The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  Perhaps that was the true meaning.

  Arcadia was not of this earth.

  But he had seen with his own eyes it worked both ways. It never occurred to him that despite everything he had actually seen it with his own eyes.

  He directed his attention to the other side of the room. He looked below the paintings, his attention on the twelve scrolls that were on the wall. He had not taken them in properly that first time, but the significance was now there.

  He looked at the first scroll. Though he failed to recognise the language, the symbols at the top at last made sense. Just like the underground labyrinth at New Ross, it began with the letters DM, a title, so to speak, for the enigma that followed. Indeed, the promise of Guercino had been partly fulfilled. The inscription DM had indeed been uncovered, in an ancient cave illuminated by a lamp. What the rest meant, he failed to remember. Perhaps the clue was in the painting. Either that or the meaning of the content was still to be fully understood. According to Niven, they were the only genuine artefacts to have survived from Solomon’s reign. Maybe one day its significance would be revealed.

  Whatever the relevance of the scrolls, at least the terrorist never got to keep them.

  As usual, there was a collection of portraits lining the wall. Apparently every leader of the so-called Knights of Arcadia was up there. Now, he knew that was not true. At least six were not, the first six, including the famous Larmenius. It was tough to think that everything that had happened had begun with his mission from France. It was harsh to think so many thought of him as a deserter.

  He remembered the first time he had seen the portraits. Not much had changed. He had seen many photographs of his father, but it still seemed strange seeing him in a portrait. He was bearded, as in real life, but the beard made him appear somehow noble, almost like he was looking at Andrew Carnegie or Lord Kitchener.

  The suit was less of a surprise. In previous years, the leaders were dressed in armour, and those later with Tudor-style ruffs. Those from the 18th century were dressed in typical Georgian attire, whereas the more modern ones looked less like warriors and more like simple gentlemen and businessmen from the Victorian or Edwardian era. In essence, Matt thought, the reality was true enough, but it did not display everything. His father was not only an academic but also a great thinker.

  As far as the world knew, that was all he ever was.

  A shuffling of feet caught his attention. The abbot had entered.

  ‘Back again, young Matthew.’

  He smiled softly. ‘I wanted to put in an appearance. You know, so he wouldn’t be left out.’

  He nodded before allowing a smile. Somehow the man’s face completely changed when he did, as if the gesture was not natural to him. Yet his was never a face that lacked kindness. Nor did he possess anger.

  Strange, he thought, how the wisest are always the last to judge.

  Abbot Winter walked closer to Matt and took a seat beside him. ‘I remember the last time we spoke here.’

  Matt smiled and nodded. ‘So do I.’ He looked up at the grave and around the chapel. He looked at the portrait of Admiral George Anson, his handsome face a picture of complete confidence. He looked at the poem he had read several weeks earlier, taking in the words.

  Upon that storied marble cast thine eye.

  The scene commands a moralising sigh.

  E’en in Arcadia’s bless’d Elysian plains,

  Amidst the laughing nymphs and sportive swains,

  See festal joy subside, with melting grace,

  And pity visit the half-smiling face;

  Where now the dance, the lute, the nuptial feast,

  The passion throbbing in the lover’s breast,

  Life’s emblem here, in youth and vernal bloom,

  But reason’s finger pointing at the tomb!

  Matt followed the finger of the man in the portrait, leading in the direction of the tomb at the top left of the chapel.

  ‘Is that him?’ he asked of the grave with the Seal of Solomon. ‘Is that the king who united Israel?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At least that is what we have come to believe.’

  ‘It’ll take more than that to please some people. Professor Richards for one.’

  ‘Ah, you mean, Professor Anson.’

  Matt laughed.

  The abbot smiled kindly. ‘We often find that even the little things in life still require faith,’ he said. ‘Whether it be embarking on the greatest quest or the smallest task. When your ancestor, George Anson, returned from Nova Scotia, he certainly believed that the relics of King Solomon had been found, along with some of his writings. Its path concurs certainly with those who left the trail. But as far as history is concerned…’

  Matt smiled as the man shrugged.

  ‘The journey of discovery is something of a rarity for most families and people,’ he said. ‘It is strange in a way that ours should be so different. Your life has been, different, you might say.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘But I dare say, it has done you credit. Life is full of trials, tribulations. No one really knows what life has in store for them until it happens.’

  He nodded, his attention briefly on the painting of his father. ‘I wish he had told me this before he died.’

  Another nod, this time more sympathetic. ‘The rules of the Knights of Arcadia are old and unrelenting. In the past it was forbidden even for a member to marry; even now never is a member supposed to consort with family outside the sphere of initiation. I think that’s why so many of its Keepers have been related. If history has taught us one thing, it is the value of family loyalty – especially among those who value such things.’

  Matt nodded and smiled. ‘I understand that.’

  The abbot looked to his left, his attention on the doorway. Nicole was standing there, a smile crossing her face. ‘One day you will understand it even better.’

  Matt smiled, his attention on Nicole and then the abbot. He nodded to himself, and finished looking at both together. It seemed to Matt that never had he seen the man he now knew as Uncle Tom as happy as he was that moment.

  Nicole entered the chapel just as the abbot left. They smiled to one another as they passed.

  She sat down in the pew by Matt. Unlike the Nicole of a week earlier, she was dressed in blue jeans, black shoes, and her hair long. He liked the way she blew the fringe away from her face as she sat down. Better yet, the Edinburgh Uni hoody had once again put in an appearance.

  Matt led the way in the direction of the sacristy and stopped on reaching the doorway. ‘Take it off, you prat.’

  Scott was standing alongside Robert, dressed in the habit of a Templar knight. ‘Robert says I can keep it.’

  ‘Please do. It contains elements of plague.’

  Matt laughed, as did Nicole standing behind him.

  In the corner of the room, Robert stood, arms folded. Like his cousin, he dressed in the habit of a Templar, though his was more becoming. The red cross dominated the centre of his torso and another hung from round his neck.

  ‘So. How does it feel to be a full member?’

  Matt shrugged, a hint of a smile crossing his face. ‘I don’t know. What happens now?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  For the first time in what felt like a long time, he simply watched, watched and waited. Even less than a week ago he never believed he would see the day. Not only was his brother still alive, but there with him. There was strength to him that after recent days he finally felt he was starting to understand. It was not physical strength: not his robust physique, nor his military training.

  Matt smiled as he examined Robert’s appearance. ‘Well, I guess there could always be another crusade against the Cathars.’

  Robert stepped forward and punched his brother in the shoulder. A large grin crossed his face.

  Outside the church, the sound from the wind on the trees was the only disturbance to the silence. The church was bathed in rare sunlight, casting a
sharp shadow across the pavement and the churchyard that surrounded it.

  By the main entrance, Sandra and the abbot stood talking. She smiled at her boys as they approached her. She placed her arms out either side: one for Matt, the other for Robert.

  They walked in the direction of the cars, less than fifty metres away. A strong smile crossed her features.

  ‘So whatever happened to all the other stuff? The treasures of the Old Testament?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of the Copper Scroll, Mother?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of it; I just can’t read it.’

  Matt smiled, his attention on Nicole to his right.

  ‘Just think, somewhere in the world they are just waiting to be discovered. I wonder if they’ll ever find the Ark of the Covenant.’

  The abbot smiled to himself.

  Robert said, ‘It does not do to tempt the wrath of God.’

  Sandra looked across to him. ‘Surely, you don’t really believe that, Robert? Surely you as well as any understand the truth.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that?’ the abbot asked.

  ‘The Old Testament was written at a time when understanding of science was primitive. All this talk about manna from Heaven, knocking down walls, the Glory of the Lord. I have seen the tomb from the outside.’

  ‘The old book tells us that the Ark was capable of extraordinary power. A remarkable man owned it, and it was made to house two tablets once owned by Moses. This device symbolises what is good and what is destructive. In the wrong hands, the Glory of the Lord is vengeful.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘This device gives us understanding and history. What a great way to restore faith.’

  Robert nodded. ‘But only in the right hands.’

  Sandra smiled ruefully. The comment caught her off guard. ‘And what of those tablets?’

  The abbot smiled. ‘They are perhaps less of a mystery.’

  Matt noticed a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. At the time he did not understand him, but he assumed there was a point to it.

  In a dark recess of the ancient cavern, the faint echo of dripping water offered the only sound. If sound cannot exist if no one is there to hear it, then it might be said that the cavern was silent, destined to remain in obscurity. Yet still the dripping continued, as it had for centuries. As long as the cavern remained, it would continue, dropping and splashing into the puddle below. Still echoing throughout the deserted tunnels.

  Of the many enclosures in the strange underground complex, the area seemed identical to all others. Strange creatures, neither insects nor reptiles, wandered the darkened voids; their senses giving no impression of what surrounded them.

  In one such enclosure a strange box was the only abnormality. Inside it was a chest. The chest was large, lined with gold. Two cherubim stood at either side, their sightless eyes looking in both directions. A large cloud of red surrounded it.

  The Glory of the Lord filled the chamber.

  The Facts Behind My Fiction

  The tale you have just read is false: it is nothing more than a collection of manipulated facts, dubious grammar and countless other random creations. In short, it was a tale of imagination and make-believe…

  Or fiction, to most.

  That said, there are instances where the content has been based heavily on fact, reality and, in some cases, something of a cross between fact and fiction. At times, I have altered the facts. Some historians call this ‘historical method’, i.e. making the facts fit the conclusion. Such an approach has no place in non-fiction, but for fiction, it can be a lot of fun. And it can serve a useful purpose.

  For those of you who have such an interest, what follows is my approach that went into both the research and creation of The Larmenius Inheritance.

  Thank you most kindly for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

  The Knights of Arcadia

  This organisation is fictional. For the purpose of the novel, the Knights of Arcadia was a society borne of necessity by certain members of the Knights Templar and the Cistercian monks to act as guardian of the original order’s most sacred possession. The Knights of Arcadia was in part inspired by both of these magnificent societies and much of the doctrine, structure, appearances and architecture of the society mentioned in this book was inspired by fact. Nevertheless, it is fictitious. The closest organisation that exists is probably one of the Masonic appendant bodies, such as the Scottish Rite, or one of the Catholic fraternities such as the Order of the Holy Sepulchre. Kirkheart is also a fictional location, based on several similar ones in the Highlands, Orkneys and the other islands and islets in that part of the world.

  The Order of the Ancient Star

  Also made up. The idea was simple. Should the Templars have successfully fled the Inquisition, in principle it seems unlikely that every member of the order could stay in contact with their fellow brethren. According to certain sources, at their height the Templar order comprised some 20,000 members, including clergy and lower classes.

  In my debut novel, The Templar Agenda, I went with the idea that the Templars continued to exist subsequent to their excommunication and dissolution to become a political and banking superpower. In this work, the plot centres on the order being segmented, a combination of geography and their evolving beliefs.

  The premise for the Order of the Ancient Star was that the stories behind the accusations of Devil worship, idolatry et cetera as highlighted at the time of the trials was, at least in some part, based on fact. If there was indeed any truth in the rumour, it seems unlikely the entire order would be guilty. Should the Templars who fled to Scotland have managed to do so with their alleged treasure, or treasures, it seems feasible that those who were not so lucky would resent them.

  For that reason, the two would be at war.

  The Order of Christ

  Perhaps the most straightforward of the Templar offshoots. There are two schools of thought on their formation. The first, the Templars merely changed their name. The second, the society comprised largely different personnel, but successfully inherited the Templar properties in Portugal.

  Historically, the order was famed for their seafaring activities. Prince Henry the Navigator and Vasco da Gama were Knights of Christ, and both accomplished much during their lives. Christopher Columbus, though not officially a member, did sail to the New World with other members of the order. He was also married to the daughter of one of the former grandmasters, Bartolomeu Perestrelo.

  Officially the society was formed in around 1319 and secularised in 1789. When the Portuguese monarchy ended in 1910, the society was dissolved, only to be revived in 1917. It presently exists as one of at least three ‘Ancient Military Orders’ recognised by the Portuguese government.

  Continuation of the Templar order in Scotland and Switzerland

  As I included a detailed note on this at the end of The Templar Agenda (also available on my website), I won’t go into detail here. In short, other than Rosslyn Castle and Chapel and the many gravesites scattered around the country, no definitive evidence has been found to confirm this theory beyond all doubt. At the time of the Templar dissolution, Scotland was under excommunication by the Pope, thus making it an obvious place of sanctuary for French and English Templars fleeing the Inquisition.

  In Switzerland, the Duke Leopold story from 1315 is a real legend, but only a legend. Indeed, Leopold lost the battle near the Morgarten Pass, some 75km north of the St. Gotthard Pass, after an ambush by some 1,500 archers, but there is no proof they were assisted by fleeing Templars. Stories linking the Templars with the Swiss banking system, the Swiss Guards and the Swiss mercenaries are tantalising, though at present nothing more than a theory. The headquarters of the Order of the Ancient Star in Switzerland is made up, though much of the geography of the area is correct. St. Gotthard Pass is connected with Templar lore.

  Stories of Templar survival deserve further inquiry.

  Jahbulon

  In short, there is no easy answer to this question. If y
ou are a Freemason, or a student of Freemasonry, I dare say the word will be familiar.

  As to its meaning, try as I might, I have never ascertained a satisfactory explanation. As far as I am aware, no one has ever succeeded. For the sceptic, the word is meaningless. To the conspiracy theorist, it is the name of the Freemason God – the Great Architect.

  Officially, Freemasonry has no God: it is a society with secrets, not a secret society, and certainly not a religion – nor a substitute for one. While this much is certainly true, this still makes explanation of the Jahbulon term no easier. One explanation put forward is that Jahbulon was an amalgamation of the three great Gods of the old world: Jah for Yahweh, or Jehovah, the God of Israel; Bul for Ba’al, the God of the Phoenicians; and On for Osiris.

  For me, this explanation is not entirely satisfactory in historical terms. For a start, there is no real evidence that Bul has ever been used as a substitute for Ba’al, and none at all that On has ever been identified as a substitute for Osiris – On was apparently a city in ancient Egypt. Furthermore, the Phoenicians and Egyptians worshipped several gods. The possibility that the three religions could have combined, inspired by their focal point, the Temple of Solomon, seems plausible – hence its use in this novel – but there is no historical evidence that this ever occurred. Personally, I do not believe the term to be relevant to real life.

  Historically, the word seems to have connection only with the Royal Arch degree and dates no earlier than the early 1700s, more likely around 1836. In England, its last official use seems to have been in 1989 when the word was mysteriously dropped.

  Kilwinning Abbey