The Furness Secret

by Mark Williams

  He thought back to the Facebook message he’d received two days before. It was from Chloe. It had completely thrown him. After all that crap from his mam, he’d got the impression that she wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. But the website told a different story.

  There was a picture of his little girl Eve. And then came the message itself. It started with the night they’d slept together. That evening was as much a mystery to Tom as it was to her. Then explaining her desire to talk about it. And the hurt she’d felt when he hadn’t wanted to communicate. And the despair she’d suffered on having to go through the whole pregnancy thing without his support. Not to mention the birth and the exhaustion of looking after a baby for its first year. Especially when she was just a girl herself.

  But she had appreciated the fact that he’d always sent money for her. The outfit Eve was wearing in the picture was from his money. Chloe wanted to just forget the last two years and move on. Get him involved with their daughter’s life.

  Tom had definitely matured. He’d grown up a lot since joining up. Getting back in Chloe’s life sounded good to him right now. Looking back he was thoroughly ashamed of ignoring her. Looks like she just wanted to open up about what had happened. Not badger him into a relationship he didn’t want. Or thought he didn’t want at the time.

  He might have contacted her earlier that year if his crazy old mam hadn’t got involved. Screaming at him that Chloe couldn’t stand him. That she was going round saying he’d see the baby over her dead body. Looks like nothing could have been further from the truth. Anyway, the message ended with a hope that in this season of goodwill they could make a fresh start, even if it wasn’t for them, then for Eve. Tom hoped they could. Chloe had put her mobile number at the end of the message. He’d text her before Christmas.

  December 22nd 2009 – Blackpool

  Biscuit had told Tom that he rarely ventured out into Blackpool in the winter. Right now Tom had started to regret coming himself. The wind off the seafront was freezing his bollocks off. Yet no one else appeared to notice. No one that was queuing to get into the Buccaneer nightclub was wearing a coat. The vast majority of the girls weren’t wearing much at all. And everyone was completely bladdered.

  Tom could imagine that it wouldn’t need much for it all to kick off. But perhaps because of the proximity to Christmas, a jovial atmosphere was prevailing. The queue shuffled forward at a snail’s place, but eventually Biscuit and Tom were let through the door. They gratefully received the hot blast of air from inside the packed club. Biscuit had been a few times before and headed straight for the bar. Tom followed right behind as they threaded their way through the crowd.

  “Oi! Yer Ginger tosser!”

  There was no mistaking that voice. It was Stevie, the scouser from the camp. Unbelievable, thought Tom. They couldn’t get way from him.

  Hostilities had ceased long ago between the two groups, and whilst they weren’t all exactly best of mates, they had certainly reached a level of mutual respect. Albeit a bit grudgingly. Stevie was already getting served. He was with a set of lads that Tom didn’t recognise. They weren’t Army though; there wasn’t any sign of his comrades from Liverpool. There was just one of the three stooges.

  “What d’yer want?”

  Stevie bought them both a beer, and disappeared into the depths of the club. His arm was draped proprietorially over the shoulders of a young girl. She was in a tiny, white mini dress. Her blonde hair was hanging loosely down her back, and Tom could just make out the image of a blue butterfly tattoo on the top of her arm as she staggered off. The girl looked well out of it already. Must be to hook up with Stevie he thought. He hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

  Two hours and six beers later, Biscuit suggested they made a night of it. Tom needed a quick pit stop before they left and walked to the front of the club where the gents was situated. He saw the tattooed girl in the white dress from before. She was definitely not in a good way.

  The girl had managed to get to the stairs, and was weaving her way unsteadily down them towards the door. As she disappeared through the exit, Tom spotted the young scouser at the bottom of the steps, following her outside. Shit, thought Tom, what’s he up to now. He quickly made up his mind to check that nothing dodgy was going to happen, and descended down to the club entrance.

  Walking outside was like entering the inside of a freezer. He wrapped his arms round himself, to keep out the worst of the weather, as he got his bearings. The sound of a crying girl could suddenly be heard over the whistling of the night wind. It was coming from an alley, halfway down the side of the building. What the fuck has he done now, Tom wondered. He bent into the strong breeze and drew level with the alley entrance. Caution might be called for he thought, peering slowly and cautiously round the corner.

  The girl was doubled up, sobbing violently. But it was no fault of Stevie’s. There was a pile of vomit all over the floor and the way she was heaving, it looked like there was more to come. The Liverpool lad was crouched down close to her. One hand was gently holding her hair out of harm’s way, and the other tenderly rubbing her back.

  “Yer’ll be all right love. Just let it come up. Once yer sorted I’ll get a taxi for yer. I’ll make sure the driver gets yer ‘ome safe.”

  The girl looked up at him gratefully. Her eyes were red and struggling to focus.

  “Ta.”

  “No bother.”

  Feeling a bit like a voyeur, Tom withdrew from the scene. As he returned to the club to meet up with Biscuit, he knew he wouldn’t see Stevie in quite the same light again.

  July 16th 1212 A.D. – Navas de Tolosa – Spain – The Scar

  In the early eighth century, a tribe of Visigoths occupied the Iberian Peninsula. They were originally a pagan group, but they had been converted to Christianity. However, in 711, only fifty years after the death of the Prophet Mohammed, the governor of Tangier, Tariq ibn Ziyad, crossed to Gibraltar at the head of a large Muslim army. In the next decade, the Islamic forces captured most of Spain and called their new conquest, al-Andalus.

  By the middle of the eighth century, the Christian armies had halted the Islamic progress, defeated attempts to move into France and reoccupied a part of north west Spain. However, for over three hundred years, despite many campaigns and fierce battles, the Muslims continued to occupy almost two thirds of Iberia.

  But by the end of the eleventh century, the Western forces had grown stronger and had begun a gradual process of reclaiming land. The First Crusade had added some formality to the campaigns fought under the banner of ‘Reconquest’. The Church in Rome was of course supportive of any attempts to rest land from the Muslims, as it expanded their territory and power.

  In the summer of 1212, a coalition of Spanish kings, headed by Alfonso VIII of Castille had determined to inflict a crushing blow on the Islamic troops massed under the Caliph Muhammad al-Nasir. Alfonso was financing his army by the imposition of a fifty per cent tax on the revenue of the entire Castillian church. Anxious to present his forces as international, Alfonso had sent word to the Languedoc, requesting French assistance.

  Allard found himself in the July of 1212 in Toledo, where the Christian forces were mustering. He was by now an experienced fighter, the veteran of many battles. He was happiest on campaign. But the build-up of the King’s forces had been painfully slow. And Allard amongst many of his comrades, had found himself becoming ever more frustrated, baking in the summer heat waiting for the army to be complete. Eventually the order had been given to move out and the anticipation of combat rippled through Alfonso’s troops.

  For several days, their Muslim enemies had already been assembled on a sloping plateau about seventy miles east of Cordova, known as the Navas de Tolosa. They also occupied the Losa pass that was the only known entrance to the plain. Their intent was to massacre the Christian forces if and when, they attempted to enter the plateau through the gap in the hills. The word throughout the Islamic army was that the Christians
would break up when they realised the perilous danger of their situation.

  But they had reckoned without an old shepherd who had informed Alfonso, about a hidden path he had discovered over his years tending his flock. Using the cover of darkness, the King had managed to move most of his force over the mountains and into a position from where they could fully engage the army of Islam.

  Allard had spent the night before battle in a perilous trip over the hidden, narrow, rocky pass, accompanied by his fellow French Templars. And by morning, they were formally arranged halfway up a slight hill, together with other Templars from Portugal commanded by their Temple Master, Gomes Ramires. Despite being over two hundred strong his group were just a small part of Alonso’s massive force. As daylight broke, Allard could see that their army was huge in number. Tens of thousands of fighting men, stretching out in ordered lines as far as the eye could see.

  When they awoke that morning, the Muslim leaders were astonished to find the full Christian army lined up in front of them in battle formation. It was an unexpected and impressive sight and their confidence was more than a little shaken, despite the experience and size of their own forces.

  From Allard’s vantage point, the Islamic troops also looked formidable. They were covering the ground in front of the Christians like so many soldier ants. On an outcrop overlooking the plateau, the Islamic Caliph’s tent was in plain view. It was made from crimson velvet flecked with gold shards that shimmered in the summer sun. In front of the tent, nearly ten thousand slaves each armed with a steel lance formed a living wall of defence.

  An hour after dawn broke, the Christian troops had all been visited by priests and encouraged to take the sacraments. Then led by Alfonso the first charge was made against the Islamic army.

  Fighting quickly became vicious and hand-to-hand, leaving no opportunity for the use of archers on either side. Lances, swords and battle-axes from both armies were put ferociously to use with deadly effect. But at the foot of the hill leading to the great tent of the Muslim leader, determined resistance halted the Christian assault.

  Feeling as though the Christians were beaten, a great cry went up from the Islamist troops, and they began to regain the ground they had lost. But Alonso had vowed to die in battle rather than face defeat and the call was sent out to throw all reinforcements into the fray. Allard and his fellow Templars were part of this final push for victory.

  They descended from the hill and accelerated to a full gallop as they approached the first of the enemy. These men had lost their mounts and were easy prey for the lances of Allard and his compatriots. As the men on the ground closed on the new arrivals, Allard was then able to use his sword to inflict terrible injury. But the army of Islam was not yet finished and a great noise was heard from the Templars’ right flank.

  Allard wheeled his horse round to the direction of the new charge. His sword was held high in his right hand. But despite his strength and youth, the muscles were aching in his arm and across his neck and shoulders. The first Muslim was on him before he could fully react and despite raising his weapon in defence, a blow from the curved blade of his assailant got through.

  He felt the skin open from the cut to his head and shook himself to rid his eyes of the flowing blood. His opponent’s sword had dropped to the side after the initial attacking slash and Allard used the opportunity to swing his own blade in a huge arc. It slammed into his enemy’s neck, partially severing the head.

  Breathing deeply, he looked up from the heat of battle and saw that the tide had turned again and that the Muslims were on the run. It had been his closest encounter so far. As he wiped his forehead, Allard could feel the edges of the deep cut. He would, he mused, always have a reminder of this campaign.

  February 2010 – Meeting her Daddy

  Chloe stood outside the coffee shop and adjusted the straps round her daughter, who was snuggled down in her trolley. She pulled Eve’s hood round her ears to keep off the worst of the vicious gale blowing in from the North Sea. She looked down at the cards in her hand. There were two Valentine cards, one for her and one for Eve. Tom had gone to the trouble of customising them on a website.

  Chloe smiled at the thought of Eve’s face when she’d seen her card with the little Labrador puppy. It looked like it had come straight from the toilet roll advert. They had got on great over coffee. It was almost as though the party and all the crap that had followed from it had never happened. As soon as they started talking they seemed to return to being old friends. And Tom had been so apologetic about missing out on the birth. He looked a tough guy in his casual uniform, but Chloe thought he had been pretty close to tears.

  Tom had just been able to get one day’s compassionate leave as they were in the middle of a training exercise. But the Regiment was being deployed in April and he would get a full week of leave before then. He’d promised to spend it all with Chloe and Eve.

  Standing by the trolley, Chloe watched as Tom walked purposefully away towards the station. He would be out of sight in a minute. He looked back before he turned the corner and blew a kiss. Chloe reached out, caught it and passed it to her little girl.

  Spring 33 A.D. – Jerusalem – Telling the Scribes

  The Master made a gesture towards Judas. He indicated that he should join him outside the house in the small garden. The student followed him outside, the evening air filled with the smell of the flower basket’s blooms. It was Passover and the city was crowded. The low background sound from thousands of pilgrims, mingled with the bleating of herds of sacrificial lambs awaiting their fate. As he adjusted to the gloom of the night garden, his Master turned to him and spoke softly.

  “I have seen that you, more than the others have been thinking exalted things. I have asked you to step out so that I can show you the mysteries of the kingdom.”

  And the Master went on to explain the origins of the world. And how it was possible for any who was pure of heart to enter the world of the eternal spirit. And escape this evil world of human flesh. Then he explained what would be required of the student the next day. He finished with carefully thought out words, referring to his other followers.

  “You will exceed all of them, for you will sacrifice the man who bears me.”

  Judas started to protest, but the Master silenced him by placing a quiet hand on his shoulder.

  “You know what you must do.”

  Together, they walked back arm in arm into the house.

  The next day Judas went to the scribes. They were astonished to see him.

  “What are you doing here? Are you not one of his followers?”

  The stonemason answered that he was. Then he told the scribes where to find his Master. And he took their money.

  July 1215 A.D. – London – A Plan Develops

  Peter of Montaigu was tired. In fact he was bone weary. He had journeyed the length and breadth of the western world, trying to gain support for the Grand Master’s idea. He’d been given a polite audience everywhere. But cordial receptions did not help him. He needed a real, deliverable scheme. Peter sat in the main body of the Templar Church in London awaiting Aymer St. Mawr, the Master of the Temple in England.

  Peter had already met with him during the previous week. He assumed Aymer was going to give him his regrets, before he re-crossed the channel to France. But Peter was in for a surprise, a big surprise.

  The Master of the London Temple entered quietly into the body of the church. He acknowledged the visitor, and sat quietly down next to him.

  “You look exhausted. Your burden is a heavy one.”

  Peter could do nothing but agree.

  “I have news for you. Which may satisfy your requirement.”

  Aymer spoke softly, in the manner of a cleric. But Peter knew he had a fierce reputation. He was also known as a man of great intellect and integrity. Peter’s heart rhythm increased a little. Could this be the opportunity for which he had been seeking?

  “Perhaps you are aware of t
he Earl of Pembroke?”

  Peter indicated that he was.

  “Well, I have reason, good reason, to believe that he may be able to provide some assistance to you in this matter.”

  The Grand Master’s representative was a little puzzled. He raised an eyebrow.

  “But why should such a grand English nobleman wish to give such wealth to our Order. And in secret? What would be his motivation?”

  Aymer smiled and started the story of the Earl’s Holy Land adventures from thirty years ago. Peter began to understand.

  “So you see that the great William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke has provided assistance to the Templars before. And has in return received help when it was most urgently required. And so he has developed an idea which may result in the outcome which you desire.”

  “And which will also help him?”

  The London Master let a brief smile play across his lips.

  “Indeed.”

  Aymer, gave a brief outline of the discussions he had held with the Earl of Pembroke. Peter was impressed. It was an ambitious scheme. Certainly there was much that could go awry. But, he judged, also a chance of success. He thanked Aymer for his support and indicated he would pass the information back to Guillame de Chartres at Acre.

  On leaving the London Temple, Peter knew that another set of correspondence was required. He would need to send word to Paris. It was necessary to request the presence in London of the young Cathar knight.

  March 6th 2010 – The English Fighters

  Malik was a seasoned veteran now. That first kill seemed a long time ago. He’d seen innumerable bodies since the execution in Pakistan. He had already fought one long, difficult campaign in Afghanistan. Mosul, Paula and Hakim seemed a world away.