The Awful Secret

by Bernard Knight

  ‘What was this secret?’ asked Matilda, breathlessly.

  ‘I cannot divulge that, certainly not yet, but it is a matter of the greatest import in our religious faith. I have still more soul-searching before I can decide what to do about this.’

  ‘You make it hard for me to understand your problems, de Ridefort,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘If you cannot give any inkling of what distresses you, how can I ever help you?’

  Gilbert jerked himself to his feet and stood agitatedly before the hearth, his back to the fire, so that he could face them. ‘I am torn between the ingrained loyalty to the Knights Templar, whom I have served faithfully for fifteen years, and my anguish at deciding to reveal what I know. I cannot let this knowledge loose at the moment. There is another who shares both the secret and my torment as to what should be done.’

  Matilda was staring open-mouthed at this Norman Adonis, who had walked in and captivated her mature heart with his looks and his story of heartrending conflict of loyalties – even though she had not the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  But her husband, with more worldly-wise cynicism, wanted far more disclosure than the Templar seemed willing to provide. ‘Much as you are welcome in my house, as any knight would be, I fail to see what you want with me,’ he said.

  Restlessly, the visitor threw himself back on to his stool and hunched forward, his gaze returning to the fire as he spoke. ‘This other knight is an old and dear friend of mine, Bernardus de Blanchefort, who has been at a Preceptory of our Order in the southern part of France since we both returned from the Holy Land. He is from those parts, his family having estates in the Languedoc and on the slopes of the Pyrenees. We have met many times in the past two years and our concerns have grown as we realised that a great conspiracy has long been afoot, into which, as Templars, we have unwittingly been drawn.’

  De Wolfe, though not an unintelligent man, was a practical, straightforward soldier and the man’s words meant little to him. They went right over Matilda’s head, but she was content to gaze at him and savour the dramatic, if incomprehensible, story he seemed bent on unfolding.John cleared his throat and waited for further enlightenment.

  ‘I cannot tell you more. I must wait for Bernardus to come so that we may decide on what should be done. But at the moment I am in great peril from the Order, who suspect that I am a dangerous renegade and will do anything to prevent me staying at liberty.’

  At last de Wolfe saw a glimmer of light. ‘You want protection and a means of escape, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, John, but how that is to be attained I cannot tell. I must wait for de Blanchefort to arrive.’

  ‘But why choose such a remote place as Devon, when you fled from Paris?’ asked Matilda, looking wide-eyed at this hero.

  ‘I remembered your husband, both from Gisors and Palestine. I always felt you were a man who could be trusted, not always an easy person to find these days. You told me you came from Devon and it seemed a logical place to aim for, if I was trying to reach either Scotland or Ireland to get beyond the reach of my Templar brethren.’

  The coroner gave a scornful snort. ‘You should forget Scotland if you want to avoid Templars! The place is full of them, you must know that. Ireland would be far safer – much of the country is still under the wild tribes, though you may as well be dead as have to live outside the Norman domains there.’

  De Ridefort nodded dutifully. ‘Then we shall make for Ireland, when Bernardus de Blanchefort arrives. He should be only a few days behind me. He was going to take ship from Brittany, whereas I came through Harfleur.’

  ‘Does he know where to find you?’ asked Matilda solicitously, in a tone she never used with her husband.

  ‘I have told him to seek out the coroner, lady. Everyone knows Sir John here, I’m sure he will bring us together.’

  De Wolfe was still unhappy with this strange story. ‘You must be in very deep trouble with your Order, de Ridefort. You have left their house, you have cast off the uniform so familiar throughout the known world – and you have shaved your face, which I know is forbidden to your fellow knights. You can never go back now, surely. Are you not beyond their forgiveness?’

  De Ridefort shifted on his stool. ‘Bernardus and I have crossed our Rubicon. If we live, it will be as outcasts in some remote place, like this Ireland you recommend. Even there, I suspect the long arm of the Templars will reach us eventually.’

  ‘And you refrain from telling me what it is that is worth the price of this sacrifice?’ demanded de Wolfe.

  ‘I cannot at this time. The secret is too awful to be revealed, unless de Blanchefort and I decide to take the plunge into the abyss and let the world know.’

  The situation was beyond both John’s comprehension and his patience. ‘I always thought there was some strangeness about the Templars, if you will forgive my bluntness,’ he said. ‘What is it that seems to set your Order so much apart from others?’

  For answer, the fugitive asked a question in return. ‘You remember our first meeting at the castle of Gisors, some years ago?’

  De Wolfe nodded. ‘I was in the guard of Prince Richard, who accompanied his father King Henry. You were there with many other Templars.’

  ‘That event was momentous – and not only for the confrontation between Henry and Philip of France.’

  ‘That was momentous enough – we had a fight on our hands, over that damned tree that both Richard and Philip wanted to give them shade during the negotiations. The bloody French ended up chopping it down.’

  ‘Yes, the so-called Splitting of the Elm. But, for the Templars, the meeting at Gisors was far more significant. The Order of Sion, which had secretly been responsible for founding the Templars in Jerusalem, divorced itself from us at Gisors – and even changed its name to the Priory of Sion. Much of the trouble arose from my uncle’s misfortune in losing the Holy City to the Saracens in the previous year. His memory was vilified and, as one of his family, the shame has clung to me, like dung to a hoof.’

  A little light began to penetrate John’s mind. The Grand Master of the Templars, of whom Gilbert was a nephew, had lost a disastrous battle at Hattin, and soon afterwards, was driven from Jerusalem by Saladin’s army. Perhaps a grinding resentment of the sneers against his family’s honour had turned de Ridefort to seek revenge on the rest of the Templars, who blamed their impetuous leader for the devastating loss of Jerusalem. What better revenge could there be than to disclose some dark secret that they had jealously guarded for the better part of a century?

  Matilda, who had listened enraptured to these obscure matters, brought the conversation back to a more mundane level. ‘You cannot stay in that sordid Curre Street, Sir Gilbert. It is fit only for Saxon tradesmen, not the likes of you.’

  ‘It suffices well enough, lady. I wanted to remain inconspicuous. I have a corner of a room with several others. Dressed like a pilgrim, I wished to behave like one, to avoid attention.’

  She huffed and puffed her indignation then came out with a solution that brought a scowl to her husband’s face. ‘Why not stay here, then? We can have a comfortable pallet laid before the hearth, which would be better than sharing an earth floor with half a dozen stinking pilgrims.’

  De Ridefort must instantly have caught de Wolfe’s lack of support for the idea as he waved his hand in grateful but firm denial. ‘I must distance myself from a law officer as much as possible, my lady. Not only for my sake, but for John’s. It may be that powerful retribution will fall upon me and I would not wish your husband to be caught by it – especially as his sovereign lord is such a devotee of the Templars.’

  De Wolfe weighed in with a counter-proposal. ‘Certainly Curre Street is not a suitable dwelling for you – but why not take a bed at an inn? I suspect that the modest cost would not be a problem for you, for the short time you hope to be in Exeter.’

  Matilda glared at him, tight-lipped. She knew very well which inn he would suggest and suspected that it would form yet another excuse fo
r him to visit his Welsh whore, as she called Nesta. Her chances of keeping such a handsome man under her roof vanished when de Ridefort took enthusiastically to the idea and, as expected, de Wolfe promised to take him down to the Bush to settle him in.

  Gwyn was dispatched to Curre Street to fetch the knight’s pannier and get his pilgrim pony from a nearby livery stable, and within the hour, de Wolfe was introducing the stranger to the tavern-keeper, leaving an irate Matilda at home, fuming at the loss of her latest diversion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In which Crowner John visits the Shambles

  Mindful of Matilda’s infatuation with the handsome Templar, John was a little concerned that Nesta might suffer the same symptoms, but although her eyebrows rose a little when he walked in with de Ridefort, she showed no signs of falling for him. After de Wolfe had explained the need for bed and board, Nesta sent the newcomer up the ladder with one of her maids, to approve his accommodation and leave his roll of belongings. The large space under the thatch of the Bush’s steep roof was divided into a number of sleeping spaces. Nesta had one corner, with the luxury of a door, while the rest of the boarded space was communal sleeping, with mattresses filled with clean straw, and a few open-ended cubicles, containing similar straw pallets.

  While de Ridefort was up there, Nesta asked, ‘Who is he, John? A good-looking man, but he speaks poor English. Is he French?’

  De Wolfe explained a little of the situation, but refrained from saying that he was a fugitive. ‘He is an ex-Templar, but whether he is still celibate I don’t know – so watch your step, my girl!’ His attempt at wit was half-hearted and Nesta knew him well enough to sense that there was more to this business than just a passing traveller wanting a bed for a few nights.

  ‘This is the man who has been stalking you! Come on, Sir Crowner, you can tell me more about him than that.’

  ‘I know little myself, except that he wants to remain incognito while in Exeter. He is expecting a friend soon, then they are off to Ireland. I knew him slightly in the old fighting days, and he has looked me up as he was passing through.’

  Nesta sniffed peevishly. ‘You know more than you let on, John. What’s all the mystery?’

  He was spared answering by the descent of de Ridefort down the rickety steps, and soon they were drinking ale and eating a pair of boiled fowls that Nesta had caused to materialise from the cooking shed behind the inn. Some other travellers had just arrived and she was dealing with them, so the two men had time for a low-voiced conversation, to the chagrin of Edwin, an incorrigible eavesdropper.

  ‘I have been absent from Paris these past six weeks,’ murmured Gilbert. ‘By now, the Master will have sent urgent news about me to London.’

  ‘How would they know you came to England?’

  De Ridefort smiled sadly. ‘John, you should know after all your travels that the Poor Knights of Christ have the best intelligence in the world. There are Templars or their agents in every town and every port of any size. Nothing happens but they know about it – they need information to conduct their huge business transactions. They fund most of the kings of Europe and lend money to anyone who pays a sufficient levy on it. They will know that I took ship from Harfleur to Southampton. Soon, they will be after me, and their efficiency is legendary. I should know – I have been one of them these past fifteen years.’

  He looked around the room, searching the faces of the merchants, tradesmen, travellers and harlots who made up the customers of the Bush, as if a Templar might be hidden amongst them already. ‘Sooner or later they will catch up with me, unless Bernardus and I can get abroad before they arrive.’

  John was beginning to tire of this repetitive forecast of doom. ‘If you have not revealed this great secret of yours, whatever it might be, then what have you to fear?’

  ‘The very fact that we have left the Order and broken virtually all the rules laid down by St Bernard. That is enough. It may be a mortal crime, our lives may already be forfeit. Certainly, the best we can hope for if we are recovered by them is endless incarceration and penance.’

  He tore at his chicken and as de Wolfe began thinking aloud. ‘There are no Templars in or near Exeter, that I know. There is a small Preceptory beyond Tavistock, almost fifteen miles from here.’

  ‘I know how they act, John. The main Commandery in London will send men to seek me out. They may well require any local Templars to assist them, but the thrust of the search will be from our New Temple on the banks of the Thames. The gravity of the secret is such that they will not entrust any great responsibility to rural knights or sergeants. It will be senior brothers who come after us.’

  De Wolfe snorted with impatience. ‘You keep on about this bloody secret, Gilbert! How does your Order know you have it and that you might broadcast it? And why should you wish to do that, anyway? Don’t you have fifteen years of loyalty to consider?’

  De Ridefort dropped the remains of his fowl and pushed the thick trencher of gravy-sodden bread away from him. ‘It torments me all the time. Bernardus and I were too outspoken and argumentative about many things in Paris. We thought we were indulging in academic discussion with our fellows, but as the truth began to dawn upon us, after I learned of certain matters we should not have explored, we were cautioned then reviled. I had already had enough of whispered innuendoes about my uncle, whom the younger Templars now accuse of incompetence at best and treachery at worst in his calamitous behaviour in the Holy Land.’

  ‘The sins of the uncles visited upon the nephews, eh?’ misquoted John cynically.

  ‘Not only did the brothers of the Order began to despise and suspect me, but the priests outside started murmuring heresy. There is great trouble brewing in France, John, especially in the south-west, where de Blanchefort comes from. Though generally the Templars have sympathy with the Cathars there, in their dangerously unconventional beliefs, the power of Rome and its army of priests are becoming both anxious and vindictive – and some of that is falling on Bernardus and myself.’

  ‘So this great secret is a matter of Christian faith?’ asked de Wolfe, trying to pin down this elusive tale more firmly.

  ‘You could certainly say that,’ agreed Gilbert cautiously. ‘When the time comes, you will know it, along with the rest of the world, unless we are silenced beforehand.’

  He would say no more, however much as John probed, and when Nesta came back to join them, the conversation was bent to other subjects. De Ridefort was particularly curious about the other’s duties as coroner, for no such office existed outside England. As they finished their meal, and drank more ale and some wine, de Wolfe explained his functions to an attentive listener who had many searching questions. The red-headed Welsh woman sat and listened to the two men and John noticed that her gaze often strayed to the profile of the handsome Frenchman. Eventually, Nesta was called away to settle some shrieking dispute between her maids in the kitchen.

  As soon as they were alone again, de Ridefort returned to his worries. ‘I’ll stay here in the inn for most of the day, John, and not show myself about the town.’

  ‘No one here knows you, that’s for sure,’ said de Wolfe, to reassure him, ‘but I’ll keep an eye open for you. Both my officer Gwyn and my nosy little clerk know everything that happens in this city. So does Nesta, for that matter – her intelligence is county-wide!’

  De Ridefort reached an arm across the table and gripped John’s elbow with a strong hand. ‘Let me know of any strangers who arrive. They need not be in Templar dress – we do not always wear it when necessity demands.’

  ‘I know you do not wear a chain-mail hauberk, but surely you always have your white mantle with the red cross on the shoulder?’

  ‘It is so claimed, John, but not always adhered to in travelling away from the Commanderies and Preceptories. And only the knights and chaplains wear the white mantle – the chaplains have it fastened in the front, but we must let ours hang loose. The lower ranks, such as sergeants, wear brown or black, but all with the re
d cross.’

  De Wolfe sighed. ‘White, black or brown, cross or no cross, Gwyn and Thomas will watch out for you these coming days. Now I must get myself home, or my wife will chastise me.’

  Somewhat uneasily, he left de Ridefort in the company of his mistress and made his way back to Martin’s Lane. It was now late afternoon and he had nothing to divert him in the way of corpses, rapes or even a serious assault.

  As he was passing through the cathedral Close, he saw a familiar figure coming towards him, enveloped in a full black cloak. The crinkled grey hair surmounted a lean, ascetic face from which a pair of blue eyes looked out serenely on the world. It was John de Alençon, Archdeacon of Exeter, one of de Wolfe’s favourite churchmen, who lived in one of the dwellings in Canon’s Row, along the north side of the Close. After they had greeted each other and passed the time of day, de Wolfe thought he might tap the senior cleric’s knowledge of some of the things hinted at by Gilbert de Ridefort.

  ‘I recently met an old Templar friend I knew at the Crusades,’ he began, adapting the truth slightly. ‘He caused me to become curious about their beliefs and the strange secrecy that seems to surround their order.’

  The Archdeacon took his arm and steered him towards the line of prebendaries’ houses. ‘Come and talk with me a while, John. I’ve seen little of you since you let your warhorse fall on to your leg.’

  The priest’s asceticism did not extend to a rejection of good wine and soon they were sitting at a rough table in his bare room, the only ornament a plain wooden crucifix on the wall. Between them was a flask of his best wine from Poitou and each man held a heavy glass cup filled with it.