He watched as the eight costumed men walked ever closer to the entrance of the church, located at the most western point of the monastery. Soon it would all begin, and he would enter.
The 23rd grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia would be laid to rest.
The abbot paused, the sound of over four hundred responses ringing in his ears. He lowered his head, placing his joined hands before his lips. As usual, he followed the procession, walking slowly along the centre aisle.
The procession scattered on reaching the front, each man heading to various sides of the altar.
The abbot was the last to approach. He stopped briefly on reaching the coffin. Alongside him, another monk carried the Holy Water.
‘In the waters of baptism, William died with Christ and rose with him to new life. May he now share with him eternal glory.’
Less than three metres away, Matt watched as the abbot finished sprinkling the coffin with Holy Water. As he did, a large monk approached from the altar, carrying the incense. For several seconds the sound of metal against metal resonated, accompanied by the heavily scented fragrance as the smoke rose toward the roof, inflaming the nostrils.
Inside, he felt shell-shocked. The heaviness of what seemed like a thousand footsteps on the hard floor, the clinking of the metal in a continuous pattern, the abbot’s voice – even the silence seemed to echo. Every time he heard a cough, the sound seemed to linger, as if it was trapped within the atmosphere.
He looked around, taking in the scenery. The church was old, significantly, and not immune to whistling noises when the wind picked up – which was always. The Romanesque and Gothic architecture was largely intact. It was tough to think that throughout Britain there stand countless ruined abbeys, a visual reminder of Henry VIII’s tyranny of 1535–1539. Once, they would all have looked like this.
Finally the church fell silent. Standing alongside him, Catherine slowly approached the coffin. A large banner of the Knights of Arcadia had been placed over it, its corners dangling above the ground. To Matt, the scene was reminiscent of a lost soldier being brought back from overseas.
In keeping with tradition, Catherine placed a book of the Gospels on the coffin, while the abbot spoke the usual text.
‘In life, William cherished the Gospel of Christ. May Christ now greet him with these words of eternal life: Come, blessed of my Father!’
Catherine returned, walking slowly past her nephew.
Now it was Matt’s turn. Almost afraid of moving, he walked gingerly in the direction of the coffin, his attention on the banner – the logo of the order the standout feature. He looked up at the abbot and those near him, slightly unsure of himself. Though he did not look behind him, he felt the eyes of all present on him.
The tension increased with the silence.
He carried in his hand a simple wooden cross, no longer than a foot in length and possessing no other decoration. He looked up at the abbot and placed it on the coffin, afraid of knocking it over.
The abbot said, ‘In baptism, William received the sign of the cross. May he now share in Christ’s victory over sin and death.’
Matt made the sign of the cross and slowly backed away. He felt mesmerised. The banner was red on white, the logo a cross pattée like those of crusader symbols from the distant past. Though he had seen the pattern many times, somehow today it possessed extra significance. The order was steeped in history – even by Scotland’s standards. No matter where he looked, it was there: the patterns on the windows, the ornate architecture, the statues of various saints…
If there was a God, surely he was making his presence known.
He felt an arm on his shoulder, that of his aunt. He felt her guide him back toward the pew, for now remaining standing.
In front of the altar, the abbot stood in silence. On this occasion he found the customary gap in words necessary, a chance to collect his thoughts. In his mind, he attempted to focus on the message he was speaking rather than the faces in front of him. Though he had overseen hundreds of funerals, he found this occasion particularly dispiriting. The atmosphere was starting to affect him.
He raised his head and arms.
‘Let us pray.’
Matt heard the words without listening, as his attention finally left the coffin. There were seven priests in total, each one dressed in white, red crosses covering their albs and a black scapular over their shoulders. The colours demonstrated that each man was a member of the Cistercian order – in the past closely associated with the Knights of Arcadia. Behind them, over thirty monks were dressed in similar attire, while a further forty non-clergy members of the Knights of Arcadia accompanied the altar boys. Outside, the appearance of the non-clergy had amused him. Most of the men, accountants and entrepreneurs who he knew as associates of his dad, were aged anywhere between fifty and eighty, mostly bald and spectacled.
A far cry from the orders of the Crusades from which they claimed descent.
He watched the abbot at the front of the church as he spoke the text beginning ‘Almighty God and father’. Apparently the man was his great-uncle, but in truth, he knew little about him – all he knew for sure was his real name, Thomas Winter. He had met him only twice, and not recently. The man appeared a kindly, thoughtful individual, his body now displaying the signs of age. His eyes, murky green behind large glasses, appeared almost milky white in the dull light, giving the impression he had no irises. His focus often seemed to centre on Matt. The man bobbed his head repeatedly, a gesture Matt couldn’t tell if it was meant for him or not.
One thing was for sure; the man’s expression was self-evident.
The abbot was a man grieving the death of a loved one.
As the words continued, Matt looked briefly over his shoulder. At least ninety percent of the mourners he didn’t recognise. The second and third rows were all reserved for family, mainly cousins, aunts and uncles and their respective partners and spouses. The fourth to seventh rows were mostly academics, businessmen and other friends of his father, the majority of who had links with the Knights of Arcadia, whereas the rest were something of a mixture.
It bothered him. Though he appreciated the fact that so many people had taken the time to pay their respects to his father, a significant proportion of whom had to fly hundreds of miles to get there, at the same time something about them irritated him. Most of the mourners were older than his father and gave the impression of being somewhat pompous. As much as he hated funerals, it was not the issue of death that bothered him. That had never bothered him. No, what bothered him were phoneys. It seemed nothing brought out phoneys better than a funeral. He didn’t recognise them, he never did. And none of them knew his dad, not really. He thought about the reception that would follow. Everyone would stay, eat, drink, talk, and laugh…
Then they would leave, and life would return to normal.
As his gaze moved to his left, he made accidental eye contact with a man standing on the end of the fourth row of the opposite side. Like most present, the man was dressed in a suit and wore a black tie and white shirt. Facially he was a man of wealth and intelligence, with dark blue eyes, strong cheeks and a dark goatee framing a well-chiselled jaw. He looked at Matt and offered a smile, warm but at the same time disturbingly cheesy. For a couple of seconds Matt looked at him with a neutral expression, not quite sure how to respond. To Matt, the man was a stranger, and presumably little more than a brief acquaintance of his father.
The man with the goatee took his seat, along with everyone else. He sat relaxed, his hands joined together and his ears listening to the opening lines taken from the Book of Exodus. He found the chosen reading particularly apt as he allowed his eyes to take in the interior of the church.
Though it was his first visit to the abbey, he felt as if he knew it well. The Cistercian influence was evident. The high, arched ceilings reached epic proportions, giving him the impression that he was in a cathedral. Like most, the layout was in the shape of a gigantic cross and was supported thr
oughout by countless stone pillars assembled at equal intervals. An ornate reredos dominated the wall behind the altar, a more modern addition to the church, depicting the scene from the Last Supper.
What surprised him were the windows. Rather than the usual basic Cistercian style, they were high and opulent, each featuring a stained-glass depiction. It amused him how the story in every window was allegorical: presenting a scene relevant to the order, particularly its less known side. He looked with interest at an image of four crusader knights kneeling inside what appeared to be the Holy of Holies at the Temple of Solomon as described in the Old Testament. A strange object was situated in the centre of the four. A heavenly glow surrounded it, the magnitude of the find evident on the faces of the watching men.
He was somewhat in awe of the window and the location. This was indeed what he had been looking for.
Two pews from the back, Nicole Stocker sat quietly. Although her parents had raised her Catholic, this was her first visit to a church in nearly a decade, and her first to a Scottish monastery. Nevertheless, she admired the Gothic architecture and found herself captivated by the ceremony.
She listened carefully to the words of the speaker, the usual sermon replaced by words of fondness for William Anson from a man who knew him well. She looked on with interest, her eyes occasionally taken by the sight of the large coffin before the altar. She understood from her editor that William Anson had been the grandmaster of this so-called Knights of Arcadia. The occasion interested her more than she expected, particularly the presence of so many others connected with the order.
It surprised her that she had never heard of them.
She listened to the words of the stranger for over ten minutes after which the man returned to his seat, his words rewarded by applause. Her attention increased as she saw Matt ascend nervously to the lectern.
A strange feeling overcame her as she looked at him. The boy she once knew was more borderline man, yet still looking somehow immature. She liked the way that, despite the suit, he couldn’t quite pull off the whole businessman image. His hair was slightly longer than she remembered and his beard in trim. His eyes were red, noticeable even from sitting at the back. A feeling of warmth overcame her as she saw him wipe new tears from his eyes before he began making a broken yet heartfelt speech regarding his dad.
But this was not about ceremony. In her mind she practiced her interview. It was important she enquire without intruding.
Who was and what happened to William Anson in La Rochelle?
On the second pew from the back on the opposite side, the man from Tyre sat calmly. Though his appearance might have suggested a non-Christian background, he didn’t look out of place.
For the man from Tyre, the words of General Intercession held special meaning. He focused on every word in turn, allowing its significance to imbue his mind before responding with the words, ‘Hear our prayer’. He believed himself to be in the minority. Throughout the day he had seen countless mourners dressed in black mumbling similar words as if they were amateur prophets. He doubted even the monks knew the truth.
He concentrated on the altar. The man at the front was one of the few he believed truly understood the words. The man he was burying was another.
Soon another would be promoted to that man’s circle. Soon another grandmaster would be elected, and another apprentice take the place of the one now departed.
So the cycle would continue.
5
The wake took place in Kirkheart, a village of some 5,000 residents, located a mile from the monastery and less than half a mile from the nearby loch. The building was traditionally a village hall, a red brick, one-storey, isolated dwelling that dated back to the 1920s. It had previously served as a makeshift hospital and before that a primary school. The main room was large and airy with a smooth wooden floor and a stage at the far end, partially obscured behind a large velvet curtain. The backstage area was a treasure-trove of costumes, empty boxes, tables, stacked chairs and a plethora of amateur-created props used for pantomime.
Most of the mourners were present, each one making the short car journey through the countryside, their dark suits and dresses giving little protection against the weather. Though the sun was shining, there was a chill on the air, brisk and at times painful. For the locals it was familiar, typically Scottish and attributable to a westerly wind across the loch. Despite the wind, the waters were calm, surprisingly calm. Small waves echoed consistently as they broke against the rocks on the shore. But there was no life, no boats, no birds, no marine life.
It was an image of emptiness.
The end of the Mass marked the beginning of the interment, attended only by a small proportion of the mourners. Normally only family were invited, but on this occasion the gathering was larger. All of the monks attended, as did the costumed non-clergy. The ceremony took place in the nearby side chapel, a cosy setting named in honour of Michael the Archangel, that the monks used on a day-to-day basis. The abbot made a small speech in Latin, followed by a ritualistic ceremony in which the order of the Knights of Arcadia interred the body of their grandmaster. To Matt, the ceremony was uplifting, as though his father had actually been a crusader, laid to rest a hero. The occasion was unlike any he had ever witnessed. In the strangest of ways it reminded him of the scene in Braveheart following the death of Wallace’s father. It was their way of saying goodbye.
Their own special way.
Matt entered the hall alongside his aunt and walked quickly in the direction of the stage. A large table had been assembled, offering a buffet lunch that included everything from sandwiches, chicken wings, cold pizza and sausage rolls to crisps, biscuits, chocolates, desserts and various cold drinks. A small selection of paper plates were stacked at one end, accompanied by red serviettes. Most of the mourners were already eating, the majority standing and chatting in small groups, nibbling slowly on their snacks, while others sat at one of two long tables. Scott had appeared from nowhere, his hand raised.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ Matt replied, his eyes on the table. He picked up a plate and started piling up snacks. He ate a sausage roll in one go and burped immediately. The taste was hardly exemplary.
‘You okay?’
Matt nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said as he ate. ‘Hey, thanks for everything today; Catherine said you’d done most of the setting up.’
Scott shrugged. ‘Ain’t nothing,’ he said, sipping a Coke, his eyes surveying the large gathering. ‘I reckon I ain’t never seen a gathering quite like this.’
Matt laughed. ‘Aye, I know. I don’t even know who half these people are.’
‘They knew your father?’
Matt shrugged. ‘Either that or they’re at the wrong funeral.’
Matt laughed at his own joke. Scott broke into a grin, holding it for the same length as Matt.
‘A couple of peeps been asking for you.’
Matt chewed a sandwich. It was bacon, lettuce and tomato on brown bread, his favourite. The crust was slightly dry, but the mayonnaise felt pleasant on his dry mouth.
‘Yeah.’
His cousin nodded. ‘See that wee fella, the one in the lovely suit.’
Matt turned, his focus on the smartly dressed man with the goatee sitting at the far table in conversation with a suited man in his seventies.
‘Yeah, I saw him earlier. He was at the burial as well.’
Scott watched the man. ‘Is he family?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘Was he Arcadian?’
Another shrug. ‘Couldn’t tell ya. I’ve never seen him. Did he say anything?’
‘Nope. Just asked how you were and stuff.’
Matt nodded. The man with the goatee looked over at him, a broad smile lining his face, a leftover from his conversation with the white-haired man opposite.
‘I saw Nicole,’ Scott said.
‘Nicole who?’
‘Nicole Stocker.’
Matt’s expression changed,
as if a small charge had hit his body. ‘I knew I recognised her. She waved, but I didn’t have a chance to see her…I never would have believed it.’
Scott raised his eyebrows, a hint of a smile crossing his face. ‘You said nothing?’
‘I haven’t spoken to her since our third year.’
‘She know your father?’
Another shrug. ‘No more than most; less than most.’
‘I hear she’s a journalist now.’
‘Aye, the Tribunal.’
Scott smiled. ‘Perhaps she didn’t come just to pay her respects for your dad.’
Matt finished his sandwich and immediately washed it down with a glass of Pepsi. He surveyed the room quickly, making a mental note of each guest in turn. He looked for her, but didn’t see her.
His mind was alive, the faces of all present merging into one. He recognised some, mostly family, mostly distant, sitting and standing in close proximity to one of the tables. He also recognised various associates and acquaintances from his father’s long academic career, all smartly dressed and keeping themselves to themselves.
But there was one notable absentee. Luke Bowden was not present, at least as far as he could tell, and he had been looking. He had thought about him often since hearing the voice message. Over the following days, he’d kept a sharp ear out in case the man called back.
As far as he was aware, he hadn’t.
He looked around at the gathering. Most of the Arcadians were also there, only now dressed normally.
Still no sign of Nicole.
As he looked across the table, he saw a smart, blonde lady making her way toward the door. For the briefest of moments, he caught her eye. She looked at him, her mouth displaying a vague hint of a smile before she moved on. He watched her – watched her watching him before looking away.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 4