by Paul Doherty
‘How long have you known this?’ Philip asked.
‘Only recently. Only when I began to reflect. I also did a scrutiny of the villagers. Do you know, Father, in many ways Scawsby is a most fortunate place? Even the great plague hardly touched it whilst famine and murrain are strangers. We are well away from both highways and other towns so Scawsby survives. However, I went through the parish registers: there’s a pattern I have described. A young man marries, his young wife gives birth and then dies. Father, I know women die in childbirth yet I wonder, I really do, if there is a curse on Scawsby. Not on the village, but on those particular families who were involved in that treacherous attack on the Templars and the theft of their gold.’
Philip stared round the hall. In his training as a priest he had attended the schools in Cambridge and, when studying Theology, Philip had taken more than a passing interest in Demonology, the involvement of Satan and his angels in the fall of man. Philip did not believe in the silly stories or old wives’ tales. He took the cynical view that Satan and his legions worked in more subtle ways. Moreover, in this situation, who and where was the evil? The good Templars who had been plundered and destroyed, or the men who had carried out such a bloodthirsty assault? What if this was God’s justice at work rather than any diabolical game?
‘Isolda can’t die,’ Montalt grated. ‘I am not an old man fuddled in my wits, Father; and, before you offer, I spoke to some of the other priests years ago: you can bless this house, Henry and Isolda until the crack of doom, it won’t do any good.’
Philip leaned his arms on the table. ‘If I go to the bishop,’ he began slowly, ‘he wouldn’t believe it. Lord Richard, isn’t there any clue? Any key to all this mystery?’
‘Come, I’ll show you.’
He almost dragged Philip by the arm and led him out of the hall. In the distance Philip could hear Stephen and the rest laughing and talking. Montalt lit a lantern and took the priest into the kitchen. He opened a small door at the far end.
‘This leads to the cellars,’ he declared. ‘When Grandfather lost his wits, he used to hide here. He’d spend his day in a small chamber built in a cellar.’
He led Philip down the steps. The walls on either side were white-washed, the tunnel thin and narrow as a needle. Montalt opened the lantern and lit the sconce torches fixed high in the wall. Wheezing with exertion and muttering under his breath, the old soldier took his guest further down the passageway. He opened a door and they entered a mean, narrow cell. It had no windows and, when the torches were lit, all Philip saw was an old table, a chair and a battered chest. Cobwebs hung like drapes in the corners. Lord Richard took Philip across.
‘Look at this, Father.’
Montalt held the torch up. Philip made out the scratches which were carved there. His blood ran cold. Whoever had drawn these was a tortured soul: they had been hacked into the plaster with a knife. ‘George Montalt’ was scrawled a number of times, as if the long-dead knight had been trying to remember his own name, as if he was clinging to the last vestiges of sanity. The other markings were disjointed: ‘Spectantes, the Watchers’, ‘Jesus miserere’, ‘May Jesus have mercy on me.’ Then the name ‘Veronica’ carved a number of times.
‘Who was she?’ Philip asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Lord Richard replied. ‘There’s never been a woman in our family called Veronica. The only one I know is the saint who wiped Jesus’ face as he made his way to Calvary.’
‘These numbers?’ Philip asked. ‘Six and fourteen, quite distinct?’
Again Lord Richard shook his head. Philip grasped the lantern and studied the rest of the wall. His apprehension deepened as he made out the eyes, similar to the ones painted on the pillars of the church, and that phrase which now beat like a drum throughout this whole mystery: ‘SPECTAMUS TE, SEMPER SPECTAMUS TE.’
‘Does it mean anything to you, Father?’
Philip shook his head. ‘Nothing at all. Lord Richard, what was this treasure the Templars were supposed to be carrying?’
‘Father, I can only guess, as can you: precious plates, gems, cups, a veritable king’s fortune. If the old wives’ tales are to be believed.’
‘Now, here’s a strange thing,’ Philip declared, handing the lantern back. ‘I know a little about the Templars. They were fighters, monks and priests. The allegations against them were spurious: they were accused of worshipping a disembodied head, practising sodomy and magical rituals. In truth, it was all a pack of lies put together by the Pope and others as an excuse to destroy the Order.’
Philip sat down on a chair as he tried to recall what he had read in the chronicles at Cambridge.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he continued. ‘Their Grand Master at the time, Jacques de Molay, was burnt in front of Notre Dame. He publicly cursed the architects of his downfall: King Philip of France and Pope Clement V. As the fires were lit around him, de Molay summoned Philip and Clement to appear before God’s tribunal within a year and a day of his own death.’
‘And that happened?’ Lord Richard asked.
‘Oh yes. Both Clement and Philip died. A dreadful judgement must have befallen them.’
‘But what has this got to do with the problem at Scawsby?’
Philip rubbed his face. He was tired after the wine. His mind was rather fuddled but he knew, deep in his heart, that if he wished to serve the people of Scawsby, he had to confront this silent, lurking menace.
‘Lord Richard, I don’t boast. I am a scholar as well as a priest. Aristotle teaches us that there must be a logic to everything.’
‘But there’s no logic to curses, to ghosts?’
‘No.’ Philip shook his head. ‘That’s what’s missing from this, the logic of it all. Let us accept that the legend is fact: we have a group of Templars, guarding their treasure, fleeing through the wilds of Kent. They are ambushed and killed, their treasure is taken off them. Now the Templars’ souls go before God. Oh yes, they died terrible deaths. They were murdered but, Lord Richard, not a day passes without good men being murdered. Moreover, the Templars died the way they wanted to, struggling to protect their Order, fighting against evil.’
‘So, why the curse? Why did Romanel and Grandfather George go witless?’
Philip grasped the old man’s hand and squeezed it. He had taken an immediate and very deep liking to this old manor lord, this bluff soldier who could face the French but was terrified that his beautiful daughter-in-law might die before her time.
‘See this as a puzzle, Lord Richard,’ Philip insisted. ‘As I have said, every day good men and women, even children, are murdered for gold. Yet the kingdom is not full of ghosts striving for vengeance. No, on the night these Templars died, something else happened. What it was I don’t know but it is something which must be put right.’
Lord Richard looked at this sharp-featured priest. He cupped Philip’s face in his great hands. ‘I’m glad you came here, Father,’ he said softly. ‘You believe me. You know there is something here which has to be confronted. I believe you are right.’ He moved the lantern and put it on the table. ‘Look at the table top.’
The priest did so. There were fresh carvings, the same word time and time again. REPARATION! REPARATION! REPARATION!
‘Did he make reparation?’ Philip asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Lord Richard replied. ‘In the year before he died Grandfather drew up his will: there’s nothing extraordinary in it except he left a rich bequest to the Hospitallers, another crusading order, to help them in their fight against the infidel. He also paid good silver to the priests throughout Kent to sing Masses for the souls of those he had wronged. He gave money to the poor . . .’
‘But,’ Philip intervened, ‘apparently that was not enough. Is there anything else, Lord Richard?’
The old knight shook his head. ‘Philip, you know as much as I do,’ he replied. ‘You see, my grandfather or old Romanel never wrote anything down. How could they? The king’s commissioners came to Scawsby looking for the Templars’ t
reasure. They went away empty-handed but can you imagine what would have happened if Grandfather and Romanel had been convicted of this offence? The Templars were a condemned order. All their property belonged to the Crown. Grandfather George would have faced charges of murder, robbery and treason. He would not only have lost his life but the Montalts would have forfeited everything to the Crown. Grandfather had to remain silent.’
‘Lord Richard! Lord Richard!’ Isolda called from the top of the cellar. ‘For goodness’ sake, what are you doing down there?’
‘Showing our visitor my fine wines.’ The old knight winked at Philip. ‘We are coming up now.’ He grasped Philip’s shoulder. ‘Solve this mystery,’ he whispered. ‘Save us all, Father, and I’ll build as many churches as you want!’
Philip, Edmund and Stephen left a short while later. Darkness had fallen. They refused Lord Richard’s offer to stay overnight but gratefully accepted his offer of two servants to go before them carrying torches. The night was cold but the sky was cloud-free and they soon found themselves back at the priest’s house. Philip gave each of the torch-bearers a coin. They then led the horses to the back, put them in the stables and entered the house by the small postern door at the rear. Roheisia and her son had long gone. The fire in the kitchen had been banked down but the place was clean and swept, the table laid out for the morning meal.
‘We’ll not say a dawn Mass,’ Philip declared. ‘Let’s wait till the men come in from the fields at mid-morning.’ He tapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘We’ll concelebrate together.’
Philip sat down on a stool in front of the fire. Edmund murmured that he was tired. Philip just nodded. He was listening to the house, watching for any sign, any sound, but the place was silent, save for a creaking of timbers and the noise of Edmund dragging himself up the stairs, opening and closing the chamber door above. Stephen came and sat beside him.
‘Do you think Lord Richard will support the new church?’ the master mason asked.
‘I think so. But, as you know, Stephen, there’s a mystery here.’
‘Legends,’ the master mason scoffed. ‘Old wives’ tales. We come from the schools of Cambridge. Oh, I am not being a heretic. I believe in God, his angels and the kingdom of heaven but I have heard the stories about Templar treasure, there’s nothing to it. What I am interested in is bricks and mortar, plans to build a new church. By all means look after your parishioners, humour Lord Richard but we should strike whilst the iron’s hot. Tomorrow, Philip, let’s go out to High Mount.’
‘Are you sure you want to be here, Stephen?’
Stephen rubbed his hands together. ‘Philip, you are my friend. Oh, I have worked as a master mason at Westminster, at Smithfield, in Cripplegate, but to build your own church!’ Stephen got to his feet. ‘That’s the fulfilment of a dream.’ He walked to the door, then came back. ‘But a man has to live, Philip. Who will pay for the church?’
‘I understand the parish has revenues,’ Philip replied. ‘But Lord Richard is a generous lord: the stone can be cut locally and Scawsby is not short of labourers.’
‘Then it’s time we began. Good night, Philip.’
Stephen clapped his friend on the shoulder and went up to his chamber. For a while Philip just sat staring into the dying embers of the fire. It had been an eventful day but he kept remembering two faces: the agony in Lord Richard’s, and Isolda’s merry-eyed looks. He got up and walked to the front door. He paused with his hand on the latch and went out, bracing himself against the night air. Philip walked through the small side gate and into the cemetery. It was bitterly cold: the branches of the yew trees moved slowly in the night wind. The silence was deathly. Philip stared around. In the faint moonlight he could make out the crosses and headstones towering against the dark mass of the church. He was about to turn away when he heard the first whisper, like a breeze carrying the words of someone far away. Philip paused, clenching his hands. He’d heard the words, ‘Spectamus, We are watching’, but was that his imagination? He glared towards the church as if the building was responsible for these fears, these nightmares. He was about to turn away when he saw the glow of light from a window: someone was inside the nave, moving about with a torch or lantern. Philip thought of calling for Edmund or Stephen but, feeling slightly ridiculous, he walked across to the church, took the key from his pouch and opened the corpse door at the side. Philip fought against the sense of dread, of dark foreboding. Once inside he could see no light, no torch, no lantern. Narrowing his eyes, he could make out the pillars, the dark mass of the rood screen and the great oblong shape of the Montalt tomb. Richard took a few steps forward: the sound was like someone clapping. He stared through the rood screen, glimpsed the red sanctuary light and took comfort from it. He remembered the opening verse of Vespers: ‘Oh God, come to my aid. Lord make haste to help me!’ He repeated the words as he walked towards the sanctuary but froze as he heard a voice whisper back: ‘I will go unto the altar of god, the God who gives joy to my youth.’ Philip spun round, his hand going to the small dagger he kept in the sheath of his belt.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. ‘This is God’s house! In the name of the Lord Jesus . . . !’
‘Spectamus te! Semper spectamus te!’
‘Aye!’ Philip screamed back. ‘And I am watching you! I, Philip, priest of this church!’
Something was moving at the bottom of the church. Philip drew his knife and ran towards the main door but there was nothing. He heard a sound behind him. He spun round, moaned in terror and dropped the knife. Eyes, like burning coals, glared at him through the darkness.
Words between the pilgrims
‘Heavens above!’ Mine Host exclaimed. ‘Sir Priest, you tell a frightening tale!’
‘Is it true?’ The Summoner edged nearer the fire, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as if he expected some sprite or goblin to jump through the door of the ruined church.
‘Pilate asked: “What is truth?”’ the Poor Priest declared. ‘He did not receive an answer but Christ said he was the Truth, so I leave that matter to him.’
‘But ghosts?’ the Pardoner mocked. ‘Do you really believe in ghosts?’
‘I believe in ghosts,’ the Wife of Bath spoke up from where she sat on the cushions on the far side of the fire, her great cloak pulled around her. ‘In my pilgrimage to Cologne, I and my companions,’ she simpered, ‘had to take refuge in a castle high in the mountains: Falkenstein Castle. Yes, that’s what it was called.’
‘I have been there,’ Sir Godfrey intervened. ‘When I fought with the Teutonic knights in Prussia.’
‘In which case, sir, you know my story,’ the Wife of Bath retorted. ‘A dreadful place.’ She continued in a hoarse whisper, ‘The good Count allowed us to sleep in the hall. He told us that, once the doors were locked and barred, we were to ignore anything we heard or saw.’
‘And what did you see?’ the Summoner joked.
He stood up, clawing at his codpiece. He rearranged his cloak on the ground but, in doing so, made an obscene gesture in the direction of the Wife of Bath.
‘Don’t you get filthy with me!’ she screeched, half rising to her feet. ‘I knocked three husbands flat on their backs. I’ll do the same to you!’
‘Come, come!’ Mine Host intervened. ‘We were talking about ghosts!’
‘A terrible night,’ the Wife of Bath continued, glaring across at the Summoner. ‘Roaring all around us! Strange lights could be seen through the windows! Knocking on the door! Running footsteps and dragging chains! In the morning we asked our host what was the matter: he took us up into the tower. It was summer but, I tell you this, good sirs and ladies, that place was the coldest on God’s earth. At the top of the tower was a chamber, all bare and white-washed, its floorboards painted black. In the centre of the room was a four-poster bed with a large tester, a canopy stretching up to the ceiling. One of our party lay on the bed and the Count then showed us how, if he pulled a secret lever, a swinging axe would come down over the bed and slice
whoever slept on it. Then he pulled another lever, hidden behind the arras, and trapdoors opened on either side of the bed.’
‘Oh heaven save us!’ Dame Eglantine the Prioress broke in. ‘So, if you weren’t cut to ribbons on the bed, you fell to your death in the oubliette?’
‘Oh yes,’ the Wife of Bath replied. ‘A horrifying death. The Count explained how one of his ancestors used to butcher pilgrims who dared to stay at the castle. The terrible noises we heard were their ghosts who, at night, wailed through the castle looking for vengeance.’
The Wife of Bath would have continued but Sir Godfrey grabbed her wrist. She looked across to where the Poor Priest was standing, staring into the darkness, as if he had seen something and had forgotten all about them.
‘Do you think this is true?’ she whispered.
‘Good mistress, I think it is. I know Scawsby and I have met the Montalt family on many occasions.’
‘Hush now!’ The Ploughman, who had overheard them, lifted a hand. ‘Sir Godfrey, let my brother finish his tale.’
‘It’s true,’ the Cook spoke up.
Everyone looked at him. Usually the Cook was one of their more boisterous colleagues, ready to joke and parry with Mine Host or the Miller. However, since they had arrived at the church, he had become cowed. Indeed, he spent most of his time peering at the Poor Priest and his brother as if he couldn’t decide whether he recognised them or not.
‘It’s true,’ he repeated.
The Poor Priest abruptly broke from his reverie. He glanced at the Cook who now sat feverishly scratching the sore on his leg.