The Furness Secret

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The Furness Secret Page 13

by Mark Williams


  Malik shifted uncomfortably. He was seated on the ground in a semi circle with another fifty or so men. The heat from the sun was unrelenting, and it had been a few hours since he’d last been able to have a drink from his now empty water bottle.

  His fighting group had all just returned to Helmand from the harsh, rocky environment of the mountains. They were all awaiting the local tribal commander, who was to brief them on the current situation. And what the objectives would be for the next week. He was late, but everyone who was part of Malik’s group had learnt patience. Both in their training and in the tedious boredom, that characterised most of their time in the Afghan campaigns.

  At last the Taliban chief arrived, flanked by several of his bodyguards, and began his speech. He started quietly enough, addressing the group in the local language of Pashtun. Malik could understand though. He had always been a natural at languages, ever since learning English at home with his mother.

  His time spent in Pakistan had allowed him to pick up the basics of Pashtun. Now on the second spell of six months in the front line, his linguistic ability was coming in useful. He couldn’t speak sufficient words to hold more than a rudimentary conversation. But he could understand well enough to work out what was going on at the briefings.

  Day to day, he often didn’t need Pashtun, as the members of his mahiz, his combat unit, were all from foreign parts. They had met at the same Pakistan madrasa. Malik was the only Iraqi. There were three others from England and ten Pakistanis. Malik could speak English with all of those.

  Plus there were two twenty year olds from Riyadh. Saudi kids on a gap year as the Afghans joked. He spoke to them in Arabic. Nonetheless, he talked to enough locals to keep his Pashtun up to speed. And the major commanders were Afghans. Like the man lecturing them now.

  He was dressed in the local clothes. Although he carried himself like a young man, his snow-white beard revealed his true age. Not to mention the deep creases ironed into the leathery skin of his face. His black eyes glinted with barely disguised ferocity.

  “The Unbelievers are crazy!”

  The audience nodded. In point of fact they all agreed with him. But they would have nodded in any case. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of this man.

  “They support these corrupt officials and the execrable Afghan police. No merchant or traveller is safe from the thieving of the locals who have sided with the cursed invaders. That doesn’t happen where we’re in control.”

  No thought Malik. They want to keep their hands.

  “The cursed Infidels destroy the poppy crop on which the farmers rely. And replace it with what? Nothing!”

  Shouts of agreement greeted this remark.

  “So the Afghan people join the Taliban. Or feed us and hide our weapons.”

  “Then the Western invaders forget they are unclean Infidels. Christian Unbelievers returning to our land to subjugate us. So the true Believers amongst the Afghans join our cause!”

  He gestured theatrically towards Malik’s mahiz.

  “And even from far away, they come to join the jihad. They journey far from Arabia. They come to us from Pakistan and Iraq. We are even joined by fighters from England!”

  At this the crowd were on their feet. Weapons were raised skywards and shouts for revenge on the foreigners filled the air. But Malik had his own reasons for revenge. It wasn’t for the invasion of Afghanistan. A country he had known nothing about until two years ago. Oh no. It was much more personal than that.

  That night his team were gathered round a fire they had set up next to their eclectic collection of tents. Malik was sociable enough, but he had never had a particularly talkative nature. Just preferred to sit back at night, and let the others get on with making conversation.

  That night it was the three men from England who were doing all the talking. Some of the others had already drifted off to bed, as they couldn’t understand English that well. But Malik and the some of the guys from Pakistan who could speak the best English were listening.

  “Do you remember the TV programs we would watch before our trip?”

  The smallest of the three men had a pockmarked face, and seemed to be the leader of this contingent. Well, he was the one who had opened up the conversation. The accent he spoke in was a little strange to Malik’s ear. He was speaking in a quick animated fashion. Malik had to strain a little in order to understand.

  “The verbal contortions of the TV commentators as they twist their arguments. The lengths they will go through to justify the unprovoked attacks on the Faithful of Iraq and here in Afghanistan. The troops are here to stop terror on the streets of Britain. How do they work that out? The only attack in Britain was from British Muslims. And the invasion of Iraq just makes that more likely.”

  The other two Englishmen nodded and grunted in agreement.

  “And anyway, I don’t agree with crazy lunatics like that idiot Khan. And those pricks that flew on 9/11. Blowing up innocent civilians. It’s just fucking ridiculous. Makes us look no better than Bush and Blair.”

  Malik pricked up his ears at that.

  “And was it really Believers that flew those planes in New York. You all saw the Urdu paper from those days in Pakistan. Didn’t bin Laden deny involvement? Why would he change his mind?”

  This was dangerous territory. His companions exchanged nervous glances. Malik thought that the young Englishman had better be careful to whom he expressed that opinion. Whatever the background, they were certainly at war now. The taller of his two fellow countrymen seemed to realise this.

  “Calm yourself my friend. Remember the learned teachings of our preacher, back home in Blackburn. Can you recall? He taught us the words of the Prophet, Peace be upon Him, ‘The best jihad is by the one who strives against his own self for Allah.’ That is a struggle for faith, not armed conflict. But we are forced to be here due to the aggression of our enemies. Does not the Holy Book say, ‘Fight in the cause of Allah those who fight you’?

  We have right on our side, we do not need to curse and blaspheme, like those we see everyday in the land of our birth.”

  Suitably admonished, the pock marked man returned to safer ground.

  “Even so that Bush is just plain stupid. He shouts from the rooftops that the Coalition is in a Crusade against us. And that is exactly right. Just like the Crusades. The soldiers we fight are Unbelievers, who invade the lands of the Faithful on the flimsiest of excuses. And the atrocities are probably worse than they were, even in those barbarous times.

  How many of the Faithful have been killed in Iraq, and on the ground here? Is it a hundred thousand, two, three, four, maybe even a million dead? These guys, they’re like the fucking Nazis. Women and children, they just don’t give a shit.

  And the guys who join the British army back home, what do they think they’re doing here? How do their families feel when they see the body bags coming back? And for what? As if a few thousand Brits and Americans could do what a few million Russians couldn’t?”

  As he finished his impassioned rant, the young Englishman emphasised his last point, by gesturing at the burnt out hunk of a Russian tank that was silhouetted by the remaining light from their fire.

  Safer territory, but his language had not improved. His comrades shook their heads indulgently and huddled closer to the fire, pulling their blankets over them to keep out the worst of the night’s cold.

  Malik was lying back, listening with interest and taking in the information. He had heard similar stories before. But this perspective was interesting as it was from the Infidel’s own land. He couldn’t understand, given what the men were saying, why there wasn’t a popular uprising in Britain against the pointless deaths of their fighters. Their government must have a tighter control of the people than Saddam himself.

  The third member of the English group was older than his friends. Maybe in his thirties, his long beard flecked with grey. It was rare for him to make a contribution to any discussion
, let alone to a political discourse. But apparently this night there was something he needed to contribute.

  “My trusted companion, I am afraid you are over simplifying the position of the media in England. They are determined to split all our Islamic brothers into two categories. That is extremists or moderates. The first group is portrayed as evil, deranged, insane and dangerous. The second as civilised, normal, fit to be part of their society.

  We of course would be extremists. But it is not that simple is it?”

  The others were looking at him with some surprise. These was the deepest conversation they’d had with him since they’d left home.

  “I am with you on 9/11. I have no time for whoever committed that act, be it a Believer or not. But then that has been used as an excuse to invade two countries. That to me is extreme. We have done nothing but join our brothers in faith to defend their lands. What is that? Is it the act of extremists, or of brave men, seeking to right a great wrong? Those in command of the TV and the newspapers at home, they should be asking that question.”

  That seemed to have exhausted his fund of words. Saying nothing further, he wrapped his blanket even more tightly around his shoulders and sank back into his customary silence.

  August 10th 1215 A.D. – Templar Church London – The Meeting

  Allard had spent the past three weeks in lodgings he had found in London. The leader of his Temple chapter had informed him of the necessity of a visit to England the previous month. It would be necessary to find somewhere to live, to inform the London Temple Church of his location and await instructions.

  Allard’s lodgings were functional, but not particularly comfortable. His bedchamber was on the second floor of a town house, reached by rickety stairs at the rear of the building. A cloth was hung round the room, to keep out drafts, as well as invading hordes of flies and spiders.

  The furniture was limited to a battered wooden bed, bench and stool. A feather mattress with a bolster attached was on top of the bed. Spread out over the surface was a quilted striped cloth and over that a green-cloth coverlet. A cushion had been laid out for his head. All of them looked like they had seen better days. But he had slept in worse surroundings and they would suffice.

  It was nearing nightfall, when Allard turned his horse off Fleet Street. Turning towards the river, the top of the round Temple Church was just visible in the gloom of the early evening. He approached the cluster of buildings slowly. A summons to a meeting such as he had received yesterday was rare for a mere knight.

  Experienced men he had met had told him to take care in these situations. Allard dismounted and passed the horse to the waiting groom. Glad to take respite from the wet of the late summer drizzle, he entered the kitchen. Two large brass pots were suspended above the fire. Five fellow knights were sat around a wooden table, waiting for dinner, with varying degrees of patience.

  They looked up as Allard removed his mantle and sank gratefully into a seat.

  “Brother Aymeric is already waiting for you.”

  The Treasurer of the Temple gestured brusquely with his head towards the door of the church as he spoke.

  Allard rose and walked to the door.

  “He’s not alone. There are three of them.”

  Allard paused, nodded and left the kitchen.

  He entered the round chapel of the Temple Church. Despite the light rain, a late evening sun had emerged and it shone through the long, tall windows that pierced the thick stone chapel walls. Allard caught a brief glimpse of an insipid rainbow. Through the gloomy light he could see three men standing towards the far door. He recognised Aymeric de St. Maur, the Master of the London Temple.

  To his right he saw the cragged features of William Marshal, the first Earl of Pembroke. It was no surprise. The Earl was a long time supporter of the Templars. The third man had his back to Allard. He turned. Allard’s face blanched in astonishment. Louis, the son of Philip of France stared coolly at him. He was at war with King John, what purpose could he have at the Temple? Aymeric gestured Allard forward.

  “Come Brother Knight. I would speak to you of our plans”.

  Allard’s mind was in turmoil. He was sure that whatever plans were to be discussed would involve high stakes. Whilst waiting for the Master to reveal his thoughts, he thought of what little he knew of the current political situation in England.

  Earlier that summer, the barons had forced King John, into granting far reaching rights to the nobles of England at Runnymede. Along with his fellow Templars, Allard had been a little surprised at the King’s concessions. But it was likely to make no difference to their daily lives. Their main interest had been that John had resided at the new Temple in London during the negotiations.

  Allard had heard recently, that rumours were rife that John might renege on these promises. The word was even being spread that the barons might appeal for military help to France. Presumably that explained Louis’ presence at this meeting. But wasn’t the Earl of Pembroke a committed supporter of King John? And wasn’t he supposed to be renowned throughout the kingdom for his loyalty in all matters? Allard willed himself to keep his concentration on the matter at hand.

  “Brother Allard, no doubt you are surprised to see the three of us together?

  “Well, I have some more surprises for you. And a task we need you to undertake. Bear in mind this is directed personally from Brother Guillame.”

  Allard was intrigued. He knew that Guillaume de Chartres was the Grand Master of the Knights Templar based in the Holy Land at Acre. The fact that he had reached out from the Order’s headquarters to London reinforced his initial impression that high stakes were involved. Allard took a deep breath and listened carefully as Brother Aymeric started to explain.

  August 28th 1215 A.D. – Lancaster Castle – Meeting the Guide

  Allard had travelled extensively before in England, but rarely on his own. To maintain appearances and for safety he was usually accompanied by at least one and often two squires. This trip though, would be solitary, at least from London to the north west of England.

  It was late in the afternoon as Allard approached the castle at Lancaster. Resting momentarily at the top of a lightly forested slope, he could see his destination on a hill opposite. Lights could already be made out shining through the castle’s windows. The keep was built at the top of an incline rising from the flat plain. In the early evening light, Allard could just make out the waters of Morecambe Bay shimmering gently in the distance.

  He spurred his horse on, anxious to get under cover before nightfall. Ten minutes later he dismounted in front of the entrance staircase. The groom who took the horse’s reins glanced curiously. He was used to seeing a knight’s mounts gaudily decorated. But this horse had just plain leather. Allard was the first Templar he had come across.

  The castle keep was a tall four-storey tower. It was about twenty metres high, with a shallow buttress at each corner and others about half way down each side. Its outer walls were substantial, maybe three metres thick. The Constable had been informed of the visit and was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

  “We have been expecting you. Brother Robert has arrived from the Priory at Cartmel and is awaiting you inside.”

  Allard followed the Constable up the stairs, through the low wood framed entrance and into the castle itself. Inside, he could see that a central wall divided each floor into two rooms. In the first, he could make out a small monk seated at a table, his hands resting on a long staff. He would be Allard’s guide. The Earl of Pembroke had established the Priory at Cartmel himself and had assured the knight of the monk’s abilities.

  April 2nd 2010 – Parting at the Station

  The station had been cleaned up since Chloe had last been in here. Moving through the automatic swishing doors, she could see her daughter’s father standing in one corner of the ticket hall. He was dressed in uniform and had his kit bag at his feet. The months of vigorous training had put some muscle on his wiry
frame. Chloe thought he looked pretty good.

  “What are you thinking?”

  The boy nodded, pointing to the wall with his head. The girl followed his gaze. He was looking at a battered piece of sandstone. It was the memorial to rail workers that had lost their lives in the First World War. The stone was pockmarked in a few places. An inscription pointed out that these were bullet holes, caused by German planes in the Second World War.

  “Seems impossible to believe that someone could be shooting at me in a few weeks.”

  Tom sighed involuntarily. Turning round, his face lit up as he saw Eve in her trolley. She was smiling in recognition. Chloe looked on as the young Private bent down to talk to her.

  “Now you be a good girl for your mummy. And daddy will be back to see you before you know it.”

  The little girl was staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes. Chloe was glad that she had made that Facebook contact. In the last few days she had formed the opinion that Tom was turning into a pretty good father. She guessed she had always known he would be. They strolled onto the platform, looking every bit the close-knit family. But before they could grab a coffee from the shop, the train was announced. Tom scooped Eve up in his arms and gave her a big hug.

  He didn’t need to say anything. Chloe knew that this was a big deal. She had seen the pictures of the wounded and dead on the news. She had watched the solemn crowds paying silent tribute to the funeral processions in Wootton Bassett. She couldn’t stop the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Leaning into him, her lips touched him tenderly on the cheek.

  “Take care of yourself.”

  The soldier gave her a little mock salute and with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, turned and boarded the train.

 

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