The pilgrim was received, after making sure he wasn’t one of the count’s spies, with Benedictine hospitality, simple, without any fuss, but practical. He went directly into the refectory, where the community was silently eating a spare meal while they listened, in quite imperfect Latin, to the exemplary life of Saint Ot, Bishop of Urgell who, they had just learned, was buried right there at the Santa Maria monastery. The sadness on the face of the thirty-odd monks perhaps reflected a longing for those happier days.
First thing the next morning, still dark, two monks began the trip north that would take them, in a couple of days’ time, to Sant Pere del Burgal, where they had to collect the Sacred Chest, oh infinite grief, because the little monastery way up high over the same river as the Santa Maria was left without monks on account of death.
‘What is the reason for your trip?’ he asked the father prior of La Sal, after the light meal, to be polite, strolling through the cloister that provided very little shelter from the cold northern air that came down the channel created by the Noguera.
‘I am searching for one of your brothers.’
‘From this community?’
‘Yes, Father. I have a personal message, from his family.’
‘And who is it? I’ll have him come down.’
‘Friar Miquel de Susqueda.’
‘We have no monk with that name, sir.’
Noticing the other man’s shudder, he waved one hand as if in apology and said this spring is turning out to be quite chilly, sir.
‘Friar Miquel de Susqueda, who once belonged to the order of Saint Dominic.’
‘I can assure you that he doesn’t live there, sir. And what sort of message did you have for him?’
Noble Friar Nicolau Eimeric, Inquisitor General of the Kingdom of Aragon, Valencia and the Majorcas and the principality of Catalonia, was lying on his deathbed in his monastery in Girona, watched over by twins, two lay brothers, who were keeping down his fever with a wet cloth and whispered prayers. The sick man straightened up when he heard the door opening. He noticed that he had trouble focusing his weak gaze.
‘Ramon de Nolla?’ Apprehensively, ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ said the knight, as he bowed in reverence before the bed.
‘Leave us alone.’
‘But, Your Excellency!’ protested the two brothers in unison.
‘I said leave us alone,’ he spat with a still frightful energy, but without shouting because he no longer had the strength. The two lay brothers, contrite, left the room without saying another word. Eimeric, sitting up in bed, looked at the knight: ‘You have the chance to complete your penitence.’
‘Praised be the Lord!’
‘You have to become the executing arm of the Holy Tribunal.’
‘You know that I will do whatever you order if that will earn me my pardon.’
‘If you fulfil the penitence I give you, God will forgive you and your soul will be cleansed. You shall no longer live in inner torment.’
‘That is all I wish for, Your Excellency.’
‘My former personal secretary in the tribunal.’
‘Who is he and where does he live?’
‘His name is Friar Miquel de Susqueda. He was condemned to death in absentia for high treason to the Holy Tribunal. This was many years ago, but none of my agents have succeeded in finding him. Which is why I’ve now chosen a man of war such as yourself.’
He began to cough, surely induced by the eagerness with which he spoke. One of the nurse brothers opened the door, but Ramon de Nolla didn’t think twice about slamming it in his face. Friar Nicolau explained that the fugitive wasn’t hiding in Susqueda, that he had been seen in Cardona, and an agent of the tribunal had even assured him that he’d joined the order of Saint Benedict but they didn’t know in which monastery. And he explained more details of his holy mission. And it doesn’t matter if I’ve died; it doesn’t matter how many years have passed; but when you see him, tell him I am your punishment, stick a dagger in his heart, cut off his tongue and bring it to me. And if I am dead, leave it on my grave, let it rot there as is the Lord Our God’s will.’
‘And then my soul will be free of all guilt?’
‘Amen.’
‘It is a personal message, Father Prior,’ the visitor had insisted, when they had arrived in silence to the end of the cold cloister at Santa Maria.
Out of Benedictine courtesy, since he was no danger, the noble knight was received by the father abbot, to whom he repeated I am looking for a brother of yours, Father Abbot.
‘Who?’
‘Friar Miquel de Susqueda, Father Abbot.’
‘We have no brother by that name. Why are you looking for him?’
‘It is a personal matter, Father Abbot. A family matter. And very important.’
‘Well, you have made the trip in vain.’
‘Before joining the order of Saint Benedict as a monk, he was a Dominican friar for some years.’
‘Ah, I know of whom you speak,’ said the abbot, cutting him off. ‘Yes … He is part of the community of Sant Pere del Burgal, near Escaló. Brother Julià de Sau was a Dominican friar long ago.’
‘Blessed be the Lord!’ exclaimed Ramon de Nolla.
‘You may not find him alive.’
‘What do you mean?’ said the noble knight, alarmed.
‘There were two monks at Sant Pere and yesterday we found out that one has died. I don’t know if it was the father prior or Brother Julià. The emissaries weren’t entirely sure.’
‘Then … How can I …’
‘And you’ll have to wait for better weather.’
‘Yes, Father Abbot. But how can I know if the surviving brother is the one I am searching for?’
‘I just sent two brothers to collect the Holy Chest and the surviving monk. When they return you will know.’
Silence, each man thinking his own thoughts. And the father abbot: ‘How sad. A monastery closing its doors after almost six hundred years of praising the Lord with the chanting of the hours each and every day.’
‘How sad, Father Abbot. I will head off on the path to see if I can catch up with your monks.’
‘There’s no need: wait for them. Two or three days.’
‘No, Father Abbot. I have no time to wait.’
‘As you wish, sir: they will get you there safely.’
With both hands he took the painting off the dining room wall and brought it over to the weaker light of the balcony. Santa Maria de Gerri, by Modest Urgell. Many families had a cheap reproduction of the last supper in their home; theirs was presided over by an Urgell. With the painting in his hand, he went into the kitchen and said Little Lola, don’t say no: keep this painting.