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He was standing alongside Setubar whose place was beside another
brother named Daniel. The rest sat on tables below us, placed at right angles
to the dais.
    Rainiero noticed Eisik at once, for
he was dressed in a plain russet cloak covering a tunic of forest green which
contrasted in an explosion of colour amid the toneless grey. He had a place
– because of the abbot’s generosity – among the monks of lesser
station on the tables below, and this made the inquisitor frown in a tempest of
disdain. He fixed the Jew with a hard look, muttering some remonstration
against the devil under his breath, and blessed himself with ceremonial hatred.
Below, the monks stood in silence, cowls drawn, awaiting the intonation of the ‘ Edent
paupers ’ and after the benediction was granted, all withdrew their cowls
and we gratefully sat down.
    As soon as we were all seated, the
inquisitor leant in the abbot’s direction and pointed to an empty chair on the
dais. I heard the abbot say that the infirmarian, because of the distant
location of his infirmary, was generally a little late for meals.
    ‘Indulgence,’ said the inquisitor, ‘leads
to disobedience, stern discipline and obedience to the rule is the cornerstone
of order, as you know dear abbot, to obey is better than a sacrifice,’ he
concluded.
    Who would argue further?
    It was then in silence that we
listened to the weekly reading which continued devoutly, even as the
refectorian and his assistants placed dishes of unsurpassed variety before us,
whose qualities I have since contemplated on more than one occasion. With each
dish – and indeed there were many – I was transported to distant
lands; Italy, Spain, Portugal, perhaps even unknown places of which old
travellers speak. And the guests, particularly those with good appetites,
praised the cook and complimented the abbot on a fare that far surpassed the
modest meals usually served in monasteries of those times – especially so
close to Lent, when one ate almost nothing.
    We ate roast pheasant stuffed with
red peppers; terrines of pigeon; goose eggs in a sauce of goat’s cheese and
various delicious herbs. There were black olives stuffed with anchovies, and
green olives in a garlic marinade, and on each table, little vases contained
golden honey, so light and sweet that even the inquisitor could not help
smothering everything he ate in it. All partook of the fare in quiet
thankfulness, all except the friar, who behaved in a manner typically
Franciscan – because they are of humble birth and so often poorly
educated – letting out loud resonant belches.
    Afterwards, there was fragrant bread,
cooked with cinnamon and almonds, then honeyed dumplings – like those
found in Florence. Finally, they brought in the wine, a small flask for each of
us, and the abbot told us, because abbeys are known to take pride in their
abilities, that it was a delicious mixture of balm leaves and the abbey’s own
honey. When he saw that my master was declining he told him that it was also
said to have wonderful curative and calming properties, because bees were a
virtuous insect, as was well known.
    The inquisitor made a gesture of
disapproval. ‘Wine is a mocker, it induces even the wise to apostasy.’
    ‘In that you are quite right!’ added
the Franciscan yawning.
    The Cistercian agreed, casting his
unblinking eye over us, ‘Wine is not proper for monks.’
    The bishop alone said nothing, but
filled his glass and downed the lot without taking a breath. ‘Ahh . . .’ he
said at last in his throaty voice. ‘Our Lord found it agreeable and I, his
simple servant, cannot find it otherwise.’
    My master smiled and thanked the
abbot graciously, conceding that it did indeed possess a fine colour and was no
doubt delicious, but refused his portion.
    On hearing this, Brother Ezekiel
edged closer to me, and because of his poor vision reached out his hand,
searching for the flask. ‘Give it to me! By Mary and all her saints, I shall
drink