Later, as the sun began to sink into the green valley to the west, we sought and found a clearing in the forest a short distance from the road where we made camp for the night. We made a fire of fragrant pine branches and cooked a simple meal of pease porridge, and slept on beds of pine needles with the stars shining down through the gaps in the lightly sighing trees.
We rose at daybreak and continued on, arriving at our destination just as the monastery bell tolled vespers. The gates were still open, so we went in and presented ourselves to the porter. They were Greeks for the most part, but we had no difficulty making ourselves understood. Padraig told the porter that he was also a priest, and that we were on pilgrimage, returning from the Holy Land-whereupon the simple monk became excited and ran off to find the abbot.
Abbot Demitrianos was a kindly and gentle man, humble in manner and appearance, with a head of wavy dark hair and a beard with two grey streaks either side of his mouth. Like the brothers under his care he dressed in a simple black robe that covered him from just below the chin to the tips of his toes; and like all the others, he wore a black, brimless peaked cap sewn with a tiny white cross on the front over his brow. Around his neck he wore a wooden cross on a braided leather loop, and he carried a short wooden staff in his hand.
Demitrianos received us like cousins long lost and lamented, and graciously welcomed us to the monastery. He ordered the porter to prepare the guest lodge and said, 'We are honoured to have someone who has been to the Holy Land. Perhaps, if you are not too exhausted from your journey, you might speak to us of your pilgrimage tonight at supper.'
'We would be most happy to share news of our travels with you,' Padraig told him. 'I must tell you, however, that owing to a great misfortune we did not reach Jerusalem. If you hoped to hear word of the Holy City, I fear we must disappoint you.'
'It makes no matter,' the abbot replied. 'Many of us have never travelled so far as Lefkosia or Salamis, and some have never been beyond the next valley. I am certain that anything you can tell us of the wider world will be respectfully and gratefully received.'
The little monastery of Ayios Moni, the good abbot told us, was very old, the first monks having come from Byzantium over seven hundred years ago. 'Before that,' he said, 'there was a temple to the goddess Hera; our chapel is built on the old temple's foundations. It is an ancient and holy place.'
When Padraig expressed an interest in hearing more about the monastery, the abbot became our guide and led us to each of the buildings in turn and showed us the treasures of their brotherhood, including the small, much faded and, it must be said, extremely crude icon of the Virgin Mary, which was believed to have been painted by none other than Saint Luke the Evangelist. Upon viewing this marvel, I did feel as if I had beheld a thing of immense age and undeniable consequence.
Although I lack a proper appreciation of such things, I do freely confess, what impressed me most was not the plaintive image of the young woman with large dark, melancholy eyes, but rather the worshipful reverence with which the monks handled their priceless relic. Their loving veneration was heartfelt and deep, and it shamed the arrogant crusaders with their careless desecration of the True Cross. The manifold profanations heaped upon that holy object by those who should have been its protectors amounted to a gross and terrible sacrilege. The humble adoration of the monks renewed my resolve to keep the Black Rood as far from the Templars' grasping hands as I possibly could.
The monks of Ayios Moni lived a simple life of prayer and toil, growing crops and vegetables, raising chickens and sheep-which they freely gave to the poor who came daily to their gates to beg for food and clothing. They were skilled in the healing arts, a practice for which they were justly renowned, dispensing their potions and medicines far and wide as any had need. They also tended vines from which they produced a sumptuous wine they served to their guests. The wine was sweet and heavy, and was reputed to possess curative powers because it was grown on hallowed ground.
The rules of their order forbade speaking during meals, but in observance of our visit, this rule was relaxed during our visit to allow them to listen to Padraig and me describe our sojourn in the Holy Land. In truth, Padraig did all the talking, as his Greek was far more eloquent than my own rough expression and he knew precisely what his fellow monks wanted to hear. Thus, I sat with the abbot at the high table, drinking my wine and eating a delicious stew of lamb and barley, while Padraig stood at the pulpit normally occupied by the brother reading the evening's lesson. He spoke well, adorning his talk with finely-observed word portraits of the people and places we had seen. He told them about my captivity among the Seljuqs and Saracens, and my escape-making it sound much more courageous than it felt at the time-drawing many appreciative murmurs from his listeners. When he finished, the entire community-thirty-five or forty monks in all, I think-stood in his honour while the abbot thanked him with a special blessing.
Following the meal, we were invited to Abbot Demitrianos' lodge for a special drink before night prayers. We walked across the quiet monastery yard in the balmy twilight, and I felt the deep peace of the place enfold me in its soft, inescapable embrace. The abbot's house was little more than a bare cell, but it had a hearth and a fleece-lined bed, several chairs and a table, on which stood simple olivewood cups and an earthenware jar. The abbot invited us to sit and poured a pale, slightly cloudy white liquid into the cups, which he passed to Padraig and me. He placed the palm of his hand over his cup and blessed the drink, whereupon we imbibed the sweet fire of the Ayios Moni monks: a delectable honeyed nectar that soothed even as it warmed, beguiling the unwary with a delightful smoky taste before stinging the senses into a lucid and delectable dizziness.
After only a few sips, I felt large and expansive, friend and brother to all mankind. It was with great reluctance that I set aside my cup, but when talk turned to the reason for our visit, I feared I might lose the power of speech if I drank any more of the wonderful elixir.
'We have it on good authority,' I began, as the kindly abbot watched me dreamily over the rim of his cup, 'that your community excels in the making and copying of manuscripts.'
'It is,' replied Demitrianos, 'a task in which we have long experience. If some small fame has travelled beyond these walls, I am glad, for it means that God's praise likewise increases.'
'As you know,' said Padraig, 'we have just arrived in Cyprus from Egypt where Duncan was a prisoner for many months.'
'Yes,' nodded the abbot with benign admiration, 'you showed great fortitude and forbearance in your captivity,' he told me. 'Our Lord was surely with you.'
'While he was a guest of the caliph,' Padraig continued, 'he wrote of his experiences -'
'I thought I would not live to see my young daughter,' I explained, 'and wanted her to know what had happened to her father.'
'A thoughtful and commendable bequest,' mused the abbot loftily. 'A very labour of love, to be sure.'
'Unfortunately,' I continued, 'all my work was ruined.' I went on to tell him what had taken place in the escape from the caliph's palace, leaving out any mention of the raid on the treasure house and the rescue of the Holy Rood.
Abbot Demitrianos frowned and clucked his tongue. 'Regrettable, to be sure.' He reached for the jar and offered to refresh our cups. 'More alashi?' I declined, but Padraig succumbed. 'Still,' the abbot continued, tipping the jar into his own cup, 'your life has been redeemed, all praise to Our Great Heavenly Father, and that is of inestimable value to your dear little daughter.' He raised his cup and imbibed deeply of the potent drink.