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number of prayers for you if I weren’t
so tired after our long journey which has left me too weary to speak . . . too
weary indeed and in any event . . . we arrive at our destination, though my
legs would lead me in another direction, preferably its opposite.’
    Without my noticing, we had indeed
come to be standing before the great doors to the refectory. And so, we washed
our hands as was the custom, in the crisp cold waters of the little fountain,
and my master declared, ‘Something bothers me about the note . . .’
    ‘Of course it bothers you,’ answered
his friend, ‘it is an admonition . . . those who want to know too much die
knowing very little . . . or perhaps it is that those who know very little die
wanting to know a great deal? However, my senses tell me, and they are never
wrong, never, that tonight someone will meet his death! It is written . . . of that I am certain.’
    Andre must have seen my eyes widen
with fear, for he said in a very jolly manner, ‘Then let us enjoy life while we
can, Eisik, for there is nothing to excite one’s appetite better than the smell
of a mystery!’

Only
now do I know how right he truly was !

3
Capitulum
    R ainiero Sacconi da Piacenza, as he was formally addressed,
entered the refectory like a man conditioned to power. His thin frame,
unusually tall, was moderated by square shoulders whose proportions carried the
black and white habit of his order well. Moving with strength and agility, as I
had seen him do during our travels, he showed little sign of fatigue. Indeed
this night he appeared particularly tireless, having – as we heard during
various conversations at the table – found suitable housing for
prisoners, and another site for the questioning of suspects. In this he was not
unlike my master whose own energy seemed to far surpass my own.
    What I knew of the inquisitor I had
heard through terrible stories whose accuracy I cannot attest to. Nevertheless,
he was portrayed as a zealot, ambitious and ruthless, with both eyes focused
keenly on the position of supreme inquisitor. Gruesome tales denoted a sadistic
nature that delighted in the smell of burning flesh, and so no one can blame an
impressionable youth for holding his breath just a little as the man reached
the great table and prepared to draw his cowl for the first time. What can I
say, dear reader? That I expected to see the face of a devil? That is,
pock-marked and creased, perhaps even biliously yellow? Instead, I was
surprised to find that he was, after all, no hideous demon. He was a man whose
countenance possessed a kind of comeliness appropriate to a man of his years,
but when he lifted his eyes to look upon the congregation, making a long
calculated sweep of the room, I saw within their paleness a cold cruelty, a
mark of his strong and tested will. For a moment they fell upon me, telling me
of devils subdued and men brought to judgement. They said, ‘Come, I am ready to
challenge any opposition to my wishes.’ They revealed his indifference to the
opinion of others and at the same time conveyed that guilt – which he
knew to be inherent in all men – would be sought out, condemned, and
punished, albeit with fraternal understanding . . . all in one brief glance.
    The abbot showed the inquisitor to a
place beside him at the great table, raised above the others on a dais at the
end of the rectangular hall. The table was covered with a grey linen cloth and
set with crude but practical implements for our use; wooden bowls replaced
silver, and iron candlesticks, not golden ones, provided a soft and pleasant
light.
    The abbot occupied a central position
proper to his station, to his right the inquisitor, my master, and I. To his
left, the bishop and the Friar de Narbonne and the esteemed Cistercian brother,
with the obidientiaries or more
senior brothers of the order flanking us on both sides. Beside me, Brother
Ezekiel of Padua made strange noises, perhaps preparing for his forthcoming
mastication.