by Philip Kerr
Titus Oates was prosecuted not for treason or sedition, but for debt; in 1698 he was released and, most unaccountably, granted a lump sum of five hundred pounds and three hundred pounds a year on the Post Office in lieu of his pension. No explanation was ever discovered by Newton as to why this came about.
Or at least none that was vouchsafed to me. But that Oates continued his seditious activities seems most certain, for the Whitehall Palace was burned to the ground on January sixth, 1698, and only the Banqueting House survived. It was given out that a Dutch laundrywoman had been careless with a hot iron. Much later on, Newton had information that the woman was not Dutch at all, but a French Huguenot.
No action was taken against milords Ashley and Lucas. They were not even arrested. Lucas remained the Lord Lieutenant and welcomed Tsar Peter the Great upon his royal visit to the Tower of London in February 1698. Lord Ashley resigned as the Member of Parliament for Poole in 1698, and succeeded his father as the third Earl of Shaftesbury in 1699. He retired from all public life in July 1702, following the accession of Queen Anne. John Fauquier continued as Deputy Master of the Mint, while Sir John Houblon even became the first Governor of the Bank of England.
The King returned to England, landing at Margate on Sunday, November fourteenth, 1697. It rained almost continuously, but the weather did little to dampen the enthusiasm of all loyal Englishmen for the return of William; all over London, bells were rung, and it need hardly be said that guns were fired at the Tower, which brought down the ceiling in my house. Two days later the King arrived back in London, in a very pompous procession, although many who remembered it said that it was not as pompous as the return of King Charles.
Tuesday, November the second, was a Thanksgiving Day for the peace, and despite more wet weather, there were fireworks in the evening. The next day, many of the French Huguenots that were arrested as supposed Jacobites were tried for high treason. In courts that were closed to the general public, they loudly protested that they were no Jacobites, nor any Roman Catholics, but their offers to prove they were not Papists by taking the sacramental tests under the Act were ignored as being sharp and cynical—captious attempts to thwart justice. In truth there was precious little justice about, that December, and the trials were more show than substance, with the sentences, in Shakespeare’s phrase, a foregone conclusion. More than one hundred men were transported to the Americas, but six, including Vallière and Rohan, were sentenced to death.
Sunday, December the fifth, was the first Sunday St. Paul’s had any service in it since it was consumed at the conflagration of the City. The work was still not complete, with Sir Christopher Wren’s great dome still not built; but the choir was finished and the organ looked and sounded most magnificent. Newton and I attended the service, with Mister Knight preaching on the Epistle of Jude, verse three, in which the brother of James exhorts that Christians should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints. Mister Knight applied this text against the Socinian doctrine, which was only a short step away from the Arianism of my master.
Upon our return to the Mint, some days later, after an absence of several weeks, Newton received a message that Sergeant Rohan—who was held in Newgate, where Newton’s reputation for obtaining pardons for them that gave him information was well known—wished to meet with him in order that he might impart a great secret.
“What? Another damned secret?” I said.
“It is the Tower,” said Newton, as if that were all the explanation needed.
Which was true indeed. The Tower was more than just a prison and a place of safety to mint the coin; it was also a state of mind, an attitude that affected all who came into contact with its walls. Even now I am haunted by its memory. And if you would speak to my ghost you must look for me there, for it was while I was in the Tower that I died. Not my body, it is true, but my heart and soul, which were most certainly murdered while I was in the Tower. Young ladies that wished to conceive of a child were in the habit of visiting the Tower armouries, intent upon sticking a bodkin into the large codpiece of King Henry VII’s foot-armour. It is too late now, of course, but I wonder that I did not think to prick his breast that I might have found myself a new love and, perhaps, even a new life in Christ.
We travelled to Newgate to find that James Fell, who had been the head keeper, was now dismissed. But all else remained the same, with the Whit still a place of much misery, although Sergeant Rohan was not as sorry for himself as I might have expected. He met us in the condemned hold, from which darkness the only escape was with a candle, with no resentment and much cheerfulness considering that he had clearly been beaten, and the awful fate that now awaited him. Since he had said nothing at his trial, he now began with a full confession of his crimes, all of which we heard with the lice cracking loudly under our feet; and it was the most extraordinary admission that I ever did hear in that dreadful place.
“That I did, I did because I believed it to be right,” he said. “The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day has hung over me all my life. And all Huguenot Protestants such as myself have better reason than any to hate Papists. I hate Papists as other men hate the clap or the plague, and I would willingly lose my immortal soul to see every one of them dead.”
“George Macey was not a Catholic,” said Newton. “No more was your Major Mornay.”
“Poor Macey,” said Rohan. “I’m sorry he was killed. In searching for coiners in the Tower, he stumbled upon our plot, as perhaps you did yourself, sir; and it was suspected that he would betray us, when he came to understand more of what we were up to. When he was found in possession of one of our coded letters, that sealed his fate. It was Mister Twistleton who, being the Tower Armourer, took charge of the torture, at the instruction of Major Mornay, so that we might find out exactly how much he knew and who he might have told; and if the code had been broken. I think it was Macey’s screams that affected Mister Twistleton’s wits, for his mind was never the same again.”
I neglected to mention Newton’s own diagnosis of Twistleton’s madness—his syphilis—for fear of stopping the sergeant’s explanations.
“Mornay was mad anyway,” he continued. “A careless fellow, and even though we served on a French galley together, I don’t much regret killing him. He was a perverted sort of man, and had become most unbalanced, so that he was a liability, as you might say.”
After having seen what I had seen in the Southwark marshes, I found it only too easy to recognise the truth of this myself.
“You may as well know that you and the lad here were marked to die as well.”
“I know it,” said Newton. “Some of the letters we translated spoke of it.”
“And yet you still came here?”
“We bear you no ill will,” said Newton. “Do we, Ellis?”
“None at all, sir.”
“But who were those two who tried to kill me?” asked Newton.
“Paid assassins, sir. Riff-raff. A couple of coiners who bore you a grudge. Mister Vallière was waiting inside that tavern to say that he recognised old Roettier and Mister Ambrose from the Tower as having killed you.” The Sergeant spat. “Many’s the time I’ve wanted to kill old Roettier. His whole stinking family’s a nest of Catholic spies. The only reason he’s not dead already is that it was thought he might be more useful to our cause if he was left alive to be blamed for this or that.”
“But who would have believed that an old man like that would murder anyone?” I asked.
“In times like these, people will believe what they want to believe.”
Newton nodded. “And what do you believe, Sergeant?”
“How do you mean?”
“You are a Socinian, are you not?”
“Aye sir. But that’s still a good Protestant.”
“I agree with you there. And because you are condemned, I will tell you that I do hold many of your own beliefs, for I am of the Arian persuasion.”
“God bless you for that, Doctor.”
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“But I think we have chosen a bad time to reappear in the world, for it seems the world has grown tired of sectarian disputes.”
“True, sir. Tired and cynical. I little thought I would ever be condemned as a damned Jacobite and Roman Catholic.”
“Their Lordships would hardly have dared to condemn you as a Protestant,” said Newton. “Not with all the feeling against Catholics there is in the country now. And yet I must also tell you I believe you are justly convicted. For you would have murdered so many that England would have been held in much opprobrium, as France was after the Huguenots were massacred. And I am firmly of the belief that such an atrocity would have given King Lewis an excuse to break the peace we have just made. But that you should be punished for the sins of your betters, as well as for your own, seems to me especially unjust. Christ asks only that we follow the example of his life, and not the meaning of his death.”
At which I uttered some remark to the effect that the rich had fine scented gloves with which to hide their dirty hands. Which was a remark directed at Newton as much as Their Lordships in Government.
“And yet I am rich, too,” said the Sergeant.
“Rich?” said I. “How so?”
“What else do you call a man who knows where the treasure of the Templars might be found?”
“You know where the treasure is?” said I, much excited by this news.
“I do. And I will tell you where it is to be found, if you can you get me out of here.”
“I think I can do very little for you,” said Newton. “Not even for the treasure of the Templars. But I shall plead for your life before the Lords Justices. I shall tell them that I do not think it right that you should be punished while others who did counsel you in this matter do go free. Not for any treasure, though. But because I believe you to be less culpable than several others.”
“That’s all I ask, sir. Why, then I’ll tell you about the secret, sir. For there I take you upon your word. If you say you will do something, I know you will do it. That is your reputation in here, and in the Tower. But mostly I will tell you about the treasure because you are of my own religious persuasion and have no faith in the Trinity, and believe that the Father is greater than the son. For the proof of that, why, sir, that’s the treasure I speak of.”
“I would give much to see that proved to my own satisfaction,” said Newton. “True knowledge is the greatest treasure of all.”
Of this I was less than sure; had I not been happier when I myself was ignorant?
“But what is this secret and how did you come by it?” asked Newton.
Sergeant Rohan took a swig from the bottle of gin I had brought him out of charity.
“Bless you for this, lad,” he said. “Well, sir, to cut a long story short, following the capture of Jerusalem in 1099, Count Hugh of Champagne, the patron of the Cistercian Order, went to Jerusalem and ordered his vassal Hugh of Payns to found the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ on the Temple Mount, this being the site of the Temple of Solomon that was rebuilt by Herod, and destroyed again by the Romans. Prior to this, it was said that the Cistercians sought the help of Greek scholars to translate certain texts found after the capture of Jerusalem that spoke of a buried treasure beneath the Temple Mount. And that the Poor Fellow Soldiers that became the Templars were ordered to look for this treasure.
“There have been many stories about what that treasure amounted to. Some have said it was the treasure of King Solomon that was Sheba’s tribute. Others that it was the Holy Grail. Some believed they found the embalmed head of Jesus Christ. But it was none of these. Neither was it the Ark of the Covenant, the lance that pierced Christ’s side, nor the blood line of Jesus Christ.
“It was the texts themselves that were the treasure, for these were nothing less than the original Greek texts of the lost Gnostic Christian texts, including those gospels that were regarded as heretical by the Apostle Paul, and which were later suppressed by the early Church, for these books prove that Christ was only a man, that he did not rise from the dead, and that the established Christian dogma is a blasphemy of the truth and evil teaching. That is why the Templars were accused of heresy and blasphemy: for possession of these forbidden books of the New Testament. And for translating them from Greek into Latin. That is the book of the devil they were accused of possessing. That is why they were persecuted throughout Europe and burned at the stake.”
Newton looked thunderstruck, as if he had discarded darkness and clothed himself in light.
“That is the treasure,” Sergeant Rohan continued triumphantly. “That is what the kings of Christendom tried so earnestly to find: the Templars’ book. And that is why we hate the established Roman Catholic Church, for it is the Romans who have suppressed this truth for a thousand years. Many Huguenots were descended from Templars. And therefore we have a double reason to hate Papists, for they have persecuted us twice.”
“But what other gospels can there be?” I asked.
“Did not Christ have twelve apostles?” Sergeant Rohan said scornfully. “And yet there are only three Gospels by apostles that are in the New Testament. Where is the Gospel of Philip, the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Peter, the Gospel of James? For that matter, where is the Gospel of Mary Magdalene?”
“Mary Magdalene,” repeated Newton. “Is there such a thing?”
“Aye,” said Sergeant Rohan. “It was she who told the apostles the things that were hidden from them, that only Christ himself told her. But it is Peter you will want to read most of all, sir. For it is he who speaks strongest against the Christianity of Paul. It is Peter who refers to Jesus as a dead man. And learning this, you will know the truth at last, and be free.”
“But where are these books?” Newton asked hoarsely.
“They are contained in one book in the library at the Tower,” said Sergeant Rohan. “A copy of the book came to the Tower with the Templars who were imprisoned there, and was hidden under the altar in St. John the Evangelist’s Chapel that is now a library. The safest place for the book was thought to be right under the noses of their persecutors. And there it has stayed ever since.”
“But where is it now?” asked Newton. “For the altar is gone.”
“On the tribune gallery, above where the altar once stood, is a window. In the window is a simple wooden box in which you will find the book. Many enlightened men who were in the Tower have read the Templars’ book, for knowledge of its existence was only ever given to those who could not take the book away, and who were themselves educated or persecuted, or both. Sir Thomas More, the Wizard Earl, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, to name but a few.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing; and I only wished that Miss Barton could have been present to hear what the Sergeant had to say, and see the look of keen fascination that illuminated Newton’s face. I might have pointed to him and asked her if she still believed her uncle was the good Anglican she thought. “What?” I said. “No gold at all?” Which drew me a look of contempt from my master.
“Not all men who have known of the Templars’ book were interested in the treasure it contained,” said the Sergeant. “Sir Jonas Moore knew of the book, but he was not interested in truth. Only in gold. He found what gold there was, in the box with the book. But he thought there might be more.”
“And what of the Saltire Cross?” asked Newton. “And Orion the hunter?”
Sergeant Rohan looked puzzled, and took another swig from the bottle.
“Was there not some significance in these for the Templars?” persisted Newton, who was referring to the cross that Mister Pepys had shown to him.
“Only that when Templars were buried, their arms were crossed across their bodies saltireways,” said the Sergeant.
“That is common enough,” said I.
“Aye, now. But not when the Order of Templars was first created,” insisted the Sergeant. “As for Orion, in the Greek his name means a mount or mountain.”
“Oros,” said Newto
n. “I did not think of that. Yes, of course. There have been several times during this case when I have been as blind as Orion. Only now does the darkness truly clear and I see all things in the light.”
“Those upon whom the Spirit of Life descends,” said the Sergeant, “when they are bound together with the power, will be saved and will become perfect and they will become worthy to rise upward to that great light.”
“What is that scripture?” asked Newton.
“The Secret Book of John,” answered the Sergeant. “The light is not the son, but Almighty God the father.”
Newton nodded. “Amen,” he said quietly.
“There is a Muhammadan mosque close by the Temple Mount in Jerusalem,” said the Sergeant. “It covers the rock upon which Abraham prepared Isaac for sacrifice, and is the spot from which their prophet ascended into Heaven. I have not seen it. But I have heard how there is an inscription there which says, ‘O ye people of the Book, do not exceed the bounds in your religion, and speak only Truth of God. The Messiah, Jesus, the son of Mary, is only an apostle of God, and his Word which he gave unto Mary, and a Spirit proceeding forth from him. Therefore believe in God and his apostles, and say not Three. It is better that you should do so. For God is only one God, and it is far from being his glory that he should have a son.’”
“Amen indeed,” murmured Newton. For a moment he seemed almost overcome. Then he said, “I little thought when I came here, Sergeant, that my eyes should be opened so wide. All my life I have endeavoured to look upon the light of God, and I thought no man could see more of his truth than I do myself. But it is perhaps appropriate that it should be a man like you who reveals more of Him unto me. For God, who best knows the capacities of men, hides his mysteries from the wise and prudent of this world and reveals them unto babes. The wise men of this world are too often prepossessed with their own imaginations and too much entangled in designs for this life.”
