by Phil Rickman
‘Or the confession could be fabricated. After the suppression of the Templars, it was easier to slag off Jacques de Molay than go into some dungeon.’
‘That’s what Aunt Fliss used to say, apparently. She said he was a good man. But then, who wants to think they’re living in the house where some psycho was holding court?’
‘Roxanne, can I ask you …? I mean, you probably won’t have an answer to this under the circumstances … But how do the Gwilyms tie in? I mean, they’re supposed to have been in that house since the Middle Ages, is that right?’
‘So they say.’
‘So are they claiming to be descended from the Templars or what?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it was their house and they were pretty pissed off about losing it to us. But I thought it was just about money and land. But then I’ve never had anything to do with them — I was being told not to from a very early age. And then I learned the sort of things they did and what a shit Sycharth was. I mean, there’s got to be something, hasn’t there, but he’s clever. When he learned about Paul, he was like, “Look, I know the fix you’re in and why don’t I take it off your hands?” Oh yeah, like I want my dad and my grandad turning in their graves.’
‘You weren’t ever tempted?’
‘No … and he blew it anyway, didn’t he? I mean, yeah, the Master House was falling into ruins and nobody in their right mind was going to want to rent it now. So the only option was to get rid of it. And, like, when we had another approach, six or seven months later, from a chap in Abergavenny, we did start negotiations … until we found out he was a proxy bidder for Sycharth.’
‘Devious.’
‘No more than you’d expect. Then Paul was reading about Harewood Park and all the property the Duchy of Cornwall was buying in Herefordshire and we thought, what’s to lose? So we took a lot of photos and printed up stuff on the history and posted it off. Couldn’t really believe it when they went for it, but … well, good things happen sometimes. And it meant the Gwilyms were stuffed. So maybe old Jacques was on our side.’
‘Getting de Molay on your side.’ Merrily nodded at the plaque. ‘That’s what this is about? I mean, the caring for customs bit … you — the Newtons — clearly went out of your way to observe local traditions. The Watch Night?’
‘Not in my time.’ Roxanne put on a shudder. ‘Thank God. But there was always a feeling — and I do feel that way myself sometimes — that either a place is working for you or it’s working against you. It’s very much a thing you get with farms.’
‘And the Master?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but then we’re not in the house. That’s Prince Charles’s problem now. Did … did Mrs Morningwood tell you about Naomi Newton?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Thought not. That’s the one she doesn’t tell. The lovely Naomi … she was the youngest sister of my great-grandmother — and of Aunt Fliss. All daughters of John Newton, who bought the farm off Mrs Gwilym. Naomi … she was the beauty. Well, this was during World War One, and there weren’t many men around — all off getting killed in France. Except for Madog Gwilym — can’t remember how he avoided it. Running the farm or a club-foot … something.’
‘They all had very distinguished-sounding Welsh names, didn’t they?’
‘Pretentious gits. Anyway, Madog Gwilym didn’t go to war and he fancied his chances with Naomi. This was before the feud set in — all the anger was on the Gwilym side until this happened. Maybe Madog suggested Naomi owed him one for the way the Newtons got the farm, I don’t know. But he had a go and she wasn’t having any, and she actually called him a coward. In public. In church, actually.’
‘Garway Church?’
‘Before a congregation of mainly women praying for the boys at the front. Naomi Newton publicly telling Madog Gwilym he wasn’t a man. Imagine.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’s supposed to’ve walked out of the church in this absolute dead silence. Following day, Naomi’s out collecting the eggs and he’s waiting for her, and he’s like I’ll show you whether I’m a man or not. Drags her into the trees and forces himself on her.’
‘She was raped?’
‘He denied it, of course, he said she was up for it, well, don’t they always— Well, no— Let me get this right, neither of them said anything at the time. Naomi didn’t tell anybody at first. Her brothers were at the war, the only man around was her father, John, well over sixty by then and working day and night to hold the farm together, and she knew what he’d do if he found out and she was afraid for his health. But then the worst happens. Finds out she’s pregnant … and she goes along, on the quiet, to … the local woman who deals with eventualities like this.’
‘Would that have been … Mrs Morningwood?’
‘Oh, you know. That’s all right, then. Her gran, this would be. She goes to Mrs Morningwood’s grandmother for an abortion. Mrs Morningwood obliges … but it all went horribly wrong. I don’t know what happened, but she got home and there was nobody in at the time, and she began to, you know, haemorrhage?’
‘Oh God. It wasn’t like you could pick up a phone and call for an ambulance.’
‘No. Whether she tried to … you know … sort it herself, nobody quite knows, but when my great-grandmother came in with Fliss, they found Naomi on the floor in the big room, in a big pool of blood, her life just … ebbing away. They hadn’t even known she was pregnant. They’re desperately trying to stop the bleeding and make her comfortable … got a big fire going, and somebody sent for Mrs Morningwood but, of course, it was too late. Mrs Morningwood was stricken with remorse, and my grandmother and Fliss, well …’
‘Must’ve been shattered and … furious.’
‘They say Mrs Morningwood could never show her face at the Master House again.’
Something clicked.
‘Aunt Fliss,’ Merrily said. ‘Felicity Newton?’
‘That’s right.’
First time I’d seen a dead ’un … Face like the skin on a cold egg-custard.
‘She was ninety-eight when she died,’ Roxanne said. ‘Whole village came to pay tribute. They say she was a lovely old girl. They laid her out where Naomi had died, in front of the inglenook, and everybody came.’
‘Even the Morningwoods.’
‘I’d guess. Likely the first time any of them’d been through that door since Naomi died. Wasn’t her fault, mind, she only tried to help. But they say my great-grandmother and Aunt Fliss could never sit in that room again without seeing Naomi trying to raise herself up on an elbow … you really want to know this? Gives me the creeps even now.’
‘Well, I probably don’t,’ Merrily said. ‘But on the other hand …’
She simply wouldn’t tamper with a foetus conceived at the Master House. Call it superstition.
Something else explained.
Roxanne leaned on the shoulders of a dining chair.
‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Something else to remember, when you go in there with your Bible and your holy water. I was eighteen before my mother told me about it. Wish she hadn’t bothered, sometimes.’
Roxanne sat down and poured herself some more of the powerful coffee from the pot and told it quickly.
‘Seems Naomi sits up in the blankets, blood all over her legs and the fire roaring behind her, and she curses Madog Gwilym — curses him in the name of the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay. Kind of … you know, last breath, before she lies down and dies.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
Ironically, the sun slid out in the south-east and filled the bay.
Merrily said, ‘Madog?’
‘Didn’t last the year out,’ Roxanne said. ‘Came out of one of the pubs one night — The Sun or The Globe, one or the other — saying he didn’t feel too well, and collapsed, stone dead at the side of the lane.’ Roxanne drank some coffee, winced. ‘What a place this is.’
47
A Rough Saw
He likes the effect he has, she thought, one hand on the kettle, one hand on the tap. This combination of old hippie and Victorian scholar. He’s very much aware of his image.
She hadn’t been back from Garway more than a few minutes before he’d trudged in with his case, a hand raised to Merrily, a nod to Mrs Morningwood, before pulling out a chair and spreading papers and books over the refectory table like dealing hands of cards.
‘I thought you weren’t coming till this afternoon.’
‘Got someone to see at two. Might be a bit knackered after that, Merrily. Up far too late last night, thanks to you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No consideration, this lass. Leave that for now. Sit down here. Read this.’
‘This is Huw Owen. Mrs Morningwood, Huw.’
‘Oh aye?’
Huw looked up over his reading glasses. Mrs Morningwood was wearing black jeans and another Army sweater with shoulder patches. Her injuries looked like war wounds and, if anything, worse than last night. One eye was half-closed and weeping; she wiped it with a tissue and put on her sunglasses.
‘I’ve got a sore shoulder,’ Huw said. ‘Reckon you can do owt?’
‘Massage, Mr Owen?’
‘I were thinking summat in a pot.’
‘That can be arranged.’
‘Ta.’
Outside, it had started to rain out of a half-blue sky. Merrily accepted the pages of text Huw was waving at her, glimpsing a Maltese cross before he grabbed them back.
‘Save you some time and bullshit.’ He turned over a couple of the sheets, tapped a paragraph. ‘Start there.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s about how to become a Knight Templar,’ Huw said.
‘Now or then?’
‘For you, never. It’s a lads’ thing.’
Who comes here? Merrily read.
Answer: A pilgrim on his travels, hearing of a Knights Templar encampment, has come with a hope of being admitted.
‘This somebody’s primary school project, Huw?’
‘Save the sarcasm. Over the page and read the bit I’ve marked.’
Merrily sat down. Under the heading Obligation, she read about the pilgrim having his staff and cross taken away in exchange for a sword, placed in his hand by the Grand Commander.
After which, he swore that he would never knowingly take the blood of a brother Templar, but espouse the brother Templar’s cause, knowing it to be just. And if he failed …
‘Oh dear.’
… May my skull be sawn asunder with a rough saw, my brains taken out and put in a charger to be consumed by the scorching sun and my skull in another charger, in commemoration of St John of Jerusalem, that first faithful soldier and martyr of our Lord and Saviour. If ever I wilfully deviate from this my solemn obligation, may my light be put out from among men, as that of Judas Iscariot was for betraying his Lord and Master.
Merrily sighed, put down the papers. ‘Masons.’
‘Masonic Order of Knights Templar,’ Huw said. ‘But fear not. Only Christians are admitted.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘It’s in the rules, lass.’
‘If you’re going to have your skull sawn open and your brains fried, best to have it done by a good Christian, that’s what I always say.’ Merrily propped her elbows on the table, chin falling into cupped hands. ‘Huw, I’m feeling tired already. This is a big subject, I’m a little woman. I know nothing about Freemasonry.’
‘Why I’ve come over, lass. I’m a man, and I know a fair bit.’
‘What?’ She looked up. ‘Does that mean …?’
‘No. Not that I haven’t been approached, mind. Twice, in fact.’
‘Since being ordained?’
‘Only since I were ordained. Despite all the disapproving noises and a number of critical reports, there’s still scores of clergy in the Masons. Most of ’em at ground level. Not so many in the Templars, unless they’ve got a private income. Can’t pick up your surcoat and sword in Asda.’
‘They actually … dress up like Templars?’
‘Oh aye. Full bit. Costs an arm and a leg for a full Templar kit, but they get it back. One way or t’ other.’
‘So I’ve heard. Huw …’
Huw looked at her, thin smile.
‘Why do I need to know this? Are you telling me the Bishop of Hereford …?’
‘That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? But, sadly, Brother Dunmore, according to my information, never progressed beyond basic Craft Masonry and hasn’t been to a Lodge meeting for a number of years. Although the bugger’s never formally resigned.’
‘Why would a man like Bernie get into it in the first place?’
‘Happen his dad were in it. That’s how it usually happens. Fathers, brothers. Family tradition.’
‘What do they get out of it? Apart from contacts and favours. Allegedly.’
‘Get out what you put in. Most of ’em, it’s a social club. Relaxed night out. Well, relaxed after you’ve gone through the bit where they hold you at knifepoint. For others, it’s a spiritual journey. Sounds like a joke, but for some it becomes just part of your life — it is your life. Endless passageways, lass.’
‘Leading to?’
‘The light. Masonic light. You’re travelling towards enlightenment. Through knowledge.’
‘Gnosticism.’
‘A prominent Mason, Canon Richard Tydeman, said — famously — that trying to describe the joys of Masonry to an outsider was like trying to describe the joys of motherhood to a spinster.’
‘How would he know?’
‘Suffice to say it brings a sense of order and direction and personal satisfaction to men who were just meandering along. Gives their lives a very clear focus. Whether this—’ Huw shook the papers ‘—mirrors any actual Templar rituals we’ll never know because the Templars never wrote owt down, but it’s become one of the most popular and sought-after degrees in Masonry. Read the next bit.’
The sword is taken from the candidate and a skull placed in his hand
Furthermore, may the soul that once inhabited this skull, as the representative of John the Baptist, appear against me in the day of judgement …
‘What’s that say to you, lass?’
‘Baphomet,’ Mrs Morningwood said, and Huw smiled at her and stretched his legs under the table, hands behind his head.
‘One major theory is that Baphomet translates as baptism — the official start of a spiritual life. The head, in this context, is therefore the head of John the Baptist, and some scholars are convinced that’s what the Templars venerated.’
‘And that’s the Christian bit, is it?’ Merrily said.
‘Or the Christian veneer. Borrow a Biblical figure, make him your own. Regular, ground-floor Masonry you only have to accept a supreme ruler of the universe. Whose name, for the record, is Jahbulon, which they’re not supposed to say outside the temple. And which opponents of Masonry say is a weird combination of Christian and Satanic — principally, Jah, for Jehovah, and Baal, the opponent or Devil. The Methodists brought out a report in 1985 that reckoned the name “Jahbulon” constituted the single biggest barrier to a true Christian being a Mason.’
‘Personally, I’d’ve thought that threatening to saw open somebody’s skull …’
‘That’s just the Masonic Templars. Your bog-standard Craft Mason merely accepts that if he gives owt away his tongue will be ripped out by the root and buried in the sand of the sea at low-water mark.’
‘Oh well, that’s OK, then.’
Merrily thought of the Templar who claimed he’d been brought before Jacques de Molay at Garway and ordered to deny Him whom the image represents or get himself put in a sack and dumped somewhere less than congenial.
Huw was looking at her over his glasses.<
br />
‘The skull bit — it’s quite likely the original Templars swore a similar oath. Fighting-men in brutal times. The idea of Jahbulon is a total composite god. Three syllables, note, a trinity. Again, in line with what many scholars accept as Templar belief, which was a cobbling together of Christianity, paganism, Judaism and Islam. I believe some of the Templars were Gnostics. I think it’s likely that some did support the bloodline-of-Christ theory. And I think some of them were devoted to undermining Christianity from within.’
Mrs Morningwood got out her cigarettes.
‘Mind if I …?’
‘Aye, please yourself,’ Huw said.
‘Mr Owen … how many of these Knights Templar Masons are there?’
‘Thousands in this country. A proportion of them higher clergy.’
‘And they’re here? In Herefordshire?’
‘You could say that.’
‘OK.’ Merrily sat up. ‘Where’s this leading, Huw?’
‘All roads lead to the cathedral. But you knew that. You had it from Callaghan-Clarke.’
‘She said the Archdeacon was a Mason.’
‘Mervyn Neale is Grand Commander, I’m told.’
‘Of the Templar Masons?’
‘On an Archdeacon’s screw, you can afford the kit,’ Huw said.
48
Oddball
Think about it, Huw said. The oldest cult in the West.
He talked. He was persuasive. Clouds had closed the sky’s one sunny opening, like a cut healed over, and the kitchen had gone grey. Merrily left the lamp off.
Occult: it meant hidden. Freemasonry was occult in every sense, Huw said. A template for all the nineteenth and early twentieth century magical orders — notably the Golden Dawn, where Crowley started, and W.B. Yeats. The symbols, the ceremonial, all there.
‘But how much of basic Masonry,’ Merrily asked him, ‘is actually based on the Templars?’
‘Some Masonic scholars would say the lot. The Temple of Solomon, all the architectural jargon? God with a set square and protractors?’
