Do you have any doubt of this?’
‘I have thought of nothing else and I am certain all of us will brood in contemplation. But the Devil?’
‘Who else?’
‘God, perhaps.’
Bernard threw his arms about so wildly it seemed he was trying to cast them from his body. ‘God was not with us last night! God does not want his children to suffer such things.’
‘Well, I did not suffer,’ Jean insisted. ‘Quite the opposite. I found the experience… enlightening.’
‘I confess, I did not suffer either, brother,’ Barthomieu said.
‘Nor I,’ Abelard concurred. ‘Perhaps there were a few moments that might be construed as troubling, but on the whole I would say it was amazing.’
‘Did we, I wonder, have the self-same experience?’ Bernard cried. ‘Tell me what happened to you and I will tell you the same.’
Bernard always relied on prayer to firm his actions. He had done so when he had first decided to leave his comfortable life and commit himself to the Cistercians at Clairvaux and he relied on it again.
Following an afternoon of exhausting and contentious debate, Bernard ardently threw himself into Vespers prayers and in the echoing sing-song in the vaulted stone church he found his answer in Psalm 139. Eripe me, Domine, ab homine malo; a viro iniquo eripe me; Qui cogitaverunt iniquitates in corde, tota die constituebant praelia. Acuerunt linguas suas sicut serpentis; venenum aspidum sub labiis eorum. Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man; and preserve me from the wicked man; Who have imagined mischief in their hearts, and have stirred up strife all the day long. They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent; adder’s poison is under their lips. Custodi me, Domine, de manu peccatoris; et ab hominibus iniquis eripe me. Qui cogitaverunt supplantare gressus meos. absconderunt superbi laqueum mihi. Et funes extenderunt in laqueum. juxta iter scandalum posuerunt mihi. Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the ungodly; preserve me from wicked men. Who are purposed to overthrow my goings: the proud have laid a snare for me. And they have spread a net abroad with cords; yea, and have laid for me a stumbling block by the wayside.
Every time the words wicked, evil and ungodly fell from his lips he glanced at Abelard, Jean and yes, even his own brother, all huddled like conspirators on an adjacent pew, because he could not reconcile their views with his.
And with the same certainty that told him that Christ was his saviour, he knew that he was right and they were wrong.
He also knew he had to leave Ruac, because they had made their intentions known. They fully intended to partake again of the infusion which they lauded and he reckoned was a devil brew.
The following morning, he was off. For his safety and companionship, Barthomieu had persuaded him to have two younger monks accompany him on the long journey back to Clairvaux. One was Michel, Jean’s infirmary assistant, who had noticed residual tea and had been pestering his master with questions. Better to send him away for a while to cure his curiosity.
Bernard and Barthomieu hugged, though Barthomieu’s grip was the tighter.
‘You will not reconsider?’ Barthomieu asked.
‘Will you reconsider taking that wicked brew again?’ Bernard countered.
‘I will not,’ Barthomieu said emphatically. ‘I believe it is a gift. From God.’
‘I will not repeat my arguments, brother. Suffice it to say, I will take my leave and may God have mercy upon your soul.’
He kicked the flanks of the brown mare with his heels and slowly departed.
Abelard was waiting by the abbey gate. He called up to the rider. ‘I will miss you, Bernard.’
Bernard looked down and deigned to reply. ‘I confess I will miss you too, at least the Abelard I knew, not the Abelard I saw two nights ago.’
‘Judge me not harshly, brother. There is but one road to righteousness, but many paths converge on that road.’
Bernard shook his head sadly and rode off.
That night, three men met in Bernard’s now-empty house, lit some candles and talked about their departed friend. Was it possible, Barthomieu asked, that Bernard was right and they were wrong?
Barthomieu was a man of simple vocabulary. Jean was more skilful as a healer and herbalist than an ecclesiastical scholar. It fell on Abelard to frame the debate. They listened to his elegant dissertation on good versus evil, God versus Satan, right versus wrong, and concluded that it was Bernard who was hide-bound and unseeing, not them.
Having satisfied themselves of their rectitude, Jean produced a crockery jug, pulled out the stopper and poured each participant a generous mug of reddish tea.
Abelard was alone in his room.
A single candle burned on his table, casting just enough light to write on parchment. For a week, a letter to his beloved had lain begun but unfinished. He reread the opening: My dearest Heloise, I have passed these many days and nights alone in my cloister without closing my eyes. My love burns fiercer amidst the happy indifference of those who surround me, and my heart is alike pierced with your sorrows and my own. Oh, what a loss have I sustained when I consider your constancy! What pleasures have I missed enjoying! I ought not to confess this weakness to you; I am sensible I commit a fault. If I could show more firmness of mind I might provoke your resentment against me and your anger might work that effect in you which your virtue could not. If in the world I published my weakness in love songs and verses, ought not the dark cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same!
He dipped his quill and began a new paragraph. Some days have passed since I wrote these words. Much has changed in a short time, though not my love for you which burns ever brighter. God has chosen to bestow a gift upon me which I can scarcely believe, yet its truth is manifest. Oh, though I fear writing these words lest their power should fade by the act of committing them to the page, I believe, dear Heloise, that I have found a way for the two of us to be together again as man and wife.
SIXTEEN
The last day of work at Ruac Cave came and went.
That final night, there was a celebratory dinner of sorts, though spirits were tamped down by the twin catastrophes that had befallen the excavation, a pair of accidents that sent tongues wagging about curses, ill fate and the like.
After Hugo’s funeral in Paris, Luc had returned to Ruac and thrown himself into his work like a whirling dervish, toiling himself into a state of anaesthesia, sleeping only enough to keep going. He became flat and detached, spoke only when spoken to, maintained a professional efficiency with his team but that was the extent of it. Hugo’s death had washed away his usual witty charm like waves washed away letters etched on a sandy beach with a stick.
Matters were made worse by the unannounced appearance at Ruac by Marc Abenheim who parachuted in from Paris, hell-bent on exploiting the tragedy. The weedy martinet arrived and demanded everyone leave the Portakabin so he could speak with Luc privately. Then, like an actuary, he challenged Luc on the odds of one excavation having two fatalities in one season.
‘What are you driving at?’ Luc had spat back.
Abenheim’s voice had an infuriating nasal tone. ‘Lack of discipline. Lack of management. Lack of good sense for inviting your friend to stay at an official Ministry dig. That’s what I’m driving at.’
It was nothing short of a miraculous act of self-restraint that Luc was able to send Abenheim on his way without a broken nose.
When the officious prat drove off, Luc started fuming openly. He’d kept a damper on his anger during Abenheim’s visit but now that he was gone he retreated to his caravan and slammed the door. The first thing that caught his attention was the dent in the wall he’d left the night after Hugo died.
He had a strong urge to punch it again, finish it off by putting his fist right through the blood-stained wall but
