Epilogue: Happy Endings? – Some Snapshots

“I am just from bed. The sleep is still in my eyes.
“Come. I have had a long dream.”
And I: “That wood?
And two springs have passed us.”
“Not so far, no, not so far now,
There is a place – but no one else knows it –
A field in a valley . . .
Qu’ieu sui avinen,
Ieu lo sai.”1
She must speak of the time
Of Arnaut de Mareuil, I thought, “qu’ieu sui avinen.”

Ezra Pound, Fish and the Shadow

Rhodes, Summer 1984:

The Kastello Hagios Theodoros – or, as Edith Hepburn still thought of it, Chastel Saint-Théodore – looked its best in the late afternoon sunshine, its masonry glowing warm and golden. It was hard to believe that anything as grotesque as the 1317 massacre had taken place in such tranquil surroundings, but that had not been its last fight. The Turks had seized it in the sixteenth century. They had refortified it; then the Italians did so again in the Second World War, as part of the island’s defences. And now? Now it was the hobby – no, the passion – of the gentleman who was guiding her around its arcaded courtyard/cloister.

Raoul Lavallière seemed far more at ease than he had done last year in Scotland – almost boyishly enthusiastic. She could tell that, despite being accustomed to entertaining, he rarely had the chance to talk in detail or at great length on the history and architecture of his home, of the restoration work. For an aristocratic amateur who had claimed to have little formal scholarship, he was unusually knowledgeable, even on quite obscure details. She strongly suspected him of false modesty and a Mediæval History degree from the Sorbonne. A doctoral thesis on the military orders, perhaps ten or twelve years ago? Possible – although even if it were unpublished, she would surely have heard of it on the conference circuit…

She took a few photographs: a carved capital here, a mason’s mark there. He leaned in one of the bays, humming snatches of old tunes under his breath: the ‘Golden Sequence’ attributed to Archbishop Langton;2 Riquier’s Be.m degra de chantar tener. The latter seemed to fit the undercurrent of melancholy she always sensed about him. Recalling his friend Dr Christoyannis’s profession, and his claim that he had left a religious order on health grounds, she wondered whether he had once suffered a nervous breakdown, perhaps depression. It would not surprise her in the slightest.

“That’s Guiraut Riquier, isn’t it?” she said.

He gave a nod of acknowledgement:

“…Remembran mon greu temps passat,
Esgardan lo prezent forsat,
E cossiran l’avenidor,
Que per totz ai razon que plor.”3

“Oh, I hope that isn’t the case for you!”

“So you know something of trobar?”

“Yes; and I know only two other people who go around habitually humming it – among the more eccentric students in my department.”

“And you think me ‘eccentric’, too, yes?”

“A trifle.”

“I have no voice for them these days, but I have known the old songs all my life.”

“And in the original language?”

“But of course. ‘To translate is to betray’, as they say. Mas trop suy vengutz als derriers.”4

“You really are much more than a ‘keen amateur’, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps the word you seek is ‘obsessive’?”

“Perhaps. In the best sense.”

He never laughed properly, she had noticed, but his eyes would brighten when he smiled, as now. “I do expect you to stay for dinner: my fiancée will be joining us.”

“Thank you: you are so kind! Your fiancée? Now let me guess: it’s that charming lady who was with you in St Andrews – Dr Christoyannis – am I right?”

“Yes. She’s writing a seminar paper at present; she has to attend a conference in three weeks’ time, or she would have been here to greet you.”

“Congratulations! But I can’t pretend to be surprised: I could see then how fond you were of each other!”

“We have had one or two minor disagreements in the past, but – yes. Ismini’s an exceptional woman, in so many ways. And she has been good for me.”

“Oh?”

“I have never been inclined to suffer fools, and my temper has verged on the diabolical, as our friend Monsieur Bascombe discovered. But she is very wise, very compassionate, and I am learning to be a little more… patient. One can betoo harsh.”

“That’s very true.”

He led her into the cool stone interior. “Now, would you like to see the famous Blondel portrait?”

The painting hung against an unplastered ashlar wall. It was, Edith thought, quite typical of Blondel’s Salles des Croisades work, including its Gothic Revival frame. The full-length format reminded her of his depiction of Jean de Joinville.

“Ifind it intriguing that your line of the family has done so much to keep Brother Thibaut’s memory alive: after all, it’s a collateral relationship, through a female line, and you don’t have the name…”

“Ah, but I do: in full, I have a long string of names and entirely useless titles, and it is among them. Besides, since the Montrefort male line – his younger brothers and their heirs – became extinct during the Great Pestilence – la Grande Peste – what is the English term?”

“The Black Death.”

“Yes – during the Black Death – the Lavallières were the most senior line surviving; and then the guillotine and Bonaparte’s wars winnowed us still more. I am the last, certainly legitimately.”

She glanced from the painting to him, and back again: “The resemblance is remarkable.”

“And is often remarked upon,” he said, with some amusement. “My great-great-grandfather was also an enthusiast for all things mediæval. His was the time of the Gothic Revival, after all.”

“I wonder whether poor Brother Thibaut looked anything like either of you? A Templar beard would have made it hard to tell, but you do bothhave a rather Gothic physiognomy, you know. PureCodex Manesse.”

“Is that a compliment or the reverse?”

She laughed. “Your fiancée is better placed to tell youthat! Anyway, it’s a most elegant portrait. It’s such a pity the heraldry’s not quite right.”

“I must contradict you there, dear doctor: there is nothing amiss with the heraldry.”

“The Templar cross was the cross pattée, not a red Latin cross; and they more commonly used a simple black-and-white shield.”

“That is true. But this is the cross more usually associated with Christian warrior-martyrs, I think.”

Behind her spectacles, her eyes narrowed. “Ah. Now that is interesting!”

He smiled slyly. “Is it not?”

“You’re a very clever man, Monsieur Lavallière. And I suspect your great-great-grandfather was a very provocative one. Small wonder it made the king uncomfortable! After all, with the various conspiracy theories about the first Revolution – Cadet de Gassicourt, the Abbé de Barruel, et cetera – and then some of the odd activities of the time – Who was that, now, with the Neo-Templars?”

“Fabré-Palaprat.5 Yes, indeed – although my family has never had time for such nonsense! My great-great-grandfather’s interest in the tale was quite straightforward, I think: he believed that Brother Thibaut had been wronged, and wished, in some small way, to salvage some honour for him. Hence he suggested the symbolism to the artist. I have their correspondence about the work, which you are most welcome to read. I also have a smaller piece which Blondel painted for him – in triptych form, of Agnès de Belvoir.”

“How sweet!”

“We will take a look at that later: it is in my study. There is a tapestry of the 1480 Siege of Rhodes, but I suspect that may be outside your chief period of interest.”

“A little late for me, but I’d love to see it, too! – Incidentally, do you think he is still here?”

“Who?”

“Brother Thibaut. I know the Italians excavated some remains in the 1920s, but… Oh, forgive me; it’s not a pleasant topic –”

“Little in this castle’s past is pleasant, I am afraid. But yes, when I am here, I do sense his presence very strongly,” he said innocently.

Neither David nor Anne had seen Ismini for seven years. David had last met up with her briefly in Athens, just before he returned home to complete his thesis. She had been unable to attend their wedding (in the late summer of 1984) because the date clashed with a conference at which she was giving a paper, but she had sent them her warmest wishes and an expensive antique Ottoman coffee-set.

They corresponded intermittently (she occasionally telephoned them), keeping her up to date with their progress. David submitted his thesis, but was forced to re-write and re-submit, or else come away with only an M Phil to his credit. This, combined with his bruising experiences with Edith Hepburn, deterred him from trying to seek a university post afterwards. Instead, he took a job teaching History and Classics at a prep school in Surrey. Anne, who had made a good recovery, returned to her photography, and had begun a series of coffee-table books on English villages, county by county. In self-protection, she closed herself down psychically: if a certain person were indeed still alive, she had no wish to make herself vulnerable to him again. Nor was there any question of either of them ever considering returning to Rhodes: too many bad memories.

Of Ismini, they knew that she was now based chiefly on the island (“I’m getting too old for so much commuting!”); that she had taken a couple of years out for “further study – professional development”; that she was now specialising in research on post-traumatic conditions, and had published several well-regarded papers on the subject. She said nothing in detail about her personal life, although an occasional use of the pronoun “we” suggested to them that she was in a steady relationship.

They were therefore delighted to receive an unexpected call from her during half-term: “Hello! I’m going to be in London on Thursday! Is it possible for you to come up? We could meet for lunch! Somewhere Greek, yes?”

She walked into the restaurant gracefully, looking even more elegant than they remembered: her hair (still rose-gold – never natural, in any case) in a French pleat, a Liberty ‘Hera’ shawl draped over a plain green velvet dress, and a Voysey enamelled necklace in the shape of a peacock. Despite her protestations about the toll of commuting, she seemed scarcely to have aged at all in seven years. If anything, she looked even slightly younger, although she must now have turned fifty. Anne, who felt somewhat dowdy in comparison, in blouse and pullover, wondered if she were on HRT.

“I gave up smoking a few years ago,” she said, when Anne complimented her on her appearance. “It’s bad for the skin, as well as everything else! You’re both looking extremely well, anyway.” (Anne was as slight and bird-like as ever; David was now growing distinctly chubby.) “Teaching must suit you!”

“Well, I’m certainly enjoying it,” he said.

“What age-group are they? The English school-system… I am not so familiar with it!”

“Under elevens. They’re great fun, aren’t they, Anne?”

His wife smiled. “With David becoming a house-master this year, we see the boys out of class, too. It… it means a great deal to me. It’s like having a family!” (They had tried to adopt, but her psychiatric history had proved an obstacle.) “– Not that we don’t have our hands full with the dogs! Golden retrievers: you wouldn’t believe how much energy they have!”

“That’s marvellous!” (She remembered Raoul remarking with satisfaction, after reading one of their Christmas letters: “You see how perfectly compatible they are? That would never have happened if I had not removed her first husband…”)

“So, what brings you over here, after all this time?”

“Time to kill. My husband has business meetings all day. I’m collecting him again later, for dinner: we’ve been invited by some of his friends.”

“Husband? What’s this?” David exclaimed.

“Yes, when did this happen?”

“It’s been five years now. Didn’t I say –?”

“We guessed there was someone, but you never mentioned marriage!” said Anne. “If only we’d known!”

Ismini shrugged. “It was very spur-of-the-moment: we were on holiday abroad. We’d been engaged for a while, and… the time just seemed right. It was quiet: no guests, no fuss, just a civil ceremony.”

They had been in France, touring his native Limousin (with a chauffeur). Raoul seemed a different man there, as if a burden had been lifted from his mind. They visited the Abbey of Saint-Martial de Limoges, the ruins of Hautefort (“Now that man was a great ‘finder’ of songs, a century before my time!”),6 of Ventadour, Ussel, and even Châlus, “where Lord Yes-and-No7 got his death from the crossbow-bolt”. And they stayed in a pension in the small country town below the crumbling fragments of the castle where he had been born, and married in the mairie there… It would help him, she thought, if they could find themselves another home in the region.

“But you’ve never even hinted there was anything that serious!” said David.

“Well, she did, sort of, to me, a good while ago…” Anne said. “An old friend.”

“Yes, I didn’t want to say too much at the time because of ethical considerations. You see, I’ve known him professionally for a few years.”

“A patient? You naughty girl!” David teased.

“Not quite, but we’ve done a lot of experimental work and research together.”

“You mean, you stuck electrodes on his head, and threatened him with electric shocks until he succumbed?”

Ismini laughed. “Well, he does say that I only married him for his brain – although his body’s not bad, either!” Nor should it be, after four centuries of fencing-practice, she thought. A lean, strong body, the flaws of which only moved her to greater tenderness: stroking and kissing his scarred flesh, the slight irregularities of healed bone, in the curtained dark of their bed…

“But,” she went on, “I daresay there might have been questions asked about objectivity and independence: he’s a few years older than I am, and quite influential in his own career. So I still work under my own name.”

“So what is it you’re doing now, then?” Anne asked.

“I’ve learnt a great deal over the last few years in research: reading and hands-on. I’d worked with a few post-traumatic cases in the past, but now… I think it’s a very important field – and, sadly, a growing one.”

“But it must be quite harrowing for you, especially given your…other abilities.”

“It can be, yes: if I enter someone’s mind, I feel what he or she has experienced. But the difference one can make to patients’ lives…”

She thought of her work with Raoul: gradually, gently unpacking the baggage of his past. It was often painful for them both, but it was deepening the bond between them on every level, even as he trained her in his own powers.

But she broke off. “No, I’m talking about work, and I’d much rather not, when among old friends!”

“Talking of old friends, then,” David said mischievously, “any news from the kastello? Is the ‘Frog Prince’ still holding court?”

Anne threw him a disapproving look.

“Well, I’m just curious!”

Ismini nodded. “I see him in town occasionally.” (More than occasionally at home, of course.) “But he seems to be behaving himself these days.” And if he isn’t, she thought with amusement, I know all about it… “No unusual ‘accidents’ these past few years.”

“You did return the pendant?” asked Anne.

“Yes,” Ismini said. “It’s back with its rightful owner.” (She was wearing it beneath her dress, between her breasts, where he had placed it this morning.)

“You know,” said David, “I’ve a mind to dig out that article I did, and broaden it out in scope. There’s quite a market these days for speculative work about the Templars: probably some money in it – more than in my thesis, that’s for sure!”

“Even after what Dr Hepburn said about it?” Ismini asked. It was her turn to feel uncomfortable, although she hid it well.

He nodded. “But that’s typical of conventional academics, isn’t it? They don’t consider other possibilities – alternative explanations. And she didn’t experience the things we did.”

“You don’t think that might risk attracting unwelcome attention…?”

“Not if I keep it more general: no more ad hominems. Probably won’t even mention him.”

Anne nodded. Ismini could sense that she was less keen on the idea, but would probably go along with it for David’s sake. “There are some pretty sites here in England we could photograph. I’ve seen a few already, in my village studies: beautiful old tithe barns.”

“Yes… well, I doubt you can go far wrong with tithe barns,” she agreed.

And so they chatted on for an hour or two, more inconsequentially. It never crossed the Bascombes’ minds until they had returned home – and Anne was checking her address book – that they had forgotten to ask Ismini her husband’s name.

The estate-agent was ready to turn on all his charm as he welcomed the latest pair of potential buyers to the shabby, much used-and-abused building known as La Commanderie. It had a fascinating history, having been built as a Templar preceptory in the twelfth century, and then being transferred to the Hospitallers in 1312. However, in its present state, it was something of a picturesque wreck. It had been a convent until the decline of vocations forced the Church to declare it no longer viable and sell it. It was then (briefly) a hotel, but in a quiet and otherwise undistinguished little Limousin town in which few tourists tended to stop, this had left the most recent owner bankrupt. It had been empty now for more than two years.

However, one look at the couple told him at once that they were no fools. Good-looking, in their late thirties to mid-forties, expensively (but not ostentatiously) dressed, the Lavallières had the air of people who knew exactly what they wanted, and expected to get it.

“As you will see – madame, monsieur – theCommanderie is in need of some repair…”

“Yes,” said Raoul, glancing up at the ceiling. I think he means half the roof needs replacing completely, he thought to Ismini.

Not to mention complete rewiring, she added.

– And we must have broadband. Aloud, he asked: “What do you think, darling?”

“It is smaller than Hagios Theodoros, but given how much work we do online these days, video-conferencing… I don’t thinkthat’s necessarily a problem.”

It was difficult to get him offline sometimes. So much of the work co-ordinating his Brotherhood, and other international communications, could now be carried out by e-mail (encrypted) or over the net, they both wondered how they had ever managed before. (It did strain the old Colonel’s eyesight, however, and he had retired back to Germany, to live with his nephew.)

“We often entertain professional associates,” Raoul explained, “so a meeting-room or small conference space is desirable.”

The estate agent nodded. “There is the former chapel, which makes an excellent function room.”

They smiled at each other approvingly.

“Where is it that you usually live?”

“On Rhodes; but we also have a small apartment in Venice,” Raoul said. (Well, it was comparatively small; just one floor, not the whole fifteenth-century palazzo.) “But in summer, neither is the most comfortable of places. Venice has too many tourists, and Rhodes these days…”

“In a word,” added Ismini, “the problem is Faliraki. We live on the west coast, some distance away, but we have concerns about privacy and security, now that some of the tourism on the island is… less than civilised. My husband’s nerves are sensitive at times.” (She did not add, And that could be dangerous for drunken or drug-addled ‘clubbers’ who stray where they should not. His temper was far less volatile nowadays, but some of the young tourists on the island would try the patience of a fully canonised saint, never mind that of an unofficial martyr predisposed to anxiety. ‘Raves’ on the beach below the village would be asking for trouble.)

“I quite understand,” said the estate agent. “But you won’t find such problems here. This is a quiet town, and what visitors we get tend to be middle-aged and well-behaved – even the English ones,” he added with a smile.

“That is reassuring!”

“What was it that attracted you to this house?”

Raoul answered: “Its history – the fact it was a Templar commanderie. One side of my family is originally from this area – a little to the north of here, in fact. I believe there were family members in the Order. And I should hate to think of a building such as this falling into the hands of… cranks, occultists – those people who have strange ideas about Templars.”

“I see. Well, if you wish to explore further, by yourselves…”

Gothic archways; seventeenth-century panelling; fragments of stained glass: neglected as La Commanderie was, it had tremendous potential.

“It’s in far better condition than Saint-Théodore was in the 1970s,” Raoul enthused. “The masonry is sound.”

“Have you noticed the original murals in the chapel?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow: “They’re not visible.”

“I can sense them.”

“Behind the panelling? You have quite a talent these days!” he teased.

“I have a wonderful teacher. You know, I think this house is going to give us quite a few pleasant surprises.”

“But we can’t simply tear out seventeenth-century panelling, without professional advice!”

“No, we take it out carefully, and re-use it in one of the rooms without murals,” she suggested. “It’s fortunate we don’t have to worry about money…”

But even if it had been no more than a heap of sticks and rubble, he would have been determined to buy it, Ismini thought wryly. She watched him stand by a window, running a hand over the carved stone: reading its history through touch, as a blind man reads Braille. He seemed entirely happy, and that moved her.

He had not always been easy to live with, especially in their early years – but then, she had never expected otherwise, given his past. She remembered what Jean Améry had written in Jenseits von Schuld und Sühne: “Anyone who has been tortured remains tortured… anyone who has suffered torture never again will be able to be at ease in the world”.8 He had let her into his mind, to share his memories: she knew the worst now, as he had experienced it.

It was only a few years since he had felt able to show her the exact site where he had been cut down in 1317. The servants had retired for the night. By lamplight, they stood in the archway at the former chapel’s entrance,

“You have to see everything as it was, not as it is. Here” – he had indicated the wall to his left, which was now bare stone – “was Our Lady enthroned, with the warrior martyrs Theodore and George on one side, and the virgins Catherine and Margaret on the other. Here” – on his right – “was Our Lord’s Entry into Jerusalem. From here, we could see the altar. Our priest, Father Lodovico, used to say that our crucifix was the finest on the island: Christ Himself in silver, on a gilded cross…”

And she, too, could see it, shining like a flame in the shafts of midday sunlight that entered the narrow windows, designed for defence. He was leading his men, with their Hospitaller guests, from the refectory to the chapel. Suddenly, Agnès’s uncle – a grey-haired man, in the white-crossed black habit of the Hospital – seized him by the arm and pulled him back.

“You may not enter, Brother. This house is under excommunication.”

“What discourtesy is this?” he asked quietly.

“It is no discourtesy. I merely bear the sentence of our Master.”

“Your Master. And what, pray, is the crime? We have not been tried.”

“Heresy. Sorcery. Perversion.”

“Ah, all the old lies.”

“Defiance of the edicts of His late Holiness regarding the suppression of the Knights of Christ and the Temple. And, in your case, murder.”

The Templars looked at each other, muttering, while the Hospitallers remained silent. De Montrefort drew himself up to his full height: he was a head taller than the older man. Still he did not raise his voice. “So you come, as my guest, to arrest me? The shame is yours, not mine.”

“No,” de Belvoir whispered, and raised his black mantle to show the hilt of his sword. “Not to arrest.”

He crossed himself. “Brother Anciau, I know that your quarrel is with me alone, and not with my Brethren here. If it is God’s will, then I alone –”

“Brother Thibaut, that is not what our Master orders.”

No. That he could not accept. No. Not the destruction of the Order, after all they had suffered and survived. He stared deep into de Belvoir’s eyes – reading his mind, attempting to take control. With his hands raised in the old gesture of prayer, he began quietly to recite the verse that, they said, could change the outcome of battles: Media vita in morte sumus

“…Sancte misericors Salvator, amare mortis ne tradas nos…”9

“Sorcerer!” a voice screamed.

Jolted from trance, he saw only a gleam of metal as a young Hospitaller thrust his sword into his chest, through the cross on his mantle, out through his back. He sank to his knees. The lad – Philibert de Belabre – still clutched the sword-hilt, terrified: it was his first kill, and the blade was stuck

Father Lodovico ran forward to help the wounded man, but de Belvoir, freed from the hypnotic spell, hacked his head in half.

“Leave none alive!”

Then the reinforcements were let in. Cries echoed about the stone vaulting. The floor became slippery; the painted walls bespattered. Knights, sergeant-brothers, serving-brothers – all the little community. Thibaut de Montrefort had known each of them since Cyprus, as friends, colleagues or servants. They had become his family.

And he – transfixed, utterly helpless – was conscious throughout. With all his powers he fought to suppress the pain, to force his body to stay alive. He called on his Lady, the Queen of Mercy, to whom he had vowed himself, since his earthly love had died:

…Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc et in hora mortis nostræ…10

No sound came: only a bloody froth as he mouthed the words. He looked up at her painted figure on the wall, and saw that she, too, was all bloodied. He rose out of his body and looked down, as if from a height, on a panicking youth still struggling to free his sword from muscle and bone and torn clothing…

It did not take long for the screams to stop.

“It’s finished,” said Brother Anciau, wiping his red hands on his black mantle.

He roughly pushed aside Brother Philibert, who was by now hysterical, and made the sign of the cross over his stricken enemy:“Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.”11

Then, for leverage, he put his foot on Brother Thibaut’s breastbone (breaking it and several ribs), and wrenched out the sword…

Raoul had shuddered for a moment, then felt Ismini’s arms around him, warm, protective, loving. Neither of them could speak for a while; touch alone expressed all that was needed.

Later, he had told her that he had regained consciousness in a small Orthodox monastery, on the mountain just a few kilometres inland. The monks had found him lifeless at their gate, in his blood-drenched habit, with prayer-beads at his belt, and – in a bag on a cord around his neck – some small relic or trinket. They assumed he had been left for them to bury, despite being a Frank – until he revived while they were washing him.

“Didn’t they think it was… unusual?”

“They believed in miracles, and particularly in the meditative use of the Jesus Prayer. When I was able to speak, I explained – in quite clumsy Greek in those days – that I’d used a similar means to survive and to reach safety.”

“So they nursed you?”

“Yes. I stayed with them for several months. When they thought me strong enough to bear the news, they told me that the village had been burned. But by then, there was nothing I could do. The rebellion against de Villaret had already begun; Brother Anciau was dead.” He sighed wearily. “I fear, sometimes, that there is little I can do in the wider scheme of things…”

She understood. When post-Cold War optimism had given way to the bloodbath of the Balkans, she had worked in training younger staff to support traumatised refugees. But he had become somewhat dispirited, lost faith in his abilities, and those of his Brotherhood, in influencing events. The barbarities unfolding around the world he had seen time and again over the centuries: no-one ever learned. And he? He might be seven centuries old, wealthy, well-connected – but he was, ultimately, as powerless as any mortal.

But he could no longer retreat behind his defences in self-pity. He was loved by a woman whom he loved beyond measure. Ismini, with all her vitality and optimism, encouraged him to direct his efforts elsewhere, more positively.

“Why not do more for cultural co-operation internationally?” she suggested. “It needs long-term commitment!”

“And long-term commitment is a speciality of ours, is it not?”

As he admitted, he had no great talent himself, but he appreciated art, music, literature; he was good at bringing people together, at patronage. They began to change the mixture of guests, to invite new members, including women.

They still kept in touch with Edith Hepburn, although Ismini allowed her friendship with the Bascombes to dwindle over the years. They had grown far apart in interests and lifestyle, and it was a strain to have to avoid mentioning her husband’s identity. To make matters worse, David’s dabbling in ‘speculative history’ was leading him down some strange paths indeed. He had looked at the Agnus Dei, the Paschal Lamb, on the seals of the English Masters, and decided that it was a Satanic goat, the ‘Baphomet of Mendes’, as drawn by Constant in the nineteenth century… Ismini was undecided as to what extent he genuinely believed this, or whether he was simply giving his readers what they wanted; but it was upsetting. Edith wrote that she had never thought him much of a scholar, and that she at least “could tell sheep from goats”.

Raoul was more philosophical about it, having lived through the worst excesses of myth-making: eighteenth-century Masonic and anti-Masonic lore; Nerval, Rossetti, Hammer; Reuss, Saint-Yves d’Alveydre, Victor-Émile Michelet, Charpentier…12 He had always despised David, but regarded him as a minor irritant, in comparison with some other authors. There were far more bizarre notions at large: the idea that his Order had secretly worshipped Isis, and constructed major Gothic cathedrals, lacing them with sexual symbolism; that there were Templars in Nova Scotia; Templars guarding secret treasure (his own wealth was simply due to sensible investments, Swiss bankers, and the amount of interest that can accrue in an abnormally extended lifespan); Templars guarding holy bloodlines and/or Grails and/or Arks and/or Stones of Destiny; Templars at Bannockburn; Templars at Rosslyn (since he was the only Templar living when it was built in the fifteenth century, and had never been there, that was quite amusing).13 As for the content of some of the fictional treatments, which were decidedly un-monastic…14 He took a mischievous delight in crashing offenders’ websites in a manner that was completely untraceable; it was, at least, less dangerous than crashing their cars.

…He turned from the window, wearing his knowing half-smile. “Do you know what I sense most strongly, my love?”

“What?”

“No-one has been murdered in this house.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“The last Templars who were here lived out their days peacefully. Under Hospitaller supervision, yes; but no-one killed them.”

“It’s perfect, then.”

Edith Hepburn, now almost seventy-nine, was sitting up in bed, recovering from hip-replacement surgery in Ninewells Hospital in Dundee. She was writing a letter to the friends whose bouquet of roses had arrived this morning.

Mes chers!

It is very sweet of you both to think of me, and send such beautiful flowers. They remind me so much of the garden at La Commanderie. I do hope that, life and limb permitting (at my age, one can never tell!), that I’ll be able to take up your invitation again next summer!

I am so glad that you are continuing to make discoveries in the fabric of the building: the restored murals look most impressive. I’m glad, too, that all is well at Saint-Théodore. Do you hear much at all from the Colonel these days? I do hope he has settled in with his nephew. Is that the one you called the ‘Lübeck marzipan baron’? I can’t always tell when you’re teasing, you know!

Raoul – thank you for the advice in your last letter re: managing chronic pain. I had no idea it had ever been a problem for you: you always have so much energy for your activities – your travels and conferences and websites! And quite honestly, neither of you looks a day older than that afternoon at McArthur’s, all those years ago! (I do so miss McArthur’s: we now have Starbucks and Costa, which are not the same at all!) – I suppose it’s all the fresh air at Saint-Théodore and at La Commanderie.

M visited me just a few weeks ago, at the cottage. I hadn’t realised she knew you. It really is a small world! Remember I told you once how few people there are who go around whistling or humming trobar? She was one of those I meant. She was very surprised that we’d met just before her First Year: she was sure you were both about her own age! She sends her love, and is so sorry not to be able to meet up in Strasbourg any more: her contract ended last year, as you probably know. She says she’ll write.15

I hope you are making progress with the Council of Europe heritage people with your own ideas: some sort of international network of sites associated with the Orders would be splendid, provided you can keep the lunatic fringe at bay. Good luck, too, in countering all these ghastly websites. I’m afraid our old friend Mr Bascombe published a little book on Rosslyn last year: his wife took the architectural photographs, which are lovely, but the text… Thank goodness for Eco: I plan to re-read Pendulum while I’m on the mend.16

One of the nurses, a dumpy, cheerful little woman in her early forties, with the bright eyes and round cheeks of a hamster, was arranging the roses for her in a vase.

“What bonnie flowers! International delivery, too!”

“Yes; they’re from a very sweet couple I know in France. I was hoping to visit them this summer. Still, perhaps next year! I’ll have to keep myself occupied until I’m fully mobile again.”

“If you’re wanting anything to read, I’ve a few books in my desk,” she suggested brightly.

“Oh? And what are they?”

“The French Count’s Virgin Mistress, The Greek Tycoon’s Blackmailed Bride, and The Italian Prince’s Secret Seduction.”17

“No, thank you: not quite my sort of thing. But it’svery kind of you to offer!”

“It’s history you like, isn’t it? I think there’s still a Da Vinci Code knocking about the staff room!” She noticed Edith purse her lips at this. “– Mind, you cannae beat a wee bit of romance. Not that there’s anything wrong wi’ Ken – that’s my husband, see – but… There was me thinking he’d be this big rock-star, but he’s still just playing round the pubs after all these years… The Leopards.18 Metal, if you like metal. They’ve been in The Courier!”

“Well, that’s something!” Edith said diplomatically.

“France, eh? Where do they live?”

“A mediæval house – a sort of old monastery – south-east of Limoges.”

“Now that is romantic!”

“Not really, given all the work it needed: it had been quite neglected! I have some recent pictures.”

Edith reached into her writing-case, and drew out a couple of snapshots that had been enclosed with the last letter she had received: one of the building, and one of Raoul and Ismini in close-up, in front of one of the murals.

“These are my friends. Now, he is a French count, although he doesn’t use his title. He’s quite involved with cultural matters; she’s a psychiatrist, quite an eminent one. Delightful people, and so devoted!”

The nurse blinked at the snapshot.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I’ve seen them before! Here… years ago!”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye. You see hundreds and thousands of patients, but there’s always some that stick in your mind… It must be twenty-odd years! He’d collapsed: pneumothorax, so he wasnae in long. But he was just so classy… deid glamorous. I was just a wee lassie then, fresh out of college, and I had a big crush on him! And she visited… So she’s his wife now?”

“Yes. The Lavallières.”

“I thought he had an Italian name…”

“No, he’s French, and she’s Greek.”

“Ah, right. ‘It’s all Greek to me’, as the saying goes! – When was this?”

“A few months ago. They’ve been having some mediæval murals restored: all terribly exciting!”

The nurse looked distinctly unexcited, but continued to peer at the picture. “I’m sure his hair was darker then, but they’ve no’ really changed at all. Mind, if they’ve money to live like that, they’ve money to get things done: a wee nip here, a wee tuck there, a bit of Botox, eh?”

Edith smiled over her spectacles. “I would never dream of asking!”

“It makes me wonder why he’d not had anything done about all those old scars, though…”

“Scars?”

“Aye. He’d a lot on his back, and he must’ve had something stuck right through his chest and out the other side. It’s a wonder he was alive at all! The last time I saw anything like that was a lad who’d come off his motorbike on to railings! And a lot of old frac–” Becky realised that Edith was looking at her oddly, almost as if she had seen a ghost. “Sorry. That’s too much. I shouldnae…”

But for Edith Hepburn, suddenly, everything had fallen into place: all the little questions, all the nagging suspicions she had had over the years about Raoul Lavallière. Improbable, impossible, perhaps, in normal terms: but for once, the impossible made sense.

“Did he ever explain it to you?” she asked.

“Not much. I said, ‘What happened to you, for Christ’s sake?’, and he said, ‘Yes’, but I cannae mind all of it… What it boiled down to was that some bad things had happened to him in the East.”

She thought for a moment, then answered calmly and carefully: “Yes, they did – terrible things. But it was a very long time ago.” And she smiled to herself, wondering what she ought to ask him…

Completed 13 October 2007, being the 700th anniversary of the first arrests of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.

1 “That I am comely, I know”: a quotation from Arnaut de Maruelh.

2 Veni, Sancte Spiritus, attributed to Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury.

3 Guiraut Riquier’s Be.m degra de chantar tener (I ought to hold off from singing):

“…Remembering my heavy past,
Oppressed looking at the present,
And pondering on the future,
For all this I am right to weep.”

4 Another line from Guiraut Riquier’s Be.m degra de chantar tener : “But I am come too late, toward the last”.

5 See Peter Partner’s The Knights Templar and their Myth.

6 Bertran de Born of Autafort.

7 Oc-e-Non, Bertran de Born’s nickname for Richard I (1157-99).

8 Améry (Hans Meier) was an Auschwitz survivor. This book,Beyond Guilt and Atonement, is also known as At the Mind’s Limits in English.

9 The antiphon Media vita in morte sumus (In the midst of life we are in death) was believed to have magical powers. The line quoted means: “Holy merciful Saviour, do not surrender us to bitter death”.

10 He was silently reciting the Ave Maria: “…Pray for us sinners,/Now and in the our of our death…”

11 “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy”: one of the few pieces of Greek used in the old Roman Catholic liturgy.

12 See Peter Partner’s The Knights Templar and their Myth.

13 Your local bookshop probably has shelves of such ‘alternative’ history… Mine does.

14 There is now such a thing as the Templar bodice-ripper (habit-ripper?!)/erotic novel, in gay and straight varieties. The mind boggles…

15 M J Bird gave himself cameo-rôles. This is mine.

16 Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum satirises the whole Templar conspiracy theory industry.

17 I have invented these, but they are based on real romance novelette titles.

18 Another Walter Scott Crusade novel joke: see The Talisman.