The Furness Secret

by Mark Williams

  He was far from alone. His fellow Infidels came racing behind him, using their fallen comrade as a battering ram against the defensive forces. An order came, shouted to Yenovk from the Commander of the citadel.

  “Quick! Take your troops and move down the steps. Take up a position outside the citadel doors. We must prevent them moving far beyond if they succeed in breaching the wall of men on top of the tower.”

  Yenovk turned to his men, and relayed the instructions to them. Screaming to make his voice heard over the blood curdling shrieks of the attackers and the cries and groans of the wounded and dying.

  Yenovk hated to retreat, but he could see the logic in the Commander’s instructions. There can have been no more than a hundred attackers on the boat. The Islamist forces would need to remain close to prevent the Infidels consolidating their position and bringing up reinforcements.

  He gathered a force of ten of his men and instructed them to follow him. They ducked through the exit door on the top floor of the tower and raced down the internal staircase. They emerged, blinking, from the inside of the building, into the brightness of the late morning. Yenovk swept out his arm, indicating that his men should spread out into a semi-circular arc laid out either side of the door.

  They were all breathing hard, the memories of the recent hand to hand fighting flooding through their minds. One or two were bent double, resting on the handle of their swords, the crescent shape blades glistening wickedly in the sun. There was a sudden oasis of silence; the only sound the deep, harsh breaths of Yenovk’s troops.

  It didn’t last long. In a few minutes the unmistakable sounds of boots racing down a staircase were clearly audible. The next second, two of the Frankish army burst through the doorway, swords drawn and held at the ready. Yenovk’s men stepped forward in unison, raising their own weapons. The two Infidels stopped in their tracks. Each turned towards the nearest curve of defenders. But it was too late.

  Yenovk was at the far end of the line of men to the right of the citadel’s main door. He was armed with his favourite weapon, a ferocious battle-axe. The blade was a thing of beauty. Intricate carvings covered its surface. But the good looks, disguised the deadly sharpness of the blade’s edge. The nearest Frank was a quick worker. Before Yenovk had barely taken a step forward, the knight had driven his sword into the closest Mamluk. But his weapon had snarled in the process. Yenovk stepped forward and with all his strength brought his axe down on his foe. He felt the blade slice right down through the neck, to strike bone. From past experience, he was certain the blow was mortal.

  Yenovk gazed down on his defeated enemy. The blood from the wound was seeping into the knight’s cloak, mingling with the red of the cross. It was clear that the Templar was close to death. His breathing was heavy and laboured. The face had turned deathly white, apart from a vivid, angry red scar that cut a jagged line on the man’s forehead. Yenovk picked up the sword lying by the side of the body and threw it to one side. He took off his opponent’s helmet and placed it on top. Yenovk was turning to check his troops were stripping the other knight, when something caught his eye.

  The Templar was lying on his back, where he had fallen. But the Frankish knight had managed to move slightly and had retrieved an item from under his mantle that he had clenched, tightly in his right hand. What was it wondered Yenovk, that was important enough for the man to remember, even in the throes of death? He bent down and took the object from the Templar’s hand. It was nothing but a small leather pouch. It was nonetheless added to the pile that Yenovk was building.

  August 24 1218 A.D. – Damietta, Egypt – The Tower of Chains

  Allard was cursing his luck. He had finally arrived in the Holy Land with the rest of the fleet that had set out from Dover. But the passage had been as difficult as he had feared. The vast majority of the ships had arrived in Acre in the spring. But Allard’s ship had suffered damage in a Mediterranean storm and had been forced to seek repairs in Cyprus.

  They had eventually joined up with the crusading army in time to join in hostilities. But Allard had been unable to journey to Acre and so had not yet been able to seek an audience with Guillame de Chartres. He was anxious to pass on his information and determined to get himself to the Templar headquarters as soon as was practically possible.

  However, for now, other work awaited him. A huge Christian force was camped on the outskirts of Damietta, the Egyptian city of around sixty thousand souls. It was set snugly among the silt, sandbars, dunes and lagoons at the mouth of the main eastern estuary of the Nile. It was smaller than Alexandria and much smaller than Cairo, but the Crusader leadership regarded it as the key to Egypt.

  Allard was part of a massive invading army that was camped outside the fortified city walls. Damietta was proving a difficult place to attack. The Crusaders would have liked to launch hostilities from the river. However control of the waterway was maintained by the defenders, utilising the means of a huge chain, strung from the city walls to a tower on the opposite bank. The Crusaders had rather unimaginatively, given this strongpoint the name ‘Tower of Chains’.

  Several raids on the tower had taken place throughout the summer. Allard had been involved with all of them. They had not been in any way successful as the tower was tall, and its height made it easy to defend from an attack at river level. An ingenious solution was required, and it came from Oliver Paderborn, the scholarly recruiting officer.

  Oliver remembered a passage from the Roman scholar Livy’s great work of history, ‘Ab Urbe Condita’. In it Livy described an account of the siege of Syracuse. His book went into lyrical detail, of how the Roman general Marcellus, needed a plan to scale the seaward walls of the city. The Roman nobleman had developed the idea of pairing Quinqueremes together, by removing their inner oars. They then constructed towers of single storeys on their decks. The vessels could still be powered using their outer oars.

  To Oliver, it seemed that this concept could be used to construct a river born device that could be used in an attack on the Tower of Chains. And he persuaded the Crusader leadership to try the idea.

  Two ships of the Crusaders’ fleet were joined together using ropes and sturdy beams. On tops of the decks, four masts were set up and between them poles and cloth were used to put together a platform that rivalled the tower for height.

  On a late August morning, Allard found himself part of the force ready for action on the converted ships, which were to spearhead the attack force against the Muslim citadel. The vessel moved off slowly up the river, its bulk necessitating a slow, steady gradual progress. But after an hour or so, the Crusaders could gradually begin to discern the emerging outline of the fortress on the riverbank.

  All talk ceased on the upper deck amongst the men who would be in the forefront of the assault. Allard performed a final check of his sword and shield, and made last adjustments to his chain mail armour and helmet. The tower grew ever nearer and the fighting men on the platform could hear the archers below, preparing their bows.

  The gap narrowed, no more than ten yards now. Allard could see the determined faces of the defenders on top of the fortress. Mamluk slave warriors among them he thought, from the shape of the conical helmets. A signal was given from below and the air was thick with the sound of flying arrows. Screams rang out from the top of the tower as they found their target.

  There was four of Allard’s fellow Templars on the top platform. Behind them, some of the ship’s sailors were manoeuvring ladders into position. As the vessel closed on the tower, the wooden constructions were dropped to breach the gap, accompanied by a loud roar from the attackers.

  The knight to Allard’s right was first across the ladder. But he was brutally cut down in front of the first two defending Muslims, by a flying arrow. Allard and the man on his left were next. They picked up the body of their fallen comrade and used it as a weapon to push back the first line of defence and obtain a footing on the tower itself.

  The next few minutes were a blu
r of whirling swords, flying arrows and the clashing of shields. The noise was deafening but none of the combatants noticed. The floor of the tower was becoming slick and slippery with the blood of the fallen. But the Christians were making slow progress and the Islamic forces were gradually yielding, even though they were fighting ferociously for every inch.

  Allard felt a nudge in his side and one of his fellow Templars gestured to a door that led into the body of the fortress itself. A gap had developed in front of the entrance as the men charged with guarding it, were busily engaged with a group of Christian attackers. Allard nodded and the two knights ducked through the doorway and started to carefully descend the spiral stairs inside.

  It seemed as though the whole of the tower’s garrison had been deployed on the top of the tower and there was no resistance as they moved to the ground floor. From the open doorway they could see the flat, dusty terrain outside.

  “Allard. Come, let us move quickly. We may catch any rear guard forces unawares.”

  Dropping his shield, the man ran through the door, his sword raised in front of him. Allard followed swiftly on his heels. But they were to catch no one unawares. Immediately on leaving the tower, they realised they had made a serious mistake. Ranged only a few yards on either side of the exit was a group of maybe ten Muslim warriors. It was almost as though they were waiting for the Templars. With a fierce cry they were upon Allard and his comrade in seconds.

  Each of them turned, Allard to his left and his fellow knight to the right. Allard thrust his broadsword at the belly of the first man and sliced him nearly in two. He pulled desperately backwards on the sword, trying to free it for a second blow. But before he could completely clear the blade from the body, he caught sight of a weapon descending on him from above.

  The axe head was sharp and deadly and attached to the top of a long wooden handle. In the centre of the blade was an elaborate, intricate carving. But Allard had no time to admire the craftsmanship as it crashed into his shoulder. Bouncing off the bone, the hard edge sliced through the Templar’s neck. He staggered backwards and fell to the ground.

  Strangely his thoughts turned to his adventures in England. His dying movement was to grasp for the leather pouch, hung around his neck.

  August 26 1218 A.D. – Damietta, Egypt – Legacy Secured

  The Grand Master had decided to leave his headquarters at Acre to see first hand how the Fifth Crusade was progressing. It had proved a fatal move. Guillame de Chartres knew in his heart that he was dying. He’d seen enough people perish from the river sickness in his time. Philip his great friend and comrade, was seated on the ground at the side of his Grand Master. He had just been telling the story of the capture of the Tower of Chains. And of the Templar casualties that had occurred.

  So, his young Cathar had perished, here at Damietta. Guillame was long past any capacity for sentimentality and he had received the news calmly. Perhaps he thought, it was for the best, the fewer people who knew the English Secret the better.

  The exact plans of the hoard’s location were now lost. But that was a small matter. The northern Abbey could easily be contacted. Guillame had the form of the letter that would be required to release the wealth. The wording was deliberately complex to guard against fraud. And it was stored safely in the Grand Master’s box that remained securely in the Templar Headquarters at Acre.

  Despite his grave condition, de Chartres allowed himself a small moment of contentment. Against the odds his plans had come to fruition. The Order was now protected against any foolhardy activity, such as that exhibited by the reckless de Ridefort. The Great Prophecy could be fulfilled. Nothing short of the abolition of the Order and the complete annihilation of the great English monasteries could prevent it now. And how likely was that?

  December 8th 2010 – Good News

  Charles Wilson knew he was onto something as soon as he’d started the translation process. Throughout his amateur history career, he’d had many times to be thankful, for the three years of Latin that he’d been taught at the local Grammar school. But he’d never had a reason to be as thankful as this.

  The documents were old; that much was obvious. The date was, AD MCCXVI, 1216, and at first sight it looked like the parchments were from that year. The script was beautifully handwritten. But it looked to Charles as if the documents had been recently restored, maybe three to five years earlier.

  They were written in Latin, with which Charles was familiar. But the script, whilst beautiful, was strange to modern eyes. Most of the time that Charles took in translation was used up in working out the words in Latin. He was very grateful to whoever had performed the recent restoration.

  At last, four days after Tom’s visit, Charles completed his task. He would have been beside himself with excitement had he thought the content could be genuine. But surely it must be some sort of medieval hoax? Despite his doubts, a little thrill of anticipation danced its way down his back. Anyway, the young soldier needed to know what he’d brought back from the frontline. He had the number and Charles reached for his phone.

  December 1218 A.D. – The Nile Delta – Messenger from Home

  Yenovk had seen enough of this campaign. It had been over five months since he’d left his hometown and journeyed to Egypt. Apart from the combat he’d seen at the siege of the citadel, the rest of the time had been tedious. Yenovk and his fellow Mamluks were often just being used as a display of force. In order to ensure the local Egyptian peasants knew who was in charge.

  He was therefore pleased to see the messenger arrive that morning from Mosul.

  “As-salaamu ‘Alaykum”

  Having passed on his greeting the messenger proffered the letter he’d been carrying.

  Yenovk started to read. It was from Badr al-Din Lu’lu’. It was bad news. The ruler of Mosul had died. Al-Qahir had actually passed away in July, a month before the great Sultan al-Adil. Lu’lu’ was extremely concerned for the continued prosperity of both himself and Yenovk. It looked as though forces close to Mosul, may be preparing an attack. They were trying to take advantage of the power vacuum, left by the Sultan’s death. They also knew that the Atabeg, al-Qahir’s son was as yet too young to succeed him. Lu’lu’ had himself been named as the boy’s guardian. He had also been officially recognised as the deputy Atabeg.

  A local warlord Imad al-Din Zanki who ruled the nearby fortresses at al-Aqr and Shush had already begun hostilities. His troops had launched an attack on the citadel at al-Imadiya in Kurdistan. This was an important garrison that had long been controlled from Mosul. Lu’lu’ was alarmed that if this outpost was to fall, an attack on Mosul itself could be imminent.

  Given the dire state of affairs at home, Yenovk could no longer be spared. The defence of Egypt would need to be left to others. He was required for guarding his own wealth in Mosul. He gathered his belongings and with his fellow soldiers prepared for the long journey home.

  May 1219 A.D. – Mosul – Back Home

  Yenovk wondered to himself if he was getting too old for the fight. The sight of his home had never seemed so comforting and welcome. Still, warfare did at least have some rewards. His servants had brought in the pile of goods he’d brought back with him from Egypt.

  Meticulously, Yenovk began to sort through the various items. He put aside several pieces of armour, and three swords that he would sell locally. Then he spotted the leather pouch he’d taken off the dying Templar at Damietta. Whatever it contained was clearly important to the man. It was well made and Yenovk was hoping for some valuable contents. So he was disappointed when it revealed nothing more than some parchments.

  The script on the document was in a language with which Yenovk was unfamiliar. But the letters at the start of each section were beautifully illustrated. Even though he could not understand the contents, Yenovk could see that considerable time and effort had gone into its manufacture. So hoping that some value could be obtained from the pouch’s contents after all, he put it to one side and con
tinued to sort through the pile.

  By the time he had finished he had divided the spoils into two heaps. The first he would keep. It was mainly practical items, such as the swords and items of military clothing. He would have no problem selling these at the local bazaar, where there was always a ready market for equipment of war. The second, mainly pots, vases and trinkets of jewellery, he would give to his friend Badr al-Din Lu’lu’, to be presented as a tribute to the new young Atabeg. The Templar’s pouch was in the second pile.

  Badr was a great patron of the arts. The Atabeg’s court had many well-trained scholars who were capable of reading Latin. They received the pouch and the papers from Damietta with great interest. It was rare that the troops from the ranks of the Believers took documents from the enemy, rather than military equipment, or other valuables. The clerics of the court quickly ascertained that the documents described a hoard of treasure, which the accursed Templars had secured and safely stored. But the riches were being kept at the far ends of the Frankish lands, well beyond the reach of any of the Believers.

  The head scribe determined that the documents should be kept within their original pouch and stored within the library at Mosul. He added a covering note in Arabic. It described the contents and a suggestion. That anyone amongst the Faithful, who was to head a mission against the Franks from England, should consider taking the pouch with them. Perhaps it could be used to their advantage.

  May 14 1219 A.D. – Caversham – The Death Scene

  The bedchamber in the manor house at Caversham was cold, even in the middle of May. The windows and doors had been flung wide open to let as much air as possible into the room. William Marshal had been very unwell for many weeks, since March in fact. He had lost a lot of weight and for the last days had been able to eat nothing, but bread stuffed mushrooms.