Then the firing from the building got more serious. Someone had changed the rules of engagement for the American snipers. Now the shooting was at the crowd, not over their heads. Picking out the men causing the most trouble. Seeking out the people whose throws could reach the soldiers. Then shooting to kill. Gabir and Hussein were shot at. And killed.
The grief in Malik’s house was difficult to describe or to comprehend. All Malik could do was make himself as useful as possible. Pouring never-ending cups of steaming tea and trying to keep the rooms as tidy as possible. It didn’t seem real to him. His brothers had always appeared so strong, almost indestructible. Despite their distant behaviour, he had built them up as invincible. And as for his parents, what would they do without them?
June 1136 A.D. – Jerusalem – The Legacy
Hugh was growing weaker and could tell he was not much longer for this world. But he would go to meet his God with a light heart. The Order that he had set up was by now firmly established, in Europe, as well as in the Holy Land. There were hundreds of knights who had been through the initiation routine and were schooled in the Templars’ beliefs. And the Order had attracted great wealth, all of which remained securely under the protection of the Templars, waiting for the time foretold by the Great Prophecy.
Many years ago at the time of the first discussions with Brother Anselm, Hugh had made a critical decision. The beliefs in the Great Revelation would be passed on to all the Templars. It would bind the Order together. But knowledge of the Great Prophecy would be for the Grand Master alone. It would be he who would bear the responsibility. It would be the Master who had the task of ensuring that the Templars endured, with their riches and wealth intact.
He had a small wooden box created, hand crafted by one of Jerusalem’s most skilled carpenters. Three separate locks secured the container. Into the box he placed the old leather bound book and a single sheet of paper. On that was written the tale of the book’s discovery, and the decisions that the first Templars had taken. It was made clear that the founders expected these decisions to be binding on their successors. It was Hugh’s intention that this paper would be the first item that each new Grand Master should read upon their election. And so it came to pass.
July 1145 A.D. – England
The reign of the first three Norman kings of England had seen the country broadly at peace. But Henry I’s son William had been drowned in the wreck of the White Ship. There were few Norman nobles who wished to be ruled by his daughter Mathilda and her French husband. And so the throne of England passed to Henry’s nephew Stephen in 1135.
However a stable period on the throne eluded King Stephen. He was unable to control his nobles in the same way as his predecessor and uncle, Henry. By 1139, some barons were becoming restless and they found someone to rally round in the person of Mathilda.
The country was plunged into civil war. John Fitzgilbert, the Marshal, was an English noble who had sworn loyalty to the new King when he was first crowned. He was granted the castles of Marlborough and Ludgershall as a reward. But at the start of the war, he decided to switch sides and declared for the Empress Mathilda. It would be the start of a turbulent period in his life. And at the same time, he became father to another boy.
Spring 10 A.D. – Galilee – On the Farm
There was no wind and the surface of the lake was undisturbed by waves. In the boy’s imagination the water was a giant blue cloak. The boats and ships were jewels that encrusted the cloth in gorgeous sweeping patterns. He spent all of his leisure time up on the hill that loomed over the lake’s western shore.
The slope was only sparsely covered. There were just a few straggly bushes and the occasional gnarled tree. So there was hardly anything to obscure the magnificent view. From his vantage point he could see right across to the east bank and almost all the way to the edges of the lake to the north and south.
The boy didn’t get much time to himself. Apart from the time he spent at the synagogue, at his lessons with the Rabbi, Judas was nearly always required to work on his father’s farm. He wasn’t a natural student and he even preferred the hard manual labour in the fields to trying to work his way through complicated Hebrew Scriptures and dull Greek texts. Work was calling to him now. He could tell from the height of the sun in the sky that it was time to return.
The actual jobs to be carried out depended to a large extent on the time of the year. The climate on the farm consisted of long dry summers and soaking wet winters. In the late autumn, the fields were ploughed using a wooden shaft with a sharp metal blade. Then between November and January, the seeds were planted and covered over with hoes. Compost made from wood ash and animal waste was spread liberally over the fields.
Spring saw the arrival of the harvest season. Barley was first, in April, and wheat next in May. That afternoon, Judas would be helping in the wheat fields. His father owned several large fertile strips that ran down to the borders of the lake.
The afternoon was hot and the boy’s back was aching. Sweat was soaking through his clothes. He looked back over the space that he’d been clearing. His sickle had been busy and wheat was strewn right back to the far edge of the field where his father was standing. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, Judas could see him talking to two other men. From they way they held themselves, the boy guessed they were soldiers, probably Romans.
Unusual, he thought and ambled over to see why they were visiting. As he approached the group, he could hear raised voices. The first words he could make out clearly were from his father.
“I have told you repeatedly, from the time of the winter rains, that I refuse your offer. The farm has been in my family through many generations and I am determined that it should be handed down to my children.”
The senior of the two Romans dropped his shoulders in frustration.
“I cannot emphasise enough that you have no choice in the matter. Herod has already decided on the plans of the city. And your farm will be within the city walls. You will be compensated at the same rate as all the other land owners.”
Interesting, thought Judas, maybe some money would be coming the family’s way. He just hoped his father would accept. He knew from bitter experience that the older man had a stubborn streak, especially when pushed.
“I repeat again, that my land is not for sale.”
The Roman officer had by now lost his patience. He turned away from Judas’ father to begin his return to Jerusalem. He delivered a parting shot.
“You will sell your land. Herod will require it of you. You will see.”
Incensed by the soldier turning his back, the farmer reached out a hand, grabbed the fighting man’s shoulder and whirled him roughly around.
There were coordinated gasps from Judas, his mother and the farm labourers who had gathered to watch the argument. It was dangerous in the extreme to raise a hand to one of the occupying force. His father quickly learnt the lesson. The officer drew his short sword and thrust it deep into the farmer’s stomach. Twisting the blade to ensure the blow would be mortal.
Judas’ mother screamed and dropped dramatically to the ground, draping herself over her husband’s prostrate body. The Roman casually sheathed his weapon. He turned to his companion with a smile.
“Well, no need to obtain his permission now.”
As the soldiers left, the boy was left standing in shock. His mother remained weeping on the ground. Judas wondered to himself how could any God allow such wanton destruction of precious human life.
July 1152 A.D. – Newbury, England – Testing Loyalty
Some say that young children can forget traumas from their childhood. Other people argue that they are affected by these events forever. There can be few more traumatic events than being marched to the gallows as a seven year old. The young boy however, appeared outwardly calm.
In front of the gallows that had been built directly in front of Newbury castle, stood a small group of King Stephen’s advisers. The tallest
waited for the boy to stand on the platform. Then he hailed the Constable of Newbury who was standing, observing on the castle wall.
“Sir, you see what means you have forced upon us!”
No reply from the castle.
“What news from your master John Marshal. Will he surrender the outpost as he agreed? Or will he have us hang his son, whom he willingly gave as hostage?”
The Constable replied in a voice that belied his true feelings.
“My Lord instructs me to tell you, that he has the hammer and anvils to make more sons, more easily than more castles.”
The King’s man shook his head in disbelief. He indicated to the guards to take the boy from the gallows, and return him to the ranks of the besieging army. The advisers to the King actually had no intention of killing the boy. But John Marshal had no way of knowing that. Neither did his son William.
September 2003 – Big School
Chloe checked her appearance in the mirror attached to the wall in the front room. A slight, slim girl looked back at her dressed in a smart black blazer, white shirt and a black and yellow striped tie. She seemed so grown up, she thought to herself. Inside though, Chloe still felt like a little child. And now she had to start at her senior school. There were well over a hundred kids in each year group. Her primary school had been tiny in comparison. There had only been fifteen children in her year six class. Only five girls, and her two best friends were not moving with her. Their families had money. They were off to a private school up the road. Chloe worried that she was facing a lonely morning.
Her dad had even noticed her anxiety. Normally he left for work at seven, and the nice, retired lady from next door came over to make sure Chloe got to school on time. But today he had taken a morning’s holiday to see her off safely. He’d even offered to walk her to school. But that would have been a step too far. Her dad was waiting for her by the door. He ruffled her hair as she went past. It was an usually tender gesture for the man. Ever since Chloe’s mother had died, he found it difficult to fully express his feelings. But Chloe still felt deep down, that he was always there for her.
Her new blue backpack felt strangely heavy on her shoulders. She felt it digging into her back as she made her way down the street of tightly packed terraced houses. It opened up at the end onto a main road. Turning towards her school, Chloe was struck by the amount of other kids already on the road. Her primary school had been in the other direction. She was used to seeing virtually no one until she got to the gate.
Eventually Chloe arrived at her destination. The school’s garish sign was set in a prominent position, high above the gates. She found herself surrounded by chatter on every side. Everyone was walking together in small groups or standing around in neat cliques. Taking a deep breath, Chloe turned the corner and walked slowly up the sweeping driveway. The school buildings were a strange, eclectic lot. But the centrepiece was an imposing structure dating from the 1930’s. The girl stopped in front of the main door. What now?
Chloe looked around, desperately searching for a familiar face, even one of the horrible, teasing boys from her old primary. But there was no one she could recognise. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest and she tried to will herself to calm down. Her legs felt a little shaky, so she sat herself down on a low wall that offered a view over the playing fields. Breathing deeply, Chloe tried to shut out the excited babble spilling out from behind her. Then suddenly, she felt rather than saw, someone share her perch on the wall. She risked a quick glance.
Giving her head a slight twist, Chloe saw that her companion was a young boy. Not one she recognised. And he didn’t look any happier than she felt. They sat in silence for a few moments. Then the shrill clang of a bell filled the air around them. The young boy turned to Chloe. He had a thin face, all cheekbones and nose. He shrugged in resignation.
“We might as well try it out.”
He stood up and slouched across to the door. Chloe still didn’t feel like moving. Not sure if her legs would get going. The young boy stopped. Turning, he gestured at her with an outstretched hand. This time he’d even managed a sort of crooked smile.
“Come on. Best get moving.”
Chloe got up and joined him. They walked through the school door together.
July 1166 A.D. – Normandy, France – First Battle
The boy had turned into a man. As a younger son of a noble from England, it had been made crystal clear to him that he would have to make his own fortune in life. Live by his wits and his skills in combat. He had the luck, when he was a young man, to be taken in at the court of Tancarville in France. William Marshal had arrived at the age of fourteen.
He was a clever, strong youth and determined immediately to make the most of his good fortune. He had quickly gained the nickname of scoff food, as he never slept when there were any comestibles available to eat. He was lucky that at his home in England he had been schooled early in French, as well as English. So he had no problem communicating with his new hosts.
The Court at Tancarville was renowned throughout France, as a military training academy of the highest order. The Chamberlain of Tancarville retained a strong military force. It was required to maintain control over his three castles. At Tancarville, the square stone keep dominated the flat-topped hill on the north side of the Seine estuary. Further inland was the smaller castle at Albosc. Mezidon was in central Normandy above the valley of the Dives. The Chamberlain was an influential nobleman.
William learnt the skills of fighting in the great bailey of the castle. He was taught to hunt in the forests of Tancarville, and to hawk in the marshes around the Seine. As his voice developed, he greatly enjoyed singing lessons in the chamber of his Lord’s wife.
William’s good looks and fast developing abilities, gained him the attention of his Lord, and the envy of many others at court. The youth quickly developed a self-deprecating wit and a keen eye for disarming potential enemies. So as he had grown into a man, William had rapidly acquired all the skills an aristocrat required.
This particular night however, even the confident young fighter was feeling a slight feeling of nervousness. The evening had been one for which he had long waited. His master had knighted him in the garrison of Neufchatel, where they were massed to defend against an invading Flemish army. The ceremony had been simple, a sword girded to his side and a ritual dubbing blow from his Lord’s sword. But to William, the ceremony was great beyond measure. He was now a full member of the Chamberlain’s military structure.
The next day, William knew he had been justified in his sleepless night. This was no tournament but combat in the raw. He was mounted on his horse with the rest of the knights, standing still on a bridge just outside the town. Racing towards them were the massed ranks of the Flemish troops.
William lowered his lance and with the rest of his cavalry, charged the invading crowd. He smashed into three foot soldiers and his lance shattered, knocking him sideways. Quickly drawing his great sword, he used the techniques he had learnt at court, to splatter the heads of any Flemish soldier foolish enough to get within range.
Covered in gore and blood he was forced by sheer numbers, to back up against a wall at the side of the bridge. Two of the attackers had found a great metal hook. It was lying on the road as a fire precaution. Its intended use was to pull down burning thatch if any cottage roofs caught alight.
That wasn’t the purpose for which the men decided to use it. They swung it in an enormous arc and flung it towards the new knight. It caught him on the shoulder and threw him from his horse. He struggled free and stood, his back to the stone wall with his beast lying directly in front of him. The largest of his assailants thrust his own sword deep into the horse’s belly with a sense of abandoned relish.
William Marshal took a deep breath and prepared for the worst. But at that point there were raised voices and shouts from the rear of the Flemish troops. Exchanging looks of regret, the men in front of the knight, turned and raced back
towards their retreating comrades.
The young man’s mind was racing. All the endless days of training had proved worthwhile. A quick reckoning suggested four men had died by his sword, and maybe another by the lance.
After taking a few moments to recover his composure, William began to make his way on foot back to the garrison. He was tired and his shoulder was throbbing painfully. He thought of nothing but returning safely to the castle and getting something to eat and drink. As he travelled back over the bridge, he picked his way around his battle companions. They were carefully engaged in relieving their fallen opponents of anything of value.
That night there was much revelry in the great hall of the castle. The tables groaned under the weight of the banquet that had been provided for the victorious knights. Remnants of the dinner remained strewn around the room.
The first course had been a soup of onions, leeks and ham cooked in milk. A fair amount of the liquid had been spilt and was lying about in small lakes on the tops of the tables. A civet of hare had followed. The meat grilled and cooked with onion, wine and vinegar thickened with breadcrumbs. Great earthenware jugs of wine had been passed backwards and forwards all night long.
A tall wooden T perch stood in the corner of the hall. The Chamberlain’s hunting birds were standing there. They had soft leather thongs on their feet and their eyes were hooded. The birds would lose their balance regularly. To keep their position on the perch they would flap their great wings, to the obvious amusement of the assembled fighting men. There were several dogs of indeterminate breed, running noisily around the room. Weaving in and out of the tables. Their yapping rewarded with the occasional scrap of meat, thrown to them by an indulgent knight.
The Furness Secret Page 3