Tales of the Knights Templar (16 page)

The all-encompassing charge was heresy, defined as denial or doubt by any baptized person of any accepted and authoritative teaching of the Roman Catholic faith, proof of which would permit confiscation of property and suppression. A penitent who confessed his errors and denounced them could be absolved, assigned a suitable penance, and perhaps even hope for eventual release to join another religious Order.

The catch was that confession under torture was deemed valid and irrevocable, and anyone who later retracted a confession thus obtained became a relapsed heretic. Such apostasy merited only one fate: to be abandoned by the church and turned over to the secular arm for immediate execution at the stake.

Of course, to escape torture, most victims eventually confessed to at least some of the charges—anything to stop the pain. The Preceptor of Paris later stated that he would have confessed to killing God Himself, if that would stop the torture.

Nonetheless, the charges were compiled—without a shred of evidence being produced other than hearsay. At least the charge of idolatry should have produced some item of physical evidence, if it were true. The idol was alleged to be the head of a bearded man—some said John the Baptist, some said Hugues de Payens, some claimed it was a woman’s head, some had no idea who it might be. It had two faces—no, one face—no, three; it had but one face, but legs varying in number. It was gold, silver, wood, copper—an actual mummified head. Occasionally it was described as a painting. Sometimes it was a cat that was adored—black, white, brown, or red—and that must be kissed beneath the tail.

Interestingly enough, despite the enormous amount of attention given to the allegation of idolatry, and the extensive search of every available Templar location, no evidence was found. Indeed, the only item even resembling a head was a silver-gilt reliquary shaped like a woman’s head, containing the bones of a single skull and an inscription reading
caput LVIII.
It was said by some to be a genuine relic of one of the eleven thousand virgin martyrs venerated as saints by the early Christians, and was never considered seriously as evidence of idolatry. If there had been another head, it would have become a potent Templar relic in the years after the suppression.

The relics and increasingly mythic lore of the Temple have continued to inspire speculation in certain quarters. Particularly potent are the aspects that connect survival of the Temple, in some form, with the survival of the Kingdom of Scots, especially as the Scottish struggle to maintain independence becomes increasingly romanticized in the period of the later Stuart kings and the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745. (
Jacobite
refers to supporters of James II of England—VII of Scotland—and his descendants.)

In September 1745, half a century after Bonnie Dundee fell at Killiecrankie, and more than two hundred years after exiled Templar Knights came to the aid of Robert the Bruce at Bannochburn, Prince Charles Edward Stuart (better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie) is said to have received Scottish Templars in private audience at Holy-rood Palace, and to have accepted the office of Grand Master of the Temple as it then existed. And after the disaster of Culloden—which pretty much ended serious Jacobite pretensions in Scotland—the Brotherhood of Freemasonry took up the Templar cause (and, some say, the Jacobite cause as well), melding together the Solomonic origins of the original Temple in Jerusalem, the mythical mission of the original knights to protect that holy place, and other esoteric material that may or may not have originated in biblical times.

Part of that synthesis took place or was furthered in the New World, where the American colonies were forging a new form of government never seen before in the Old World. The North American continent would provide a haven for many folk of Scottish descent, most of them little aware how deeply their roots extended back to Scotland, and a romantic war fought centuries before.

Word of Honor

Tanya Huff

T
he prayer became a background drone without words, without meaning; holding no relevance to her life even had she bothered to listen.

Pat Tarrill shoved her hands deep in her jacket pockets and wondered why she’d come. The moment she’d read about it in the paper, attending the Culloden Memorial Ceremony had become like an itch she had to scratch—although it wasn’t the sort of thing she’d normally waste her time at.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing. Wasting time.
Sometimes she felt like that was all she’d been doing the entire twenty-five years of her life. Wasting time.

The prayer ended. Pat looked up, squinted against the wind blowing in off Northumberland Strait, and locked eyes with a wizened old man in a wheelchair. She scowled and stepped forward but lost sight of him as the bodies around the cairn shifted position.

Probably just a dirty old man,
she thought as she closed her eyes and lost herself in the wail of the pipes.

Later, while everyone else hurried off to the banquet laid out in St. Mary’s Church hall, Pat walked slowly to the cairn and lightly touched the damp stain. Raising her fingers to her face she sniffed the residue and smiled. Once again she heard her grandfather grumble that “no true Scot would waste whiskey on a rock.” But her grandfather had been dead for years and the family had left old Scotland for Nova Scotia in 1770.

Wiping her fingers on her jeans, Pat headed for her car. She hadn’t been able to afford a ticket to the banquet and wouldn’t have gone even if she could have. All that
Scots wha hae
stuff made her nauseous.

“Especially,” she muttered, digging for her keys, “since most of this lot has been no closer to Scotland than Glace Bay.”

With one hand on the pitted handle of her car door, she slowly turned, pulled around by the certain knowledge that she was being observed. It was the old man again, sitting in his chair at the edge of the churchyard and staring in her direction. This time, a tall, pale man in a tan overcoat stood behind him—also staring.
Staring down his nose,
Pat corrected, for even at that distance the younger man’s attitude was blatantly obvious. Flipping the two of them the finger, she slid into her car.

She caught one last glimpse of them in the rearview mirror as she peeled out of the gravel parking lot. Tall and pale appeared to be arguing with the old man.

“Patricia Tarrill?”

“Pat Tarrill. Yeah.”

“I’m Harris MacClery, Mr. Hardie’s solicitor.”

Tucking the receiver between ear and shoulder, Pat forced her right foot into a cowboy boot. “So, should I know you?”

“I’m Mr.
Chalmer
Hardie’s solicitor.”

“Oh.” Everyone in Atlantic Canada knew of Chalmer Hardie. He owned … well, he owned a good chunk of Atlantic Canada.

“Mr. Hardie would like to speak with you.”

“With me?” Her voice rose to an undignified squeak. “What about?”

“A job.”

Pat’s gaze pivoted toward the stack of unpaid bills threatening to bury the phone. She’d been unemployed for a month, and the job hadn’t lasted long enough for her to qualify for unemployment insurance. “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t you want to know what it’s about?”

She could hear his disapproval, and frankly, she didn’t give two shits. Anything would be better than yet another visit to the welfare office. “No,” she told him, “I don’t.”

As she scribbled directions on the back of an envelope, she wondered if her luck had finally changed.

Chalmer Hardie lived in Dunmaglass, a hamlet tucked between Baileys Brook and Lismore—the village where the Culloden Memorial had taken place. More specifically, Chalmer Hardie
was
Dunmaglass. Tucked up against the road was a gas station/general store/post office and then up a long lane was the biggest house Pat had ever seen.

She swore softly in awe as she parked the car, then swore again as a tall, pale man came out of the house to meet her.

“Ms. Tarrill.” It wasn’t a question, but then, he knew what she looked like. “Mr. Hardie is waiting.”

“Ms. Tarrill.” The old man in the wheelchair held out his hand. “I’m very happy to meet you.”

“Um, me, too. That is, I’m happy to meet you.” His hand felt dry and soft, and although his fingers curved around hers, they didn’t grip. Up close, his skin was pale yellow and it hung off his skull in loose folds, falling into accordion pleats around his neck.

“Please forgive me if we go directly to business.” He waved her toward a brocade wing chair. “I dislike wasting the little time I have left.”

Pat lowered herself into the chair feeling as if she should’ve worn a skirt and resenting the feeling.

“I have a commission I wish you to fulfill for me, Ms. Tarrill.” Eyes locked on hers, Chalmer Hardie folded his hands over a small wooden box resting on his lap. “In return, you will receive ten thousand dollars and a position in one of my companies.”

“A position?”

“A job, Ms. Tarrill.”

“
And
ten thousand dollars?”

“That is correct.”

“So, who do you want me to kill?” She regretted it almost instantly, but the richest man in the Maritimes merely shook his head.

“I’m afraid he’s already dead.” The old man’s fingers tightened around the box. “I want you to return something to him.”

“Him who?”

“Alexander MacGillivray. He led Clan Chattan at Culloden, as the chief was, at the time, a member of the Black Watch and thus not in a position to support the prince.”

“I know.”

Sparse white eyebrows rose. “You know?”

Pat shrugged. “My grandfather was big into all that…” she paused and searched for an alternative to
Scottish history crap,
“heritage stuff.”

“I see. Would it be too much to ask that he ever mentioned the Knights Templar?”

She frowned and recalled that he’d once gotten into a drunken fight with a Knight of Columbus. “Yeah, it would.”

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to include a short history lesson, or none of this will make sense.”

For ten thousand bucks and a job, Pat could care less if it made sense, but she arranged her face into what she hoped was an interested expression and waited.

Frowning slightly, Hardie thought for a moment. When he began to speak, his voice took on the cadences of a lecture hall.

“The Knights Templar were a brotherhood of fighting monks sworn to defend the Holy Land of the Bible from the infidel. In 1132, the Patriarch of Jerusalem gave Hugues de Payens, the first Master of the Knights, a relic, a splinter of the True Cross sealed into a small crystal orb that could be worn like a medallion. This medallion was to protect the Master and, through his leadership, the holy knights.

“In 1307, King Philip IV of France, for reasons we haven’t time to go into, decided to destroy the Templars. He convinced the current Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, to come to France, planning to arrest him and all the Templars in the country in one fell swoop. Which he did. They were tortured and many of them, including their Master, were burned alive as heretics.”

“Wait a minute,” Pat protested, leaning forward. “I thought the medallion thing was supposed to protect them.”

Hardie grimaced. “Yes, well, a very short time before they were arrested, de Molay was warned. He sent a messenger with the medallion to the Templar fleet with orders for them to put out to sea.”

“If he was warned, why didn’t he run himself?”

“Because that would not have been the honorable thing to do.”

“Like, dying’s so honorable.” She bit her lip and wished just once that her brain would work before her mouth.

The old man stared at her for a long moment, then continued as though she hadn’t expressed an opinion.

“While de Molay believed that nothing would happen to him personally, he had a strong and accurate suspicion that King Philip was after the Templars’ not inconsiderable treasure. Much of that treasure had already been loaded onto the ships of the fleet.

“The fleet landed in Scotland. Maintaining their tradition of service, the knights became a secular organization and married into the existing Scottish nobility. The treasure the fleet carried was divided amongst the knights for safekeeping and, as the centuries passed, many pieces became family heirlooms and were passed from father to son.

“Now, then, Culloden … In 1745 Bonnie Prince Charlie returned from exile to Scotland and suffered a final defeat at Culloden. The clans supporting him were slaughtered. Among the dead were many men of the old Templar families.”

He opened the box on his lap and beckoned Pat closer. Resting on a padded red velvet lining was probably the ugliest piece of jewelry she’d ever seen—and as a fan of the Home Shopping Network, she’d seen some ugly jewelry. In the center of a gold disk about two inches across, patterned with what looked like little specks of gold, was a yellowish and uneven crystal sphere about the size of a marble. A modern gold chain filled the rest of the box.

“An ancestor of mine stole that before the battle from Alexander MacGillivray. You, Ms. Tarrill, are looking at an actual sliver of the True Cross.”

Squinting, Pat could just barely make out a black speck in the center of the crystal.
Sliver of the True Cross my aunt fanny.

“This is what …” she searched her memory for the name and couldn’t find it, “that Templar guy sent out of France?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me, Ms. Tarrill. I know. I want you to take this holy relic and place it in the grave of Alexander MacGillivray.”

“In Scotland?”

“That is correct. Mr. MacClery will give you details. I will, of course, pay all expenses.”

Pat studied the medallion, lips pursed. “I have another question.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

“Why me?”

“Because I am too sick to make the journey and because I had a dream.” His lips twitched into a half smile as though he realized how ridiculous he sounded but didn’t care. “I dreamt about a young woman beside the cairn at the Culloden Memorial Service—you, Ms. Tarrill.”

“You’re going to trust me with this, give me ten thousand bucks and a job, based on a dream?”