Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘He doesn’t look like much,’ Lancaster said.

  The king sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘He’s been in a dungeon for the last seven years. What do you expect?’

  ‘Will he be any use to us? Look at the state of him!’ Lancaster returned. ‘He looks wretched.’

  The king simply shrugged and looked uninterested. There was clearly no love lost between the two men. Savage wondered just what the nature of their relationship was. The situation was now getting beyond belief. Not only was he in the presence of the king, here also was the Earl of Lancaster, Chief of the Council of English Barons and the second most powerful man in the country.

  The door opened again and another man in his early thirties entered. He too was richly dressed in linen and furs. His straight brown hair was combed and cut fashionably long. He wore a long, drooping moustache and his two ice-blue eyes regarded Savage coldly from beneath hooded lids. Savage deduced this must be Roger Mortimer, first Earl of the March and one of Lancaster’s chief rivals to power. While the king had regarded Lancaster with coldness, the look he shot at Mortimer spoke of vicious, unbridled hatred.

  ‘Where am I? How long have I been a prisoner?’ Savage croaked.

  ‘You could at least have given the man a drink,’ Lancaster said to the king. He poured out a goblet of wine. ‘Ice?’ he asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Savage shrugged. The last time he had drunk iced wine was in Cyprus. God alone knew what was about to happen next so he decided he should make the most of things.

  The Earl of Lancaster opened a heavy wooden chest that sat on the table. It was lined with straw and packed with shaved ice, gathered from the top of a welsh mountain and sent post-haste to the royal table. Lancaster spooned a couple of ladles of ice into the wine and then strode over to hand it to Savage.

  ‘You are in Goodrich Castle in the shire of Hereford. It is the thirteen hundred and fifteenth year after the birth of our Lord. You have been a prisoner here for the last seven years. You’re a lucky man, Savage: if we had not happened to be stopping here on our journey south and heard about an Irish prisoner – and a Knight Templar to boot – you would have remained so for a very long time to come. I gather you removed the sheriff’s foot during your arrest. Pimlot survived but now gets around with a wooden peg-leg. He is more than happy to leave you here to rot.’

  ‘Seven years…’ Savage said in a quiet voice while looking at the floor and shaking his head. He took a gulp of the wine. After years of drinking nothing but stagnant, brackish water the drink burned his throat and provoked a choking cough.

  ‘What did they do with my brethren? Fourteen of us were imprisoned. Some died, I know, but the rest were taken away,’ he said when the cough subsided.

  Mortimer gave a little chuckle. ‘Savage, the world has changed much since you were locked away. Allow me to bring you up to date. As you are well aware, before you were imprisoned King Philip of France issued warrants for the arrest of all the Knights Templar throughout his kingdom. The French Inquisition uncovered confessions of indescribable blasphemy being carried out by members of your order, and the Pope ordered the arrest of all Templars in the world.’

  ‘Lies! We are innocent!’ Savage roared. ‘A man will admit to anything under torture.’

  Lancaster looked annoyed and waved a hand. ‘That is a question for philosophers now, Savage. The argument was concluded long ago. The world moved on. Those who make the world move dictate what are lies and what is truth. Your order lost that battle and so the argument.’

  ‘Naturally, here in England we were less credulous of the fantastic claims of our French cousin and the hysterical demands of his puppet Pope,’ the king interjected. ‘The Crown in England has always had an excellent relationship with the Temple of Solomon. Two thousand Templars formed the guard of honour at my own coronation. We could not simply turn our backs on such a noble brotherhood. Therefore we resisted the calls for your arrest as long as we could.’

  Lancaster continued the story: ‘However, since the fall of Acre there are no longer any Christian lands to defend in Outremer. The purpose your order was created for no longer existed and you were difficult to defend. The Order of the Temple was dissolved and its possessions handed over to the Order of St John.’

  ‘The Hospitallers!’ Savage said in a groan. ‘What happened to all my brethren?’

  ‘In France they were not so lucky. After such terrible confessions of guilt hundreds were burnt at the stake,’ the king said. ‘Here in England things were different. Torture is against the law in this country and so it is no coincidence that there were no confessions to heresy here. Eventually the Holy Inquisition requested that Templar prisoners be extradited to France where they could be questioned “properly”. Obviously we refused, so the Holy Father decided to send the inquisitors over here, and unfortunately circumstances arose that meant it was finally necessary to accede to some of his demands.’

  ‘In the affairs of state, Savage—’ Lancaster peered down his nose at the bedraggled knight before him ‘—it is not always possible to stick to principles. Sometimes certain values have to be sacrificed in order to attain other goals. We could not afford further war with France, not while we had a war on our doorstep with the Scots. So a marriage between King Philip’s daughter Isabella and King Edward was arranged to cement peace between our nations. The peace depended on the marriage. King Philip needed the Templars’ money. We needed the peace.’

  ‘And the price was the Templars?’ Savage hung his head.

  ‘If I’d known then what a bitch she was I would have saved us all a lot of bother and jilted her at the altar,’ the king said. ‘But Philip of France became my father-in-law. Wives and in-laws, Savage, are the nemesis of all men’s happiness. Don’t you agree?’

  Savage felt a sudden stab of guilt so severe as to almost make him wince.

  ‘Your majesty,’ Mortimer said, with all the respect of someone talking to a mangy dog in the street, ‘we would all prefer that you didn’t refer to the Queen of England as a bitch.’

  King Edward glared at Mortimer. ‘What better way is there to describe a woman who whores herself in the beds of other men?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mortimer said, ‘if you paid more attention to your wife than you do to Syr Hugh Despencer she might not feel the need to seek solace… elsewhere.’

  Mortimer bared his teeth in a grin so provocative it left Savage in no doubt just whose bed the queen was currently sleeping in. What amazed him was how Mortimer thought he could get away with such audacity.

  For several moments it looked very like Mortimer and the king were about to come to blows.

  ‘Gentlemen, let’s not let domestic matters confuse the issue here,’ Lancaster said with a reproachful glance in the directions of both Mortimer and the king.

  ‘We reached a compromise. We did a deal with both the Pope and the King of France,’ the king said. ‘English Templars would not be punished for the guilt of the order as a whole, provided they made a public rejection of all heresy and asked for the Church’s forgiveness. They were then allowed to retire to a monastery on a rather generous pension of four pence a day.’

  ‘None of my brothers would accept such terms,’ Savage said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  Lancaster chuckled. ‘Nearly all of them did. Three years ago Pope Clamant ordered the final, complete dissolution of the Order of Knights Templar, and the Knights Hospitaller completed their acquisition of all Templar properties the year after. To bring a close to the matter, King Philip had the grand master of your order, Jacques de Molay, slowly roasted over a fire in Paris last year. The Order of Knights Templar is gone forever, and will soon be forgotten. A mere jotting in the margins of the history chronicles.’

  Savage hung his head. There was so much to take in. That the order had ceased to be was simply stunning. All those centuries of warfare, the countless men who had dedicated their lives to the order. The castles they built, the churches they founded, the wars they fought, the l
ives lost. All gone. And for what? For the Hospitallers and the lying, greedy King of France to steal their wealth? He grunted. The Good Lord had led them all on a merry dance of fools.

  ‘So what is it you want of me?’ he said after a few moments.

  ‘I believe you are Irish?’ Lancaster said.

  Savage nodded. ‘My father had a manor in the Earldom of Ulster. I grew up there. It’s years since I left though.’ His childhood seemed so long ago now, almost like a dream.

  ‘If you were free, would you return there? You must want to inherit the estate?’ Lancaster questioned.

  Savage shook his head. ‘There’s no longer a manor to inherit. The plague took my parents years ago and my older brother inherited the land. While I was serving in Cyprus with the Templars I got word that he had been killed in a hunting accident. As he died without an heir, the Church seized his estate. I have nothing to go back to.’

  ‘Well perhaps we can give you a good reason to go home.’ The king grinned like a wolf.

  Savage got the distinct impression he would not like whatever he was about to propose.

  9

  The door of the room opened and two servants staggered in, awkwardly carrying a large bathtub between them. They placed it before the open fire that roared in the massive dog grate and a procession of maidservants streamed in with pails of steaming-hot water. The conversation in the room halted while they tipped the pails into the bath until it was brimming with water. After the last bucket was added the servants withdrew and closed the door behind them.

  ‘This is for you. I suggest you get undressed.’ The king smiled. ‘No need to be shy. I’m sure you’re not, though. Not after all those years spent in an all-male military order. You should have no difficulties being naked in front of other men.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘Templars are forbidden to see their brethren’s naked flesh. It stops sinful thoughts. We are forbidden to wash more than necessary and must never change our underwear.’ This rule had caused Savage to suffer painful groin boils in the sweltering heat of Cyprus, and he was often disgusted by his own smell.

  After years in the filth of the dungeon, he itched to feel the soothing caress of the warm water. He stripped what remained of his filthy garments off and jumped into the tub, immersing himself totally and ducking his head to soak his hair and beard. The hotness of the water stung his skin but the feeling of warmth was absolutely heavenly.

  As he lolled his head back in the water, he became aware that the king and the other two lords had gathered around the bath.

  ‘We have been having a little bother with our friends in the north,’ the king said.

  ‘In Ulster?’ Savage asked.

  ‘Not the north of Ireland: the north of Britain,’ Lancaster interrupted tetchily. ‘Robert Bruce, the self-appointed King of Scotland, continues to rebel against England. He besieged the Crown’s last remaining Scottish castle at Stirling last year. The king here led an army north to relieve it and Bruce slaughtered us at Bannockburn.’

  The king shot a spiteful glance towards Lancaster. It was obvious the memory was still a raw wound. ‘They fell on us like cowards and brigands!’ he roared. ‘Ambushed us in a bog and slit our horses’ bellies! Chivalry and honour mean nothing to them. Nothing!’

  Lancaster remained placid. ‘After such a humiliating defeat, the barons of this land felt that the king was being poorly advised. Lord Mortimer and I were appointed to be the onerous overseers and advisors to the king.’

  All became clear to Savage. The king had never been popular. Compared to his iron-willed, warrior father, Edward was far too swayed by handsome young men. While he showered them with gifts and affection, they usually wormed their way into positions of power and authority. The barons of England hated this.

  From his prison cell, Savage had overheard the guards speaking in hushed tones about the battle at Bannockburn. It had been a disaster for the English: thousands of English knights were killed and the Scots had escaped, well, Scot-free.

  After that, the barons of England must have decided that enough was enough. He had clearly not been deposed, but evidently King Edward the Second was now little more than a figurehead, a lapdog of the two men who were the real power in the land: his cousin Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, and Roger Mortimer, Earl of March.

  ‘Robert Bruce knows no boundaries. His greed is voracious,’ Mortimer said in a growl. ‘After victory at Bannockburn he presses us and harries our borders in the north. His ally, that treacherous bastard King of France, has attacked our domains in Aquitaine and Bordeaux. Being King of Scotland is not enough for Bruce. A land of bogs and mountains? Not him. He wants England.’

  ‘What’s all this got to do with Ireland?’ Savage wondered. He looked down at the water he sat in, suddenly realising that the cloud of black speckles slowly spreading around him were drowned lice from his hair and beard.

  ‘Ireland is the back door to England,’ Lancaster said. ‘The English border with Scotland has a string of heavily fortified castles along it, garrisoned with thousands of men. Fighting their way south would be costly for the Scots. If they went west instead and took Ireland, then an alternate invasion route opens up for them. Ireland gives us soldiers and grain. Taking Ireland will cut that off and if Ireland falls, the next step would be Wales.’

  ‘You can be sure the Welsh will be quick to jump on Bruce’s wagon,’ the king said. ‘They still smart from my royal father bringing them to heel. They hate me because my father named me Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Bruce is planning to invade Ireland and put his brother Edward on the throne there,’ Lancaster said.

  ‘That’s madness,’ Savage stated. ‘Ireland has no king. The country is a mish-mash of little kingdoms and petty earldoms, constantly at war with each other. Parts of it are under English law, parts of it are under Gaelic law, some of it has no law at all.’

  ‘Actually Ireland does have a king. Me,’ King Edward said.

  ‘With respect, sire, you are King of England. Your other title is Lord of Ireland,’ Savage said. King Edward’s eyes flashed with a look that suggested that if the reins of power had been more fully within his grasp, the bedraggled knight before him would be flogged for such insolence. There was not just anger in the king’s eyes though. Edward seemed to be flicking his eyes over Savage’s naked body in the water in a way he might look at a choice piece of roast venison he was about to devour.

  ‘Many in Ireland believe they owe you no allegiance,’ Savage continued, ‘and not just among the native Irish either.’

  ‘I am well aware of that. There are many in England who believe that also.’ The king finally tore his eyes off Savage and directed a bitter glance towards Lancaster and Mortimer, who ignored him.

  ‘You are right, Savage, and that’s a worry for us,’ Lancaster said. ‘We must know if we can rely on the Irish to fight the Scots. Bannockburn bled us white. Our armies are depleted and we cannot afford to fight more than one war at a time. Currently we are fighting in France. The Scottish border is heavily fortified but if we move troops from there to strengthen Ireland we could be leaving the direct route to England wide open.’

  ‘Bruce’s brother Edward is offering himself as an alternative king to the people of Ireland,’ Mortimer said. ‘He presents himself as a fellow Gael who all on the island can unite behind.’

  Savage could not hold back an ironic laugh. The Bruce family were as Gaelic as King Edward, or any of the other barons of England, Scotland or Ireland. They were all the direct descendants of the Norman knights who had crossed the channel with William the Bastard, later named ‘Conqueror’. Most of them were related to each other, if not by blood, then by marriage. All of them still spoke French as their first language.

  ‘That might work with the Gaelic Irish,’ Savage said, scratching his bearded chin. ‘The Anglo-Irish knights and barons though: they won’t fall for that sort of nonsense. They’ve as much a right to claim that as Edward Bruce. They may not think much of the King o
f England but why would they support Bruce?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ King Edward said, rejoining the conversation. ‘We suspect that many of the nobility in Ireland are indeed sympathetic to Bruce’s cause. The key question is how many of them, and why? Our spies tell us Bruce has obtained something – we don’t know what specifically – that has somehow gained at least promises of allegiance from them. It seems this treasure is some sort of holy relic Bruce obtained from the Templars.’

  Savage frowned. There were family allegiances between the Irish and Scottish nobility, particularly in Ulster, but blood ties usually broke when self-interest intruded. Ireland’s current interests, both trading and military, lay with England, not Scotland. Whatever Bruce had must be very special.

  ‘We want you to go home to Ireland,’ Lancaster said. ‘If you agree to work for us there, then we will grant you a royal pardon. Your guilt will be expunged and any penance for your heresy and association with the Knights Templar can be put off to a time that will be more convenient to you, perhaps when you retire, for example.’

  ‘What is this work?’

  ‘Travel to Ireland,’ Lancaster said, ‘and deliver a warning from the king to Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, about the impending Scottish attack. Bruce will strike Ulster first. The sea crossing from Scotland is less than twenty miles.’

  ‘What we need to know,’ Mortimer said, taking over from Lancaster, ‘is how sure we can be of his earldom resisting the Scots. If they land unopposed, Bruce will have a bridgehead in Ireland and the way to Dublin will be wide open. Ireland will be as good as lost.’

  ‘Earl Richard and my father, the First King Edward were very close,’ the king said. ‘De Burgh did great service fighting the Scots.’

  ‘There is a different king on the throne now though,’ Lancaster said, casting a sideways glance at Edward. ‘And de Burgh has married his daughter to Robert Bruce.’