The Furness Secret

by Mark Williams

  “God knows who is in the wrong and has sinned. Soon misfortune will come to those who have wrongly condemned us; God will avenge our death!”

  With that the flames engulfed his body. And the last Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar passed from this world to the next.

  The news was received with sadness by Clement. He was at heart a decent man, who bore heavy responsibility at a difficult time. It pained him to hear the curse that de Molay had lain upon him and the king. Not that he was worried about the words, but he could only imagine the suffering of the Templar. He had gone to a horrific death, believing that the mission of the Holy Order had failed. If the time came for someone to act, the Templars would no longer be there to fulfil what they had always viewed as their destiny.

  De Molay would have believed that the information that had been revealed to them, and kept alive by the Grand Masters through the centuries, was lost. And the treasure hidden to secure the assistance that may be needed was also gone. The Pope regretted the Templar’s despair at this turn of events, all the more so, because it wasn’t true. The Templars had been destroyed, but their Revelation had not been. The Pope knew much more about the Templars than they suspected.

  He was perfectly well aware of the reasons behind the spitting on the cross during their initiation ceremonies. They were only the latest of a long line of groups to believe that Christ had not really been born as a man, and could not therefore be crucified, or resurrected. And not the first set of people to argue that the cross was just a form of idol. It was a view that had been around since the time of Jesus Himself. But the view was counter to all of the rituals that surrounded the medieval Church.

  In the harsh environment of fourteenth century Europe, most of the population clung to these traditions as to life itself. The prospect of a new eternal re-birth the only respite, from what was for most a miserable daily existence. It was no time for theological debate. So wherever such theories were espoused they had to be ruthlessly suppressed, as with the Cathars, a hundred years before.

  But perhaps, the Pope mused, if the Templars had not grown so rich, or if their leader had been more politically agile, maybe events could have turned out differently. The warrior monks could have kept to fighting in the Holy Land. And kept their secrets.

  Pope Clement picked up the ancient leather bound book. It was just one of many confidential documents that the papacy kept. It may or may not contain a true Revelation. Just as other ancient documents he had seen, may or may not detail fundamental spiritual truths. But the Church believed in keeping its options open. He had decided it would be better to keep the Templars treasure safe, just in case it might be required for the task they believed might come. He summoned a scribe and began a missive to Abbot John Comsbrook.

  Having sealed the letter, the Pope arranged for it to be despatched to the Abbey at Furness. He rubbed his eyes, ran his hands through his thinning hair and sank back deeply into his chair. He wondered if the King had heard of Jacques’ words at the stake, or if he was concerned.

  Clement and Philip should both have been. The two men were dead within a year.

  October 1314 A.D. – The Letter

  Abbot Comsbrook’s mind was more at ease than it had been for many years. In fact more relaxed than since the surprise visit from the two Templars. He had written of that visit to the Pope himself. But the reply had been non-committal. Just to ensure the hoard remained hidden. And to ensure that his instruction be handed to the next incumbent.

  But news had eventually reached Furness of the Templars’ demise. He heard that the last Grand Master had gone to the flames proclaiming his innocence. The Abbot felt a touch of regret that he had turned down the request in his letter. But he was no rebel.

  Recently the Abbot had received the further news that the Pope had insisted that all the Templars’ wealth should be handed over to the Hospitallers. What, he wondered about the contents of the church’s chamber? Should he be contacting someone in authority to arrange for a transfer of ownership? But to which authority should he appeal, the Hospitallers, the King, the Pope?

  The problem had now been resolved by a communication from Clement himself. Comsbrook was told that his previous instructions stood. Keep the deposit a secret. And pass the knowledge down to his successors. He was glad not to have to concern himself further with the matter. The next decade would give him other concerns. He was about to face trouble from the north.

  1322 A.D. – The Abbot and Robert the Bruce

  Abbot John rode out from underneath the arch at the Abbey’s gate. As he moved slowly up the valley he could see the smoke from the fires that were burning in the town rising slowly above the tree line. The situation was as he feared. You couldn’t trust a word those murderous savages said.

  The town had only just started to recover from the raids of six years before. The marauding Scots had ruined the town back then. But most of the people had managed to escape to the woods. The Abbey itself had played its part by hiding a good number. But he feared this time was different.

  Comsbrook’s mind returned to the events of two nights before. He had decided to entertain the King of Scots, Robert the Bruce at the Abbey, to try and avoid a repeat of the previous devastation. The King had spent the entire evening in the refectory regaling the assembly with every detail of his murderous march down the coastal area of Westmoreland. The Abbot was sure he was trying to scare the monks gathered round the table. He didn’t need to bother with most of them. They remembered all too well his advance through Furness six years before.

  After dinner, Robert had indicated to John that he would like a private word. So he was led into the study at the rear of the Abbot’s house. He sunk into a chair. And regarded the Abbot carefully. His beady eyes were glowering over the thick bushy, unkempt beard.

  “May I talk plainly to you Abbot Comsbrook?”

  The Abbot confirmed he could. As if he had a choice.

  “The war against your English King is expensive. Very expensive”

  A strange wicked grin spread across his battle worn face.

  “And I see from my visit around your land today that there is much wealth here. You have what, five, six mills, all earning a good sum. And you have the benefit of all the tenant income, from here right up into the hills towards Carlisle. And iron, plenty of iron brought up from your mines.”

  John nodded. The wealth of the monks was hardly a secret. At least the wealth that the Scottish King was describing, that was easily observed by all.

  “And from some of the Templar refugees I have taken in from England, I hear certain rumours.”

  The King’s voice ended with a little question mark. The Abbot’s face revealed nothing. But inside his stomach churned. Surely the barbarian northern King could know nothing of that! But there had been many rumours over the years of exiled Templars joining with Bruce’s army. There had even been a tale that they had played a pivotal role in the famous victory at Bannockburn. John put the thought to the back of his mind. He took a deep breath and began to negotiate what was required for the marauding Scots to pass him by.

  His memories of his discussion with Bruce were disturbed by a snort from his horse. The mounted monk came to the end of the path and Comsbrook could now see the true scale of devastation that had been wrought. The Abbot had paid a ransom, and Bruce had given his word to spare the Abbey and the town. But his word had not been kept. Not where the town was concerned. One glance over the wreck of Dalton told the Abbot that.

  There was hardly a living soul left. A few ragged men were picking through the ruins of their burnt cottages. They must have managed to escape the Scots and hide somewhere in the forests. The Abbot had not gathered in the women and children, as he had believed Bruce’s reassurances.

  He could see now what a heavy price had been paid. The women had been taken off into slavery along with their offspring. And the monk could only imagine the atrocities to which they had been subjected. A shudd
er rippled unbidden down the full length of his body.

  He knew he could never trust that monstrous villain again. He remembered some of the questions Bruce had brought up the previous evening. Rumours he must have heard, or extracted more likely from former Templars in Scotland. They were stories of a secret that involved the Abbey. The Abbot was certain the King knew no details. Bruce would never have left if he’d known the truth. Nevertheless he determined some additional security measures were in order. The Church would require no less from him.

  April 1324 A.D. – Furness – At the Castle

  The grey stone building squatted on top of the craggy hill. It wasn’t the most impressive castle in England. It was far too small and simple for that. And the contrast with the magnificent construction of the Abbey was striking. But Abbot John Comsbrook had pronounced himself satisfied with the outcome.

  He stood with the builder in front of the small entrance door on the side. John had hired this mason from Preston, many miles to the south, on strong recommendations. And the experience told in the speed with which the keep had been constructed. The craftsman walked up to the step and entered the south side of the new castle keep, followed by the monk.

  The structure itself was two storeys high. A spiral staircase rose from the corner of the ground floor room. There was a small narrow window half way up which allowed for the taking up of a good defensive position. Comsbrook knew that the roof of the keep was flat to allow defenders a secure vantage point from any attacking force. He was pleased with the overall construction and its position close to where the old vicar’s house had been situated. It would certainly give the town a better chance if the traitorous barbarians from the north should pay another visit.

  Protecting the town was not the only purpose the Abbot had in mind for the castle. He had other plans. The mason had added a secret feature during the construction. Working during this period with only two other trusted companions.

  The far wall contained a false section that had been constructed of softer sandstone. It had been blended skilfully into the rest of the surface. It was only a small area close to floor level. It was the opinion of the builder and the Abbot that the only chance of detection was if someone was to tap all round the foot of the wall with a pick or staff. And even then, they would need to be looking for something faintly unusual in the sound.

  Behind the false section lay a small gap, sufficient only for a head to reach through. But beneath a hollowed out cellar had been constructed. And inside, piled on top of each other were the Templars’ chests from the chamber beneath the Abbey’s church.

  Abbot John returned to the Abbey chamber that afternoon. The room was transformed from when the chests had been originally hidden. It had a dank musty smell and a melancholy, forlorn appearance. The skilfully crafted doors to the lockers were all hanging off. Little care had been taken of them when removing their contents. John noticed a piece of jagged metal lying on the dirt floor.

  Picking it up he had a sudden thought, that the chamber that had guarded the wealth for so long deserved an epitaph. He moved across to the last locker in the row and scratched into the wood with the end of the spike. He didn’t have much time so he just etched the town to where the hoard had been moved. He added the date as a final thought.

  1537 A.D. – Dissolution

  The shock had first struck Roger Pele, when, as the newly appointed Abbot he arrived to take up his position at the Abbey at Furness. Roger was expecting new responsibilities, but he had not expected this. Not in the wildest reaches of his imagination. He was quite simply astounded. In fact, even that word did not do justice to his feelings. He was a man of modest means and his life had been devoted to prayer. He cared nothing for politics with its web of intrigues.

  He could not contain his amazement on reading the document his Prior, Brian, had handed him. First, that such an isolated Abbey had aroused the interests of not one but two Popes. And second, that he should still be bound in to such a plot hundreds of years later. He was sure that his predecessor would have loathed being put in this position. But apparently, for all of Abbot Alexander Bankes’s Machiavellian skills, he had been unable to wriggle out of this particular responsibility.

  Even five years after taking office Abbot Roger could still feel the sense of surprise. Even more he could feel the weight of history on his shoulders. He thought of all the Abbots from William onwards, who had kept the secret safe. But the other Abbots had not lived in times like his.

  Across Europe, many expert theologians were rebelling against the authority of the Catholic Church. They railed against corrupt officials, the worship of saints and intricately decorated churches that resembled palaces more than places of worship.

  There was a desire amongst many to return to a simpler version of Christianity. The Church was too wealthy ran the argument. Of course the monasteries were one of the most obvious aspects of that wealth. And the Abbey at Furness was the second richest in the whole of England.

  The reform movement was sweeping the country, as well as the continent. Cromwell and Cramner’s men were wreaking havoc throughout the land. And King Henry VIII was of course, a fervent supporter. Albeit, that it may just be a ploy to get his own way in the marriage game. By 1537 the reformers held positions of great influence throughout the kingdom and Abbot Roger feared for the very existence of the Abbey itself. The matter of the mission from the past could not be uppermost in his thoughts.

  It was a wet, drizzly spring morning and the Abbot was at Whalley Abbey, waiting for his appointment with the King’s Commissioners. These were turbulent and frightening times for any monk. As he ruminated on what the verdict might be, he thought back to how things could have come to this.

  Three years previously, a team of ecclesiastical lawyers appointed by the King had visited the Abbey at Furness. When they’d departed, a friar, Robert Legate, had been left behind. His role had been presented as ensuring the monks kept to their Cistercian rules. But Roger had suspicions that the friar was acting as a spy for the King’s chief advisor, Thomas Cromwell. Roger knew Cromwell, for it was he who had appointed him to his position at the Abbey.

  The next few years had seen tense times in Furness. The Abbot suspected that many of the monks would have liked to have joined the rebellion against the King’s reforms known as the Pilgrimage of Grace, but could not get enough local support. However, four canons from Cartmel Priory along with ten laymen had been hanged for treason in March of that year.

  Immediately after that there had been another investigation at Furness Abbey. The Abbot was waiting now at Whalley for the results of this fresh inquiry. He was waiting with some foreboding. Eventually, he heard his name called.

  The meeting was worse than he had feared. The game was clearly up. With a heavy heart Roger headed back to Furness.

  The denouement came on a beautiful, warm day. The entire collection of the Abbey’s monks, numbering near thirty in all, were spread amongst the vaulted rooms which bordered the well groomed grass of the cloisters. The bright light of the midday sun bounced off the lush green of the grass and illuminated the deep red of the sandstone walls. A table had been set up on one of the courtyard paths and a scribe was seated behind, holding open a large parchment. He read out the terms of the Abbey’s dissolution.

  Once started it did not take long for the process of destruction to gain a terrible momentum. The community disappeared. The monks gone, beggars sent away, sheep sold. And then Robert Southwell, the receiver of the Court of Augmentations had been appointed as the King’s Representative for the Abbey’s physical destruction. It was his role to survey the Abbey’s grounds and to make the buildings uninhabitable.

  Labourers were employed and the next weeks saw them using ropes and scaffolding to remove the lead from all of the roofs. Many of the great sandstone blocks were broken up and used by locals as building material.

  1544 A.D. – The Vicar’s Secret

  Every time Roger wandered down t
he valley from the town to the site of the former Abbey, he found himself in great distress. Many of the buildings, including his former house had been completely destroyed.

  He had been granted the position of vicar as part of the dissolution agreement. Though it had been hard enough to get the King’s commissioners to grant him that small favour. And even then Cromwell had tried to renege on the deal. Roger had been forced to offer a ‘gift’ of forty pieces of gold to remain in the vicarage. And the reformers were supposed to pride themselves on their piety. It turned his stomach.

  Roger Pele had not expected to end his life in this way, or in this remote place. But the Pope’s instructions had been clear. He was to remain in Dalton, until Henry’s destruction had run its course. To make sure that the looting of the monks’ properties in the area were kept to the Abbey and its outlying buildings. And not expanded, especially to one particular building in the town.

  There was no reason to suppose that the King knew the Furness Secret. But this was a hard and dangerous period and trust was at a premium. So Roger had been instructed by Rome, to stay on in the town as vicar. And make sure that the King’s men did not loot the castle. Or allow its walls to be ripped down by anyone seeking out more construction material.

  1544 A.D. – Rome – Archiving the Letter

  The impact of the death of a humble vicar, in a far-flung parish of England, would never in usual circumstances be felt in Rome. But this was different. Pope Paul was seated across from his advisor, considering the contents of the communication from the Archbishop in London. He had been quiet for some time. Ruminating on what his decision should be.