September 6th 1215 A.D. – Furness Abbey – Crossing the Sands

Allard was relieved. Despite Brother Robert’s reassuring tone and confident steps, he had been worried. More than that, frightened. The tales from Lancaster of the travellers who had perished on the sands had been playing on his mind. The Constable and his men had taken great delight in describing the strong, swift tides that could carry the strongest horse and rider out to sea. They told horrific stories of the treacherous ground that might turn to quicksand in a minute. It would cling leech like even to the best-built wagon and suck it hungrily down beneath the sands. Never to be seen again.

Now, as Allard rode his palfrey up the bank, he looked back at the distance he’d covered. The sands stretched back far behind him, disappearing into the horizon. He shivered involuntarily. The journey across had been tortuously slow. The monk in front of him was on foot, continually jabbing, prodding and poking the sands with his staff. He was forever switching direction, rather than just pursuing a direct line to the opposite shore. Eventually the ordeal was at an end. Brother Robert guided the knight up onto the path that led from the bank.

“Thank you Brother Robert. Your expertise has guided us safely across the sands.”

The monk bowed his head deferentially.

“May I ask as to how you acquired this skill? It is a particular knowledge of this terrain?”

“There is something to that Brother Templar. But it is not the only skill required. Indeed, these are not the only sands I can cross. I can also act as a guide over the Duddon estuary in the next bay. I believe I could learn the way across any sands. Given enough time to study the tides and the sand patterns. And of course my staff.”

With a gentle smile, Robert held up his wooden companion. Allard gave an interested nod. It was as the Earl of Pembroke had assured him. The monk was confident of his ability. The Templar bid him farewell after arranging to meet in two days time for the return journey.

The knight took careful note of the surroundings and in particular the nature of the path. He had been worried that it would be nothing but a rough trail, suitable only for careful walkers or riders. But the work of the monks from the nearby Abbey could be clearly seen.

The way was actually nearly three yards wide and well cleared. It would be suitable for a horse drawn cart, even a large one. From the ruts already there, he could see that such vehicles regularly passed this way.

Allard moved his horse forward and began the journey through the forest. After several uneventful hours of riding, the path cleared the woods and the knight found himself at the crest of a hill. The lights of a village snaked across the valley floor and up the opposite side. This must be the village of Dalton of which the Cartmel monk had informed him. He kicked his horse and it picked its way carefully down the steep path that wound its way down to the village.

It was a typical settlement. But he knew nothing of its inhabitants or history. So despite his military bearing, Allard approached with his customary care. It was dusk, so the light of many small fires faintly lit the village. The houses were, as he would have expected, small timber constructions with thatched roofs. Allard made for the largest building, the church, which sat at the top of the far hill. He could feel suspicious eyes on him as he made his way through the maze of dwellings. When he arrived at the religious house he found the vicar outside.

Allard dismounted. He nodded in greeting at the man outside the church who was gazing at him curiously. Even in such a remote village the reputation of the Templar Knights was known. Allard’s white mantle and red cross announced him.

“It’s an honour to have my church graced with the presence of a warrior monk.”

The vicar’s voice was calm. Actually he was shocked more than honoured. Allard got straight to the point.

“It’s actually the Abbey of Saint Mary in Bekansgill I seek. I was hoping for a bed for the night, then directions for the morrow.”

“Of course. I would be pleased to lodge you at my house this evening. I have enough potage prepared and I will have someone take care of your horse.”

Allard gave a slight bow and followed the vicar into his house that had been built close to the church but slightly below it on the hillside. The following morning he was awake at first light. Dressing quickly, within a few minutes he was outside the small vicarage waiting for his host.

His horse was brought to him, with the vicar’s servant carrying the horse’s equipment. A sweat cloth was placed over the palfrey’s back and the saddle was slung over it. The stirrups were adjusted and Allard loaded his saddlebag behind. Within a few minutes he was mounted and riding away from the village, following a southerly path through a deeply forested valley.

It was a carefully maintained road that looked well travelled. No doubt more work of the monks at the Abbey. He was anxious to get on with his meeting with the Abbot, so he rode quickly.

The knight was well aware that he was in one of the most far-flung regions of the kingdom of England. It was several days since he’d left the castle at Lancaster, itself an isolated settlement. The village he’d stayed in the previous evening had looked poor, filled as it was with small peasant houses. He was not expecting much from his final destination.

Rounding the last bend in the path he passed though a small stone arch. Then he stopped his horse and stared in astonishment. A magnificent three-storey building glowed warmly in the early morning light. It was a vision in red sandstone, with sweeping lines and huge vaulted windows. He started to understand why this location had been chosen. Allard moved his heels and the horse galloped swiftly up to the Abbey.