The Fabric of Sin

Whatever. I don’t see why you have a problem with that.’

‘Anyway …’ Not now, huh? Too weighty. ‘… I’d’ve thought you’d lived in the sticks long enough to know it’s absolutely the worst place to keep a secret.’

‘Yeah, now. But in medieval times, when almost nobody could read.’

‘Including the Templars. Most of the Knights Templar seem to have been illiterate.’

‘Mum, they were international bankers! People could stash money at one preceptory and withdraw from another.’

‘Since when did banking demand literacy?’

‘OK, then, maybe this was just where they came to carry on their own form of Gnostic worship, which the straight Church would see as heresy.’ Jane pulled the Volvo over to the grass verge to let a tractor get past. ‘Was that all right?’

‘Except you should’ve signalled first, to let him know what you were doing. And why are we going up here?’

Inexplicably, Jane had taken an uphill right.

‘Sorry. I thought …’

‘I think the church was straight on down the hill. Never mind, carry on.’

It didn’t matter. Merrily suddenly wanted to hug Jane. If the worst you had to deal with was theological debate …

‘You OK, Mum?’

‘Mmm.’

She felt the pressure of tears, deciding that when Jane wasn’t around she was going to ring Eirion on the quiet, find out what had gone wrong between them. Just wanting the kid to be happy.

‘This sort of location is actually more suited to the Cistercians,’ Jane said. ‘They liked to be way out on their own. But, see, that fits, too, because the Knights Templar were connected with the Cistercians. Through Bernard of Clairvaux? The top Cistercian fixer, smartest operator in the medieval Catholic Church?’

‘I know who you mean. I’m just impressed at the extent of your knowledge.’

‘It’s in the medieval history syllabus — just. Our history guy, Robbie Williams, it’s his period. So what happened, Bernard cleared up the problem the Templars had about being devout Christians and also having to kill people on a regular basis. Simple solution: he ruled that it was OK to kill non-Christians.’

‘Especially Muslims,’ Merrily said. ‘A medieval interpretation, which now seems to operate in reverse. What’s your point?’

‘Comes back to paganism again. Of all the medieval monastic orders, the Cistercians were the ones who most reflected pre-Christian religion. The old ways.’

‘Some sources might say that, but—’

‘Come on — natural successors to the Druids? Sheep farmers who liked relative isolation and were into ancient sites and earth-forces and sacred springs?’

‘Natural running water was very much prized in the days before taps,’ Merrily said. ‘And, sure, maybe they dowsed for it. That doesn’t mean—’

‘Garway Church has a holy spring, doesn’t it?’

‘It does. And if you can find somewhere to turn this car around we’ll go back and check it out. No, not there. Jane, keep your eyes on the—’

‘Did you see that sign?’ Jane’s head swivelling. ‘On the house?’

‘Mmm. I’m afraid I did.’

They’d passed a grey stone corner house which might once have been a pub and still had a big yellow sign on the side. THE SUN. A mystical golden sun, with a smug-looking, curled-lipped face and waving tendrils of radiance; below it were sunflowers and a naked figure on a horse. Merrily also noticed that the farmhouse almost opposite had a name plate: The Rising Sun.

‘It’s just an old pub sign, Jane, that’s all.’

‘Mum, it was like a giant tarot card. The Sun? And the Moon? This place had two pubs called The Sun and The Moon? That says nothing to you?’

‘I’m … reserving my opinion.’

‘I think I was probably guided to turn up this road.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘As above, so below,’ Jane said.

The holy well was at the bottom of the churchyard. Like most holy wells, it was disappointing. A trickle under the wall. Ribbons on a nearby bush, which could be down to either visiting pagans or local kids.

Jane crouched down, unzipping her white hoodie, holding cupped hands underneath the water. Merrily was reminded uncomfortably of the author Winnie Sparke, who had hung around the wells in Malvern, and what had happened to her.

‘Jane, you know how much I really hate doing the mother-hen bit, but that water …’

Jane looked into her cupped hands but didn’t drink the water. She smiled and dabbed some on her cheeks. Beyond the body of the church, the vertically-slit-eyed tower gazed down with what Merrily took to be a kind of benign cynicism.

‘If we go back to the church, we can see the outline of the original circular nave. Templar trade mark. Designed in honour of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem?’

‘On the other hand …’ Jane stood up and walked off to the edge of the churchyard ‘… if we go along here, we should be able to see the dovecote designed to commemorate the Beast 666.’

‘It’s on private land. We’d need to ask for permission.’

‘Not just to see it.’

Jane — why else was she here? — was already walking across a marshy-looking field towards the fringe of a farm with barns, storage tanks, a galvanized shed and some kind of stone silo. Merrily, wrong shoes, as usual — bugger — stepping uncertainly across a boggy bit, following a shallow stream, while slowly realizing that the stone silo on the edge of the farmyard clutter was probably what they were looking for.

She stopped and confronted it: a squat round tower, like a sawn-off, roofless hop-kiln. The fading sun balanced on its rim, Jane shading her eyes.

‘Doesn’t look very evil from here,’ Merrily said.

‘Why should it be evil?’ Jane turning in annoyance. ‘That’s just Christian propaganda. Anyway, recent translations of the Book of Rev from the ancient Greek suggest it might actually be six one six.’

‘Not being much of a Greek scholar, I may have to continue to be wary of 666.’

‘Whatever,’ Jane said, ‘it does suggest a kind of partly submerged mystical awareness, doesn’t it?’

‘It does?’

‘Sacred architecture.’

‘It’s a dovecote.’

‘Everything is significant. Another pointer to this whole hill being a store of arcane knowledge. I can’t believe Coops and his guys haven’t checked this place out. I need to ask him.’

‘Jane, I think—’

Merrily shut up. Some mothers with daughters, it was pregnancy, abortion, drugs. If the worst you had to worry about was your kid creating a fantasy landscape …

And Coops, of course. Maybe she ought to find out more about Coops.

‘Fantastic energy here, Mum.’ Jane began whirling around with her arms spread wide, eight years old again. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

‘Not to speak of, no.’

The sun had tucked itself under the rim of the tubular dovecote, the ground dropping into shadow, and Merrily was aware of a damp pattering, as Jane said, ‘You just don’t want to admit—’

And then was staggering back, something long and grey and damp surging between them.

‘God—’