by Paul Doherty
‘Brother Benedict, may I introduce Father Philip, a priest from Scawsby. He wants to study the Templar accounts.’ Brother Nicholas glanced at Philip. ‘From 1307 to 1308.’
The old librarian became charm personified, only too eager to help. Philip was sat down at the table, candles were brought and then a large set of folios.
‘They are organised according to regnal years,’ Benedict claimed. ‘So, the winter of 1307 to 1308 will be the first regnal year of Edward II.’ He opened the leather-bound folios, leafing through the pages. ‘There are other accounts as well,’ he added. ‘What are you looking for?’
Brother Nicholas also became involved. Philip couldn’t resist their good-natured offers of help.
‘I am looking for anything,’ he said, ‘about a Templar knight, William Chasny. He fled from the Temple about the end of January 1308. He may have been carrying his Order’s treasures.’
‘But that’s impossible!’ Benedict’s head came up. He scratched his scrawny neck. ‘That’s impossible!’
In any other circumstances Philip would have laughed at such a defiant denial.
‘Oh, don’t keep us in suspense!’ Brother Nicholas exclaimed. ‘Why is it impossible, most learned one?’
‘Because the Templars here in London had very little treasure: what was left was seized by the king.’
Philip sat, mouth half-open. ‘What . . . ?’ he stammered. ‘But there are legends in Scawsby about a Templar treasure?’
‘Is that what you are looking for?’ Nicholas asked sharply.
‘Oh, no, no. I swear on the cross.’ Philip smiled weakly. ‘I am the sort of man who would stumble across a treasure trove and it wouldn’t change my life. No, a group of Templars led by Chasny were massacred by smugglers out on the marshes near Scawsby. A terrible sin was committed.’
‘Then, in that case,’ Father Benedict remarked, ‘they were killed for nothing.’
He got up and walked into the darkness. He came back carrying a small, golden crucifix with an amethyst embedded in the centre.
‘Brother Nicholas, Father Philip, this is part of the Templar treasure left here by the royal commissioners. Hold it!’
Philip did so, surprised at its weight.
‘Now,’ the Carmelite continued. ‘Can you imagine sacks of chests full of such precious objects? The Templars would not get very far, especially trying to struggle across the wilds of Kent in the middle of winter.’
‘So, what were they carrying?’ Philip asked.
‘I don’t know but let’s find out.’
If Philip had been surprised at discovering the Way of the Cross and understanding what the figures 6 and 14 meant, he was not so fortunate in his search through the Templar archives. An hour passed but very little was found. Sir William Chasny appeared in the accounts but only as an officer of the Temple. Then Brother Benedict gave an exclamation.
‘Here it is!’ His smile faded. ‘Though I am afraid it’s nothing much.’
He passed across a folio, pointing to a list of horse and armour: ‘Being prepared for Sir William Chasny and his party’. The writing was barely legible and the entry details minimal.
‘You must remember,’ Benedict explained. ‘By the winter of 1308 the Templar Order was in disgrace. Its organisation was beginning to break down. Entries would be hurried and, sometimes, just omitted.’
Philip perused what the Carmelite had found. Everything pointed to supplies being gathered together for Sir William and a party of knights to leave the Temple in London for some unknown destination: foodstuffs, money for the journey but nothing exceptional. No mention of any treasure or, indeed, anything mysterious. Philip sat back and rubbed his face.
‘I’ll continue the search,’ Father Benedict offered. ‘I mean, if you are tired?’
‘The day is drawing on,’ Philip declared. ‘And I have kept you long enough.’
‘Nonsense!’ the archivist declared.
‘Do you have any books about the legend of the veil?’ Philip asked. ‘I mean, the one Veronica used to wipe the face of Christ?’
‘Of course, of course.’
Benedict pushed back his stool and, leaving Philip and Brother Nicholas to pore over the accounts, he hurried around the library, muttering to himself.
‘Ah, I knew we had something.’
He came back, bearing another tome entitled Sancta Anecdota.
‘Literally holy stories,’ he translated. He thumbed through the pages and laid the book before Philip.
The writing was in Latin but Philip had no difficulty understanding it. The story told was no different than what he had learnt from Brother Nicholas. How the holy woman Veronica had helped Christ: she had been rewarded and the veil with the imprint of Christ’s face had become a precious relic. Yet there was nothing new to help solve the mysteries confronting him. He handed the book back and was about to leave, when Brother Nicholas exclaimed.
‘Look at this!’ He pushed back the list of expenses Philip had so summarily dismissed, jabbing a finger at a nondescript heading entitled ‘Equi’, ‘Horses’. This listed the destriers and sumpter ponies Sir William Chasny and his party would need. Each horse was described by colour. At the end was one enigmatic entry, ‘Una equa: Pro Virgine’.
‘I don’t understand this,’ Nicholas exclaimed. ‘Literally, that means a palfrey or a pony for the Virgin.’ He pushed back his stool. ‘What would that mean? A palfrey or pony for a virgin? Was it a statue of Our Lady?’
‘Virgin can also be translated as maid,’ Benedict offered.
Philip went through the accounts again but could discover no explanation. He felt disappointed. The library was growing dark and he felt he had trespassed too much on these good brothers’ kindness. He thanked them and made his way back into the church. He paused and peered through the poor light at the picture of Veronica wiping the face of Jesus. Philip then returned to the garret he had hired in a nearby tavern and spent the rest of the evening either pacing restlessly up and down or lying on his bed looking at the ceiling. He felt safe in London. Somehow, he realised, the evil of Scawsby could not reach him here. He sighed, realising it was growing late, undressed and went to bed.
Philip rose early the next morning refreshed and returned to the Templar church. Brother Nicholas kindly allowed him to celebrate Mass in one of the chantry chapels. The Carmelite was waiting for him the sacristy.
‘Come on, Brother Priest,’ he joked. ‘I know a man does not live by bread alone but at least break fast with us!’
Philip joined the Carmelites in their refectory, where Brother Benedict was waiting for him, flapping his hands in excitement.
‘I’ve been through all the documents again,’ he declared. ‘And read everything I could about the sacred veil and Veronica.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘But I could find nothing.’
Philip took out his horn spoon and began to sip at the oatmeal. It was not as thick or as sweet as Roheisia made it but he found the company of the Carmelites soothing and friendly.
‘So, why the excitement?’ Brother Nicholas teased.
‘It was that entry,’ the Carmelite continued. ‘About a palfrey being hired for a virgin. Well,’ he continued in a rush, ‘I went back to the life of St Veronica. Now I know it’s all legends but, according to those, Veronica was a virgin when she wiped the face of Jesus. After the Resurrection she became a follower of Christ and dedicated herself to a life of chastity. In a word, she became a virgin dedicated to God.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘And that awoke other memories. You know the legends of the Grail?’
Philip nodded.
‘Well, according to those, the Grail can only be carried by a virgin.’
‘And?’
‘And the legend of the unicorn, how that fabulous beast can only be tamed by a virgin?’
‘Of course,’ Philip broke in. ‘You are saying that when the Templars left London they were escorting and guarding a virgin? A young girl.’ He paused. ‘A young girl who was chosen to ca
rry something sacred.’
‘I believe so.’ Father Benedict straightened up in his chair.
‘But would the Templars,’ Nicholas asked, ‘simply seize a young girl and take her off across the wilds of Kent?’
‘No, they wouldn’t! No, they wouldn’t!’ the old Carmelite retorted. ‘But you remember the house of St Ursula? It is a small convent,’ he explained. ‘Not very far away, in the fields near the Bishop of Salisbury’s Inn. This was protected by the Templars. Indeed, the Order had given the nuns land and revenue. Early this morning I went across there. Now, the good nuns used to accept in their houses young girls, foundlings or orphans who later would be dedicated to God and, if they wished, enter the Order. According to the register, in January 1308, one of these young girls was handed into the care of Sir William Chasny.’
‘The coffin woman!’ Philip exclaimed. ‘She’s an old woman who lives in the cemetery of my church. She claims to be the bastard child of a wicked priest called Romanel. I think she is the child you mentioned, Brother Benedict, from the local convent: the Templars were guarding her but why is a mystery.’ Philip got to his feet. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. One day, I promise you, when I find the truth I will let you know.’
An hour later, having taken further directions from the brothers, Philip went down to the waterside and hired a wherryman to take him downriver to Westminster. A thick sea mist had rolled in, a chilling reminder of High Mount and Scawsby. The little, rat-faced wherryman, however, told him the only thing they had to worry about was colliding with another boat or barge on the Thames. Philip sat back. He wondered what Edmund would be doing and, once again, if he had been wise to leave Stephen. Philip tried to distract himself: when the mists parted he could see how the river was busy. Royal men-of-war, anchored in a line, were taking on supplies. The traffic between the shore and these was very busy with wherries, bum-boats and barges full of fruit and other supplies.
‘It’s the bastards!’ the wherryman explained, referring to the French. ‘There’s a fleet been seen off Thanet.’
And the wherryman subsided into a litany of groans and moans about a kingdom being under a child and the ineffectiveness of the Regent to keep the French contained. At last they reached King’s Landing at Westminster. Philip paid the wherryman. He went up the steps, making his way through the crowds of lawyers, plaintiffs and tipstaffs, all thronging to the courts. At last he found the Archives room and its custos, a pompous clerk dressed resplendently in a fur-trimmed robe. He peered arrogantly at Philip through an eye-glass and grudgingly conceded the priest’s demands. Philip was shown to a table in a small carrel where one of the clerk’s assistants brought him the required records, pointing out the relevant places. Philip read carefully. The letters and documents were written in official language but, nevertheless, these showed how, in the spring and summer of 1308, royal commissioners had moved into Kent. They had visited the towns and villages round Scawsby, making careful and diligent enquiries to establish if a Templar party under Sir William Chasny had come their way. There was no doubt that their suspicions had fastened on Scawsby. The commissioners complained bitterly about the attitude and lack of co-operation from both Lord George Montalt and the vicar of the parish church, Romanel. Philip paused. The letters were written in Latin and the clerk, possibly out of ignorance, had transcribed Montalt’s name in the Latin, Monte Alto. He had seen that somewhere else.
‘Where?’ he murmured.
Then he recalled that fierce fight in Scawsby. Montalt’s banner bearing the family insignia and motto. He returned to the text. The royal clerk who had headed the commission believed that the Templars had been attacked and massacred but he could find no clue to their whereabouts, who had instigated such an attack and, above all, the whereabouts of the ‘Magnum Thesaurum’ which the Templars were supposed to be carrying. The commissioners had returned time and again but, by the autumn of 1308, the entries became less frequent and more terse. Eventually, the royal searchers had given up the task as fruitless and returned to London.
Philip put his face in his hands. What was this ‘Magnum Thesaurum’, the ‘great treasure’, the Templars were carrying? And why take a young girl? A virgin?
‘Are you finished?’
Philip looked up. The clerk was peering down at him like a schoolmaster would at a scholar taking too long over his horn book.
‘Yes, yes, I have.’
He thanked the clerk and left the abbey grounds. The mist was lifting as Philip reached Holborn, the busy thoroughfare which led into the city. Peasants, their carts piled high with produce for the markets; tinkers and pedlars, trays slung round their necks, full of ribbons, pins, amulets, cheap necklaces and brooches. Scholars going down to the school at St Paul’s, ragged-arsed but full of life. A group of hooded guildsmen escorting a coffin draped in funeral cloths and placed high on a cart; behind this a priest, dressed in black, chanted the office of the dead. A line of felons, their clothes in rags and chained together by the neck, were being led by a bailiff and two drunken soldiers down to the prisons at the Fleet and Newgate. Philip kept behind these until they passed the Bishop of Ely’s inn. He then made a detour round the city ditch, covering his mouth and nose with his hand. This broad sewer, into which all the rubbish of the city was piled, poisoned the air with its foul vapours. Philip kept his head turned away. He did not wish to see the bloated corpses of animals which had been tossed there. A group of labourers, busy sprinkling the ditch with sulphur, called out raucously that he could join them.
At last Philip was free of it and reached the edge of Smithfield, a broad field dotted with copses of elm trees which stretched from the city limits north to the great Priory of St Bartholomew’s. Philip had been there on busier days when the great market did a roaring trade but this morning it was quiet: only a small crowd had gathered round one of the elm trees where two felons were being hanged. These were bundled roughly from a cart and hustled up a ladder which was abruptly pulled away. Philip murmured a prayer for them and tossed a penny as a beggar, recognising that he was a priest, came scuttling out from where he had been hiding behind the wooden fence which ringed the execution stake.
Philip paused to let a squire, leading a line of destriers from some lord’s stable north of the city, trot by. The trees thinned and Philip saw before him the long, sprawling building of the Augustinian Priory of St Bartholomew’s with the red tiled roof of the hospital beyond. A porter at the gates listened carefully to his request. He escorted Philip round, through the herb gardens, to the chancery at the back of the hospital.
‘Brother Norbert,’ the lay brother explained, ‘will be the one to help you. Though the patient you describe . . .’ He let his words hang in the air as he knocked at the door.
‘Come in!’
The room inside was surprisingly large, the walls painted a soothing green. No rushes covered the floor of dark-red tiles which gleamed, they’d been scrubbed so often.
‘Be careful as you step.’ The large Augustinian friar rose from his canopied chair behind the table and walked across to greet him.
He shook Philip’s hand and dismissed the lay brother.
‘I have seen many visitors fall flat on their arses!’ he exclaimed. ‘Which is not very good for the hospital, is it? Well, who are you?’
‘Philip Trumpington, I am vicar of St Oswald’s church in Scawsby, Kent.’
The Augustinian looked perplexed. ‘Strange,’ Brother Norbert declared. ‘I have heard of that and I think I know your name.’ He scratched his balding head, his rubicund face creased in perplexity. ‘Well, bugger that! Anyway, Father Philip Trumpington of St Oswald’s in Scawsby, why are you here?’
He led Philip across to a chair and pushed a bowl of rose water in front of him.
‘Wash your hands and face.’
Philip, surprised, did so, then dried himself carefully with the napkin provided.
‘Do you do this with all your visitors, Brother?’
‘Look round the ch
amber, Father Philip. What do you see?’
The priest did so. He noticed how clean the walls and floor were. The furniture, too, looked as if it was washed regularly, even the brass on the coffers and chests gleamed with polish.
‘Clean, isn’t it?’ Father Norbert declared proudly. ‘And that water you’ve just washed in is pure rain water; brought in through elm pipes it is. Do you know why, Father? Because I’ve studied my Galen.’ He leaned across the table. ‘I’ve even got a copy of Hippocrates, not to mention the writings of the Arabs. And do you know what they say?’ Brother Norbert’s broad Yorkshire accent became more apparent. ‘Where there’s dirt there’s disease. You’ve come from Kent. When the great plague struck Canterbury, nearly everybody died except the monks of Christchurch. They only used to wash and drink pure spring water and they kept everything clean.’ He sighed. ‘God knows why we always think that dirt and holiness go together. Oh, I am sorry!’ He shook himself from his reverie. ‘I am always sermonising. Father, why are you here?’
‘St Bartholomew’s had a patient,’ Philip explained, ‘many, many years ago, in the reign of the present king’s grandfather, Edward II. His name was Romanel. He, too, was a vicar of Scawsby but he lost his wits, became madcap and was brought here.’
Brother Norbert pulled a face. ‘But that’s almost seventy years ago,’ he replied. ‘Oh yes, we have a small house here,’ he continued. ‘A building divided into cells where the witless, who are either a danger to others or themselves, are kept.’
‘And are there records? Brother Norbert, I have travelled all the way from Kent, I would be most grateful for any help.’
‘Ah well,’ the Guardian exclaimed. ‘If you can’t help a brother priest! Stay there. Let me see what I can discover.’
He left the chamber. A servitor came in with a tray bearing a trauncher with manchet loaves, some rather hard cheese and a jug of ale. Philip sat for nearly half an hour eating the food and drinking the ale, then Brother Norbert came back, bursting through the door like the wind.
