That morning he was lying, dozing quietly in bed when suddenly his eyes snapped open. He shouted out as loudly as he could, given that his voice had been greatly weakened.
“Do you not see them! The two men in white. Do they come to take me?”
The two knights who were in attendance jumped up. Did William mean them? John of Early who was standing disconsolately by the open window moved quickly across to the bed.
“Be still my Lord. It is nothing but a dream you are having.”
But William was deaf to his words. He was staring intently at the two men he could see standing up on either side of the foot of his bed. One was tall, dressed in a long white robe, long brown hair framing his face. His face lit up by a welcoming smile. The other was dressed as a Templar knight and his scarred face was impassive. The man in the robe began to speak. As he listened intently, a contented smile crept gradually across the Earl of Pembroke’s face. Eventually he closed his eyes, and folded his bony hands across his chest. He sighed gently.
“I am ready.”
His wife, Isabel and his daughters were sent for and bade farewell to the great Earl in his bedchamber.
The next day, in a crowded chamber, with a cross placed over his face, held tightly in his son’s arms and with the trusted John of Early at his side, William Marshal died. He was buried in London. His tomb is in the Templar Church.
1265 A.D. – Beaune House, France – Induction
It was a beautiful spring morning. The tall young man had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, long flowing hair and a full brown beard. He was encased in new chain mail, and was sitting purposefully astride his newly acquired warhorse. He’d only recently been knighted and was brim full of enthusiasm for his fledgling career.
As a ten-year-old boy, many long evenings had been spent in front of roaring fires, at his home in Burgundy, listening to the stories of his paternal uncle. Tales of combat and glory in the Holy Land. His relative was the Marshal of the Templar Order in the East, in command of all the armed forces of the fighting monks. Second in importance only to the Grand Master himself. From that winter onwards, there was only one ambition in the boy’s life. It was a career in the Order for him, as a Templar Knight, a defender of Christendom.
And so it was that eight years later he found himself on the way to the most important meeting in his young life. He was desperately hoping to be inducted into the Templars. His father had arranged for him to attend an assembly of fellow knights at Beaune House. He knew that at least one of the people attending, Humbert de Pairaud, was a Templar. And he was an influential member at that, the Visitor General of the Order for the whole of France.
The young knight’s name was Jacques de Molay. And he was intrigued to find out, that before his induction to the Templars, he would be required to have a private meeting with Humbert. Apparently, it was to probe his religious upbringing. Jacques went to Church as regularly as the rest of his family. And obeyed all the traditions. He considered himself a good Christian, if not especially pious.
Reaching the small chapel, Jacques dismounted, and could see through the lingering morning mist, that Humbert de Pairaud was waiting for him at the door. The older man gestured to him and ducked his head as he went through the low arch of the church entrance. Jacques followed him. Once inside, he took a seat next to Humbert on the stone bench at the side of the vaulted room.
“I believe you have spent time with Guillaume de Molay, our Master in the East.”
The young man nodded his head, with a gesture he hoped conveyed a sage and wise disposition.
“Indeed. He is the younger brother of my father. I spent much time with him when I was younger.”
“And you wish to join him in our Order?”
“I do.”
“Very well. But before we go through the details of the rule by which we live, I am obliged to explain to you our religious beliefs. Many applicants find they cannot live within our code of worship. And so they choose to take the process no further. But these understandings of ours, must be kept secret, as we have no desire to allow our enemies to portray us as heretics. So before I continue, you must give me your word, as a knight, that you will reveal nothing of what I am to tell you. Whether or not you wish to eventually join our ranks.”
Jacques was intrigued and eager for an explanation.
“I give you my solemn oath. I will tell nothing of what you say this day.”
Humbert gave him a long hard stare. The young man held his look and returned it coolly. The Templar seemed satisfied and launched on his prepared speech, which he had in actuality delivered many times, to many potential recruits.
He could usually tell, by the applicant’s reaction within the first few minutes, as to whether he was facing a new addition to the Templar ranks. Jacques was listening calmly, with the occasional nod. Humbert was pretty sure they would be moving on to the initiation ceremony later in the day. He was correct in his assumption.
Humbert explained the beliefs that the Templars held and how they differed from those of the Church. Jacques was focused solely on gaining entry to the Order and had never been particularly interested in religious theory.
The exact nature of Christ’s ministry was of little matter to him. However, even Jacques raised an eyebrow at the fact that the Templars despised the worship of the cross, which apparently they regarded as idolatry. Nonetheless, he was comfortable accepting the argument and his initiation therefore passed off smoothly. Within weeks he was a full member of the Order of the Knights Templar.
December 19th 2010 – The Search
It was a cold morning, but pleasant. The grass underfoot was white and crunchy, and there was a little frost on the pavement. Tom had been told to meet the historian in the car park. Apparently Charles had some visitor who wanted to meet him. First, Tom had walked Chloe to the local college, which was nearby. Her dad had taken Eve for her hospital visit. Chloe was using the time to update her tutor on the reason for her recent absences. She wasn’t in any mood for studying. She was beside herself with worry as they waited for the results of the treatment.
Eve wasn’t at all well. Tom tried to reassure Chloe that it was just the effects of the treatment. But he could see that she wasn’t convinced. The consultant had told them they would have to be patient. Four more weeks and they would have a good idea. But each day seemed like an eternity to Eve’s mother. Tom watched her wander off into the college building. Back hunched. Like Atlas of old, the weight of the world was resting across her young shoulders. His breath steaming, he turned and picked his way carefully down the sloping road towards where he was to meet Charles.
The road narrowed as it wandered through an old sandstone arch. The pavement disappeared and Tom was forced onto the road, watching carefully for traffic. He was nervous enough of his leg in the frost. The last thing he needed was to be hit by some harassed school mum, using the lane as a rat run.
Regaining the pavement, he spent a moment leaning on his stick, catching his breath. His fitness was pathetic. He would need a lot of training for any chance of a return to combat duties. Looking up he could see the ruins of the Abbey in front of him. They were standing out clearly. Framed by the clear blue of the December sky.
The ancient buildings, despite their condition, maintained a lot of their ancient splendour. But there was obviously some sort of problem, as there were two enormous red, iron girders propping up what was left of the three storey walls of the church nave.
Five minutes later, Tom was in the car park outside the Visitor Centre. Charles was standing next to a tall woman in a dark brown trouser suit. She had jet black, long hair that was drawn tightly back from her face. It contrasted with the pallid complexion of someone who had spent a lifetime indoors, in academia.
“Tom, can I introduce you to Miss Davenport. She’s from English Heritage. Made her way up from Preston today to chaperone us.”
The woman stepped forward with a smile and gave Tom a firm h
andshake.
“You’ve certainly got our historian here worked up. I’ve never seen Mr Wilson so excited in all the years I’ve known him.”
Charles was almost blushing.
“Well it will probably be a false trail. Like most clues I seem to find. But still….”
The English Heritage lady didn’t wait for him to find the words to complete his thoughts. She was already bending over the gate, unlocking the padlock that was attached to a thick steel chain.
The tourist attraction, although well known in the local area, never received too many visitors. It wasn’t worth keeping it open in winter, apart from a few hours at the weekend. So they would have the ruins to themselves. As she let them in, Miss Davenport gestured to the girders.
“You can see we’ve had some trouble recently. Five hundred year old oak timbers prop some of the foundations up. Most of them are reaching the end of their lives and we don’t want the walls to lean any further.”
The trio made their way over the frozen grass. Picking their way carefully, from the gate to the outskirts of the dilapidated church. They went slowly, conscious of the young man’s limp. The woman led the way, followed by Charles who was carrying a small spade. Tom brought up the rear. He was nervous of the hard bumpy ground. Eyes rooted firmly to where the next footstep was to land.
So, Tom was surprised when Charles stopped and he looked up to find himself already at the rear of the Abbey church’s nave. The rear wall of the ancient building was virtually intact. The great arch of the west window soared towards the heavens. It was an impressive structure even in modern times. The construction was a testament to the skills of the medieval masons. Tom didn’t rate himself as particularly imaginative. But he had no problem seeing the effect this Abbey must have had in its heyday.
His historian friend was holding a sheet of A4 paper in front of him. It was filled with the most important part of his translation. Below the writing was a small handwritten diagram. Charles held it up and turned it this way and that. Trying to align it with some architectural feature of the church. Finally, he seemed satisfied, took a few steps forward and turned to the lady from English Heritage.
“Apparently X marks this spot.”
Miss Davenport smiled at him.
“Well you’d better get on with it then. You’re going to take a while to do much damage with that.”
She gestured at his hand held spade.
“I’ve not to be back in the office ‘til 4. So I guess you’ve got the best part of six hours.”
But it turned out that Charles didn’t need six hours.
A little light digging into the grass that was overgrowing that section of the floor was all that was required. Scraping away the top surface revealed a grey stone that contrasted with the red sandstone that was all around them. It was not remarkable though.
The stone would have been in plain view before the grass had covered it, decades earlier. But the historian could feel excitement rising. It was covering a space pointed to in the ancient document. Now, it was time to dig the stone up. This proved more difficult. Miss Davenport stood back and left him to it, but eventually it started to loosen and move.
Beneath was another grey flagstone. But this one looked a lot heavier, and a lot older. And in the middle of the far side of the slab, was an iron ring. Now Charles could feel his heart beat faster. Again, the placement of the stone was just as expected. Cleaning off the surface revealed the edges of what was starting to resemble a hatch. Taking a firm grasp, Charles pulled hard but could only move the covering a small way.
Tom smiled to himself; Charles didn’t look like the type who’d spent endless hours, pumping hard iron at the gym. And although his left leg was battered, the soldier’s upper body was in great shape. That was courtesy of the physios in the Army.
“I think I’d better have a go at that.”
Charles gave way willingly enough. The young soldier sat down awkwardly on the floor of the church. The ring was larger than he thought and it was possible to get a very secure grip with both hands. Keeping his back straight he began to pull back, using the same motion as with dead lifts, or when pounding out the metres on the rowing machine.
The stone moved up slightly, and then backwards as Tom gradually increased the pressure. A brief stop to recover his breath, and a final heave dislodged the covering completely. He fell backwards as the slab plopped out. Charles and Miss Davenport were already peering over the edge. The older man was using a large torch to illuminate the darkness below.
The lady from Preston looked up at Charles with raised eyebrows.
“Well Mr Wilson, look what you’ve found this time…..”
Ten minutes later, all the excitement had evaporated. Filled with a sense of adventure, all three of the explorers, even Tom, had managed to get themselves through the hole in the church floor. They were all standing now in the chamber beneath.
It had obviously been intended as a medieval storage facility. Maybe even for valuables. But there was nothing of value remaining. The lockers that lined the walls were all full of mould, mud and tattered spiders’ webs. Charles, in particular was crushingly disappointed, given the success in following his translated instructions. He felt like an Egyptologist discovering a pharaoh’s resting place that had been desecrated by tomb robbers.
But Miss Davenport was all bustling efficiency.
“Come on Charles, get your camera out. There may be nothing much in here, but the chamber itself is a wonderful find. Get going, surely you want to be the first one to post pictures.”
April 1292 A.D. – Election in Cyprus
Jacques de Molay had been in the organisation for the best part of thirty years. And he now had a chance to be elected Grand Master. It was turbulent times for the Order. They had been rudely dispatched from their last mainland Outremer post at Acre. The Templars had been required to move their headquarters to the Mediterranean island of Cyprus.
Nonetheless, the putative leader had arrived at the new base determined to awaken a fresh crusading zeal, both in the Order and throughout the western world. After all, was that not their Holy purpose? Were they not to guard the Holy Land for Christianity?
That was not the view of all of the Templars however. Some of the fighting Brothers seemed to have lost their crusading zeal. A rival for the leadership, Hugues de Pairaud had a less combative view of the Order’s future.
It was somewhat ironic that Jacques’ main rival for the leadership was actually the nephew of Humbert, the man who had received him into the movement all those years before. Hugues’ background was completely different to Jacques’.
He had spent his entire career in the West, rather than fighting the massed ranks of the Infidels in the East. Hugues was steeped in the politics of late thirteenth century Europe, particularly France. Pragmatically, his main concern was to keep the Templars’ estates and wealth intact. By now they were a hugely wealthy organisation with enormous power and privilege. Hugues was very aware that envious glances were attracted by the Order from the very highest powers, especially in mainland Europe.
Jacques and Hugues made final pleas to the Templars’ electoral commission for the Master’s position. Impressing with his fiery, powerful rhetoric, his military record and his strong physical presence, Jacques was elected. Subsequent events would prove that this was probably a mistake. He may have been better focusing on the battlefield, rather than on leading the movement.
Nonetheless on a fine April day in Cyprus, the new Master was full of optimism. He was eager to get to the West and start energising the Christian world for a new crusade.
Then he opened the box.
It took him several hours to come to terms with the legacy that had been passed down to him by Hugh and the other Grand Masters. He marvelled at the foresight of Guillame of Chartres nearly a hundred years ago. The Templars had become many times wealthier than in William’s time. But their riches were there for all to see. And as
in Outremer, grabbed.
Jacques de Molay was relieved that the resources they had promised to provide were safe, secret and secure. All he had to ensure was that the Order of the Templars continued. To that end his first task was to ensure that the base in Cyprus was well maintained and funded. Once that had been completed, the island could be used as an embarkation point for an attack on the eastern Mediterranean coast.
And therefore Jacques determined he would need to travel to the Christian power base of the West, in France, as soon as practical, to get the backing he required.
July 1293 A.D. – Rome
Jacques de Molay was grateful to get an audience with the Pope. As he was ushered into Boniface’s presence he quickly gathered his thoughts. He took a deep breath to gain composure. The Pope was seated behind an impressive, ornate desk. He gestured to a free chair placed on the other side. And Jacques sat down and waited for Pope Boniface to open the conversation.
“Grand Master, it is a pleasure to find you well. I trust your journey from Cyprus was uneventful?”
De Molay replied in the affirmative.
“I understand from your letter, that you ask for assistance in obtaining the privileges for your new base that were enjoyed by the headquarters at Acre. Perhaps you can tell me exactly what you have in mind?”
The Grand Master was well prepared for this opportunity and launched into a detailed explanation of his plans. The main thrust of his argument was that to secure the Templar garrison in Cyprus would require significant exports from their estates in Europe. Particularly from Spain, Portugal, France and England.
The cost would be huge, and would be exacerbated by the onerous customs duties imposed by European monarchs. Jacques requested a letter from Boniface to each of the rulers suggesting that these duties could be waived.
The Pope had been shocked himself at the speed with which the Templars had been expelled from Acre. And he was aware that if his own plans for a new Grand Crusade were to be realised, a strong Templar force was imperative. Jacques was therefore pressing at an open door. And he was able to obtain the letters he required.
The Furness Secret Page 21