Knightly Dreams

by Anna Markland

  She hesitated on the threshold, thinking for a moment she’d entered a chapel. The dozen or so pew-like benches were packed, but she managed to slide into a spot near the back. She wasn’t completely sure why she’d come, and if the whole thing turned out to be monumentally boring, she could slip out unnoticed.

  The person next to her leaned closer. “They’re having trouble with the AV,” he explained.

  She nodded politely and looked to the front, just as a slide flashed up on a large screen: Debunking the Myth of the Treasures of the Templars, by Peter H. Bateson.

  An audible murmur of expectation rippled through the audience. Several gowned university types who’d evidently been helping resolve the projection issue took their places, leaving a pale-faced Peter H. Bateson standing alone at the podium.

  A graphic had been inserted as background for the slide. Susie stared at the red cross emblazoned on the chest of a knight. Suddenly, the Templar of her dream was in the room.

  Her eyes darted from the image to Peter and back several times. The handsome man at the podium seemed a different person from the studious nerd she’d met briefly at the pub. The delay had clearly flustered him. He scanned the audience as if facing a firing squad.

  “Apologies for the late start,” he finally announced into the microphone after clearing his throat several times. “Best laid plans, and all that.”

  There was no reaction, except for one or two people who glanced impatiently at their watches.

  He attempted a smile. “So, let’s begin. Welcome everyone. I’m Peter Bateson and today I’ll be defending my doctoral thesis. I’d like to introduce Doctor Gloria Addis who will act as my defense leader.”

  He gestured to another small podium off to one side. A tall, thin woman gripped the wooden structure like a shipwreck survivor clings to flotsam. She embodied the quintessential cartoon image of an elderly history professor. Susie wondered if anyone else in the audience shared the unkind thought that the woman had likely witnessed the Crusades first hand. She bit into her knuckles to stifle a giggle.

  Gloria Addis spoke as if her mouth was full of marbles, a skill several of Susie’s former professors had also perfected. She tuned out the diatribe and studied Peter. He seemed to have regained his composure, though he still shuffled papers. In the dim lighting of the cramped pub she hadn’t really got a good look at him. He was tall and athletic-looking. Maybe he played on one of the intramural sports teams. Squash perhaps.

  He was actually a good looking man, though he’d used a little too much gel to tame his brown hair. If he grew it longer and let it fly free like…

  She squirmed on the uncomfortable bench. Her neighbor folded his arms across his chest and edged away.

  While Dr. Addis rambled on about her own credentials, Peter’s gaze roved over the audience. They may have thought he was looking at them, but actually he was mulling over his supervisor’s last words of advice.

  You are the expert in the room. Trust your brain. No one in the world has recently spent as much time as you on this specific topic. I’ve deemed your thesis worthy to be defended. So has the committee. You will pass. Everyone knows that. The only one still doubting it is you.

  He’d rehearsed the entire presentation ten times, once in this very room. Everything would be fine. His frustration over the projector issue was beginning to melt away and his heart rate had returned to normal when he suddenly noticed a person in the back row. He narrowed his eyes. Surely it couldn’t be…but it was. The chick with the pink hair, drowning in a leather jacket two sizes too big for her.

  He rarely swore, but what the fuck was she doing here, chewing gum for god’s sake?

  The knot in his stomach tightened. She was a loose cannon, trouble with a capital T. The fear churning in the bellies of the Templars arrested by King Philip the Fair over seven hundred years ago was suddenly all too real. What torture did Susie Pink-Hair have in mind for him?

  He gritted his teeth, wondering what had happened to his usual sang-froid. His nervousness was making him paranoid. Then, he realized Addis had stopped speaking and his audience was waiting for him to begin.

  Outburst

  Susie fiddled with the fringe on the front of the jacket, inexplicably nervous for Peter as he stared at the audience.

  “Looks like a Templar preparing to face the hordes attacking Jerusalem,” her neighbor quipped, making no attempt to speak softly.

  A retort was on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it when Peter seemed to collect himself and began his dissertation. He flipped through the introductory slides and his nervousness disappeared. It was evident he knew his topic inside out. She liked the sound of his voice. Deep, but not too deep. Confident.

  She thought he’d noticed her before and been none too pleased to see her, but as his presentation went on she began to think she’d been mistaken. Why would he even remember her?

  He gave a succinct account of the founding of the Order of the Templars after the establishment of the first Crusader states in the Holy Land. “From humble beginnings as a small group tasked with protecting pilgrims, within twenty years they’d become the most powerful bankers in Christendom. Thousands of wealthy pilgrims entrusted their money, lands and titles to them for safekeeping. New recruits donated all their possessions.”

  She yawned, enjoying listening to him but thinking perhaps she’d be better off finding a quiet park bench somewhere. A nap would do her good before the shift at the pub. Even she knew the Templars had amassed their enormous treasure acting as bankers—most Crusaders never returned home to reclaim their valuables.

  Startled when Peter unexpectedly removed his suit jacket and undid his tie, she sat up straight. He seemed self-conscious about it, but, holy smokes, fit didn’t begin to describe him. He was built. The conservative suit hadn’t done justice to the powerful shoulders and broad chest that tapered to a lean waist. He patiently rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal corded forearms dusted with light brown hair. Susie tried to swallow, but without saliva it was almost impossible. The nerd had transformed into a jock who’d set her heart pounding. Which was strange. Muscle-bound men didn’t turn her on, but Peter Bateson had made her panties alarmingly damp.

  In her agitated state, she was completely unprepared for what happened next. He shrugged a tunic over his head, thrust his arms through the armholes, and explained, “I thought a visual aid might help us better identify with the thousands of knights faced with the annihilation of the Templar Order by King Philip of France in the fourteenth century.”

  Susie gaped at the knight who’d haunted her dreams for weeks, incapable of coherent thought, until Peter said, “The big question is, what happened to the Templars’ account books when the surviving knights supposedly fled La Rochelle by sea? The logs have never been found and my thesis proves neither they nor the so-called treasure still exist.”

  Of course. The logs! Now she was awake, it was so stupidly obvious what the knight had meant. She vaulted to her feet and gripped the pew in front of her. “No,” she shouted, “De Norrels has the logs.”

  A few people gasped at the outburst.

  Gloria Addis peered over the top of her podium and pointedly reminded everyone there would be an opportunity for cross-examination at the end of the speech.

  A stern-faced docent leaned over to speak to a blushing Susie as she regained her seat.

  Peter’s emotions were mixed. He was livid she’d flouted the time-honored protocol, but how on earth did she know about Roger De Norrels? The man was an insignificant figure in the history of the Order, Preceptor of one of many Templar holdings in southern England. Admittedly, Cressing Temple had been a hugely lucrative agricultural endeavor, but still. The notion he’d been entrusted with the accounts containing information about the Order’s vast empire bordered on the ludicrous. Peter hadn’t even mentioned him in his thesis.

  However, she’d belted out the pronouncement with great conviction and looked at him now with doe eyes wide. He hadn�
��t noticed how big her eyes were. What was she trying to tell him?

  He coughed politely, marshaled his thoughts, and continued. He successfully laid to rest the myth that the treasure lay hidden in Scotland’s Rosslyn Chapel, and ruthlessly trashed the theory that Templars had aided Robert the Bruce in his victory at Bannockburn.

  He effectively disproved the possibility the treasure lay buried on Oak Island in Nova Scotia, and dealt deftly with the notion the Templars had taken their enormous wealth to Spain, Portugal and a myriad of other unlikely places.

  He deliberately left England to the last. No one blinked an eye when he mentioned Royston Cave. Either he’d bored them all to silence, or they were preparing their ammunition for the cross-examination. He hoped the latter was the case. The Templar knights might be ancient history, but the story of their astonishing success and equally dramatic demise was anything but boring.

  Cressing Temple was the one site reputed to be a possible hiding place that he hadn’t spoken about. He paused after announcing the name and watched Susie for any sign of reaction. There was none. He’d lay odds she didn’t even know who De Norrels was.

  He pushed the projector’s remote to bring up the last slide, elated when exuberant applause greeted the end of his speech.

  Susie was the only person in the room not smiling, apart from Addis who was probably physically incapable of cracking a smile. His irrefutable thesis hadn’t convinced the spiky-haired waitress. The moment of triumph was marred by a twinge of disappointment.

  During the cross-examination, Susie gripped the bench and studied Peter. He fielded every question expertly and gracefully. “A good point, I’m aware of that debate…”; “Yes, on one hand …but on the other hand…”; “I see what you’re saying, but I respectfully disagree, because…”; “I’m not an expert in that area, but here’s how I view that…”; “I understand that question as follows…”

  It was masterful, but she got the feeling he was avoiding her eye. Was he afraid she’d bring up the logs again? She was normally much too inhibited to make a spectacle of herself, which is exactly what she’d done. She didn’t even know if she wanted to mention De Norrels again. Peter had oodles of research to prove the Templars’ wealth had gone into private hands centuries ago; all she had was a dream knight with the red cross emblazoned on his chest.

  It was evident the committee members were going to grant Peter his degree. As the proceedings wound down, she slipped out, anxious to avoid the disdainful glances of others who would surely crowd around the successful candidate in order to offer congratulations.

  He’d triumphed despite the troll who’d rudely interrupted him.

  Doctors Old And New

  Hugh shook Peter’s hand. “Well done, old chap.”

  Edgar slapped him on the back. “A walk in the park.”

  Peter appreciated their sentiments, but he craned his neck to look beyond the lineup of people waiting to offer congratulations, inexplicably disappointed when he didn’t see Susie.

  He wanted to reassure her she hadn’t offended him. On reflection, her outburst indicated he’d captured her interest. He didn’t stop to consider why such a thing might matter to him. Plus, he had to admit her mention of de Norrels had him intrigued.

  However, he could hardly rush off to look for her.

  Hugh bent close to his ear. “We’ll have a pint or two waiting at the Cheese once you escape your admiring fans.”

  It was likely the members of the committee would want to bend his ear for a while. The long and stressful doctoral process was finally over, and he recognised the toll it had taken on his energy. He’d been thinking of turning in early.

  However, Susie might be working at the pub later. He wanted to see her, but the always popular historic watering hole wasn’t the place for a meaningful conversation. He checked his watch. “It’ll be crowded with tourists at this time of day,” he said. “All wanting to meet the famous Dr. Samuel Johnson,” he added sarcastically.

  Edgar rolled his eyes. “We’ll find a quiet spot.”

  “No such thing at the Cheese,” he replied.

  Gloria Addis inserted a bony shoulder into the conversation and offered a skeletal hand.

  He nodded to his departing friends as he accepted the cold, limp congratulatory handshake.

  “Dr. Bateson,” she wheezed.

  “Thank you for all your help, Dr. Addis,” he replied.

  “You didn’t really need it,” she conceded. “But what does de Norrels have to do with your theories?”

  He might have known the wily old crow wouldn’t miss the crumb of doubt Susie had tossed into the debate. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “But I intend to find out.”

  Susie balanced the tray and put two glasses of Sam Smiths down on the table one by one, then the two gin and tonics. Serving in the small crowded bar was always a challenge. Customers often bumped into servers and sent trays flying, the main reason for the sawdust sprinkled liberally on the floor.

  However, she preferred to be waiting tables here tonight instead of in the Chop Room where Peter and his friends were celebrating with a meal. She doubted he wanted a reminder of the silly girl who’d interrupted his presentation.

  Her customer took a swig of his beer and grimaced. “It’s warm,” he complained.

  His accent suggested he was from somewhere in the American midwest. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with this problem and likely wouldn’t be the last. “Yes, I know you folks like your beer cold, but here we serve our draft at room temperature.”

  He took another sip and shoved the glass away. “You must have Budweiser.”

  “We do,” she confirmed, keeping the smile plastered on her face, “would you prefer that instead, sir?”

  His wife pushed the sweating glass back in front of him. “You drink Bud at home all the time,” she scolded. “Can’t you at least try the English beer?”

  Sulking, he eyed the brew like Socrates contemplating the cup of hemlock. “I guess,” he grudgingly agreed.

  The other American mopped his brow. “So, miss, is this Doctor Johnson fella here tonight?” he asked.

  She prattled off the standard response. “No, I’m sorry, sir. The famous poet and essayist did once frequent this pub, but he died in 1784.”

  The four tourists stared at her for a moment or two, then the second wife laughed out loud and cackled, “I guess we’ve missed him, then.”

  Susie tucked the empty tray under her arm and smiled indulgently as the Budweiser man held out his open wallet for her to take the correct payment.

  “Can’t figure out these pounds, shillings and pence,” he lamented.

  She refrained from pointing out that Britain changed to a decimal coinage system more than forty years ago. Shillings had been obsolete since before she was born.

  She realized she was being overly critical. American history was a blur to her, but the conversation had been a far cry from Peter’s thought-provoking dissertation. If it wasn’t for the tips…

  Turning to clear a recently vacated table for waiting customers, she risked a glance into the Chop Room, not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed Peter and his friends had left.

  She wondered if the knight would appear in her dreams tonight, or if the well-researched doctoral thesis had laid him to rest. His haunting had prompted her to attend the presentation. Perhaps the treasure wasn’t a myth and she was meant to pursue the matter further.

  If he did come, she’d ask him about de Norrels. If she got no answer, she’d be off to the library again.

  “What can I get you?” she asked the newcomers as they squeezed themselves into their seats. Reeling off a list of the pub’s draft beers, she fretted that she had begun to think the knight was real.

  As soon as he arrived home, Peter fired up his laptop and typed Roger de Norrels into his search engine. He loosened his tie, undid the laces of his Oxfords and shrugged off his jacket as he peered at the links that came up.

  Perp
lexed, he sat in the ergonomic chair at his desk and scratched his head. There was nothing remotely connected to the man he sought. He tried various spellings of the name, then just Norrels without the Roger.

  Still nothing.

  A half hour’s search through an indexed box of handwritten notes eventually turned up the source where he’d found the man’s name in a list of Cressing Temple preceptors. A little more hopeful, he typed in the url and discovered why he’d not included de Norrels in his dissertation. There was no information about him, except his name and the dates he held office. The man was unremarkable, yet Susie believed he’d been entrusted with the all-important accounting records.

  What did she know that he didn’t? Perhaps she too was a doctoral student armed with information that could blow his theories out of the water. He’d get to keep his degree, but it wouldn’t mean anything—least of all to him. He believed with all his heart that the treasures of the Templars had been dispersed into private hands centuries ago. But if he was wrong, he could say goodbye to a teaching position at any one of the prestigious universities that had expressed an interest in his work.

  He could hear the pundits now. Good old Dr. Bateson. His conclusions were all up the creek of course.

  Susie appeared to be nothing more than a waitress, but the majority of graduate students worked while earning their degree. He was just lucky he didn’t have to, thanks to his grandparents’ trust fund.

  He stared at his notes. There was something intriguing about the dates. De Norrels was the head of a wealthy Templar holding in 1309, a time when thousands of knights were fleeing persecution all across Europe. Could one or more of the fugitives have brought the accounting records to Cressing for safekeeping? Edward II was delaying the persecution of the Order in England, despite the Pope’s insistence. There was no safe place for the records in Europe, thanks to the relentlessly cruel King Philip of France.