues of the tea among the abbey's monks and soon it was widely used by all as a vitality tonic and spiritual chariot. The monks did not talk freely about their personal experiences but on the days large batches were prepared, they lined up eagerly for their rations. Even the abbot held out his personal chalice before scurrying off to the privacy of his abbot house.

And as the years went by, Barthomieu and the others noticed something creeping up on them, almost imperceptible at first but inescapable in the fullness of time. Their beards were remaining black or brown, their muscles stayed taut, their eyesights stayed keen. And in the delicate matter of their loins, despite their vows of celibacy, they retained the extravagant potency of their youth.

From time to time the monks of Ruac had need to do commerce with outsiders or perchance they would meet a Ruac villager out on a ramble. It was during these encounters that the realisation eventually dawned. Time was claiming the outsiders but was not visiting itself upon the monks.

Outside the monastery, people were growing older.

They were not.

It was the tea, there was no doubt.

It became something to be jealously guarded. Nothing good could come from exposing their practice to outsiders. These were uneasy times and charges of heresy flew easily. Yes, there were rumours. There were always rumours about the secretive doings inside an abbey's walls. The whispered speculation from villagers who lived near an abbey usually turned to debauchery, drunkenness and the like, even black arts from time to time. And yes, there were rumours in Ruac about monks who never seemed to die, but they stayed as just that rumours.

So they hid themselves away, and when that became untenable, as when some of them were obligated to travel to the Priory of St Marcel on the occasion of Pierre Abelard's death vigil, they hid their faces as much as possible. At his deathbed, Barthomieu was forced by dint of his devotion and respect to his brother Bernard, to reveal his secret, only to him.

Bernard once again was furious and in private, railed against the tea and its inherent affront to the laws of nature. But, for the sake of his sole-surviving brothers, he swore an oath to take the secret with him to the grave, as long as Barthomieu and Nivard agreed never to see him again.

And painfully, that bargain was struck. That was the last time Barthomieu saw Bernard in life.

Nivard, the youngest of the six brothers from Fontaines, came to Ruac to join Barthomieu in a circuitous fas.h.i.+on. There were two traditional family paths that he might follow: the priesthood or the sword. At first, he chose neither.

Two brothers, Gerard and Guy had fought for the king. The others, Bernard, Barthomieu and Andre had donned the habit. Andre died a young man, struck down by the pox during the first harsh winter at Clairvaux Abbey. Gerard and Guy left the King's arms and came to Clairvaux when it was established. They took the cloth but soldiering never left their spirit. So it was a matter of course that following the Council of Troyes in 1128, they would become Knights of the Church. And when the Second Crusade began, they slipped on their white mantles with red crosses and joined their fellow Templars in the ill-fated raid on Damascus. There they fell under the deadly swarm of Nur ad-Din's archers and were lost in a melee of blood.

As a young man Nivard was pious and hoped to follow his famous brother Bernard to Clairvaux but that was before he laid eyes on a young woman from Fontaines. Anne was a commoner and the daughter of a butcher. His father was livid, but Nivard was so smitten by the shapely, cheerful girl that when he was not with her he could not eat, sleep nor pray in earnest. Finally, he forsook the n.o.ble traditions of his family and married her. Cut off from the munificence of his father, he became a lowly tradesman and apprenticed himself to his father-in-law in a offal-filled butcher's stall near the market place.

Three years of happiness was wiped away when the plague came to Fontaines and Nivard lost both his wife and infant child. He became a despondent rover, a drinker and an itinerant butcher and found himself in a G.o.dless haze in Rouen where, in 1120, in a stinking tavern smelling of p.i.s.s, he heard of a position as a butcher on a new sailing s.h.i.+p. It was called the White s.h.i.+p, the greatest vessel ever built in France. It was deemed so reliable and mighty that on a calm November night, it set out from Barfleur carrying the most precious of cargoes. On board was William Adelin, the only legitimate son of King Henry I of England, and with him a large entourage of British royals.

Navigation errors were made or was it sabotage? It was never known. Near the harbour, the s.h.i.+p was steered into a submerged rock which tore through the hull. It quickly sank. Nivard was deep in the holds, fortified for his maiden voyage by wine, clad in butcher's ramskins. He heard the cracking timbers, the screams of the crew, the whoosh of the incoming water and the next thing he knew the s.h.i.+p was gone and he was all alone in the dark sea, bobbing in his buoyant ramskins. The next morning a fis.h.i.+ng boat plucked him from the channel, the only survivor. A hundred were lost. The heir to the throne of England was gone.

Why was he he saved? saved?

That question perplexed Nivard, nagged at him, caused him to foreswear strong drink and led him back to G.o.d. His embarra.s.sment over his youthful transgressions prevented him from venturing to Bernard's gate at Clairvaux. How could he explain his life and his choices to one so rigidly imperious? He could not. Instead, he made his way to the more forgiving climes of Ruac, where Barthomieu welcomed him with open arms.

'You are my brother in blood and in Christ!' he declared. 'And besides, we can use a monk who knows how to butcher a hog well!'

The years pa.s.sed. Nivard became an ardent user of the tea, a fellow cheater of time.

The monks at Ruac came to understand that while their infusion could do many things, it was certainly not a s.h.i.+eld of invincibility. It was no protection against the scourges of the day: the white plague just look at poor Abelard the black plague, the pox. And bodies could still break and be crushed. Jean, the infirmarer, fell off his mule one day and broke his neck. There was a story there. Scandalously, a woman was involved.

But notwithstanding the Devil's evil tricks, most of the brethren lived, and lived and lived.

It was high irony that one of Bernard's most famous actions, the one that would resonate through history, would lead to Barthomieu and Nivard's demise.

In 1118 Hugues de Payen, a lesser n.o.ble from Champagne, arrived in Jerusalem with a small band of men and presented his services at arms to the throne of Baudouin II. With Baudouin's blessings, he spent a decade of rag-tag service protecting Christian pilgrims on their visitations to the Temple Mount. Then, in 1128, de Payen wrote to Bernard, the most influential man in the Church, the s.h.i.+ning star of monasticism, to sponsor his fledgling effort and create an order of Holy Knights to fight for Jerusalem, for Christendom.

Bernard took to the idea readily and penned a treatise to Rome, De Laudibus Novae Militiae De Laudibus Novae Militiae, a vigorous defense of the notion of holy warriors. At the ecclesiastical Council of Troyes, in his home territory of Champagne, he rammed through the approval, and Pope Innocent II formally accepted the formation of The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.

The Templars were born.

Some of the earliest knights joining Hugues de Payen were blood relatives of Bernard, including Andre de Montbard, his maternal uncle, and his brothers Gerard and Guy. A gaggle of n.o.bles from Champagne took the oath. And from the moment of their inception, the Templars venerated Bernard and were unwavering in their affection up to the fateful year of 1307.

With Bernard's powerful patronage, the Templars received gifts from the n.o.bility to aid their holy mission: money, land, n.o.ble-born sons. They could pa.s.s through any border freely. They paid no tax. They were exempt from all authority, save that of the Pope.

Though they were not able to secure a major victory during Bernard's lifetime, and in fact suffered ignominious defeat at Damascus during the Second Crusade, in the years that followed they flourished as a militia. Gloriously, in 1177, five hundred Templar knights helped defeat Saladin's army of twenty thousand at the Battle of Montgisard. One of these knights was Nivard of Fontaines, monk from Ruac, and a man his comrades could count upon to butcher a goat or camel.

Their reputation was secured and over the next century their fortunes swelled. Through a cunning mix of donations and business dealings, the power of the Templars exploded. They acquired huge tracts of land in the Middle East and Europe, they imported and exported goods throughout Christendom, they built churches and castles, they owned their own fleet of s.h.i.+ps.

And then, the inevitable: because everything that rises must at some point fall.

The Templars, still exempt from the control of countries and other rulers, in effect a state within a state, were both feared and despised by outsiders. When an animal is wounded, other predators strike. Over the years the Templars were wounded. They suffered military setbacks in the Holy Land. Jerusalem was lost. They retreated to Cyprus, their last stronghold in the Middle East. Then Cyprus was lost. Their prestige waned and lords of the land, powerful foes, closed in for the kill.

Philippe de Bel, King of France, harboured a long-simmering feud against the Order ever since as a young man his application to join them had been rejected. He had also racked up ma.s.sive debts to the Order, which he had no intention of repaying. The King pounced.

The Church resented the Templar's creed that permitted them to pray directly to G.o.d without the need for the Church to act as intermediary. The Pope pounced.

The Templars were accused by King Philippe and Pope Clement, working in concert, of all manners of heinous crimes. They were charged with denying Christ, ritual murder, even wors.h.i.+p of an idol, a bearded head called Baphomet. Writs were drawn up, soldiers were readied.

The trap snapped shut.

In the year 1307, during the month of October, the King's men struck a ma.s.sive coordinated blow. It was Friday the thirteenth, a date that would forever resonate with portent.

In Paris the Grand Master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, and sixty of his knights were imprisoned en ma.s.se. Throughout France and Europe, thousands of Templars and their acolytes were rounded up and arrested. An orgy of torture and forced confessions followed. Where was their immense treasure hidden? Where was their fleet of s.h.i.+ps formerly harboured at La Roch.e.l.le?

At Ruac, they struck at midday, just as the monks were filing out of the church following their observance of the s.e.xt hours. A contingent of soldiers led by a short pugnacious captain with disgusting breath named Guyard de Charney charged through the gates and rounded up all the brothers.

'This is a Templar house!' he bellowed. 'By order of the King and Pope Clement, all knights of the Order will surrender themselves to our offices, and all Templar monies and treasures are hereby forfeit.'

The abbot, a tall man with a pointy beard, declared, 'Good sir, this is not a Templar house. We are a humble Cistercian abbey, as you well know.'

'Bernard of Clairvaux founded this house!' the captain bellowed. 'By his foul hand did the Templars come into being. It is well known that over the years, it has been a haven for knights and their sympathisers.'

From the rear of the a.s.sembled monks a voice was heard. 'Foul hand? Did you say that Bernard, our revered Saint, had a foul hand?'

Barthomieu tried to grab Nivard's robe to prevent him from stepping forwards but it was too late.

'Who said that?' the captain shouted.

'I did.'

Nivard strode to the front standing tall. Barthomieu fought his instinct to cower and followed his brother to the front of the line.

The captain saw two old monks before him. He pointed his finger at Nivard. 'You?'

'I order you to retract your vile statement about Saint Bernard,' Nivard said with an unwavering voice.

'Who are you to order me, old man?'

'I am Nivard of Fontaines, Knight Templar, defender of Jerusalem.'

'Knight Templar!' the captain exclaimed. 'You look like my deaf grandfather!' With that, the King's men broke into laughter.

Nivard stiffened. Barthomieu saw anger turning his face to stone. He was helpless to prevent what happened next, just as he was always helpless to prevent the stiff-necked Nivard from doing whatever he chose to do throughout his long, colourful life. Barthomieu had always been content to dwell within the cloisters of the abbey but Nivard was the restless adventurer, packing supplies of Enlightenment Tea in his chest and disappearing for long stretches of time.

Nivard slowly drew himself close enough to smell the stink of the captain's rotten teeth. The soldier warily sneered at him, unsure of his next move.

A surprisingly sharp slap from the back of Nivard's hand stung his mouth. He tasted blood on his lip.

A sword was drawn.

The abbot and Barthomieu rushed forward to pull Nivard back but it was too late.

There was a soft sickening sound of punctured flesh.

The captain seemed surprised at his own action. He had not set out to kill an old monk but the b.l.o.o.d.y sword was in his hand and the wretched priest was on his knees, clutching his middle, staring towards heaven and saying his last words, 'Bernard. My brother.'

In a fury, the captain ordered the abbey to be searched and ransacked. Silver goblets and candlesticks were confiscated. Floorboards were prised up looking for Templar treasure. The monks were subjected to crude epithets and were kicked around like dogs.

In the infirmary Brother Michel shook like a frightened hare as the soldiers tossed the beds and shuffled through the shelves. He had laboured for endless decades as Jean's a.s.sistant and when the ancient monk met his untimely death under a mule, he had finally risen to become the abbey infirmarer. A hundred and fifty years was a long time to wait to improve one's station, he had sniffed at the time of his elevation.

Michel tried to ingratiate himself with the soldiers by pointing out the location of a good jewel-encrusted crucifix and a silver chalice that had belonged to his former master and when they had left, he sat on one of the beds breathing heavily.

When the soldiers were spent by their exertions, the captain announced that he would report back to the King's council. The Abbot of Ruac would come with them and no amount of protestation from the monks would alter his decision. There would be an investigation, of that they could be sure. If this man, Nivard, had indeed been a Templar in his youth, then there would be a dearer price to pay than had so far been collected on this day.

Barthomieu was not allowed to touch his dead brother until the soldiers were gone. He sat beside him, lifted his head onto his lap and stroked his grey fringe of hair. Through his tears he whispered, 'Goodbye my brother, my friend. We have been brothers for two hundred and twelve years. How many brothers can say that? I fear I will join you soon. I pray I will meet you in Heaven.'

In the weeks that followed, the occasional visitor to Ruac Abbey reported the same stories. All over France, Templars were being tortured and burned at the stake. There was an orgy of violence throughout the land. Templar buildings and lands were being seized. No one suspected of keeping ties to the order was spared.

In his two hundred and twenty years of life Barthomieu never prayed harder. To the outside world, he looked like a man in his sixth decade, perhaps seventh. He looked as if there was plenty of life within his veins. But he knew this would be his last year. The Pope had set up an Inquisition chamber in Bordeaux and tales of human torches were spreading throughout the countryside. Word came that their abbot had been broken and burned.

What should he do? If Ruac abbey were seized, if the monks were martyred for their allegiance to Bernard, what would become of their secret? Should it die with them? Should it be protected for the ages? There was no one left with more wisdom than he. Jean was long dead. Nivard was dead. His abbot was dead. He had to rely on his own counsel.

Over scores of decades, he had acquired a good many skills, none better than scribe and bookbinder, and he emerged from a fitful bout of prayer with the firm resolution to put these skills to work. It was not for him to decide the disposition of their great secret. It was for G.o.d to decide. He would be G.o.d's humble scribe. He would write down the story of the cave and the Enlightenment Tea for others to find. Or not. It would be up to G.o.d.

Lest it fell into the hands of the Inquisitors, he would cloak the text in a fiendishly clever code that Jean the infirmarer had produced years earlier to hide his herbalist recipes from prying eyes. If his ma.n.u.script were found by men whom G.o.d wished to discover its meaning, then He He would enlighten them and lift its coded veil from their eyes. Barthomieu would be dead and buried, his work done. would enlighten them and lift its coded veil from their eyes. Barthomieu would be dead and buried, his work done.

So he began his work.

By the light of the sun and the flicker of the candle, he wrote his ma.n.u.script.

He wrote of Bernard.

He wrote of Nivard.

He wrote of Abelard and Heloise.

He wrote of the cave, of Jean, of Enlightenment Tea, of Templars, of a long, long life in the service of G.o.d.

And when he was done, his true words concealed by Jean's cipher, he used his skills as artist and illuminator to ill.u.s.trate the ma.n.u.script with the plants that were important to the tale and the paintings that first caught the attention, so many years before, of two frail monks taking their recuperative exercise along the cliffs of Ruac.

And to refresh his fading memory, Barthomieu took one last visit to the cave. He went alone early one morning with a good torch in his hand and a heart full of emotion. He had not been there for well on a hundred years but the path was clear in his mind and the yawning mouth of the cave seemed to welcome him like an old friend.

He spent an hour inside and when he emerged, he rested on the ledge and feasted his eyes for the final time on the green, limitless expanse of the river valley. Then he slowly began his journey back to the abbey.

Back at his writing table, Barthomieu drew the images of the wondrous cave paintings from memory and finished the ill.u.s.trations with a simple map showing a pilgrim how he might find the hidden cave. The book was ready for binding and he did so with love in his heart for his brothers, and especially Bernard. There was a special piece of red leather stored on a shelf in the scriptorium. He had never found a high-enough purpose for it; its moment had come. Over several days, he painstakingly bound the book and on its cover, he used his awls to carve the figure of Saint Bernard, his dear brother, complete with a heavenly halo floating above his fine head.

The book looked fine. Barthomieu was pleased but not completely so. It lacked a final touch which would make it truly a work befitting its subject. Under his mattress was a small silver box, a family heirloom, one of the few pretty objects not looted on that recent October day.

He melted it down over a hot fire and summoned Brother Michel to a.s.sist him.

At a small abbey like Ruac, out of necessity the monks often learned more than one skill. Over his long tutelage to the infirmarer, Jean, he also acquired a metal-working facility from the blacksmith and became reasonably adept at silversmithing. Barthomieu presented him the red-leather ma.n.u.script and asked him to embellish it with his precious bit of silver as best he could and left it in Michel's curious hands, unaware that in earlier years old Jean had taught his a.s.sistant his method of cipher. Untroubled, Barthomieu had written the key words, NIVARD, HELOISE, and TEMPLARS in a parchment slipped between the pages on a bookmark.

A few days later, Michel handed the book back with s.h.i.+ny silver corners and endbands, five bosses on each cover and twin clasps holding the covers shut. Barthomieu was well pleased and hugged Michel and kissed him warmly for his splendid work. Aware that Michel was perennially inquisitive about the affairs of other monks, he asked him why he had not inquired about the nature of the ma.n.u.script. Michel mumbled he had other matters to occupy his mind and scuttled back to the infirmary.

There was word that a nearby Templar vineyard had been emptied, all the workers turned out and the n.o.bles arrested. It was only a matter of time before the King's men returned, Barthomieu was sure of that. One night, when the monastery was quiet and all were asleep, he chipped away at a wattle and daub wall inside the Chapter House and opened a hole large enough to hide his precious ma.n.u.script. Before he inserted it, he looked at the last page, and though it was ciphered, he recalled the words he had written.

To you who are able to read this book and fathom its meaning, I send you tidings from a poor monk who lived for two hundred and twenty years and would have lived even longer had kings and popes not conspired against the good works of the Templars, the Holy Order n.o.bly founded by my beloved brother, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. Use this book as I have, to live a long bountiful life in service of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. Honour Him as I have honoured Him. Love Him as I have loved Him. May you have a long life and a good life. And say a prayer for your poor servant, Barthomieu, who left this earth an old man with a young heart.

When he was finished putting fresh plaster upon the wall he heard dogs barking and horses whinnying in the stables.

Men were coming.

They were coming for him. They were coming for all of them.

He hurried to the chapel to say one more hurried prayer before being carried off to a certain fate.

As the soldiers barged through the abbey gates, one monk was running as fast as he could through the moonlit meadow of tall gra.s.s behind the abbey. He had shed his habit and his crucifix and was dressed as a simple blacksmith in s.h.i.+rt, leggings and smock. He would hide by the river and in the morning light he would present himself to the good people of Ruac village as a hard worker and G.o.d-fearing man.

And if they were reluctant to take him in, he would reveal to them a secret that would surely interest them. Of that, Michel de Bonnet, formerly Brother Michel of Ruac Abbey, could be quite sure.

THIRTY-TWO.

Thursday Night Isaak finished reading the last words of the ma.n.u.script and when he was done there was silence on the line. 'You still there, Luc?'