The Temple Scroll

by D C Macey

  CHAPTER 9 - WEDNESDAY 14th AUGUST

  The assistant did not have the chance to usher Sam into the dean’s office before the man himself emerged, hand outstretched and beaming smile.

  ‘Sam, good to meet you,’ he said while they shook hands. ‘Come on in. I’m Charles Rodgers but please do call me Charles.’ The dean stepped to one side and waved Sam through the doorway to his office.

  ‘Thank you, Charles, it’s very kind of you to fit me in at such short notice,’ said Sam.

  ‘No problem. Howard made it quite clear you were in a hurry. Now, can I offer you a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, that would be nice, just white, no sugar.’

  The dean glanced back towards his assistant and arched an eyebrow. She nodded.

  ‘I think I might have one too,’ said the dean. His assistant smiled an acknowledgement.

  Closing his office door, the dean pointed Sam towards a cluster of comfortable looking occasional chairs on the far side of the room. Sam admired how the dean had captured both efficiency and comfort in his office décor. As he took his seat, he glanced briefly at the group of framed pictures arranged on the wall beside the chairs; there was some familiarity that he couldn’t quite place, he speculated they might be popular prints; anyway, they fitted in well.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you? Howard did say your research might have established some link with Richard de Haldingham, the fellow we believe created the Mappa Mundi. It’s our most prized treasure, so anything that sheds light on its origins is good for us too. How exactly can we help?’

  Sam explained about the Templar’s gravestone at Inchcolm Abbey, its reference to Lincoln and Howard’s theory about alternative family names that might make Sam’s grave find in Scotland related to the creator of the Mappa Mundi.

  The dean did not understand quite what the urgency was but his friend Howard’s reference was certainly good enough for him and, in any event, Sam’s credentials were impeccable. ‘I’ve made arrangements for you to speak with Simon Owens. He’s our volunteer historical expert. Though don’t be fooled by the word volunteer. Simon retired down here but he used to be a big noise at the Imperial War Museum. We could never afford him, but he’s with us a day or so a week, volunteering. Keeping us and our band of volunteers in line and up to speed. Simon’s expecting you. Let’s finish our coffee and I’ll walk you down.’

  On leaving the dean’s office, he slipped a piece of paper into Sam’s hand. ‘Oh, nearly forgot. In case I don’t see you before you leave, I’ve taken the liberty of making an arrangement for you to visit one of our rural parishes this afternoon. Spoke to the local vicar and he’ll be pleased to show you round. Lots of Templar types go there. I thought it might give you some local context or whatever.’

  Sam glanced at the neatly written details:

  Rev. Jerry Brown, St Michael’s, Garway. 3 o’clock, today. There was a postcode and telephone number too.

  The rest of the morning passed in a flash. Simon had shown him the Mappa Mundi. It had been a thrill for Sam; he did not know why he had never been to see it before. Standing in front of the medieval map of the world, mounted on the wall behind its protective shield, he took in one of the wonders of the cartographic world.

  ‘You’ll see the projection is very different from the one we use today,’ said Simon. ‘East is at the top and west at the bottom. North is to the left and south to the right. And scale, well that’s all over the place, but look, they’ve captured so much of what we know today. There’s Jerusalem right at the centre, then everything radiates out from there.’

  Sam was nodding, acknowledging Simon’s words as he scanned the map, searching for anything that might link with his Templars and their hiding place. Nothing.

  ‘It’s faded a bit of course. But you can see the big cities - Constantinople, Rome, Paris, London. And then look more closely - there’s Lincoln, Hereford over here,’ his hand traced a line over the armoured glass. ‘Here, see, Edinburgh. You’re on the map too.’

  Sam looked at where Simon was pointing. ‘Edinburgh? Scotland. That was pretty much the edge of the world then.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Simon. ‘Though it’s a Christian world map. Scotland’s a Christian country, even if you Scots did fall out of favour with the pope for a while back then. I suppose it would have been a surprise if they missed it out, don’t you think?’

  Sam nodded agreement. ‘I guess so. Is there any Templar linkage with the map?’

  ‘Templars? Well, no. Not directly.’ Simon paused and gave a little chuckle. ‘The Church of England likes to keep things on the straight and narrow. Templars are viewed as a bit racy, don’t you think?’ His hand swept across the face of the map. ‘In all seriousness, I’ve never identified anything specifically like that. Come on, I’ll give you a copy of the map; we’ve reproduced a scaled down version, sorted out the colour fading and so forth. You can decide for yourself.’

  Sam was disappointed. He didn’t want to leave the original map. The family connection between the map’s maker and their Henri de Bello had seemed to offer the best chance of finding the other daggers. Instead, it was a dead end.

  Simon had walked off, still talking. His words drifted back across the map room as he headed for an opening. ‘Now, if it’s Templars you’re interested in, you should have said. We’ve got plenty of that in these parts…’ the sound of his voice trailed away to nothing as he disappeared from view.

  Sam hurried after him, following him into a room bright with natural light. Tall rows of old wooden bookcases jutted out from either side of the room but never quite meeting in the middle, leaving space that combined to create an aisle down the centre of the room.

  Fixed between each row of bookcases were benches and reading ledges. Each bookcase was laden with aged books. Almost all had covers of heavy worked leather and each book was securely chained to its shelf. A book could be lifted down from the shelf and on to the reading ledge in front of it, the reader could sit on the bench and read, but the tethered book could never leave its location. He was in the cathedral’s ancient chained library.

  Directly beneath the window at the front of the room, Simon was now bent over a broad and busy librarian’s desk. He was scanning through lists of entries, searching. He continued to talk as though Sam was beside him and Sam caught up in time to catch the end of Simon’s discourse.

  ‘…, of course this was real border country in those days. Edward had certainly beaten the Welsh by then but it was never an easy peace. For a good part of its length, the river Wye defines the border between England and Wales. Though the border didn’t always stick to the river, which didn’t help local tensions as you can imagine.’

  He glanced round at Sam, seeking his acknowledgement of the fact.

  ‘And how did the Templars fit into that landscape?’ said Sam.

  Simon turned back to the ledger he was consulting, continuing his search as he replied. ‘Well, generally speaking, we had a lot of Templar activity in this area. They had been gifted various parcels of land, farms and so forth. I don’t doubt some gifts would have been to support a worthy cause. But let’s face it, those land owners gifting parcels of land to the Templars knew they would be losing some income from the land they gifted, but also knew they would be getting a bunch of disciplined, principled and armoured men living near at hand. In those wild times, their presence could have been generally stabilising. Certainly reassuring to a local lord.’

  ‘I see. So the Templars were clearly well established here.’

  ‘Oh yes. In fact, they were even involved with a hospital here in the town. It’s long gone now of course. Off hand, I can’t recall exactly what their involvement was but they certainly had something of a profile here about. Apparently, at some point the Templar grand master, their leader, even came this way on a visit. Then there’s St Thomas de Cantilupe of course. Cantilupe was bishop of Hereford - there are indications the bishop might himself have been a Templar.’

  Simon rummaged in
a desk drawer and pulled out two pairs of gloves. He straightened up, handed Sam one pair and began to pull on the other. Then he beckoned Sam to follow him as he wandered away down the aisle glancing to left and right. He stopped, stepped closer to one of the bookcases and browsed along a shelf. Finally, he pulled one book out. Its attached chain clinked quietly as he laid it on the ledge.

  ‘What have we got here?’ said Sam.

  ‘This book is pretty well contemporary with the latter end of the Templar period. Amongst other things, it includes some records of exchanges between Templars in this part of the country with those elsewhere. Some art works and the like, quite unusual, not the normal Templar stuff at all. I am certain there are some references to Lincoln too, which is what you’re interested in, I think - the Templars were big over there as well. Of course you’ll know that.’

  Sam agreed, he was suddenly feeling excited again. Templar art works. Could there be a link? Perhaps his trip to Hereford was not to be in vain after all.

  ‘I’m going to leave you to it. Any questions, feel free to ask at the desk and they’ll call me back. If there is anything of interest let me know and we’ll see what can be done.’ They shook hands and then he was gone. Sam settled down and pulled the heavy book towards him.

  He slowly turned the pages, in part cautious at having such old documents in his hand, in part just amazed at the mixture of information on the pages. Here, beautifully worked and developed art; there, script packed so close the words were hard to decipher. Some pages seemed lists of facts, almost the routine of housekeeping; others were more structured and formal. He lingered over each page taking in the information, enjoyed the proximity and connection to long gone lives but not finding any references to maps or their secret. It was another dead end, fascinating but ultimately unproductive.

  Sam glanced at his watch. Helen would be arriving soon and he decided to call it a morning. They were to meet for lunch and then they could go out to visit St Michael’s together - hopefully there would be something of use there. He flicked quickly through the last three or four pages, mostly religious illustrations and iconography, nothing of relevance. Closing the book he reached up to return it to its place on the shelf when something about the religious imagery stopped him - a sense of familiarity, vague, unformed, yet still hauntingly familiar.

  Putting the book back down, he gently opened it to the last page and looked carefully at the beautiful illustration. A tempest whipped up a deep blue coloured sea that surrounded a series of colourful religious images, cameos, little islands, all tethered together against the storm by a burnished golden vine, heavy with fruit, the vine reached out from the centre of the picture to embrace and link each of the cameos. A beautiful artwork - he knew it but couldn’t place it. He shrugged to himself. In spite of a decent night’s sleep, he’d not really caught up on the previous twenty-four hours’ exertions. His mind was still tired; it was probably just generating false memories, wishful thinking.

  Across the room, he could see that a volunteer worker was busy explaining the library’s workings to a little group of tourists gathered at the chain library’s entrance door. Unobserved, he pulled out his phone and took the opportunity to photograph the page. It was beautiful; Helen would be interested to see it. And she might be able to explain any religious symbolism, which eluded him completely.

  He took a moment to review the photograph; happy with it, he trousered his phone, put the book away and hurried off to get ready for Helen’s arrival.

  • • •

  Sam sat in the front passenger seat as Helen drove the hire car along narrow country roads. With every turn, the sense of remoteness increased. There were high hedges and yet higher trees whose canopies often overhung the road, all combined to create a green tunnel that she drove the car through. Occasional field gates gave fleeting glimpses of the hop fields and apple orchards beyond.

  Driving into the village of Garway, she slowed the car, both to comply with the speed restrictions and to take in the idyllic setting. First some cottages, then to her left the village green where some teenagers were having a cricket knock about, to her right the village pub, the Garway Moon Inn - but no sign of a church. She stopped and asked in the pub for directions, then hurried back to the car.

  ‘It’s through the village, down the hill and take a turn on the left hand side,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, drive on slowly and I’ll keep an eye open for it.’

  Helen started the engine. For just a moment, she wondered about the car that was rolling into the village behind them. She was sure she had seen it before, during the drive out, but it slowed to a halt in the pub car park as she pulled away, the driver got out and headed into the pub - nothing for her to worry about.

  A little further on, Helen turned off the minor road that was masquerading as a highway and drove down the narrowest of lanes. Ahead, they could see the church, set back from the lane and she gingerly drove towards it, hoping no traffic came from the other direction. Finally, she pulled into a little dead-end that ran off towards the church. Stopping the car, she got out and Sam joined her, they both looked over to the church.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a quick look round, it’s not three o’clock yet. We have time,’ said Sam, while walking through the gate and into an ancient graveyard that spread round the church. Helen followed him, noting that many headstones were so old the inscriptions had worn right away.

  They wandered about, recognising the age of the building, and just as they completed their circuit a plump man entered the graveyard from a little side gate. He waved and beckoned, then called across to them. ‘Come on over. Good to see you, Sam isn’t it? The dean said to expect you. Jerry’s the name. Jerry Brown. Welcome to St Michael’s.’

  Jerry led them back through the side gate. ‘The vicarage is only a short distance away, do come and have some afternoon tea with us.’ Two or three minutes’ walking found Jerry guiding them into the vicarage gardens and thence inside to his study.

  Judy, the vicar’s wife, served afternoon tea with home baked scones while her husband told Helen and Sam what he could. ‘The church here was Templar, way back when they were at their height. Of course, they had a farm and lands here then; it would have been quite a place in its day. The church has been rebuilt since then, but you can still see vestiges of the original round Templar church’s foundations, and there’s a defensive square tower still standing - that may have Templar roots too. Even the newer bits of the church are very old by any measure. I’ll point the Templar parts out to you on the way back to your car.

  ‘Having said that, I really don’t know what the dean thought I could tell you. Oh, we get visitors all the time, Templar enthusiasts and such, but they are really just here to take some pictures and have a browse around. I’m pleased to encourage them, and they all seem to go away happy enough.’

  Helen smiled an acknowledgement. ‘Is there nothing that you can tell us? Some village lore even?’

  Jerry Brown sucked in his lips a little and shook his head. ‘Sorry, beyond the public records I don’t know very much detail of the Templar history at all. Tell me though, why the big interest in the Templars? What’s the big mystery?’

  Helen explained as little as possible of their deeper motive while telling of their finds during the archaeological dig in the Fife dunes and their goal of finding out a little more about them.

  ‘Oh, I know you now,’ said Jerry. ‘The church killings, up in Scotland. Good Lord, I’d have thought you’d want to keep all that stuff at arm’s length. They got the people involved though, didn’t they?’

  Judy Brown gasped quietly to herself.

  ‘Well it’s quite complicated, we’re trying not to get involved with all that. Our interest is to trace the origins of the artefacts Sam’s students found during the dig.’

  Judy was looking very anxious. ‘I think I saw the police publicity photograph in the paper. A dagger, I think. Gold or was it silver?’

  ‘Silver,’ said
Helen. ‘But listen, if there is nothing to tell, then that’s it. To be honest, it was the dean at Hereford who suggested coming here. Sam and I had not given it a moment’s thought.’

  The room fell into silence, nobody quite knowing what to say next. Then, Judy looked across to her husband, making a determined eye contact, questioning. ‘You know, Jerry, there might be something. Oh, long before our time, of course, and we’ve been here fifteen years, more.’

  ‘What’s that, dear?’ Jerry looked at his wife inquisitively.

  ‘The padre. Tell them about the padre.’

  Jerry sat up straight, ‘Good Lord, you might have something.’ He looked at Helen and Sam. ‘It hadn’t even occurred to me to link it till this moment. But Judy’s right. There may well be a connection. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Sam.

  ‘Well it’s an old story, as Judy says, long before our time. I can’t vouch for it I’m afraid. In fact, Judy, you tell it. You are the one who picked it up at the W.I.’

  ‘W.I.?’ said Helen.

  ‘Women’s Institute. How we keep the community together. Coffee mornings, talks, abseiling, book clubs, trips away. You name it; we’ll give it a go,’ said Judy.

  ‘Right, sounds great fun. How come your W.I. is involved?’ said Helen.

  ‘It’s definitely fun all right. And for clarity, we’re not involved in the story itself. The W.I. has another important role, one we don’t put in the literature: if there’s any gossip or dark tales to tell, the W.I. eventually ferrets it out. There are no safe secrets in a rural community.’

  ‘I see, sounds like you keep your finger on the pulse. So, who is the padre?’

  ‘Well, and I stress this is just hearsay over the tea urn. If there is anything to it and you want to know more, I’m sure we can point you in the right direction.’ Judy paused, finished her cup of tea, put it down carefully then lent forward to share her story.