The Furness Secret

by Mark Williams

  September 6th 1215 A.D. – Furness Abbey – Crossing the Sands

  Allard was relieved. Despite Brother Robert’s reassuring tone and confident steps, he had been worried. More than that, frightened. The tales from Lancaster of the travellers who had perished on the sands had been playing on his mind. The Constable and his men had taken great delight in describing the strong, swift tides that could carry the strongest horse and rider out to sea. They told horrific stories of the treacherous ground that might turn to quicksand in a minute. It would cling leech like even to the best-built wagon and suck it hungrily down beneath the sands. Never to be seen again.

  Now, as Allard rode his palfrey up the bank, he looked back at the distance he’d covered. The sands stretched back far behind him, disappearing into the horizon. He shivered involuntarily. The journey across had been tortuously slow. The monk in front of him was on foot, continually jabbing, prodding and poking the sands with his staff. He was forever switching direction, rather than just pursuing a direct line to the opposite shore. Eventually the ordeal was at an end. Brother Robert guided the knight up onto the path that led from the bank.

  “Thank you Brother Robert. Your expertise has guided us safely across the sands.”

  The monk bowed his head deferentially.

  “May I ask as to how you acquired this skill? It is a particular knowledge of this terrain?”

  “There is something to that Brother Templar. But it is not the only skill required. Indeed, these are not the only sands I can cross. I can also act as a guide over the Duddon estuary in the next bay. I believe I could learn the way across any sands. Given enough time to study the tides and the sand patterns. And of course my staff.”

  With a gentle smile, Robert held up his wooden companion. Allard gave an interested nod. It was as the Earl of Pembroke had assured him. The monk was confident of his ability. The Templar bid him farewell after arranging to meet in two days time for the return journey.

  The knight took careful note of the surroundings and in particular the nature of the path. He had been worried that it would be nothing but a rough trail, suitable only for careful walkers or riders. But the work of the monks from the nearby Abbey could be clearly seen.

  The way was actually nearly three yards wide and well cleared. It would be suitable for a horse drawn cart, even a large one. From the ruts already there, he could see that such vehicles regularly passed this way.

  Allard moved his horse forward and began the journey through the forest. After several uneventful hours of riding, the path cleared the woods and the knight found himself at the crest of a hill. The lights of a village snaked across the valley floor and up the opposite side. This must be the village of Dalton of which the Cartmel monk had informed him. He kicked his horse and it picked its way carefully down the steep path that wound its way down to the village.

  It was a typical settlement. But he knew nothing of its inhabitants or history. So despite his military bearing, Allard approached with his customary care. It was dusk, so the light of many small fires faintly lit the village. The houses were, as he would have expected, small timber constructions with thatched roofs. Allard made for the largest building, the church, which sat at the top of the far hill. He could feel suspicious eyes on him as he made his way through the maze of dwellings. When he arrived at the religious house he found the vicar outside.

  Allard dismounted. He nodded in greeting at the man outside the church who was gazing at him curiously. Even in such a remote village the reputation of the Templar Knights was known. Allard’s white mantle and red cross announced him.

  “It’s an honour to have my church graced with the presence of a warrior monk.”

  The vicar’s voice was calm. Actually he was shocked more than honoured. Allard got straight to the point.

  “It’s actually the Abbey of Saint Mary in Bekansgill I seek. I was hoping for a bed for the night, then directions for the morrow.”

  “Of course. I would be pleased to lodge you at my house this evening. I have enough potage prepared and I will have someone take care of your horse.”

  Allard gave a slight bow and followed the vicar into his house that had been built close to the church but slightly below it on the hillside. The following morning he was awake at first light. Dressing quickly, within a few minutes he was outside the small vicarage waiting for his host.

  His horse was brought to him, with the vicar’s servant carrying the horse’s equipment. A sweat cloth was placed over the palfrey’s back and the saddle was slung over it. The stirrups were adjusted and Allard loaded his saddlebag behind. Within a few minutes he was mounted and riding away from the village, following a southerly path through a deeply forested valley.

  It was a carefully maintained road that looked well travelled. No doubt more work of the monks at the Abbey. He was anxious to get on with his meeting with the Abbot, so he rode quickly.

  The knight was well aware that he was in one of the most far-flung regions of the kingdom of England. It was several days since he’d left the castle at Lancaster, itself an isolated settlement. The village he’d stayed in the previous evening had looked poor, filled as it was with small peasant houses. He was not expecting much from his final destination.

  Rounding the last bend in the path he passed though a small stone arch. Then he stopped his horse and stared in astonishment. A magnificent three-storey building glowed warmly in the early morning light. It was a vision in red sandstone, with sweeping lines and huge vaulted windows. He started to understand why this location had been chosen. Allard moved his heels and the horse galloped swiftly up to the Abbey.

  September 30th A.D. 1215 – The Templar Knight

  The Abbot stretched his weary bones and groaned. It was five in the morning, time for the second set of prayers for the day, Lauds, the dawn prayers. All the monks were returning sleepily from their doze in the refectory. They had been resting after Vigils, the time for worship that broke their night’s sleep.

  Abbot Ambrose stepped out of his house and stood still, letting the early autumn sunshine wash over his aching body. The light of the daybreak was shining weakly over the trees. To his left, the natural contours of the land shone in the early morning sun. A huge natural bowl, scooped from the earth stood proud outside the Abbey’s far wall. He could just make out the shelf snaking up the far side. The path used for the monk’s sledges. To bring slabs of sandstone, from the quarry to the storage area used by the masons.

  As always, he visualised an ancient amphitheatre in front of him. But he knew it was impossible that Greeks had visited this site, and quite probably no Romans either.

  He would like to have discussed the topic with some of his fellow monks. But they were all local men, with no great knowledge of the ancient world. This Abbey was isolated. The conversation mainly limited to the inhabitants of the monastery.

  Although it was at a smaller establishment, he’d preferred his previous position at Swineshead. It was closer to other cities and towns. It was situated near to the Wash in the south east of England. His current Abbey of Saint Mary at Beckansgill in Furness was several hundred miles away in England’s remote north west. He was growing tired of the limited company at Furness. This place was too lonely for him. His mind felt as though it was beginning to stagnate.

  The scholarly monk had led a well-travelled life, in comparison to most men of his age. He had been educated at the Benedictine Abbey in St. Albans. After spending a few years teaching in local schools, he had decided to try his luck in France. Arriving there at just twenty years of age, the young man had stayed more than a decade, trying to cram knowledge into the heads of wealthy young Parisians.

  Eventually, wishing to return to his home country, he had ended up as a monk in the Cistercian Abbey at Swineshead. He had been elected Abbot there and subsequently moved to Furness, when a vacancy at the larger, sister Abbey had opened up.

  Ambrose walked down the gentle slope, from his house, towards
the monastery proper. Although it was far from the centres of medieval civilisation, he had to admit that the group of buildings were magnificent. Rivalling any of the great constructions he had seen in Paris, London or anywhere else on his travels.

  The Abbot walked round the guesthouse, and past the southern end of the two-storey dormitory. As he rounded the corner, he caught his first glimpse of the day of the resplendent Abbey church. Ambrose had a few minutes before the start of Lauds. As was his custom, he wandered round the building, marvelling at its size and beauty.

  Even in the sunshine, there remained a slight chill in the early air. The Abbot was wearing a white woollen cowl. It was made from the wool of the Abbey’s own flock of Herdwyck sheep. He pulled the garment tight around him and buried his hands in the voluminous sleeves.

  A slight frown of irritation played across his face, as the morning peace was disturbed by the rhythm of horse’s hooves. The sound reverberated uncomfortably through the Abbot’s ears. He looked up in the direction of the great gatehouse. A rider and horse could be seen approaching the building from the valley path.

  Then he saw the white tunic and the red cross. A shiver ran through him. He immediately recognised the symbol’s significance. Templar! He was unlikely to be bringing good news. He instantly regretted his longing for more interesting times.

  Ambrose scurried away from the north transept wall of the church, to greet the unexpected visitor. He shouted for one of the lay servants. The knight was travelling alone. He dismounted and gave the horse to the Abbot’s man.

  The new arrival was a tall soldier who cut an imposing figure in his Templar’s regalia. He was both military in stature and a little menacing. The latter impression being reinforced by a vicious, crescent shaped cut that ran across his forehead. Starting in the centre just below the hairline, it disappeared into the corner of his right eyebrow. Nonetheless, the Templars were renowned as pious men. And the Abbot was nothing if not courteous.

  “Greetings Brother Templar. Please, walk back to my house with me. Then I bid you enter and make yourself comfortable. I will be along to meet with you as soon as the Lauds prayers have been completed.”

  The knight opened his palms in a gesture of agreement. He followed the older man around the rear of the presbytery. Reaching the house, he entered through the arched door and sank into the nearest chair to await the Abbot’s return.

  In the church, the head of the Abbey’s thoughts were far from focussed on the day’s worship. What could an armed Templar knight want with his isolated religious house? He was glad to be finished and back in his lodgings. The visitor was hunched over the solitary table. In front of him was a rolled parchment.

  “I would be grateful if you could take a look at this, Abbot Ambrose.”

  The Templar knew his name! He stepped towards the table and reached out to the document. He flinched, as the knight shot out a hand and grabbed his wrist.

  “Listen carefully monk. You would do well to look at the seal first and then read on.”

  Ambrose looked into the knight’s eyes. They looked dark, determined and a perhaps a little desperate.

  “Very well.”

  Ambrose glanced at the document as he moved his hand to pick it up. Then he saw the seal. He recoiled as though he’d touched a flame. The lead seal was attached to the paper with hemp. One side showed the heads of two apostles. The other bore a name. Innocent III. It was the papal seal.

  The scroll was from His Holiness himself. Now he knew it wasn’t good news the Templar had brought. Whatever business with Innocent III was in the document, the Abbot wanted no part of it. He’d seen enough of politics in Paris, to know it was a dangerous game. Best left to those intimate with the rules. But despite his reservations, he opened the letter and started to read.

  The Templar watched the Abbot through brooding eyes. The monk’s skin was pale through a lifetime of indoor living. His eyes were sunken. No doubt through sleep deprivation. Prayers seven times a day, according to the rule of Benedict, didn’t do a lot for a man’s sleep patterns.

  All Templars theoretically followed the same schedule when they were in a Templar house. But during the knight’s career, those times had been few and far between. By his appearance, it looked as though the warrior must have spent many months in battle. Looked as if he would have a well-earned reputation as a hard man. His demeanour exuded danger. Ambrose read on slowly and deliberately. At last he raised his eyes and looked up at his visitor.

  “Well then Brother knight. It seems the Templars need my assistance.”

  “No Abbot. It is your Abbey that will provide the help the Templars seek. Your task is to make sure that it happens.”

  “Indeed. Please, let us discuss.”

  The older man took a seat. The knight leant forward and began to talk. It was past the time for the midday meal, by the time they finished. All thought of food and prayers had been wiped from the older man’s mind. Finally, the Templar stood up.

  “You have until early summer to be ready. Is that clear?”

  Ambrose nodded.

  “Very well. Then please can you arrange a meal, then a bed for me this evening? I will then take my leave on the morrow to meet Brother Robert, from the Priory. I have made arrangements to see him three hours ride from here. He is to accompany me on the return to Lancaster.”

  Abbot and Templar left the house together to walk through the church to the under croft below the dormitory. Food and drink were arranged for the visitor. They presented as an odd couple. The small, white haired, frail man of letters, strolling alongside the warrior monk, with his broad shouldered and weather beaten appearance. Fate had tied them together.

  September 1215 A.D. – London – Reviewing Progress

  William Marshal leant back in his chair, his hands under his chin, with lips pursed and brow furrowed. He was an old man now, well into his seventh decade. And he had a long history of intrigues at the highest level.

  But this was different. He was playing for the highest stakes imaginable. And he was also deceiving two of Europe’s most important royals. He could not confide these plans to any of his usual confidants. Not even John of Early, his most loyal and faithful supporter, with whom he had shared so many triumphs and disasters over the decades. The only man who knew some of the plot details, and with whom he could share a little of his concerns, was the Temple Master in London.

  It was Aymer St. Mawr who had come to him with the request, from the Grand Master in the Holy Land, no longer the Gerard he’d met in Jerusalem some three decades earlier, but Guillame de Chartres. A source of funding was apparently required for a Holy cause. No details had been provided even to the London Master. Just that the Templars needed a large fortune that could be acquired and stored in secret.

  The Templars had been true to their word after his visit to Saladin, and had provided assistance to the Marshal at several key moments in his career. They had been a key part of the army that defeated Meilyr in Ireland. More recently, they had provided a private space at their Temple in London for the Marshal to advise King John, on his issues with the barons. The Earl would have liked to help Aymer St. Mawr, but initially he had thought there was no opportunity for him to offer substantive assistance.

  Although wealthy, he didn’t have the sort of funds the Templars required. But then his thoughts had turned to all the plots with which he was currently involved. Gradually an idea began to emerge. At first he rejected it as too outrageous, even for him. Regicide was surely a step too far. After briefly discussing an outline with Aymer though, it had started to seem more reasonable. And William still bore King John nothing but ill will.

  Since then the plan had taken on a life of its own. He was certain that there was now a real chance to make his scheme become a reality. If this succeeded the Templars would be forever in his debt. He should be buried in that Church of theirs.

  The Marshal thought what his next step should be. He had confidence in the French
knight Allard and would not need to meet with him again until the following summer. Unless anything went wrong, which a lot of things could. And he had Louis of France’s assurances to keep the pressure up on the English king. The liaison with the son of the French King was by far the most dangerous leg of the plot.

  He needed a reason to convince the King that he needed to keep the royal wealth with him. Louis’ invasion of England had provided that justification. John didn’t dare leave treasure around the country even in secure storage for fear that the French would overcome these caches. William had also reminded King John, that he might well need most of his wealth to hire mercenaries. It would be especially important if Louis continued his menacing advances through the country. The instructions had gone out to the King’s Treasurer to start the process of gathering the King’s riches together.

  William Marshal was woken from his revelry, by the approach of one of his servants.

  “Sir, the Templar Master, St Mawr has arrived. Am I to allow him entrance as you requested?”

  William nodded his assent, and the Templar was shown into the room and took a seat next to the old man. He looked up at the Templar Master with great hooded eyes.

  “How has the first part gone? Have you word from Brother Allard? Was he well received at the Abbey?”

  “Yes, my Lord. The letter with the papal seal resolved any doubts the Abbot may have harboured.”

  It was, thought William, good that by virtue of his experience at court, he himself was such an experienced politician. Vital, he thought, to build as large a consensus as possible, when the plot involved removing a King. A word with the Pope’s representative in London had convinced the Marshal that Innocent III shared his frustration with King John.

  Of course he could only allude to his plans. The Pope would never willingly involve his office directly with such an option. But William had explained to the Pope’s representative, that all he needed was for the Abbot at Furness, to support the Templars in securing funds for a genuine Christian purpose. And a letter confirming Innocent III’s agreement had been duly forthcoming. By giving the Templar knight the letter and sending him to the north the old nobleman felt he had crossed the Rubicon.