Temple of The Grail Read Free

duty, became less clear to us, however, when the king drew my master aside
and requested that we report to him before all others, even before our grand
master, on our return from the monastery. Of course my master did not agree to
this, for it would have been against the rule of our order. In his wisdom,
however, he gave the impression that he would do as he was asked. Later, again,
as we were leaving the palace, we were intercepted by the grand master, who
appeared to be exceedingly anxious. He told us that it was most important that
we not return to Paris at the conclusion of the hearings, but that we should
await his orders . . .
    What more can be said?
    And so, I must confess that even this
day I feel a flush of shame rise to my cheeks as I recall how I was taken by
the Devil of curiosity. And as I sit here in my imposed exile, this shame is
mingled also with another sentiment, that of longing. Longing for youth,
excitement, and the smell of the mountains, and yes, a longing even for those
feelings of uneasiness and foreboding.
    So let us continue, patient reader,
and digress no longer, for I must lend my unworthy faculties to angelic beings
whose heavenly light illuminates the eons, and elucidates the dark annals of history.
History is a temptress whose deception is food for the blind and comfort to the
mercenary:
    The story begins . . .

1
Capitulum
‘A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not; but
knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth.’
Proverbs xiv 6
    T he journey from Paris to Languedoc was uneventful. The roads,
built largely by the Romans, were well maintained because they were used by those
merchants headed for the Provençal ports, and by the pilgrims making their way
to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.
    Our party did not proceed directly,
at times we diverged eastwards and once or twice it was possible to catch a
glimpse of the sea. We reached Languedoc three weeks after our departure from
Paris, and it was not a cheering sight that greeted us. It was a scarred and
disfigured country and we travelled with watchful eye, wary of our own shadows,
for even after so many years, the sword and the boot of the northern crusaders
was evident.
    Those not accustomed to these parts
commented on the black remnants of burned farms, broken fences, crumbling
bridges and deserted vineyards. They pointed at the weeds and thistles that
overtook churches and everything of value. What people could be seen –
miserable creatures, lean and scratching, wild as forest animals – would
scatter on our approach, for our archers bore the flag of the inquisition. In
their eyes I glimpsed the familiar terror, the sullen hopelessness, and
dangerous desperation. They were truly men beyond hope, beyond heaven, and I
prayed for their souls.
    We travelled in a solemn, moody,
silence, until we reached higher country, where there were fewer reminders of
the devastation, and as we toiled through the landscape of steep gorges and
narrow valleys, the retinue seemed to relax and my master began to ride a little
ahead of me. His mount was a gallant Arabian horse Gilgamesh – named
after the great Babylonian king. I travelled upon a mule whose name was Brutus
because, as Plato tells us, names should show the nature of things as far as
they can be shown – if they are to be real names.
    Ahead, the prelates of the Papal
Commission journeyed by carriage. I do not know which of us was more
comfortable, for the awkward vehicle bounced on the stony road, throwing about
its occupants. As we passed I dared to peer into its interior. Surrounded by
cushions of satin and velvet sat firstly the inquisitor, hiding always behind
his black cowl, suffering his discomfort in silence. Opposite him sat the
Franciscan, with his head lolling from side to side and his thin lips emitting
resonant snores. Bernard Fontaine, the Cistercian, sat next to him. As straight
as the towers of Lebanon, his long face funereal, his unblinking eyes wide and
staring, he seemed