Templar's Prophecy: The Lady Apollonia Mystery Series Book Four

By Ellen Foster

The Lady Apollonia of Aust, medieval sleuth and wealthy daughter of an earl, faces widowhood for the third time. She chooses to guarantee her sovereignty by vowing to become a Bride of Christ, declaring that she will live a nun’s life but remain in the world. Her household takes up residence in Cirencester. There they encounter an ongoing power struggle between the local Augustinian Abbey and the townspeople. After centuries of the abbot’s declaration of being lord of the manor, the people of Cirencester search for ways to stop the abbey’s abuses of power against the town. Upon her arrival the Lady learns that, in the absence of the abbot, the abbey is being run by its prior, an evil living canon. He is known to abuse his power as a manipulative predator without a shred of human compassion or call to Christian ministry. Lady Apollonia is not only forced to deal with murder, she finds herself under attack by one whose muddled mind regards her as the source of evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304447760

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Templar's Prophecy: The Lady Apollonia Mystery Series Book Four

Templar’s Prophecy

By Ellen Foster

Book Four

The Lady Apollonia Mystery Series

Valparaiso Indiana

2013

Copyright © 2013 Ellen Foster

First published in United States by Lulu Press, Inc. in 2013

Maps and cover photographs by Louis Foster

ISBN 978-1-304-44776-0

Learn more at http://blogs.valpo.edu/ellenfoster/http://blogs.valpo.edu/ellenfoster/

Ellen Foster’s Facebook page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ellen-Foster/110198255751286/

Table of Contents

Templar’s Prophecy

Foreword

Lady Apollonia Mystery Series

Acknowledgements

Map: Lady Apollonia’s West Country

Map: 1395 Cirencester

Map: Cirencester Abbey

Prologue: Pilgrim’s Discovery

Chapter 1: Winter of Loss

Chapter 2: Withdrawal to Cirencester

Chapter 3: Canons’ Welcome

Chapter 4: Prior Parlwald of Saint Mary’s

Chapter 5: Alien in Cirencester

Chapter 6: Visit to the Abbey

Chapter 7: Thwarted Ambitions

Chapter 8: The Lady Strikes Back

Chapter 9: Suspicious Alien

Chapter 10: William’s Quest

Chapter 11: Friar Francis and the Sub-prior

Chapter 12: The Pardoner Discovers a Secret

Chapter 13: Gathering Force

Chapter 14: Quality of Character

Chapter 15: True Chivalry

Chapter 16: Steadfast Grace

Chapter 17: Templar’s Story

Chapter 18: Lover’s Return

Chapter 19: Evil Abroad

Chapter 20: Infirmarer in Charge

Chapter 21: Iniquity’s Trespass

Chapter 22: Saint Cecilia’s Snare

Chapter 23: The Prior’s Path

Chapter 24: Murder’s Complement

Epilogue

Glossary

About the Author

Foreword

Cirencester is an ancient English town that in Roman times was second in size only to London. It is located at a strategic location on the Fosse Way and its convergence with Akeman Street and Ermin Street. Roman Corinium can still be found beneath the buildings of contemporary Cirencester. By 1395 when my Lady sleuth arrived in the town, medieval Cirencester’s citizens had been in the midst of a struggle with the abbots of Saint Mary’s Augustinian Abbey for much of the century. The townsfolk had actually attacked the abbey ten years earlier.

The characters in Templar’s Prophecy are all fictional. In particular, the reforming sub-prior, Bernard Angelsley, and his attempt to build fellowship and mutual respect with the townspeople is a figment of my imagination. But the strife between abbey and town was real. There were scandalous extortions on the part of the abbey including illegal entry of townspeople’s homes and destruction of their mill stones. Finally, there were accusations of evil living on the part of some of the Augustinian canons. My description of royal recognition of services achieved by the town did not happen during the reign of King Richard II. It occurred later in the reign of King Henry IV.

Lady Apollonia Mystery Series

by Ellen Foster

Book One: Effigy of the Cloven Hoof

Paperback

ISBN 987-0-557-39894-2

Library of Congress Number: PS 3606 .O88 E44 2010

eBook

ISBN 987-1-257-24529-1

Book Two: Plague of a Green Man

Paperback

ISBN 987-1-257-12305-6

Library of Congress Number: PS 3606 .O88 P53 2011

eBook

ISBN 987-1-105-36964-3

Book Three: Memento Mori

Paperback

ISBN 987-1-300-24159-1

Library of Congress Number: PS 3606 .O88 M66 2012

eBook

ISBN 987-1-300-27289-2

Book Four: Templar’s Prophecy

Paperback

ISBN 987-1-304-44773-9

Library of Congress Number: PS 3606 .O88 T46 2013

eBook

ISBN 987-1-304-44776-0

Acknowledgements

Throughout the development of the Lady Apollonia West Country Mystery Series, I have been granted significant help during all stages of research, writing, and re-writing by English historians, university colleagues, dear friends, and family to whom I owe significant thanks.

Lou and I were in Cirencester in 2013, and we were guided within the community and encouraged by the local author and historian, Linda Viner. Another important local historian, Philip Moss, came to Cirencester from nearby Gloucester to help with our research. Among our English early readers we have been grateful to use the comments and corrections of a dear friend, David Snell, of Exeter, Devon.

Friends from the United States who consented to be early readers included a number who have helped with the preparations for each of my books. Ellen Corley, my PEO sister, as well as Mary Henrichs and Ethelyn Rezelman, our Pines Village neighbors, have consistently offered significant comments and questions. Our good friend, Philipp Brockington, contributed his insightful observations and thoughtful inquiries in nearly every chapter as did our favorite English teacher, Dennis Norman.

Our friend and representative of the clergy on this side of the Atlantic, Bishop Edward Little of the Episcopal Diocese of Northern Indiana, has consistently offered his knowledgeable comments as an early reader.

And finally, I will always be grateful to Kathleen Mullen and her ReVU writers’ group who provide helpful comments to me during the process of re-writing.

Most of all, I am sincerely thankful to my family for their support and encouragement: to our sons Ted and his wife Marilyn, Charlie and his wife Shelly, and especially to my better half, Lou. Thanks to his computer skills and his gracious willingness to read endless re-writes, he enables me to achieve the most inspired conclusions.

Maps

This map is extracted from a map that Rev E.A. Fuller used to illustrate his article on Cirencester Abbey Church in volume 17 (1892-1893), pages 45-52, of the Bristol & Gloucestershire Transactions.

Prologue: Pilgrim’s Discovery

In the year of our Lord 1350, the English pilgrim, Martin Harlech, was finally able to enter the Nubian city of Banganarti. He had journeyed from his home in the West of England from one important pilgrimage location to the next: to northern Spain, France, and the Mediterranean port of Marseille. From there he travelled on to Rome and finally took ship sailing to Egypt where he could, at last, journey up the Nile River to the Christian Kingdom of Makuria. It required endless months to make the voyage, and once inside the city gates, Martin fell to his knees to thank God for his arrival. Banganarti was Makuria’s most important Christian pilgrimage site, and Martin was desperate for healing. Returning to his feet once again, he joined the crowd of pilgrims moving as a body towards the main Church of the Archangel Raphael.

Harlech had told several of his merchant friends in Cirencester that he was going on pilgrimage. As he was known to be a devout Christian, no one thought anything unusual about his decision. He refused to tell anyone why. He would never confess the truth of his affliction. Here in Makuria, the babble of languages surrounding him came from every Christian nation, especially those of the eastern Christian world. Martin gave them little notice, certain that no one in this place would recognise him. He did not expect to hear his native tongue spoken here at the edge of the known earth.

The throng of pilgrims seemed to move with a mind of its own, purposefully walking together towards the centre of the town. It stopped suddenly at the first view of the great church as if to exhale a multitude of sighs of relief, of thanksgiving, of consummation. Each of them had done it; they had arrived at the Church of Raphael the Archangel whose name means God has healed.

Pilgrim Harlech pressed on into the sanctuary of the church and found its interior walls covered in murals presenting images of larger than life-sized apostles, archangels, saints, and kings. He rushed to a stall to buy a cup of healing water and continued immediately to approach those who offered to drill tiny holes in the unpainted walls of the church for him to obtain its healing dust. Mixing dust with the water, Martin slowly sipped the first cup while continuously uttering his earnest prayers He offered his entire heart-felt devotion to Saint Raphael, begging the archangel to hear his prayer and deign to bring God’s healing to him.

With a second cup of the sacred medication, Martin walked to a dark corner of one of the candlelit chapels where he stepped behind a large statue of Raphael. There he slowly opened his tunic to expose the constantly expanding corruption of the skin of his torso. Lesions now spread across the front of his chest and stomach and, he was certain, had by this time spread to his back. His reoccurring nightmare was that his skin condition might be discovered, requiring his expulsion from all contact with society when the Mass of Separation would be spoken against him.

Oh, holy Raphael, it is in your power to cleanse me. I will build a chapel to you. I shall devote my life to your service. Grant me divine healing--make me whole.

As Harlech prayed these words quietly but intensely, he poured a small trickle of drops of the medicated water onto his chest then over his shoulders to run down his back, unconcerned that it wet the waist of his hose. Even the soaked feeling of his waistband seemed to bring him a sense of perceptible assurance. It was as if each of the droplets created a tiny stream of healing to spread across the diseased skin of his body.

Martin remained in the church throughout the days and nights ahead, moving from chapel to chapel, altar to altar. He laid on the floor of the sanctuary through the nights as his incubation at the feet of the mural of the martyred Saints Cosmas and Damian, celebrated throughout Christendom for their healing. Except to relieve himself, the English pilgrim did not depart from the church for any extended period longer than that required to obtain a bit of food. His devotion to Raphael was ardent and constant. Finally, at the end of his third week in the church, he thought he could detect a slight change. He sensed that the irritations on his chest were beginning to fade, their pain and angry irritation easing.

At these merest suggestions of chance improvement, Martin raised his voice in songs of thanks. He remained for longer periods on his knees in the chapel so that he could begin to carve his inscription of thanks on the unpainted wall where pilgrims through centuries had left hundreds of personal messages. Martin Harlech, the Englishman, he carved, praises God and his Holy Raphael, archangel of bodily restoration.

* * *

Nearly six weeks after his arrival in Makuria, Martin decided at last that he could leave the church. His sores had wonderfully healed. His body’s painful skin corruption was so restored that his heart was bursting with joy. He felt compelled to leave the prayerful silence of the sanctuary. He literally ran out from the church crying aloud, Praise God! I am whole! Thanks be to the Holy Raphael. I am healed!

In the centre of town, Harlech continued to shout out the news of God’s mercy and to proclaim that a miracle had been granted to him. He opened his tunic to display his cleansed and healed chest. Curious people gathered round to confirm his claim. Although no one could understand his language, it was obvious he felt he had been cured. Others were skeptical of his display and simply passed by with a nod in his direction, focused on the business of their day. But one tall and well-built elderly man came to his side and spoke to him in slightly halting English.

Forgive my inadequacy with English words, friend. I daresay it is because I have long been unable to use my native tongue that I perceive that you are speaking. My name is Hugh de Farleigh, and I should be honoured to offer you my hospitality.

Martin was stunned. He had just experienced what he truly believed was miraculous cleansing from the most dreaded affliction of his age, and unbelievably this stately looking gentleman spoke to him in his native English. It was the first time in months he had heard anyone address him so. Even more amazing to Martin, this man spoke with the accents of his native West Country. Truly, this encounter must be a continuation of God’s will for him. He collapsed to his knees, took the hand of the elderly gentleman into his own, and fell into silent earnest prayer.

When he was able to speak once again, Harlech begged the man’s pardon. I pray thee, friend, forgive my silence. The events of this day and your appearance here have overcome me. You are speaking with me as a fellow West Country Englishman, and it has shaken me to the core. Gramercy, sir, I thank you kindly for your invitation.

* * *

When they arrived at the home of his new friend, Harlech could see that it was a spacious but simple and well-kept dwelling. They entered its modest hall, and Hugh introduced Martin to his son’s wife, Sarah, while begging her to bring refreshment for them. Hugh spoke with his daughter-in-law in the local Nubian language, and his relationship with her was clearly one of respect and familial affection.

My son is visiting patients and will not return until later this day, Master Harlech, de Farleigh said, but we shall sit together and seek to grow better acquainted with one another." Hugh walked to a table dormant near one wall of the chamber and urged the English pilgrim to be seated with him. He truly wished that Harlech would tell him more of his extraordinary experience in the Raphaelion.

Martin could not contain his joy; he was endlessly effusive. Words poured from him as if released from his hidden thoughts for the first time in recent years. Without inquiring anything of his host’s experience, he spoke of his struggles to hide from everyone--especially his friends--the signs on his body that he thought had to be leprosy. He explained that he had been forced to search throughout the Christian world for any hope of healing. Although he meant no discourtesy, he suddenly pulled up his tunic and exposed the beautifully cleansed and healed skin of his torso.

See how God has blessed me, dear sir. Thanks be to the Holy Raphael; God has heard my prayers. I am renewed, cleansed, and healed. It is a miracle. Martin shouted.

Sarah quietly turned her face away as she stood near to them; then she signalled to her father-in-law that she must go to the kitchen. In her Nubian tongue, she begged him to ask his new friend’s pardon for her abrupt departure.

Pulling his tunic back into place covering his chest, Martin saw at once the embarrassment he had caused her. Pray forgive me, Hugh. I have forgot myself. I pray that you will beg the lady’s pardon for me.

She asks me to tell you that she rejoices with you, Hugh shrugged, but must remove to the kitchen to take orders to the cook for this evening’s repast. We all hope that you will consent to be our guest whilst you remain in Banganarti, Martin. It will be a blessing to all of us to have you in our home.

* * *

When Hugh’s son returned late that afternoon, he was thrilled to find a Christian guest from beyond the seas, seated with his father and sharing his memories of England.

Damian, my son, let me present to you a new friend from my homeland. This is Martin Harlech. He comes to us from the far edge of the Christian world, Cirencester, my home in the West of England.

I say, father, this is wondrous indeed. Damian de Farleigh said with hearty enthusiasm. I have never met anyone from England, sir. I hope we may enjoy your presence with us for the extent of your visit.

Damian de Farleigh spoke English, obviously taught him by his father, though spoken with noticeable accents of the Nubian language native to him.

Martin is convinced that he has been granted a miracle at the Church of the Holy Raphael, my son. I know that, as a physician, you will wish to inquire of him the particulars of his experience.

Damian’s eyes flashed with professional zeal as well as personal curiosity. He leant towards Martin to follow up on his father’s suggestion. Indeed, Master Harlech, I should be grateful to learn from you the details of your affliction. I hope you will also share the tale of your endless travels in pursuit of healing as well as your descriptions of my father’s homeland.

As the hours of their conversation passed, Martin found that he was finally beginning to return to the realities of the moment from the heights of exultation he had experienced this day. Now, as if seeing his host and his son for the first time, he could not help seeing distinct differences in their skin colour. Hugh’s skin was tanned by the persistent sun of Makuria. Damian’s skin was permanently darker, an obvious inheritance from his Nubian mother. Still, Martin noticed, the father and son shared remarkable resemblance in the structure of their faces. Both were men of intellect with aristocratic Roman noses and well-trimmed beards, though Hugh’s showed signs of greying age. But the most striking characteristic of their faces was in their eyes. Of similar shape and shared colour, their eyes could have been those of older and younger brothers. Both men had deep blue eyes.

* * *

The conversation Martin shared with his hosts continued well into the night. Damian was full of questions, but Martin sought to turn the conversation to help him learn more of his newfound friends. He especially wished to know how Hugh had come to Makuria. He was shocked to learn Hugh’s true estate.

"Indeed, Martin, I am very old and widowed but, thanks to Damian and Sarah, a grandfather. I originally came to the East as a Knight Templar, one of the bands of monks whose service is devoted to protect pilgrims visiting the Holy Places of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

Martin Harlech’s mouth dropped. How can this be, Hugh? The Inquisition in France arrested the Templars more than forty years ago. Their last Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, was executed and burnt at the stake as a heretic. Surely you must have learnt of these events?

It was now Hugh de Farleigh’s turn to shake his head in denial. I can not believe your words, Martin. The French and English kings endorsed our Order. We received the blessing of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux who personally drew up our Rule. The pope, to whom alone we answer, sanctions us. How can we possibly have been charged with heresy?

Martin strained his memory to recall every detail that he could remember. It began with King Phillip the Fourth’s arrest of all Templars in France, he said. It had been the French king’s intent for months to seize the Templars in order to turn them over to the Inquisition. Then the church would try them for heresy, my friend. Everyone assumed King Phillip intimidated the pope, resident in Avignon, to achieve his will and confiscate their vast wealth. Every action against the Templars was done secretly and without warning.

To help Martin understand the reasons for his ignorance of events in Europe over the past years, Hugh shared more details of his personal tragedy. He had been taken prisoner by the Mamelukes in 1291 at the fall of Acre. Hugh said he would never forget seeing William of Beaujeu, the Templar Grand Master, fatally wounded. The heat of battle intensified as the out numbered Templars struggled to drive back the enemy who broke through the walls of the city and entered in their thousands. The Templar forces were overwhelmed but young Hugh remained true to his vows and continued to fight fiercely in defence of the city. Unaware of what was happening to him, Hugh found himself alone, encircled, and attacked from behind. He was struck unconscious.

Hugh was wounded and lying in a crowded cart when he came to his senses once again. As a prisoner, he was hauled away to the south into Egypt where he was sold into slavery. So you must see, Martin, I have had no word of these desperate acts of the French king to destroy my order. I could never have imagined such a thing happening.

My dear friend, Harlech gasped, are you telling me that you were sold into the bondage of pagans? How could you survive such humiliation and suffering?

I was blessed in a way I could never have imagined, Martin. The man who bought me was a Nubian Christian who brought me in chains to his home in Makuria. Shortly after we arrived, he realised that I was not only a strong, young man, I was a man of intelligence and learning. But as he could not speak my language, he inquired through the church to find someone who knew of my native tongue. He brought that priest to his home to teach me the Nubian language.

Yours is an unbelievable tale, Hugh. I shall never understand how you were able to survive and endure enslavement, Martin exclaimed.

If only you could have known my master, Martin. He was a devoted follower of Christ and one who spent his life as a scholar of human achievement. He had studied the writings of the ancient Greek philosophers and Roman historians. He was fascinated to gather from me all of my memories and descriptions of life in England. He wished to know everything about my travels to Outremer to serve and protect those who dared to make their pilgrimage to the place of Christ’s birth. We sat together most evenings exchanging ideas and information, each pursuing more insight from the other. Do you not see, my friend? Though he was my master, he never denigrated me. He respected my person and granted me a full life whilst I served him. We worshipped together. He enabled me to marry and be blessed with family. I shall never cease to thank God for Peter Benesec’s loving mastery.

Pray tell me, Hugh, have you and your family continued to live in bondage?

Oh no, Martin, Master Benesec granted me my freedom when I married, but I continued to serve his house. At the end of his life, he left me this house as well as inheritance enough to support us. And when he lay dying, he took my hands and assured me that we should always be one in Christ. I shall never forget the image of that moment when my pale hands clutched his gracious black hands. I prayed God with all my heart that he would not leave me, but he died in my arms.

Yours is an extraordinary life story since coming to Makuria, Hugh, Martin shook his head in disbelief as he spoke. Surely now you must return with me to England, will you not? You will want to declare your survival to your English family after all these years. Most surviving Templars in England have been granted care in their old age and the respect due them for their service.

No, my friend, I shall never leave Banganarti. My family is here, my son, Damian, and my little grandson. But I shall be grateful to you if you can take my story back to Cirencester. My parents and elder brother will be remembered there.

Chapter 1: Winter of Loss

Snow continued to fall in Gloucester on this bitter January day of 1395. The Lady Apollonia stood in the cemetery of their parish church at the graveside of her third husband, Robert Windemere. Nan, her personal maid, and Gareth, her stablemaster, devoted servants from their youth, both stood faithfully near to her side. The parish priest completed his final blessings. He, other friends, and their servants departed. The pitmakers hurried to complete their task in order to return as soon as possible to the warmth of the fireside in the nearby inn. Apollonia refused to move even after the burial was complete. It was as if she felt unwilling and unable to walk away from her last physical contact with this dear friend and late-in-life lover.

The Lady told herself that she would never accept Robert’s death as God’s judgement upon him or against her. Their love had been blessed. She knew Robert had been a good man, wholesome and devout in excellent health in spite of his sixty years. Without warning, two weeks earlier in this first month of the new year, Robert was struck down by the bloody flux. It was a brutal affliction and seemed to destroy all his accumulated years of healthy living. At first, he assured her that his physician would heal him.

You are not to worry, Lonia; Dr. Galenic will consult the signs of the zodiac. Then a brief application of leaches and the balance of humours will be restored in me. You will see, dearest one, he said weakly as he lay debilitated in his bed.

But as days passed, Robert’s severe cramps persisted and grew worse; his watery stools increased and became filled with fresh blood. His fevers continued unabated, and he grew more disabled every hour.

When at last the physician confessed he could do no more, Robert called Apollonia to his side. He said he wished to hold her hand. Surely that will be my cure, Lonia my love. Allow me to hold you. I need to touch you, to feel your presence, my precious wife.

The Lady sat on the edge of his bed, cradling his cold hands in both of hers, as if to bodily transfer her warmth to him and compel her strength into his body. I am here, Robert; I shall remain with you until you are recovered, she assured him.

Friar Frances, the household chaplain, remained in the bedchamber with them. His lips moved in constant prayer, praising God for His grace and begging God’s mercy to bring restored health to Robert.

Apollonia remembered everything happened so very quickly. Robert smiled at her while he lay on their bed, his hands in hers. Then suddenly his eyes went blank, and she could sense that he had ceased to breathe. She called the physician to come to his side. Galenic pressed his ear to Robert’s heart and then held a mirror to his nose to detect any sign of breath.

He is gone, my Lady, he told her simply and began to gather his instruments to walk from their chamber.

No. Pray God, no. This can not be, Apollonia’s denial seemed to scream from the depths of her soul as tears poured from her eyes. Still, in the silence of her thoughts, she was forced to remind herself, This is what he wanted. He must have known he was dying. Robert held my hands and then ceased to breathe. He died as we chose to live-- holding, touching each other.

No matter how much Apollonia respected her husband’s wishes, she found herself unable to grasp the reality of her loss.

Robert, my love, Apollonia called as she fell to her knees at his bedside next to his body and wept. She clung to his hands as if to pull him back to her. You must not leave me, dearest. I can not let you go. I need you.

Later at the gravesite when Robert’s burial was complete, everyone had gone but the Lady Apollonia remained. She knelt on the ground as her hands touched the heap of soil covering Robert’s grave, so as to hold her last access to him. Nan could see that her mistress was beyond awareness of the cold, the snow, even the length of time they had been there. Signalling Gareth, each of Apollonia’s servants moved closer to her side and took one of the Lady’s arms. They lifted her gently up from the graveside and onto her feet again. Together they led her towards the path without saying a word. Apollonia walked numbly between Gareth and Nan; no one spoke as they returned to Windemere House.

* * *

Once back in their Gloucester home, Nan saw to it that the Lady Apollonia was seated quietly in the hall, wrapped in warm shawls before a raging fire. She had lost her third husband. This time Apollonia could not help feeling herself striped of the possibility of comfort, diminished, reduced from wholeness, an empty vessel.

She ceased to weep though her thoughts whirled within the pain of her loss. At last she upbraided herself, knowing that she must pull things together. She repeated again and again that she could not allow herself to collapse into weakness. Robert was gone and everything was left to her; she must take charge. Order had to be maintained within her household and extended affinity if balance were to return to her people’s lives. With a deep sigh, Apollonia sat forward in her great chair and called Friar Francis to join her near the fireplace.

"Francis, we must begin to bring comfort to the living. Will you prepare a succession of prayer services for Robert