by P. L. Snow
‘The horrors through which you have passed are as nothing compared to the horrors that await you,’ Michael was told. He was blindfolded again, and the curtain was lifted. Michael found himself aware through his blindfold that he was in a brightly lit room. The brotherhood was all present.
The hierophant stood before him. Michael strove to recall the words of the catechism that now was to be read out to him.
‘Whence come you?’
‘From Judea.’
‘Which way did you come?’
‘By Nazareth.’
‘Of what tribe are you descended?’
‘Judah.’
‘Give me the four initials.’
‘I.N.R.I.’
‘What do these letters signify?’
‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’
‘Do they signify anything else?’
‘Iabash, Nuor, Ruach, Iam.’
‘Do you know what these words mean?’
Iabash is the body, fed by the daily bread. Iam is the life, and we ask for forgiveness of our life’s debts. Ruach is the soul that must be kept from temptation, and Nuor is the spirit, that must be shielded from evil.’
‘Brother,’ cried the hierophant in a ringing voice, ‘the Word is found. The stone that the builders refused has become the cornerstone of the temple. Let him be restored to light.’
The blindfold was removed. There were no more horrors to be met here. He was in a room that was not in the chapel to which he had been brought. The brotherhood clapped their hands three times, and uttered a loud cheer at each clap.
The mood in the room became more relaxed. Michael was led out of the room by the hierophant, and along a corridor, and into the chilly dawn. He did not look behind him to see where he had come from, but he was led up a hillside towards the chapel where much of the ceremony that he had undergone had taken place. They entered, and the hierophant took him along the north side of the building, to a carving of an angel in the bottom right corner of the window. The angel held a book closed tight against his breast.
‘There are secrets which must be kept,’ said the hierophant. ‘A lid must be placed on the chalice to keep the wine pure. Is that how you read the carving?’
‘I see that,’ said Michael, ‘and that the book must be kept close to my heart.’
This conversation had had no rehearsal.
‘Look up,’ said the hierophant, and Michael looking up saw a cross carved in the ceiling, like the many that were carved in the side aisles, but this one had a rose at its centre.
‘What does the cross mean to you?’ the hierophant asked. Michael was still looking up at it. Finally he lowered his gaze to meet the old man’s grey eyes.
‘The cross signifies the four elements of which the world is made. But this cross is grailed, the half circles cut all along the cross-pieces are like cups to be filled with the holy blood, just as the world is the bearer of the blood of the great deed of sacrifice.’
‘And the rose?’
‘The rose appearing at the centre of the cross is a sign of the achievement of the Grail. The body, soul and spirit are so transformed that the blood bears new life, and powers of healing.’
‘Yes. It is the flower that blooms only in the darkness of the sanctuary of initiation. It was an object of veneration in Ancient India, in Egypt and in Greece in the olden time. The cross, too, long before it became the sign of the Grand Architect, was the symbol for the world; the four elements coming together at the behest of the gods to create our world.’
He coughed and pursed his lips.
‘You were promised further horrors, and yet were given a welcome into the brotherhood. Do you understand this?’
Michael thought for a moment before answering.
‘What I went through during the process of initiation was to prepare me for the real dangers on the grail path.’
The old man nodded. He walked towards the pillar in the south east of the chapel, a column carved with garlands wreathed round it in a spiral, their roots each in the mouth of a carved dragon. His age-crooked fingers gently stroked the nearest garland.
‘You have taken some strong and binding oaths. Do you wish this transformation?’
Michael looked up at the rose carved in the centre of the cross again.
‘I do,’ he said fervently. ‘I do.’
‘The way is long and hard, and beset with doubt, disappointment; even enmity. Do you truly wish it?’
‘How can the way be otherwise? Yes. I wish it.’
‘The task is to rebuild the temple within yourself. Do you understand this?’
‘I am at the beginning of my understanding of it. No more than that.’
The hierophant led Michael outside, and to the eastern wall. There they sat together on a stone bench; part of the fabric of the building. They sat in silence, gazing eastwards, watching the sky gradually grow lighter. A little way before them the ground fell away into a deep glen. Michael could smell the water of a river at the foot, though he could see nothing under the tree canopy, where the shadows of night were still gathered. The hierophant pointed to a star in the east.
‘Do you know the name of that star?’
‘Of course; it is Venus.’
‘When she is the Morning Star, she draws a shape in the heavens, above where the sun rises, in the shape of a horn. When she is the Evening Star, she draws a similar shape in the heavens in the west, after the sun has set. Do you know what we call these horns, east and west?’
Michael remained silent. A breeze ran through the trees of the glen, turning the leaves. It was just light enough to see the different shades of the upper and lower sides of the leaves. The old man turned his grey eyes to him again, and in the growing light, Michael saw how they were strangely youthful.
‘We call them the Horns of Isis,’ he said. ‘Our temple here sits cradled between the Horns of Isis.’
Michael waited, feeling sure that he had something more to say. Sure enough, the old man spoke again.
‘When the rose truly appears at the centre of the cross, Isis is no longer widowed.’
Michael turned all of a sudden, startled. His guide stood at his left shoulder, offering him his sword.
‘We should go,’ he said. ‘Two men on one horse might cause a wheen o’ blethers. We should be away before the day starts.’
Michael strapped on his sword, and followed him to where the horse was tethered, quietly cropping the grass in the dawn. The topmost folds of the Pentland Hills were already turning gold with the morning light. Birdsong filled the air all around them. He turned once to wave farewell to the hierophant, but he was still gazing into the eastern sky. Of the rest of the brotherhood he saw no trace.
20. The Last of the Templars
‘Of course,’ Sir Arthur de la Haye said, his voice echoing in the ancient chapel, ‘one of the things that the Templars were accused of was recruiting men into their ranks who simply were not worthy of the name Templar. Such men brought the whole Order into disrepute. Some even say that it brought about their downfall.’
The small group that he was guiding nodded wisely, except the little Frenchman, whose face grew troubled.
‘The first secular building that the Templars ever constructed was over there, at the village of Temple. The village was called Balantrodoch before that. The name means: “The Place of the Warrior”.’
The little group craned round, as though expecting to see the rooftops of Temple appear inside the chapel walls.
‘Just the sort of chaps we could have done with at Sebastopol,’ said the ex-military man. ‘Warriors, I mean.’
Sir Arthur, who had not served in the Crimea, left the remark unanswered.
‘Now, we’ve seen the various signs of the Templars in the chapel,’ he continued, his voice echoing among the rosy-pink and honey-coloured stones of the building. ‘The Agnus Dei over there; the face on the Veil of Saint Veronica here, and so on. Now I’d like to point out the floriated cross, which we
see here, in the ceiling of the north and south aisles.’
He pointed with his stick of Indian ivory, and the little group dutifully looked where he indicated; except a small, dark-haired, nervous-looking man, who watched Sir Arthur closely, with an expression of something like desperate hope. It was not warm in the ancient building. Strong draughts blew in through the cracked and broken glass of the windows, rustling the grasses and weeds that had seeded themselves in the dusty cracks and crevices within the chapel. The moss had grown so thick on some of the carvings of plants that it was impossible to tell at a glance which was living growth, and which the stone.
‘Now I want to show you something else, if you’ll come with me.’
The group followed Sir Arthur to the north side of the chapel. He stood under a lintel draped with dusty black cobwebs. They squinted in the dim light up into the corner where he pointed his stick.
‘It’s very dark, but perhaps, I don’t know, can you just make out a man here, and a dog that he has on a leash? We ought to have a bull’s eye lantern here, eh?’
They craned forward. The old soldier, narrowing his eyes, drawled: ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Where?’ asked a young woman, raising herself on tiptoes. ‘Oh! Oh yes! I see it now.’
‘That carving represents the Pope, Clement the Fifth as a blind man, being led by Philippe the Fair, the King of France, here shown as a dog. I wish to cause no offence to our French guest, of course.’
Sir Arthur looked at the little man, who shook his head vigorously.
‘Ah, non non non! No offence at all, I assure you.’
He spoke as if he had a great deal more to say on the matter, but held himself back.
‘You’ll remember that the Knights Templar, since their humble beginnings in the year 1118, had become a powerful and highly respected Order of monastic knights. They so impressed King David the First that he made them …’
He broke off as a wiry, prematurely aged woman called to him from the door: ‘Ah’m no wantin fur tae interrupt ye, nor nothing, Sir Arthur, but ah’ve mah man’s denner tae get, ye ken? It’s no fur masel that ah’m askin, ken.’
‘All right, Nettie, all right,’ Sir Arthur went to the door where she stood, and reached into his pocket, and took out a coin that he hoped was a shilling, but was afraid was a sovereign, and put it discreetly into her hand.
‘Now, Nettie, d’ye think your man’s dinner can wait a few more minutes?’
‘Ach, ah doot he’ll girn and complain, but it’s a sair fecht onywey,’ she said, smiling, and squirreling the coin into the folds of her shawl. ‘It’s a wee bit mair respect fur his betters he’s wantin, ah’m thinkin.’
‘Och, ye’re a good woman,’ Sir Arthur said, and returned to his guests.
He paused to regather his thoughts.
‘Yes, the Templars were great builders, farmers, bankers; and held in trust a considerable fortune. They had been the men that all sides trusted during the time of the Crusades, acting as middlemen between men of differing faiths who wished to do business with each other. Many of the architectural concepts and practices of the Gothic style were their own reworkings of what they had seen among the Mohammedans.’
This thought was received with interest, but a slight touch of distaste among some of the group.
‘Yes,’ said a young man. ‘I’d heard that they were the most frightful heretics! The Templars, I mean. They got up to all sorts of …’
He became aware of the young woman, and broke off, embarrassed. The Frenchman looked at Sir Arthur with a knowing smile. Sir Arthur hid his feelings, looking away into a far corner of the chapel.
‘They were accused, certainly, of a number of heretical practices, among other, er … But please remember that it was Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, the great Cistercian abbot, who made sure that the Order of the poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple were recognized by and affiliated to the Church of Rome.’
‘And, permit me …’ the Frenchman broke in, ‘these accusations were fabricated by those who wished to see the Knights of the Temple brought into disrepute.’ He looked apologetically at Sir Arthur. ‘I’m sorry. Please continue.’
‘As our friend says, these notions were put about by their enemies, though, of course, we cannot blink the fact that there were among them, men who were not worthy of the Order to which they belonged. Such people gave the whole Order a name for, well, for instance, heresy.’
Sir Arthur pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket, and looked towards the door, where Nettie sat, waiting for them to leave, so that she could lock the place up and go home to her chores. These people with a taste for the sensational! Well, after all, it was sensational; the tortures; the accusations of devil-worship extracted under the Inquisitor’s grim will; the slow roasting of the Grand Master of the Order: the prophecy he made before his death and its fulfilment. Yes, there were sensational details enough; and many not for a young woman’s ears. He drew a deep breath. It really was time to go. He had trespassed on the good nature of the caretaker of the chapel for too long, and he wished to maintain good relations with her.
‘Well, perhaps that is enough for one visit. I should be most happy to answer any questions that you may have …?’
The guests looked at each other. No, there were no questions. It had been a most interesting visit. They thanked Sir Arthur, and left the chapel, making for the nearby hotel, where a large fly waited to take them back to Edinburgh. Only the Frenchman remained behind, looking at the carving of a bearded man, holding an open book and pointing to a page.
‘The seventeenth chapter of the Gospel of John, I think? Known in some circles as the High Priestly Prayer,’ the Frenchman said. Sir Arthur looked carefully at his guest, and said: ‘Yes. I think you know rather a lot about the subject, Monsieur?’
‘Forgive me, Sir Arthur, but …’ the Frenchman replied, adding with something of an air of reciting a line of poetry, ‘can you tie a bow?’
Sir Arthur laughed aloud in surprise, and gave the answer: ‘As well as you.’
The masonic password given and answered; the word ‘bow’ capped with the word ‘as’. Their eyes strayed to ornate pillar at the eastern end of the chapel. It was sometimes referred to as the Boaz pillar, particularly in Masonic circles. They smiled, and their eyes met, Sir Arthur seeing his guest as if for the first time. Then the Frenchman spoke again.
‘Sir Arthur, I would like to talk to you, alone, at your convenience, if you would be so good.’
‘Well, I, er …Do you mean now, this minute?’
The Frenchman hesitated.
‘I must not impinge on your guests, or your so valuable time, but if now is convenient to you?’
Sir Arthur excused himself for a moment, leaving the little man looking intently at a carving by the north door of the Crucifixion. The cross was not elevated from the rest of the group around it, and only one cross was depicted. It was T-shaped.
‘Mais c’est la mort de Jacques de Molay, bon sang!’ he whispered aloud to himself. ‘Il ne s’agit pas du tout de la Crucifixion!’
He was dimly aware of the voice of Sir Arthur, bidding farewell to his guests. Sir Arthur, his guests now on their way down the road to the hotel nearby, saw the figure of Nettie, pacing to and fro on the grass outside the chapel, a small, chunky dudeen of a clay pipe clamped between her jaws, and her arms tightly folded against her low bosom under the shawl.
‘Look, Nettie, d’ye think you could trust me to lock the place up and deliver the key to your house myself? It’s just that the foreign gentleman here …’
She looked at him with wide and solemn eyes.
‘Oh, ah’m no very sure, Sir Arthur. It’s no me, y’unnerstaun; ah’d gie ye the key and welcome. But ah’ve the responsibility, ye see.’
Sir Arthur reached into his fob pocket for another coin, which he put carefully into her hand.
‘I’ll take the responsibility, Nettie. Don’t you worry yourself. I’ll lock up and bring the key myself to your
house. If there’s any trouble, I’ll bear the row; I’ve broad enough shoulders for the wrath of the Laird.’
‘Well, ah suppose yince’ll no dae ony herm. Mind and bring me that key when ye’re a’ feenished, but! It’s mair nor ma life’s worth tae loss it!’
She bustled away, her laughter showing no mirth, simply a wish not to offend. Sir Arthur joined the little man in the darkening shadows of the medieval building.
‘I think, Sir Arthur, that the democratic spirit is very strong in Scotland, yes?’
Sir Arthur resolutely did not think so.
‘Well, we like to think any man can look any other man in the eye, I suppose,’ he conceded, ‘regardless of rank or station.’
He looked the other in the eye, as if in confirmation. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s enjoy the last light outside.’
He carefully locked the door of the chapel, and pocketed the large key. He led the Frenchman to the eastern end of the chapel, where they sat. One star was already visible and bright.
‘I should tell you a little about myself, Sir Arthur. I am a Knight of the Temple.’
Sir Arthur said nothing, but briefly tensed and relaxed his arm and shoulder muscles.
‘Non non, I am not a lunatic, please assure yourself. For over a century now, a group of men has gathered in Paris to dedicate ourselves to the spirit of the Knights of the Temple, who were hunted out of existence in the fourteenth century. It was a quiet affair, as these things should be. But the great Voltaire, he wrote an article in defence of the Chevaliers du Temple of old to help to celebrate the refounding of the Order. We are a secular group, but we bind ourselves by the principles of the original Templier — how do you say?’
‘Templar.’
‘Precisely. Some of us even wear the cordon rouge, but for others, this is a little too much. Although …Well, well. We shall come to that’
Sir Arthur cleared his throat, wondering what we should come to, and nodded.