by Paul Doherty
‘A little,’ Lord Richard replied. ‘I took a bombarde from the French. I have a small keg.’
‘Bring that as well,’ Philip declared. ‘But, now, let’s begin.’
They went into the church, Philip locking and bolting the doors behind them. He ignored the sense of threatening menace, the icy cold, the musty smell. He knew he was safe. His heart was clean of any wickedness, his will pure in motive.
‘Lord Richard,’ he began. ‘As I rode back from London I reflected deeply about this church. Have you studied the eyes painted on the pillars? Please, go and see in which direction these eyes are staring.’
He and Edmund sat on the sanctuary steps whilst Lord Richard walked slowly round the church. Eventually the manor lord came and stood by his ancestor’s tomb.
‘They are watching this.’
‘Yes, yes, they are. And the inscription on the tomb,’ Philip observed, ‘reads: “Under the high place lies the treasure of the son of David.” Now, everyone, including Stephen, believed Alto Monte referred to High Mount. It doesn’t. If you change the words around, it becomes Monte Alto, a pun on your name. I first noticed this when I saw the motto on your banner.’
‘And the treasure of the son of David?’
‘Ah! I, like many, believed that was a reference to Solomon, David’s son. Solomon, of course, built the temple in Jerusalem. Those who searched for the treasure believed it was a cryptic reference to the treasure plundered from the Templars by Romanel and Lord George.’ Philip paused to collect his thoughts. ‘I now think differently. The phrase “Son of David” can also refer to Christ. To put it bluntly, Lord Richard, whatever the treasure is, and I have firm suspicions on that, it is buried in your ancestor’s tomb. Before the church is fired, we must break in and retrieve it.’
‘But that would be desecration!’
‘No, sir, the real desecration took place many years ago. I want that tomb broken into. When we have finished, you must promise me that your son and future daughter-in-law will take the treasure to wherever I direct.’
Lord Richard hitched his sword belt round his waist.
‘Father Anthony believed the same.’ Philip walked over to the tomb. ‘That’s why he talked to the mason. He had some madcap idea that he could burrow into the tomb from the crypt below. I don’t think that is now necessary. Do you, Lord Richard?’
The manor lord picked up one of the picks resting against the wall and, coming back, brought it down with a great crash smashing into the side of the tomb. The sound echoed round the church like the tolling of a funeral bell. Lord Richard grinned up at Philip.
‘Well, sir, you have your answer. Are you going to stand and watch or are you going to help me?’
Philip and Edmund joined in. Instead of concentrating on the sides, they brought the picks and mallets down on to the top of the tomb. The stone became chipped and cracked but, eventually, a hole was created and, using the shovels and a metal bar Philip found beneath the belfry steps, they were able to prise the top of the tomb loose. They paused. Philip sent Edmund back to the house for a small cask of ale, some cups, bread and fruit. They then wiped the dust from their mouths and faces and ate the food.
Despite his age, Lord Richard betrayed little tiredness for all his exertion and he laughed at how Edmund and Philip’s hands had become chapped and blistered. He took his cloak and, before they could object, cut portions off, telling them to bandage their hands. They returned to their labours. Philip was so engrossed in the task, he forgot about the church until he heard a sound, a clink, a metallic rustle as if a knight wearing chained mail was walking along the darkened transept. He paused, resting on the pick, wiping the sweat and dust from his face. He stared around. Somehow the church was not so frightening. The eyes on the pillars seemed to have faded, either that or covered by the clouds of dust now wafting down the church. He heard the sound again, the clink and rattle of chain mail.
‘Brother?’ Edmund asked anxiously.
‘I know,’ Philip replied. ‘The Watchers have come.’ He stared into the darkened transept. ‘They will not interfere nor will they allow Romanel to intervene. They know we mean good. Do you hear that?’ he shouted, his voice echoing. ‘And we intend reparation.’
Lord Richard also paused, putting down the pick, one hand going to the dagger in his belt. Then it came, soft as a breeze, a low murmur, nothing more than a whisper.
‘Spectamus te, semper spectamus te!’
‘Aye!’ Philip shouted back. ‘And the good Lord watches us all!’
They worked on until the tomb was nothing more than a mass of rubble. In the centre, at the bottom, resting on a small dais was a long, metal casket: Lord George’s coffin. It took some time to prise this open. Inside was another wooden casket. They managed to lift this out. At Philip’s insistence, they carried it into the sanctuary where Edmund lit every available candle he could find. Lord Richard drew his dagger. He gently prised the lid loose, pushing back the rotting gauze which covered a skeleton, its bony jaw sagging, the legs pulled up.
‘It’s as if he moved,’ Lord Richard whispered. ‘It’s as if something pushed his body together.’
Philip studied this carefully. Lord Richard was correct. Corpses were usually laid out, legs straight, feet together, hands over the chest. Yet, although there were no marks on the coffin, it looked as if some invisible force had plucked the corpse up, shaken it and thrown it back again. Around the coffin he could see the glint of jewels: rings from Lord George’s fingers, the glint of a silver pectoral cross, its cord long rotted.
‘What is this?’ Philip plucked from the top of the coffin a small leather cushion. Usually for the burial of a manor lord like Lord George, the coffin pillow was fashioned out of samite stuffed with goose feathers but Lord George’s was made of leather, its edges stitched closely together. Philip drew his dagger and cut away at the stitches. The pillow now became a small bag. He put his hand carefully inside and drew out the bundle wrapped in samite. He lay this on the floor and unrolled the samite. At first it looked as if the cloth inside was covered in dark, rusty stains. He could tell the fabric was ancient but, because of its thickness, was well preserved.
‘Edmund!’ he ordered. ‘Pick up this cloth! Handle it carefully!’
His brother did so.
‘Turn it round, that’s right! Lord Richard, bring across the candles!’
When the manor lord did so, he studied the cloth, gasped and fell to his knees beside Philip. They stared in wonderment: the picture on the cloth was vivid and dramatic. A man’s face, imprinted in blood, the cloth had even picked up the cuts and bruises to his cheeks, the blood-soaked hair which straggled the face, as well as the crown of thorns thrust deep into the brow. Philip crossed himself. Edmund lay it on the floor and crouched down to study it himself.
‘It can’t be!’ Lord Richard murmured.
‘It is.’ Philip felt the cloth, which was thick, more like parchment than fabric. ‘This is the veil Veronica used to wipe the face of Our Saviour. You are looking on a face which millions adore. This was the treasure of the Temple!’
‘How has it been preserved for so long?’ Edmund asked.
‘The cloth is naturally thick,’ Philip replied. ‘Undoubtedly, those who’ve held it before have used special oils to fight off decay. It is miraculous. Hold it up again!’
Edmund did so, bathing it in a pool of candlelight. Philip stared: the imprint was dark red, slightly rusty but a perfect image, picking up even the contours of the cheek and chin. A solemn face: lacerated but majestic, suffering but serene. It was the eyes which held him: large, cavernous, the lids half-closed. They too, must have been soaked in blood, for their imprint was very clear, yet, the more Philip stared at these, the more eerie they became: as if the lids were opening and the eyes were staring out, searching his heart, probing his soul. He felt cold, his mouth went dry. These were the eyes Romanel and Lord George had seen when they had slaughtered the Templars and unpacked their so-called treasure hoard
. And how these eyes must have scorched their minds! Judgemental, condemnatory, no wonder Romanel and Montalt had slipped into madness. Philip continued staring: those haunting eyes held him. They were not so forbidding but gentle: his body grew warm, the blood returned to his hands and feet. A sense of well-being, of deep calmness pervaded him, as if he had finished a task well done. He had no difficulty in looking on that face, no fears, no anxieties.
‘Put it back,’ he murmured. ‘Put it back in its cloth.’
Philip got up and, leaving his companions, climbed the sanctuary steps. He took down the silver pyx, opened the casket which contained the sacred host and consumed it. He then extinguished the sanctuary lights and looked round the church.
‘Leave everything here!’ Lord Richard grated. ‘Leave my ancestor’s skeleton and its sad remains. Leave the statue, the altar cloths, the sanctuary chair and the lectern.’ He got to his feet, his voice was harsh, his face suffused with anger. ‘Forgive me, Father. This is the house of God but my ancestor and Romanel turned it into a robbers’ den.’ He stared around. ‘Let it all burn, from crypt to tower.’ He walked up the altar steps and placed his hand on the crucifix. ‘I swear,’ he shouted, his voice ringing through the church, ‘that no trace of the blasphemy, of the horrible crimes committed by my ancestors should be allowed to remain. This church shall be destroyed. A house of prayer will be built here. Reparation will be done!’
Lord Richard walked down the sanctuary steps and followed Edmund, who now carried the veil in its leather covering, out of the corpse door.
Philip stayed a while. He walked round the church, looking carefully at everything. Lord Montalt was correct. On such occasions, Holy Mother Church decreed drastic action: purification by fire, nothing would remain. He walked to the front door, lifted the bar and placed it carefully on the ground. They would need to open that later when the oil arrived. He walked to the corpse door and didn’t even flinch at the whisper: whether it echoed through the church or only through his mind he didn’t care.
‘We are still watching you! We shall always be watching you!’
Philip paused, his hand on the latch of the corpse door. He knew either that mysterious voice, or his conscience, was correct. He was responsible for resolving the secret mysteries of Scawsby. Now he knew of the terrible sins which lay behind these mysteries, he realised he would have to spend his priestly life atoning for them. He had also brought Stephen here, so, to a certain extent, his hands were not totally clean. He genuflected, crossed himself and left the church to rejoin the others in the Priest’s house. Edmund had already placed the sacred relic on a special table in the small parlour. Out of respect, he had placed a lighted candle on either side of it. Philip told Lord Richard to sit. He went to the kitchen, put three cups on the tray, filled them to the brim with the best claret and brought them back. For a while they just sat sipping, reflecting on what had happened.
‘Now it is finished,’ Lord Richard spoke up, his voice still harsh.
‘Not yet,’ Philip replied. ‘Oh, I know the church and house have to be burnt. I agree, the site should be occupied by some holy order but there’s more to be done.’ He sighed. ‘But we will have to leave here.’
Lord Richard looked up in surprise.
‘Philip, no!’
‘My brother is correct,’ Edmund spoke up. ‘We cannot stay here. Scawsby needs a new priest, as well as a new church. Once we are finished, we should leave.’
‘And the veil?’
Philip breathed in deeply. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ he said. ‘Let us, at least in our own minds, put the pieces in place and accept what has happened. Then I can tell you what should be done with this great treasure of the Templars.’
Chapter 3
‘The origins,’ Philip began, ‘of this great mystery lie in the winter of 1308. The Templar order in England was about to be crushed, its members imprisoned, its land and property seized. The English Templars held this sacred relic, probably on loan from their Mother House in Paris, when the Templar crisis broke. Now they did not wish it to fall into the hands of the English Crown or anyone else. They decided that a party of knights under Sir William Chasny would ride across Kent and take a ship to France where they would hand the relic over to the Chasny family.’ He pointed to the veil. ‘Now the Templars were fighting men, but also monks. They believed that the relic should be carried, in accordance with its history, by a virgin, a maid. However, Chasny was in a hurry so he took a young girl, a foundling being educated at the local convent. She would carry the veil, escorted and guarded by himself and his companions. Knowing the little I do of the Templar Order, Chasny and his companions also swore the most solemn oaths to carry out their task.’
‘And that explains the interest of our young Frenchman?’ Lord Richard asked.
‘Oh yes. Perhaps the Templars got a message across to France saying the veil was on its way: the legends would spread and perhaps, though I have no evidence of this, the veil was first brought into the Templar order by the Chasny family. Anyway,’ Philip continued, ‘everything went well until Sir William and his party tried to cross the Vale of Kent. They intended to skirt Scawsby, but what they did not know was that Romanel, with the connivance of Lord George Montalt, led a most villainous gang of smugglers.’
‘So, this wasn’t the first and only attack?’ Edmund asked.
‘Oh no,’ Philip replied. ‘Romanel was a ruthless and wicked man. He had the blood of many innocent people on his hands. Now I know something of the customs of Kent.’ He smiled at Lord Richard. ‘And how its smugglers work. They always have men to watch the roads. Romanel was no different. His spies discovered there was a party of Templars fleeing from London, that wicked priest thought he was on the verge of seizing a fortune.’
‘But a group of armed men?’ Lord Richard asked. ‘Seasoned warriors, desperate fighters?’
‘I thought the same till I went out onto the marshes. True, the Templars were warriors used to charging across sands or attacking a castle. Romanel was cunning. He led them into the marshes and then his coven of outlaws simply struck from afar. The attack,’ Philip continued, ‘probably occurred at night. Eventually Romanel and his companions would close in. Those Templars who survived were wounded and easily finished off. They then turned to the treasure, only to find it was a piece of painted cloth.’
‘And the young girl?’ Edmund asked.
‘I suspect she hid during the attack. Romanel and his coven would discover her holding the relic.’
‘Why didn’t they just kill her?’ Lord Richard asked.
‘God knows, sir, perhaps some spark of pity. Romanel might have done; indeed, he still wants that. However, your ancestor and men from the village with children of their own were present. They’d argue the toss and draw the line at slitting the throat of a child.’
‘Aye,’ Edmund agreed. ‘And their blood would be cooling.’
‘Yes it would,’ Philip agreed. ‘Their victims were not just a party of ordinary travellers but soldier monks. Moreover, there was no treasure or none that they could see. I suppose they’d make some profit. The Templars undoubtedly carried gold and silver for their passage abroad. Romanel later used this to start renovating the church, a pathetic attempt at reparation.’
‘And the dead Templars?’ Lord Richard asked.
‘Well, Edmund was right,’ Philip replied. ‘Blood would cool. Romanel and his gang would reflect on what they had done. They must have known questions would be asked. After all, it was common knowledge that the Templar Order was condemned. The authorities in London might well send out commissioners to find out what had happened to Chasny and his group.’
‘So that’s why they used High Mount?’ Edmund intervened.
‘Yes, Romanel and his gang had never killed so many, and such important, people. It’s easy to dispose of the occasional journeyman or pedlar, even two or three merchants unlucky enough to fall into their power. But Templar knights? The marsh would have been drag
ged, the corpses pulled out and stripped, then taken to High Mount. The old graves there were plundered and emptied, the Templars’ corpses laid beneath the burial slabs. In another part of the ruins the young girl’s clothes and the saddlebags of the Templars were hidden. Their arms were a different matter.’ Philip paused to drink from his cup. ‘Remember, Romanel was an avaricious, violent man. Swords and daggers cost money. Perhaps he intended to use them on a latter occasion, which is why he marked the graves in the ledger, but he couldn’t very well leave them strewn about the vicinity of the village. So he brought the arms back and buried them in coffins deep in his cemetery.’
‘And the horses and harness?’
‘The latter are probably hidden in a pit somewhere. The horses which survived were turned loose. The poor beasts did not know the area. Any horse found wandering without a saddle or bridle could easily be seized by some peasant or fanner and no questions asked.’
‘Did Romanel know what he had seized?’ Edmund asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Philip replied. ‘Not until he got back to Scawsby. He’d feel disappointed, cheated, perhaps even frightened of what he had done. You can imagine him and Lord George gathering here: the relic being held up. Only then, perhaps, did it begin to dawn on them what they had done. You do not have to be a scripture scholar to look at that veil and recognise the face of Our Saviour. Now Romanel and Lord George were in a terrible trap. People would pay a king’s ransom for such a relic but how could they explain how it came into their possession? More importantly, Romanel must have realised the blasphemy he had committed. It was too late to kill the little girl, she’d been noticed, so Romanel passed her off as some by-blow.’
‘But why didn’t she remember?’ Edmund asked.
‘She was of tender years. Can you imagine what that night of fear must have done to her mind? It would unhinge anyone but a young girl frightened, terrified, constantly watched by Romanel. Eventually she forgot because she wanted to forget and so began her life here, keeping up the pretence of being the local priest’s illegitimate daughter.’
