The Bigod Chronicles - Book Two - The Order

The Bigod Chronicles-Book Two-The Order

A Medieval Novel by

Martin P Clarke

Copyright © 2017 by Martin P Clarke

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

The right of Martin P Clarke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Lulu Publishing

ISBN 978-0-244-01479-7

Although every attempt has been made to place the

characters within recorded historical events,

this novel remains a work of fiction.

The Bigod Chronicles

Book One Ilger

Book Two The Order

Book Three William

Book Four Hugh

Acknowledgements

To my wife Helen

Still walking in the footsteps of these great medieval

characters, across England, France, the Mediterranean

countries and the Holy Land.

Additional Main Characters

Geoffrey Bisol                                        knight/monk at the Abbey of Clairvaux

André de Montbard                      knight, uncle to Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux

Archambaud de St Agnan                                                               Flemish knight

Montdidier de Cassel                     Flemish knight, companion to Archambaud

Rosal de Zaragoza                                knight/monk from the Abbey of Seborga

Gondermar de la Seo                          knight/monk from the Abbey of Seborga

William ‘the Atheling’                     the only legitimate son and heir of Henry I

Bushra                                              single mother and friend of Maria (fictional)

Yousuf                                                    betrothed husband for Bushra (fictional)

Farraj                                                                           brother of Yousuf (fictional)

Nadal                                                                                  son of Bushra (fictional)

Sister Bernadette                           Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem (fictional)

Abbot Edouard                                                                      monastery of Seborga

Robert Picot                                companion and distant cousin of Hugh Bigod

Count Stephen of Blois                                                      nephew to King Henry

Isabel                               daughter of Count Fulk/wife of William ‘the Atheling’

Count Fulk of Anjou                              father of Geoffrey and Sybille of Anjou

Countess Mathilda of Perche                       stepsister of William ‘the Atheling’

Sybille of Anjou                                                                 daughter of Count Fulk

Patriarch Gormond                                                              patriarch of Jerusalem

Count Theobald of Blois                                     elder brother of Count Stephen

Tammuz                                                            shaman and high priest (fictional)

Muzawi                                                                 assistant to Tammuz (fictional)

Elizabeth of Varais                                                second wife of Count Hugues

Johannes Michaelensis                                                secretary to Abbot Bernard

Peter de Loges                                                                master Mason of Durham

Lord Robert de Craon                                                            vassal of Count Fulk

Robert of Gloucester                                           illegitimate son of King Henry I

Melisende                                    eldest daughter of King Baldwin of Jerusalem

Empress Matilda                           daughter of King Henry married to Geoffrey

Thierry of Alsace                                      Grandson of Count Robert of Flanders

Leo Roupen                                                      Armenian horse farmer, (fictional)

Sophia Roupen                                                               daughter of Leo (fictional)

Sultan Zengi                              lord of Aleppo and founder of Zengid dynasty

Ayyub                                                                                  General to Lord Zengi

Amalek                                                                                             wife of Ayyub

Sultan Mahmud                                                                         Emir of Damascus

Book Two

The Order

Ten Years Later...

1117-1137

‘Thus saith the Lord. Ye have forsaken me, and therefore

have I also left you in the hands of Shishak’

II Chronicles XII iv

Chapter 1

Clairvaux

Champagne

November 1117

Abbot Bernard was only a young man and yet was held in the highest esteem by men who reserved their respect for those with many years of wisdom. His rise to the position of Abbot at the age of twenty-three had been well noted by those who saw in Bernard more than just a passion for a righteous life.

The beguiling story of him entering the Abbey of Citeaux with twenty-six members of his extended family was repeated across Normandie and Burgundy. His inspiration saved the abbey from the depths of apathy and lethargy, and within months, it was a thriving community of monks.

Like all such men of God, he sought to escape the contamination of a world that was wicked and wallowing with sin, but he was also driven by a profound need to communicate with God and to find the key to His presence on earth.

Count Hugues of Champagne was so impressed by his devout and pious cousin, that he donated a plot of forested land at Bar-sur-Aube, in order for Bernard and his monks to build a new abbey. Everyone marvelled at how quickly the main buildings were completed and shortly after the inauguration, the name of Clairvaux Abbey quickly became synonymous as one of the leading religious institutions in the land.

The count’s generosity knew no bounds and was fully exploited by Bernard who quickly founded three other Cistercian monasteries close by. As far as money was concerned, the count had become one of the richest lords in the land and delighted in his role as a great and generous benefactor. His personal endeavours drew much acclaim and brought unprecedented prosperity to Champagne. The transformation had been miraculous and many believed that God had surely looked kindly upon one of His princes on earth.

Of course, very few people knew the truth behind his success. The judicious use of the gold excavated from ‘Solomon’s Stables’ provided the stimulation that the economy needed and the additional influx of goods from the east had created a trading phenomenon, with the cities of Troyes and Provins at its heart. Every week his court was filled with emissaries from a dozen provinces and countries, all desperate to partake in the commercial success of Champagne. Over the years, his seneschal Grosbert had employed an army of merchants whose negotiation skills and trade-craft was the envy of many visiting envoys.

Although Abbot Bernard and the Cistercian order were dedicated to a life of self-denial and deprivation, he was astute enough to realise that prosperity brought in benefactors to fill the coffers of his abbeys.  He was in no doubt his God-given vision of the world would necessitate the building of a succession of great monasteries, so men could dedicate their lives to the word of God. He envisaged cathedrals that would soar into the sky, high enough to reach heaven, with a grandeur that would melt the hearts of charitable men. Such awe-inspiring structures would dwarf previous monuments and proclaim that God had arrived on earth. 

Bernard knew his vision would prove to be expensive and in the short term, his on-going partnership with the count would ensure sufficient money flowed into the coffers. But in order for his greater vision to come to fruition, Bernard required more than just the income from one benefactor. To this end, the work embarked upon by the monks of Clairvaux was of paramount importance and if successful would unlock the door to a future of untold wisdom and glory.

Any visitor to Clairvaux would be astonished at the bizarre nature of the work being undertaken. Two scriptorium specially designed with a connecting door, were filled with the collections of books previously held in the castle at Troyes. In addition to these, were the books brought back by Count Hugues many years earlier, from under the temple mount in Jerusalem.

Studying in one scriptorium were three Jewish scholars from the Yeshiva started by Rashi, including his son-in-law Samuel Ben Meir. He had taken the mantle of Chief Rabbi of Troyes and alongside him worked his seventeen-year-old son Jacob, a timid, diligent scholar. His emotions had been shrouded since the age of six, when he witnessed the shocking death of his grandfather Rashi.

The family worked with three Cistercian monks and they used their joint expertise in translating ancient Hebrew and Coptic and other aged languages. The input of the Jewish scholars was essential as some scrolls were indecipherable to all but the most skilled eye. Unfortunately, their role was limited to pre-Roman texts, as any mention of the Gospels or Christ would lead to either endless theological arguments or bouts of long silence and sulking.

Therefore, the second scriptorium manned by three monks from Clairvaux was essential to translate the Aramaic manuscripts from the time of Jesus Christ and the Gospels. Over the years the difference between the types of documents became more obvious and eventually the system of splitting the translations between them worked reasonably well.

The cold bare rooms of the abbey held one of the largest collections of religious works ever assembled, and the prime objective of all the monks and scholars was to bring specific works of interest to the attention of the abbot.

Geoffrey Bisol had known Abbot Bernard since his adolescent years and was one of his most devoted followers. The third son of a nobleman, he had been knighted at the age of sixteen but as his adolescence gave way to adulthood he realised his skills on the battlefield were limited and subsequently discovered his destiny lay within the confines of the monastic order at Clairvaux. On first appearance, his natural rotund face and burly body belied the inner strength of character that Bernard had spotted and appreciated.

In between his prayers and translations, one of his many duties was to organise regular trips to the local townships to sell the harvest of grain, fruit and fish to the merchants. Some monks ruefully commented that he ate almost as much as he sold and suggested he should just keep to selling the wool. Now in his late twenties, he had for the past eight years been one of the monks tirelessly studying the ancient manuscripts and for his dedication, he was appointed head translator and counsellor to the young Abbot Bernard.

Geoffrey pulled his cowl over his head as a bitter wind swirled around the thick walls of Clairvaux Abbey and the grey light of dawn barely lit the path in front. He ran through the cloisters with his grey cassock billowing in his wake then remembering his sense of propriety, he slowed down as he approached the door to the abbot’s house. He found his meetings with the abbot both exhilarating and filled with trepidation. Gathering his thoughts and his breath, he speculated as to why Bernard had called him to his study at such an early hour. He clasped the leather folder containing his latest translation and knocked before entering the room.

Bernard was sat at his table, looking drawn and pale, as always. After years of meagre rations of bread and water, his emaciated appearance belied his twenty-seven years. His white habit seemed to swallow his slight frame and with his cowl lowered, his shaven hair around his tonsure appeared to be thinning. The only warmth came from the glowing embers of a dying fire and on the table two large candles flickered above a pile of documents.

‘Abbot, you wished to see me?’

Without looking up from his work, he indicated Geoffrey should sit. ‘Is that the parchment I asked you to find yesterday?’

Geoffrey nodded and put the folder on the pile. ‘Yes, it is. The work is attributed to the Apostle Philip but I do not understand how Philip can be so mistaken.’

Through narrowing eyes, Bernard looked up. ‘Oh and why is that?’

‘He refers to Jesus as…as having a relationship with Mary Magdalene. There is kissing…’

Bernard slapped the table loud enough to make Geoffrey jump. ‘Bite your tongue before the devil should hear your depraved words! I do not expect to hear you speak of such blasphemy again.’

Geoffrey obeyed and tasted the blood as he swallowed.

‘Now apologise to Christ before you open your mouth again?’

Bernard carried on reading another text and time passed slowly for Geoffrey as he muttered a litany of self-effacing prayers.

Eventually, Bernard finished his work and stood up, wiping the tiredness from his eyes. ‘After Prime, I will seek solace in the chapel of the Virgin Mary. Please ensure I will not be disturbed. You may go now.’

The abbot waited for Geoffrey to leave then took the translations from his desk and added them to those that had just been delivered.

He sighed as he carried the scrolls over to the hearth. Since the fourth century, the four Gospels of the new scriptures were sacrosanct and all other writings depicting Christ were decreed as contradictory works, or worse still as heretical. All the writings from the Holy Land brought by Count Hugues had come under scrutiny and inevitably, so much was discovered that contravened the doctrine. Bernard was convinced that the fraudulent works were designed to confuse and undermine the core principles of Christianity. With a resolute detachment, he had overseen the destruction of two-dozen scrolls and books, with at least three of them supposedly written by the apostles, including one ridiculous piece attributed to Mary Magdalene.

Now it was the turn of the apostle Philip. He read the translation and crossed himself after the first six lines. Such profanity could not have been written in the name of one of the Lords’ own apostles and was sure the blasphemy could only have an ungodly source.

For the first time that day, his face felt warm as the ancient pages fluttered upon the glowing embers and were greedily consumed by the flames. It was a relief, that by such firm endeavour, the scriptures would be kept pure and untainted by ambiguity.

The abbot’s sermons often brought tears to the hardest and most violent of men, and some would often speak of visions and miracles in his presence. Out of earshot, the monks would sometimes recite his phrases; some were quite simple.

‘Our relationship with our Lord should be as natural as breathing’

Now, the prayers of the brothers of Clairvaux had stopped, to be replaced by concern for Abbot Bernard. They looked on from the back of the chapel to where the abbot knelt in prayer. For three days he had knelt on calloused knees, pausing in his prayers only to suckle on a damp sponge. All who witnessed the feat were in awe at his piety but the abbot’s failing health caused a wave of anxiety.

At the break of dawn on the fourth day, he started swaying. The praying had stopped and Brother Geoffrey ran forward, fearing for Bernard’s life. But at the last moment, he saw a movement of the head and paused. He dare not intervene.

Geoffrey was aware of Count Hughes visiting Chaumont only a few miles to the north and with no other resolution in sight, he sent word urging him to come and prevent a possible tragedy.

The count came as quickly as he could and spoke a few quiet words to Brother Geoffrey, before slowly approaching the abbot. He studied Bernard’s face, lowered against his chest and his thin body perched motionless on chaffed knees. Some would say an aura glowed around the head; or was it simply the sun shimmering on his white cowl. The count reflected on the enigma of his young studious cousin who had sought only solitude, who had little desire to converse and was totally devoted to God and His wisdom.

Yet in contradiction to this aspiration he attracted the attention of everyone he met. Wherever he walked, crowds would gather and persuade him to impart his holy knowledge. On his travels from town to town, his oratory acquired a mystical presence and many followers believed he was a true visionary, touched by the hand of God. There was no denying his cousin’s extraordinary power of self-belief and his ability to instil that belief in others.     

The count nearly jumped out of his skin as Bernard suddenly rose to his feet.    

‘Count Hugues, how good of you to come. Now let us retire to my study, as we have much to discuss.’ He beamed an exaggerated smile at the count whose face still wore a startled expression. Bernard looked at the anxious faces of monks and called to Geoffrey. ‘Bring some of those oat biscuits with honey and some wine for the count. Be quick now.’

To everyone’s amazement, Bernard strode unerringly from the chapel and as he walked by, some brothers whispered that they had witnessed a miracle.

Once the count had established that Bernard had fully recovered, he insisted that he partake in a portion of biscuit and honey and thankfully, Bernard obliged. As they sat by an open window, taking in the fresh autumn air the count yawned for he felt tired after his rushed journey from Troyes. Given the circumstances of Bernard’s fast, he felt rather embarrassed and apologised. 

Bernard smiled at his cousin. Then his eyes narrowed as his head dipped to one side. His voice was hoarse from the protracted praying of the last few days. ‘My dear Count, you are looking well. All your wealth and prestige seems to rest easily on your shoulders. I am sorry to burden you with this tiresome journey to Clairvaux.’

Count Hugues felt the sting of rebuke but simply smiled back. In a battle of words with his cousin, he was bound to lose. ‘If this is a request for more money to build yet another monastery…’

‘No, not at all, I was simply enquiring that all was well with you. And your wife,of course.’

The remark sounded casual, even innocent but the count knew it was loaded with guilt. ‘To which wife do you refer?’

An awkward silence fell between them.

The counts first wife Constance had agreed to a divorce long ago and immediately married Prince Bohemond, the legendary co-leader of the Army of God that first conquered Antioch. Stung by his wife’s apparent success, the count acted with equal haste and married Elizabeth of Varais. Unfortunately, she to proved a poor choice. He could never satisfy her; neither in their chamber nor at the goldsmiths. Married only a few weeks, he demanded an annulment, but Abbot Bernard intervened. With his cousin, the Bishop of Chartres, they persuading him that his primary duty was to keep his marriage vows sacred and intact. He had no option but to relent to the moral pressure exerted by his ecclesiastical cousins.

There was some consolation when only a few years later, Prince Bohemond, the mightiest soldier in Christendom, was dead. Some say he drank himself to death just to be rid of his new wife.

Abbot Bernard settled into his chair, gazing up at the ceiling, his face etched deep in thought. A knock at the door disturbed his train of thought and a monk from the refectory brought in a tray with a loaf of bread and a bowl of broth. He placed them on the table but before the abbot could reprimand the monk, the count spoke up. ‘Oh, that’s my fault. When I arrived, I asked for a meal to be brought. I had no idea how long …’

Bernard poured a drink from the pitcher to clear his raw throat. ‘My appetite for food is poor but that does not prohibit you from eating. Please help yourself.’  

Taking the bread, Count Hugues dipped it in the broth and his stomach warmed to the taste. Expecting a silent rebuke, he slowly took another bite.

A condescending smile from Bernard filled the room with guilt and the count put down the bread.

As the monk was about to take the platter away, the count saw his face under his cowl. ‘Do I know you, Brother…? Your face is familiar.’

’Brother Gilbert, my lord. And no, I don’t believe we have met.’     

’How long have you been at Clairvaux?’

Brother Gilbert gave Bernard a nervous glance.

The abbot’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Yes, you can answer Brother Gilbert.’

’Some twenty-one years ago, I was brought to the monastery as an orphan baby.’

’Really, that is unusual. Well, you certainly remind me of someone. Please…you may return to the refectory.’ Count Hugues swallowed a meagre mouthful of bread and the door closed behind the monk. 

The count rubbed his chin, deep in thought. ‘Oh, I am sure it will come to me…just not now.’

Bernard gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Now you are probably wondering why I have asked you here. I suppose ever since Hugo de Payen returned from the Holy Land, you have been waiting for him to rejoin your fold.’

‘Oh…but only with your agreement,’ the count replied. ‘The letter you produced from Pope Paschal to King Baudwin asking for Hugo to be released from his duties in the Holy Land was a master stroke. Even the King of Jerusalem could not deny the wishes of the Pope. But in all honesty, I was quite content when Hugo and Godefroi asked to be installed as monks at Clairvaux. These days I have little need of expensive knights.’

Despite the narrow gaze from Bernard, it was hard for Count Hugues to feel guilty over the truth. Since returning from Outremer, all his resources were directed into his business interests coming from Acre. A steady line of bireme ships made his province the centre of a trading empire. In the first five years, the Champagne cites of Provins and Troyes had become rich beyond imagination and were the envy of all the surrounding regions. Everyone wanted a slice of his good fortune and were willing to pay for the exotic goods from the east. No, he did not need knights…what he needed were merchants and emissaries, skilled in the ways of profit and negotiation. 

Bernard took a leather folder from his drawer and resumed his narrative. ‘The resumption of our mission to find the Ark will now be our priority, though we will have to work away from the ever-watchful eyes of King Baudwin. We will never receive any concessions from this King of Jerusalem, so we shall pray for a change of heart or a change of king.’

Listening to his ambiguous words, it amazed the count how the recovery of the Ark of the Covenant had subtly changed to become Bernard’s mission. Then he thought to ask the obvious question. ‘You know that we already searched for the Ark of the Covenant in Solomon’s Stables. Do you really believe it is still hidden?’

Taking a sip of water, Bernard leant a little closer. ‘All the gold you found was God’s way of testing your resolve; put there to distract you. I believe the Ark is still waiting for us to discover its secrets, but God will not make our path an easy one.’

‘So what are your intentions?’ 

Bernard unwrapped the leather folder of parchments. ‘My dear cousin, I apologise for not offering you a fuller explanation. But first I must tell of a visit I made to Bishop Geoffrey of Chartres, about a year ago. He was busy clearing out much of his predecessors' papers and came across an interesting document that he wanted to discuss privately. A letter signed by Count Stephen-Henri of Blois, no less. You remember his name was sullied by his expeditious escape from Antioch, before the Army of God took Jerusalem.’

Count Hugues remembered the charge of cowardice that stained the honour of the family. Most distressed of all was Stephen’s wife Adele, the daughter of William the Conqueror. She gave him little choice but to return to the Holy Land and die an heroic death, which he dutifully did.

Bernard continued. ‘The letter gave an extraordinary account of his flight from Antioch. As a massive Turkish army was about to counter-attack the Christian army, the Bishop of Antioch sought out the count and gave him a book. The bishop stressed the book was of such importance that the count must return to the west immediately, rather than let the book fall into Turkish hands. Hence his sudden exodus from Antioch. However, the decision proved a mistake. The count was betrayed by a newly employed steward. The book was stolen and eventually fell into the hands of an Arab...a holy man or some such character. Stephen-Henri arrived back in Blois, much to the disgust of his wife. Apart from the letter, he kept the entire story a secret. I suppose no one would have believed him.’

‘That is an incredible tale. Do you believe it?’

Bernard took a deep breath.  ‘I have seen the letter...and yes its all true. Count Stephen-Henri even investigated the theft and discovered the name of the recipient Arab. I cannot even begin to pronounce the name. However, the book is called Felek Thani, written by an obscure Arab theologian who lived about two hundred years ago. Throughout history, stories of the legendary book have fascinated our Latin scholars.’

‘The idea of an Arab writing…’

Bernard raised his hand. ‘Naturally because of its heterodox origin, many rightfully believe the book to be heretical. But before we condemn the idea out of hand, it is said to contain the Wisdom of Solomon and the secret location of the Ark.’ Bernard opened his eyes wider. ‘Whoever wrote the book is irrelevant. However, if it leads us to the Ark of the Covenant, then it is priceless.’

A thought struck Hugues. ‘But wait, if this Arab knew of the location of the Ark then why didn’t he just take it for himself?’

‘Perhaps he did,’ Bernard admitted. ‘But if that were the case, then everyone would know. No, it is more than likely he feared the Ark.  Those old Hebrew texts you brought back from Jerusalem revealed some interesting stories of the Ark. The greatest fear of the Hebrews was for the Ark to fall into the wrong hands, so the hiding place was kept secret even in ancient times. There are stories of people accidentally touching it and dropping dead. No one can even touch the Ark and expect to live. For instance, once when the Ark was being transported through a village, all the people turned out to look upon it in wonder. Within days every villager was dead with the plague.’ Bernard paused to observe the sobering effect on the count. ‘As you can appreciate, any contact with the Ark of the Covenant demands the same respect as touching God himself.’

Count Hughes nodded solemnly; mystified and afraid by the power held within the Ark.

Abbot Bernard always appreciated the way his words had such an effect on people. Watching the count, he poured himself some more water before changing the subject. ‘When Hugo de Payen returned from the Holy Land, you saw his soul was deeply troubled.’

The count stared into his cup. ‘His scars ran deep.’

‘He was determined to make Clairvaux his home but I told him I disapproved and believed his ultimate fate lay in the Holy Land. In the end, Godefroi helped me lead him out of his spiritual despair. I promised them a mission that would cleanse and replenish the soul; so a year ago, I sent them to Seborga in northern Italia.’

‘Seborga…a year ago?’ the count was baffled.

‘I instructed them to take the letter written by Stephen-Henri to Seborga Priory and meet with two monks called Gondermar and Rosal, both knighted sons of nobles. They have a great knowledge of the Arab scholars and should recognise the name of the author. They are also masters at translating ancient texts.’

‘But you have translators here…’

‘Brother Bisol has yet to fully develop his skills fully. Besides, as far as this translation is concerned, I didn’t trust Samuel ben Meir or anyone else from the Yeshiva for that matter.’

‘All the way to Italia. That is quite a journey.’       

‘More like a quest than a simple journey,’ Bernard reflected. ‘I know when the hand of God is at work. You understand secrecy was paramount.’

‘And all this time, I thought Hugo was just convalescing here at Clairvaux.’ The count sat back in his chair and carelessly spilt his goblet. Jumping up, he cursed under his breath then began to use his sleeve to wipe the table.

‘Don’t worry, I will get someone to mop it up.’ Bernard called out for some assistance.

Hugues sat back down. ’I have just realised who Brother Gilbert reminds me of. It is Hugo…a young looking Hugo.’

A smile beamed across the face of Abbot Bernard. ’I knew you would be the one to recognise him.’

The count leant forward feeling a confession was about to be heard.

’I shall rely on your total discretion with what I am about to tell you.  A priest and two nuns  brought the baby here. They insisted he was the son of a widowed knight who had vowed to ‘take the cross’ and join the army of god. The priest who saved the babies life consulted with the Mother Superior and agreed to deliver him to the monastery.’

‘But why…?’

‘Why wasn’t he told? Bernard anticipated the question. ‘Well think on the alternative. We are talking here of a man’s soul. The course taken was the best for all concerned.’

‘How did Hugo not recognise him.’

‘I kept them apart. Brother Gilbert was sent to Sens Abbey until recently. So, this remains between just the two of us, yes?’

The count pondered the suspicious moral reasoning of the abbot and was reluctant to be a party to such deceit.

Bernard held his gaze, expecting an answer.

Count Hughes lowered his head. ‘Hugo de Payen will never hear from me that his son still lives.’

Chapter 2

Seborga

Northern Italia

If this was the hand of God at work, thought Hugo, then he was happy to accept the quest as a deserved penance. Although he was no longer troubled by the nightmares of his horrific experiences in Outremer, his compliance in the deeds of other men had made him question his faith. He needed a rock-solid shoulder to lean on and he attributed much of his recovery to his friend and companion.

Godefroi came from a great Flanders family that had fought in the first Army of God under Count Robert of Flanders. Tales of his elder brother Hugh de St Omer were legendary; exemplified by the bravest deed of all when at the battle of Ramleh, he sacrificed his life to save another. There was little doubt that Godefroi had inherited all the finest attributes of his brother, including his courageous fighting skills.

Upon the death of his brother, Godefroi carefully and respectfully cut the leather tie from around his brothers neck through which was threaded a tiny bone. Hugo witnessed Godefroi thread the bone onto a similar tie around his own neck. Now it held two tiny bones.

Later Godefroi asked Hugo to keep a promise. ‘If I were to die, you must take these bones from around my neck for safekeeping. Then if you can find it in your heart, take them back to my home in Flanders.’

Hugo swore he would keep his promise.

Setting out for Seborga, it occurred to him that even God must have been amused at the scale of his atonement. To find a mythological book with an Arabic name,  the contents of which were totally unknown, that was stolen by an Arab and then sold on...all based on the written ramblings in a letter left by a deceased count.

When Abbot Bernard asked Godefroi to accompany Hugo he laughed at first, but not through lack of respect, but his lack of the basic scholarly abilities of a monk. Bernard reassured him that his contribution to ‘the quest’ was recognised far above that of being well read. Then Hugo proposed they discharge their swords and shields and everything began to make sense.

Dressed as monks they rode at a relaxed pace on good-tempered mares and slept mainly in pilgrim’s quarters and ate frugally. Progressing through Lyon and Grenoble, the pleasing climate of the south made the far-reaching journey comfortable.

Seborga was sited on a hilltop and gave long distance views of the coastline that were shrouded in a heat haze. The priory was situated in the midst of the tiny streets and Hugo and Godefroi were greeted with compassion and generosity and without making a fuss, they sought out Brothers Rosal and Gondermar. They were happy to greet them as Brothers and explained in private they had received a message from Abbot Bernard telling them to expect Hugo and they were to follow his orders.

They all sat down in the scriptorium and waited until they were alone. Rosal and Gondermar held a solemn expression. As instructed, Hugo took a tubular container from his saddlebag and handed over Count Stephen-Henri’s letter. ‘I pray you can make some sense of the name he writes near the foot of the second page.’ Hugo tried to instil a little more enthusiasm. ‘Abbot Bernard believes it holds the key to the Ark of the Covenant.’

Brother Rosal looked at Hugo then shook his head as he pondered over the translation of the title Felek Thani. ‘As a title it makes little sense. My best guess is the study and movement of the stars. The Arab author is probably a mystic or celestial theologian.’       

Although a giant of a man, Gondermar was the quieter of the two. He looked up from the letter on the table, rubbing his eyes. His finger pointed to the second page of the letter. ‘There is the name as described by the count...Al-Ghazali. So we are to believe the thief sold the book to him. That’s interesting.’

Rosal immediately stood up and smiled. ‘Did you say Al-Ghazali? Oh, we are in illustrious company.’ He walked over to a shelf and picked up a pile of documents.

Gondermar sat calmly in his chair but his eyes were no longer dull. They positively shined. ‘He died in Toledo about six years ago.’

‘You knew this man?’ Hugo asked in astonishment.

Gondermar nodded and Rosal was unable to hide his new-found excitement. ‘Oh, he was one of our favourite Toledo compilers.’ He waved a document in his hand. ‘There! I have found his full name. Abu Hamid Muhammad ibn Muhammad al-Ghazali. Certainly a very likely candidate for your book...he was a great scholar and collector of antiquities.’

‘As for the book…it will probably be in the Toledo library by now,’ Gondermar surmised.  

Hugo slapped the table, his eyes full of wonder. ‘This is incredible. In no time at all you have achieved the impossible.’

‘Wait a moment…where on earth is Toledo,’ Godefroi intervened, feeling left out of the exchange.    

‘The middle of Al-Andalus,’ Hugo replied.

‘And should be just a moderate ride for a great knight from the Holy land,’ Rosal remarked.

‘With a favourable wind we should travel by sea,’ Gondermar suggested.

Hugo nodded in agreement. ‘I can’t argue with that.’

In his early forties, Gondermar’s massive physique looked threatening, but his heart was truly gentle: kind to animals and strangers in equal amounts. He rarely smiled, and little was known of his reasons for joining the Brotherhood at Seborga, though there were rumours of a scandal involving the death of a woman in Al-Andalus.

Apparently, as a young man, he was knighted Gondermar de la Seo and during his installation at Seborga Priory, he had struck up a friendship with Brother Rosal who came from the same region.

In contrast to Gondermar, Rosal was a bundle of intellectual energy, his words often spilling out before his thinking was fully engaged. He was small and wily in stature but never devious. Some ten years younger than Hugo, his thinning hair was exaggerated by his monk’s tonsure. There was little doubt that his boundless knowledge and linguistic skills more than made up for his lack of physique.

At first sight, it was hard to believe upon the death of his father, when aged only seventeen, his noble uncle knighted him Rosal de Zaragoza. Then at eighteen, he took the vows of the monk and spent some fifteen years in Seborga monastery before meeting Abbot Bernard from Clairvaux. The meeting proved inspirational for Brother Rosal and thinking back, he distinctly remembered the young abbot saying to him, ‘Trust in God, and believe in me. One day you will be called upon to perform His will.’

It did not take long for Rosal and Gondermar to gather information about Al-Ghazali. They took up the white robe of the Cistercian monk and the four of them commenced their secret mission to find Felek Thani.

Deciding to follow the coast by boat proved to be a wise move. The weather was kind, and even though they hugged the coast and called in at numerous ports on the way to Al-Andalus, it was less arduous than travelling on foot. 

They left the boat at Valencia and bought horses to take them within two days of Toledo. With the determination of a good penitent, Hugo insisted they should enter the city on foot, saying it was better to be treated as monks rather than knights.

He was proven correct.

Acting as pilgrims, the church doors of the towns and villages were opened and the munificence of the people was evident as they freely gave food and lodgings. What surprised them most was the charity shown by the Muslim towns and communities that genuinely appreciated the task of all pilgrims that aspired to reach Toledo, whatever their doctrine.

Weeks later, as they entered the gates of Toledo, each of them dressed in the white habit; no one could have believed they were four knights, each with their own unique tales of kinship, bloodshed and battle.

It was common knowledge that the Islamic library in Toledo had the most magnificent collection of books in the world and when they saw the contents for the first time, they agreed it was truly a wonder to behold. Gondermar and Rosal were easily distracted by the treasure trove of cultural delights and it took all of Hugo’s patience to sharpen their focus to the task in hand.

The days and nights ran into weeks and months. Pouring over the reams of records and written accounts. They would eagerly enter open discussion with the Council of Muslim Imams and scholars who ran a strict regime at the library. It occurred to Hugo that every enquiry regarding Al-Ghazali led to a convenient dead end. Yes, they knew of him but no books were listed under his name, certainly not one called Felek Thani.

For many days Hugo had noticed an old Imam, shuffling between the shelves and always avoiding eye contact. One day while he was eating, Hugo sat next to him and begged him not to walk away. ‘Am I right in thinking you have been here many years?’

The man nodded.

‘They say the book we seek can change the world.’

The Imam raised his eyebrows. ‘Not all change is for the better’.

‘That is true. But surely the great works of Islam should be venerated by the world, not hidden on a dusty shelf.’

‘It is God’s will,’ the old man spoke gruffly.

‘I look around the world and see many wondrous things designed by God but built by man. His wonders should be adored by the world so all can see and believe in the one God. Only good can come from this book. Perhaps that is God’s will?’

The Imam stood up to leave the table. 

‘Do you think we will ever find it?’ Hugo asked.

‘Perhaps it was stolen. Sometimes men come disguised in a cloak of sweetness and light only to steal like a common thief. You should ask the custodian.’

‘You talk of thieves but what of Al-Ghazali? He dealt in books that were not his.’

The Imam looked as he was about to speak then turned his back. Hugo watched him go, before walking to the office of the custodian. The man appeared nervous and Hugo decided to ask him directly. ‘Do you know of any theft of books from the library?’ He watched as veil of embarrassment fell across his face.

‘There was a theft...a long time ago. A chest of books was stolen,’ the custodian admitted reluctantly.

Hugo persevered, trying to squeeze more information. ‘And who stole this chest.’

‘Stories circulated at the time of a Christian scholar who had been accused. He was known to have attended the centre of learning in the ancient Catalonian town of Vic that borders the province of Toulouse.’ The custodian was trembling with nerves as he spoke. ‘Please, the priest in Vic will help you discover the truth’.

It proved to be the only worthwhile lead they could glean from their hosts and they accepted the information in good faith. Departing Toledo, the disappointment weighed heavily on their shoulders.

The small town of Vic was some three hundred miles to the east, and the road began to test their stamina. The heat was unusually powerful for spring and after a week of treating blisters, Rosal and Gondermar broke ranks. They appeared one morning with four horses and without further comment they all mounted up. Hugo conceded there was little to be gained from persevering on foot.

A few days later they arrived at Vic to find the town was virtually complete in Roman architecture.

Rosal was particularly appreciative. ‘Of course, Vic is derived from the Latin Vicus meaning Roman settlement.’ His knowledge of history was becoming apparent and Hugo was astute enough to recognise its potential contribution to their quest.

They proceeded to the large whitewashed church in the centre of the sleepy town and were greeted enthusiastically by the priest. He was middle aged and balding with a girth that suggested he spent as much time eating as praying. Dutifully playing the host, he cheerfully brought bread and stew, and allowed the monks to sleep in the aisles of the bland, soulless church.

The next day he asked them why they were interested in looking at the records. When they told him they were looking for evidence of a theft from the library in Toledo, his mood changed dramatically.

‘Yes, there was a theft, many years ago. At the time no-one thought twice of securing Islamic literature. The blame fell squarely on a student from here but I cannot divulge his name…for fear of reprisal,’ he explained. He led them to a small study that held the records of scholars going back hundreds of years.

Hugo was intrigued. ‘Reprisal from whom?’

The priest leant forward and spoke in a hushed voice. ‘From Rome.’

Hugo hid his surprise and was quick to concoct a convincing story. ‘We are acting upon instructions from the Holy Father. Therefore, you are obliged to help us in any way you can.’ Under his breath, he promised God he would always tell the truth in future.

The priest hesitated. He rubbed his beard and spoke a few words of prayer, then proceeded to scour through a row of dusty ledgers that filled three shelves. Muttering to himself, he eventually found the one he was looking for and soon found the relevant page. The priest stabbed at the name written in bold print and underlined.

‘Bishop Atton 960-972 AD.’

‘You understand that this bishop was a great teacher and greatly respected. The one you seek was one of his most famous students.’ The priest seemed reluctant to say the name. He whispered. ‘Gerbert of Aurillac.’ 

‘Saints preserve us,’ Rosal exclaimed. ‘Gerbert of Aurillac!’

They all looked at each other.

The priest was eager to continue. ‘No crime was proven you understand. No doubt, he saw the importance of the works contained in the Toledo library and thought it best to keep them in Christian hands. Soon after the theft was reported, he left for a monastery, no doubt to reflect on his sins. Some time later he left for Rome …as you know.’

Hugo sat back deep in contemplation while digesting the revelations. ‘So he took the chest, full of books, to which monastery?’   

‘I don’t know but I can find the letter with the name of the monastery.’ The priest disappeared into another room and Rosal sidled up to Hugo and whispered. ‘Do you know who Gerbert was?’

‘Of course I do.’

When the priest returned with another book, he quickly found the letter pasted to one of the pages. For the benefit of the visiting monks, he read the passage out loud. There was no ambiguity. Gerbert wrote he was on his way to the Isle de Lerins off the coast of Antibes. The priest turned over the page where another letter written two months later, confirmed Gerbert was installed as a serving monk at the Abbey of Lerins.

‘Quite an outstanding character, from what I have read,’ Rosal commented for the benefit of the priest. He looked blankly at Hugo.

Shaking his head, Hugo held his head in his hands, the blood drained from his face. ‘You said all this happened around nine-sixty AD?’

The priest nodded to confirm the date.  

‘But Count Stephen-Henri was robbed over a hundred and thirty years later.’ He cursed under his breath and turned to the other knights. ‘The dates don’t fit. We are wasting our time.’

Walking out of the study, he wondered what on earth they were going to do next. The once fiery quest to find Felek Thani had been extinguished and gone cold. All they had discovered was a scandal.

Next morning as they prayed at the altar of the church, they heard the sound of a horse and wagon pull up outside. They stood in the church door and watched an escort of three horsemen dismount. From the rear of the wagon, they could see someone slowly descending the wooden steps. Hugo could not believe his eyes when he recognised the old Imam from Toledo. Giving a respectful bow, Hugo led him into the shade of the vestibule and offered a goblet of water and a chair. Hugo asked the others to provide water for the escort.

Obviously the journey had proved arduous and when he was ready, Hugo let the Imam do all the talking, .

‘Since listening to your words I have had much to contemplate. You understand the custodian and the other Imams are reluctant to bend to the word of a Christian monk. For many years we have been stigmatised for our trust and will not let the same happen again.’ The Imam took another sip of water. ‘I take it you know the name of the thief?’

‘Yes I do,’ Hugo confirmed. ‘And despite his illustrious name, I am ashamed by his alleged actions.’

The Imam seemed surprised by Hugo’s humility. ‘Al-Ghazali paid for the book in good faith, he did not realize it was stolen from your count.’

‘And I believe Gerbert was acting in the best interests of his fellow scholars when he took the chest from Toledo for safe-keeping.’ 

The Imam gave a thin smile at the impasse they had reached. ‘If you were to find the chest, you will see it returned to the library?’   

Hugo hesitated at the level of commitment he was prepared to give but sensed the Imam had something to offer. ‘If it were God’s will to lead us to the chest then His will may well require its safe return to the rightful owners.’

The Imam deliberated over the words and knew he would not receive a better response. He called out to a clerk who was waiting in the wagon and they waited while he climbed down, carrying a satchel. He handed it to Hugo. ‘I give you this for the glory of Allah and Islam, not for your own glory.’

Hugo glanced inside the satchel. Inside lay a tightly bound book. ‘It is Felek Thani?’

The Imam nodded. ‘Delivered from your from your church in Antioch. It belongs with the books in the chest. Find the chest and all will become clear.’ The Imam smiled then stood up. ‘Please don’t let me regret my actions.’

Hugo bowed his head. ‘We are all in God’s hands now.’

The clerk helped the Imam back to the wagon and Hugo turned to the other knights. ‘It appears our quest is not over after all.’

The pages of the book Felek Thani were tightly bound with leather straps and Rosal needed all his dexterity to keep them from curling. Everyone was taking pages away and the scrolls were in danger of being damaged.

His patience broke. ‘Listen. Give me some space and time to press the pages flat. Then Gondermar will help me decipher each page in turn and see if the whole book forms a pattern or gives an instruction.’

Hugo agreed. ‘There are too many hands at work. Let us leave it to Rosal and Gondermar.’

Three hours past before they emerged from the church; eyes squinting in the bright light. Approaching Hugo, Rosal rubbed his eyes. ‘There is little more we can do, so I will explain what we have found so far.’

As they assembled around the table inside the church, the priest arrived with fresh water and bread.

Hugo thanked him. ‘You are most kind and we are grateful for the sustenance. It will help us with our private prayers, in our hour of need.’ The priest understood and reluctantly closed the door behind him.

Rosal placed the first page in front of them. ‘Most of pages are written in Phoenician, an extremely difficult language. The first page is an introduction to geometry, the likes of which we have never seen before. The mathematics is beyond my comprehension and the man who wrote this was obviously a genius.’

He turned over to page two. ‘From now on each page deals with a particular aspect of architecture. Diagrams, graphs, and calculations; each with a notation. Here in the top corner you see this concave shape with the number one inside.’ Rosal then laid out the next five pages. ‘Each page has a new set of calculations and notes and a consecutive number in the corner. Six numbered pages of calculations and geometric progressions. The last three pages have no corner numbers. But they seem to explain the enlightenment of geometry in harmony with nature.  There are notations to many other subjects...it is all connected…’

There was an indifferent silence from the brother knights.

Hugo sought to understand. ‘So you are saying these papers could be  important but as to the meaning, we are completely out of our depth.’

Rosal tried to regain some initiative. ‘Well I believe in the right hands they will provide an important reference key to whatever denotes the pages ‘one to six’.

The Imam stated that these pages ‘belong’ with the chest that was taken by Gerbert of Aurillac. So God willing, therein lies the continuation of our quest.’

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the brothers talked amongst themselves. Rosal stood next to Hugo. ‘I suppose it is  ill-advised to refer to Gerbert of Aurillac by his God given name.’

Hugo gave half a smile. ‘Until we know the truth, we shall keep his true name a secret. Who are we to judge the alleged thief of the chest who became Pope Sylvester II.’

Chapter 3

Isle de Lerins

Travelling hundred of miles, into to the heart of Al Andalus, their original quest was officially complete. But Rosal was positive the book Felek Thani was only a key to something even more important and Hugo was compelled to agree. Now they were on course to the Isle de Lerins, only two miles off the port of Canua; only a few miles south of Seborga. The quest had come full circle.  

Their arrival by boat at the abbey caused quite a stir. When Hugo told the monks they were on a mission instigated by Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux, the acting abbot was delighted to offer his hospitality. It always surprised Hugo that the mention of Bernard’s name carried such weight as far as a small island in the Great Sea.

The monks were temporarily without an abbot, but when asked, Joseph was delighted to enlighten Hugo and the knights with the story of their most famous brother. For more than a hundred years, Gerbert of Aurillac had been venerated by generations of monks.

‘Firstly, I must explain that this island was long ago attributed with the story that Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea landed here after journeying from the Holy Land. Some even espouse that they carried with them the blood of Christ. As a consequence, the island has always had an attraction for pilgrims and men of God.’

Rosal looked at Hugo and raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘It’s quite common for many ports along this coastline to promote that fable…for the sake of the pilgrims, of course.’

Joseph was not put off by Rosal’s insensitive remarks. He continued. ‘Four hundred years after the birth of Christ the abbey was founded by Saint Honoratus and was quickly established as one of the most important in Christendom. Since then, many churches and chapels have been established all over the island and noblemen have continued to endow the abbey.’

Listening to Joseph, Hugo detected a sense of pride that was unusual for a monk.

‘The historical prestige ensured an influx of new monks and about a hundred years ago Gerbert of Aurillac was one such monk. His residence at Lerins lasted but a few years but his contribution was evident from the beginning. In addition to his great knowledge, he particularly liked the gardens, where he grew exotic fruits and rare herbs that were unheard of at the time. His fellow monks described him as a bookworm because of his phenomenal appetite for reading and collecting books.’

Knowing glances passed between Hugo and the knights.

Joseph continued to enthuse over Gerbert’s influence among scholars and theologians on his travels across all of Christendom. ‘His  study of the celestial heavens was unrivalled. He demonstrated the movement of