September 30th A.D. 1215 – The Templar Knight

The Abbot stretched his weary bones and groaned. It was five in the morning, time for the second set of prayers for the day, Lauds, the dawn prayers. All the monks were returning sleepily from their doze in the refectory. They had been resting after Vigils, the time for worship that broke their night’s sleep.

Abbot Ambrose stepped out of his house and stood still, letting the early autumn sunshine wash over his aching body. The light of the daybreak was shining weakly over the trees. To his left, the natural contours of the land shone in the early morning sun. A huge natural bowl, scooped from the earth stood proud outside the Abbey’s far wall. He could just make out the shelf snaking up the far side. The path used for the monk’s sledges. To bring slabs of sandstone, from the quarry to the storage area used by the masons.

As always, he visualised an ancient amphitheatre in front of him. But he knew it was impossible that Greeks had visited this site, and quite probably no Romans either.

He would like to have discussed the topic with some of his fellow monks. But they were all local men, with no great knowledge of the ancient world. This Abbey was isolated. The conversation mainly limited to the inhabitants of the monastery.

Although it was at a smaller establishment, he’d preferred his previous position at Swineshead. It was closer to other cities and towns. It was situated near to the Wash in the south east of England. His current Abbey of Saint Mary at Beckansgill in Furness was several hundred miles away in England’s remote north west. He was growing tired of the limited company at Furness. This place was too lonely for him. His mind felt as though it was beginning to stagnate.

The scholarly monk had led a well-travelled life, in comparison to most men of his age. He had been educated at the Benedictine Abbey in St. Albans. After spending a few years teaching in local schools, he had decided to try his luck in France. Arriving there at just twenty years of age, the young man had stayed more than a decade, trying to cram knowledge into the heads of wealthy young Parisians.

Eventually, wishing to return to his home country, he had ended up as a monk in the Cistercian Abbey at Swineshead. He had been elected Abbot there and subsequently moved to Furness, when a vacancy at the larger, sister Abbey had opened up.

Ambrose walked down the gentle slope, from his house, towards the monastery proper. Although it was far from the centres of medieval civilisation, he had to admit that the group of buildings were magnificent. Rivalling any of the great constructions he had seen in Paris, London or anywhere else on his travels.

The Abbot walked round the guesthouse, and past the southern end of the two-storey dormitory. As he rounded the corner, he caught his first glimpse of the day of the resplendent Abbey church. Ambrose had a few minutes before the start of Lauds. As was his custom, he wandered round the building, marvelling at its size and beauty.

Even in the sunshine, there remained a slight chill in the early air. The Abbot was wearing a white woollen cowl. It was made from the wool of the Abbey’s own flock of Herdwyck sheep. He pulled the garment tight around him and buried his hands in the voluminous sleeves.

A slight frown of irritation played across his face, as the morning peace was disturbed by the rhythm of horse’s hooves. The sound reverberated uncomfortably through the Abbot’s ears. He looked up in the direction of the great gatehouse. A rider and horse could be seen approaching the building from the valley path.

Then he saw the white tunic and the red cross. A shiver ran through him. He immediately recognised the symbol’s significance. Templar! He was unlikely to be bringing good news. He instantly regretted his longing for more interesting times.

Ambrose scurried away from the north transept wall of the church, to greet the unexpected visitor. He shouted for one of the lay servants. The knight was travelling alone. He dismounted and gave the horse to the Abbot’s man.

The new arrival was a tall soldier who cut an imposing figure in his Templar’s regalia. He was both military in stature and a little menacing. The latter impression being reinforced by a vicious, crescent shaped cut that ran across his forehead. Starting in the centre just below the hairline, it disappeared into the corner of his right eyebrow. Nonetheless, the Templars were renowned as pious men. And the Abbot was nothing if not courteous.

“Greetings Brother Templar. Please, walk back to my house with me. Then I bid you enter and make yourself comfortable. I will be along to meet with you as soon as the Lauds prayers have been completed.”

The knight opened his palms in a gesture of agreement. He followed the older man around the rear of the presbytery. Reaching the house, he entered through the arched door and sank into the nearest chair to await the Abbot’s return.

In the church, the head of the Abbey’s thoughts were far from focussed on the day’s worship. What could an armed Templar knight want with his isolated religious house? He was glad to be finished and back in his lodgings. The visitor was hunched over the solitary table. In front of him was a rolled parchment.

“I would be grateful if you could take a look at this, Abbot Ambrose.”

The Templar knew his name! He stepped towards the table and reached out to the document. He flinched, as the knight shot out a hand and grabbed his wrist.

“Listen carefully monk. You would do well to look at the seal first and then read on.”

Ambrose looked into the knight’s eyes. They looked dark, determined and a perhaps a little desperate.

“Very well.”

Ambrose glanced at the document as he moved his hand to pick it up. Then he saw the seal. He recoiled as though he’d touched a flame. The lead seal was attached to the paper with hemp. One side showed the heads of two apostles. The other bore a name. Innocent III. It was the papal seal.

The scroll was from His Holiness himself. Now he knew it wasn’t good news the Templar had brought. Whatever business with Innocent III was in the document, the Abbot wanted no part of it. He’d seen enough of politics in Paris, to know it was a dangerous game. Best left to those intimate with the rules. But despite his reservations, he opened the letter and started to read.

The Templar watched the Abbot through brooding eyes. The monk’s skin was pale through a lifetime of indoor living. His eyes were sunken. No doubt through sleep deprivation. Prayers seven times a day, according to the rule of Benedict, didn’t do a lot for a man’s sleep patterns.

All Templars theoretically followed the same schedule when they were in a Templar house. But during the knight’s career, those times had been few and far between. By his appearance, it looked as though the warrior must have spent many months in battle. Looked as if he would have a well-earned reputation as a hard man. His demeanour exuded danger. Ambrose read on slowly and deliberately. At last he raised his eyes and looked up at his visitor.

“Well then Brother knight. It seems the Templars need my assistance.”

“No Abbot. It is your Abbey that will provide the help the Templars seek. Your task is to make sure that it happens.”

“Indeed. Please, let us discuss.”

The older man took a seat. The knight leant forward and began to talk. It was past the time for the midday meal, by the time they finished. All thought of food and prayers had been wiped from the older man’s mind. Finally, the Templar stood up.

“You have until early summer to be ready. Is that clear?”

Ambrose nodded.

“Very well. Then please can you arrange a meal, then a bed for me this evening? I will then take my leave on the morrow to meet Brother Robert, from the Priory. I have made arrangements to see him three hours ride from here. He is to accompany me on the return to Lancaster.”

Abbot and Templar left the house together to walk through the church to the under croft below the dormitory. Food and drink were arranged for the visitor. They presented as an odd couple. The small, white haired, frail man of letters, strolling alongside the warrior monk, with his broad shouldered and weather beaten appearance. Fate had tied them together.