‘So you heard that they were into the Templars. The commune.’
‘Must have.’
‘Did you ever hear any stories about treasure?’
‘What?’
‘Treasure being hidden at the Master House?’
‘Treasure?’ Roxanne laughed, pushing fingers through her curls. ‘If there was any suggestion of treasure at the Master House, you don’t think we’d’ve ripped the place apart to try and find it? The only thing they ever found, my dad used to say, was a priest’s hole, when he was a boy – there was a lot of persecution of Catholics around Garway. But that was completely empty, so they blocked it up again.’
‘What about the history generally ? You know much about that?’
‘Only that it used to be very important, apparently, when the Newtons first came. We have an old … hang on, I’ll show you. Won’t be a minute.’
Roxanne put down her toast and got up, brushing crumbs from her fleece, vanishing through a door. Merrily looked out of the bay window. It had been dark when she left, and the early sun was still muffled. She couldn’t see any landmark that she recognized, not the church, nor the top of the hill with its radio mast. Certainly not the Master House.
It was as if the Newtons had sought out a spot without any prominent landscape features, somewhere with no visible history.
When Roxanne returned, she was carried a wedge of dark wood a couple of feet long and a paperback book. She put the book on the table and held the piece of wood up for Merrily. It was a plaque, gilt-edged. It said:
HONOUR THE MASTER
CARE FOR THE CUSTOMS
Roxanne leaned the plaque against the table.
‘My family, when they moved in, there was a maiden aunt who
threw herself into researching the history. We’ve still got a box of her papers – we keep being told we ought to have it all published as a book, but it would take a lot of work. But this aunt – Aunt Fliss – said it was important for the family to realize that we hadn’t just bought a farm, we’d taken on a very powerful piece of history that one day would come into its own.’
‘What did she mean by that?’
‘Don’t think she ever worked it out fully, but it was obviously about the Grand Master of the Templars. People think it’s called the Master House because it was the main farm, but it’s because the Grand Master stayed here when he came to Garway. Aunt Fliss had had
this
thing made to put up over the fireplace, so future generations wouldn’t forget. My mum and dad brought it with them when they moved out. We still have it hung in the hall. Sentimental value, I suppose.’
‘But is there any actual evidence that de Molay came to Garway?’
‘It’s here.’ Roxanne put the book in front of Merrily.
Knights Templar and Hospitaller in Herefordshire
by Audrey Tapper. ‘You read this one?’
‘Not had time to read anything much, to be honest. This has all happened very quickly.’
‘Well, there you are.’ Roxanne opened out the book and flattened its spine. ‘This is the bit. This is when Edward II started imprisoning English Templars after they were closed down in France, accused of all this heresy and stuff. One of them was called John Stoke, who’d only been a Templar for about a year and he came to Garway, and he made this confession about what they made him do.’
The account of it, Merrily read, had come from the St John Historical Society, presumably linked to the Hospitallers who had taken over Garway from the Templars.
He was in Garway during the visit there by Grand Master Jacques de Molay. Stoke’s deposition when the Templars were arrested was that he had been called to the Grand Master’s bedchamber at Garway and in front of two other foreign knights he was asked to make proof of his obedience and to seat himself on a small stool at the foot of the Grand Master’s bed
.
‘So de Molay’s bedchamber … was that definitely at the Master House?’
‘That’s what we were told,’ Roxanne said. ‘He was a bit of a boy, wasn’t he, old Jacques?’
De Molay then sent to the Church for a crucifix and then two other Templars placed themselves at either side of the door with their swords drawn. Stoke said that he was asked to deny ‘Him whom the image represents’ but he replied ‘Far be it for me to deny my Saviour.’ The Grand Master ordered him to do so, otherwise he would be put in a sack and carried to a place ‘by no means agreeable’. Through fear of death he denied Christ, ‘but with his tongue and not his heart
.’
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ Roxanne said. ‘I like that bit where the poor guy’s threatened with being put in a sack if he didn’t renounce Jesus Christ. Toss him in the Monnow, you reckon, or just the nearest slurry pit. So, I mean, were the Templars Christians, or were they into something a bit off-colour? It’s interesting, really. Wish I had time to go into it.’
‘Or the confession could be fabricated. After the suppression of the Templars, it was easier to slag off Jacques de Molay than go into some dungeon.’
‘That’s what Aunt Fliss used to say, apparently. She said he was a good man. But then, who wants to think they’re living in the house where some psycho was holding court?’
‘Roxanne, can I ask you …? I mean, you probably won’t have an answer to this under the circumstances … But how do the Gwilyms tie in? I mean, they’re supposed to have been in that house since the Middle Ages, is that right?’
‘So they
say
.’
‘So are they claiming to be descended from the Templars or what?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it was their house and they were pretty pissed off about losing it to us. But I thought it was just about money and land. But then I’ve never had anything to do with them – I was being told not to from a very early age. And then I learned the sort of
things they did and what a shit Sycharth was. I mean, there’s got to be something, hasn’t there, but he’s clever. When he learned about Paul, he was like, “Look, I know the fix you’re in and why don’t I take it off your hands?” Oh yeah, like I
want
my dad and my grandad turning in their graves.’
‘You weren’t ever tempted?’
‘No … and he blew it anyway, didn’t he? I mean, yeah, the Master House was falling into ruins and nobody in their right mind was going to want to rent it now. So the only option
was
to get rid of it. And, like, when we had another approach, six or seven months later, from a chap in Abergavenny, we did start negotiations … until we found out he was a proxy bidder for Sycharth.’
‘Devious.’
‘No more than you’d expect. Then Paul was reading about Harewood Park and all the property the Duchy of Cornwall was buying in Herefordshire and we thought, what’s to lose? So we took a lot of photos and printed up stuff on the history and posted it off. Couldn’t really believe it when they went for it, but … well, good things happen sometimes. And it meant the Gwilyms were stuffed. So maybe old Jacques
was
on our side.’
‘Getting de Molay on your side.’ Merrily nodded at the plaque. ‘That’s what this is about? I mean, the caring for customs bit … you – the Newtons – clearly went out of your way to observe local traditions. The Watch Night?’
‘Not in my time.’ Roxanne put on a shudder. ‘Thank God. But there was always a feeling – and I do feel that way myself sometimes – that either a place is working for you or it’s working against you. It’s very much a thing you get with farms.’
‘And the Master?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but then we’re not in the house. That’s Prince Charles’s problem now. Did … did Mrs Morningwood tell you about Naomi Newton?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Thought not. That’s the one she doesn’t tell. The lovely Naomi … she was the youngest sister of my great-grandmother – and of Aunt
Fliss. All daughters of John Newton, who bought the farm off Mrs Gwilym. Naomi … she was the beauty. Well, this was during World War One, and there weren’t many men around – all off getting killed in France. Except for Madog Gwilym – can’t remember how
he
avoided it. Running the farm or a club-foot … something.’
‘They all had very distinguished-sounding Welsh names, didn’t they?’
‘Pretentious gits. Anyway, Madog Gwilym didn’t go to war and he fancied his chances with Naomi. This was before the feud set in – all the anger was on the Gwilym side until this happened. Maybe Madog suggested Naomi owed him one for the way the Newtons got the farm, I don’t know. But he had a go and she wasn’t having any, and she actually called him a coward. In public. In church, actually.’
‘Garway Church?’
‘Before a congregation of mainly women praying for the boys at the front. Naomi Newton publicly telling Madog Gwilym he wasn’t a man. Imagine.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’s supposed to’ve walked out of the church in this absolute dead silence. Following day, Naomi’s out collecting the eggs and he’s waiting for her, and he’s like
I’ll show you whether I’m a man or not
. Drags her into the trees and forces himself on her.’
‘She was raped?’
‘He denied it, of course, he said she was up for it, well, don’t they always— Well, no— Let me get this right, neither of them said anything at the time. Naomi didn’t tell anybody at first. Her brothers were at the war, the only man around was her father, John, well over sixty by then and working day and night to hold the farm together, and she knew what he’d do if he found out and she was afraid for his health. But then the worst happens. Finds out she’s pregnant … and she goes along, on the quiet, to … the local woman who deals with eventualities like this.’
‘Would that have been … Mrs Morningwood?’
‘Oh, you know. That’s all right, then. Her gran, this would be. She goes to Mrs Morningwood’s grandmother for an abortion. Mrs Morningwood obliges … but it all went horribly wrong. I don’t know
what happened, but she got home and there was nobody in at the time, and she began to, you know, haemorrhage?’
‘Oh God. It wasn’t like you could pick up a phone and call for an ambulance.’
‘No. Whether she tried to … you know … sort it herself, nobody quite knows, but when my great-grandmother came in with Fliss, they found Naomi on the floor in the big room, in a big pool of blood, her life just … ebbing away. They hadn’t even known she was pregnant. They’re desperately trying to stop the bleeding and make her comfortable … got a big fire going, and somebody sent for Mrs Morningwood but, of course, it was too late. Mrs Morningwood was stricken with remorse, and my grandmother and Fliss, well …’
‘Must’ve been shattered and … furious.’
‘They say Mrs Morningwood could never show her face at the Master House again.’
Something clicked.
‘Aunt Fliss,’ Merrily said. ‘Felicity Newton?’
‘That’s right.’
First time I’d seen a dead ’un … Face like the skin on a cold egg-custard
.
‘She was ninety-eight when she died,’ Roxanne said. ‘Whole village came to pay tribute. They say she was a lovely old girl. They laid her out where Naomi had died, in front of the inglenook, and everybody came.’
‘Even the Morningwoods.’
‘I’d guess. Likely the first time any of them’d been through that door since Naomi died. Wasn’t her fault, mind, she only tried to help. But they say my great-grandmother and Aunt Fliss could never sit in that room again without seeing Naomi trying to raise herself up on an elbow … you really want to know this? Gives me the creeps even now.’
‘Well, I probably don’t,’ Merrily said. ‘But on the other hand …’
She simply wouldn’t tamper with a foetus conceived at the Master House. Call it superstition
.
Something else explained.
Roxanne leaned on the shoulders of a dining chair.
‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Something else to remember, when you go in there with your Bible and your holy water. I was eighteen
before my mother told me about it. Wish she hadn’t bothered, sometimes.’
Roxanne sat down and poured herself some more of the powerful coffee from the pot and told it quickly.
‘Seems Naomi sits up in the blankets, blood all over her legs and the fire roaring behind her, and she curses Madog Gwilym – curses him in the name of the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay. Kind of … you know, last breath, before she lies down and dies.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
Ironically, the sun slid out in the south-east and filled the bay.
Merrily said, ‘Madog?’
‘Didn’t last the year out,’ Roxanne said. ‘Came out of one of the pubs one night – The Sun or The Globe, one or the other – saying he didn’t feel too well, and collapsed, stone dead at the side of the lane.’ Roxanne drank some coffee, winced. ‘What a place this is.’
A
WHOLE SUMMER
had come and gone since Merrily had seen him last. His hair was still long and rough but more yellow-white, now, like old bone, his dog collar faded to the colour of parchment.
He likes the effect he has, she thought, one hand on the kettle, one hand on the tap. This combination of old hippie and Victorian scholar. He’s very much aware of his image.
She hadn’t been back from Garway more than a few minutes before he’d trudged in with his case, a hand raised to Merrily, a nod to Mrs Morningwood, before pulling out a chair and spreading papers and books over the refectory table like dealing hands of cards.
‘I thought you weren’t coming till this afternoon.’
‘Got someone to see at two. Might be a bit knackered after that, Merrily. Up far too late last night, thanks to you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No consideration, this lass. Leave that for now. Sit down here. Read this.’
‘This is Huw Owen. Mrs Morningwood, Huw.’
‘Oh aye?’
Huw looked up over his reading glasses. Mrs Morningwood was wearing black jeans and another Army sweater with shoulder patches. Her injuries looked like war wounds and, if anything, worse than last night. One eye was half-closed and weeping; she wiped it with a tissue and put on her sunglasses.
‘I’ve got a sore shoulder,’ Huw said. ‘Reckon you can do owt?’
‘Massage, Mr Owen?’