The Templar's Bowl

 

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2011

 

Chapter 3: A Demon in God's Service
'Friar Hamet McCorvy'

 

Neither of my parents could admonish me.  I honestly believe the whole affair brought them closer, affirming that at least I could consider the possibility of moving through the world of time and space of my own free will.  I don't know why, but the whole episode left me feeling taller!  It also left me feeling lost.  I had so many questions about my new friends, but could not even express that I had made not one, but three new friends.  I knew that I would see them again, but I was not sure of the where or the when.  I supposed it would be on another dark night when I would again be a solitary being in an otherwise empty universe; but I was barely ten and knew little of Scottish Friars or Templar Knights.

Less than three days later, I was again testing my newfound freedom by rolling onto the deck (father had built a railing high enough to keep me from flying off, but short enough to allow me to see over it).  And as I sat there in the cool Canadian sunshine, surrounded by all manner of people walking on the path past our home, a ragged Friar seemed to appear in the distant forest in front of my deck.

“Master Richard!” he called while still a great distance off.  “Ga'gee ya' go'day, lad!”

“What?”  I giggled back, surprised for a second time by the clarity of the words from my lips.

“Ach, know you nothin', lad?  A good day!  God give to you a good day!”  The ancient spirit pulled up to a spot on the deck next to me.  “I find your education wanting a bit, boy.  Of what school are ye?” he grinned at me.  “I'll box the devil from the old Friar's ears that leaves his student so lacking!”

He was now up and dancing merrily about, fists flying in the air.  An odd thing for a Templar, a part of their beliefs prohibited the free use of laughter.  But as centuries wore on, I do believe that certain 'enlightenments' had come upon them.  As Brother Theo had explained to me, if we were made in God's true image, then indeed He must have a sense of humor too, for laughter seems as natural to men as buzzing is to bees.  So, from Hamet the Scotsman, I came to know a sound that I had heard little of in my short life—laughter.  When Hamet finished his comic fury, he tumbled down next to me and we laughed together.

“That's better, boy.  You have a solemn look about you, but we'll change all that.”  He smiled.  “Now tell, are you of what clan?”

I thought very hard for a moment and then asked, “Friar, what's a clan?”

“A clan?  Clan is a word of the Scot tongue.  It means 'the children.'  You Saxons would say 'family,' I guess.  Of what family are you belonging to?”

“Oh!  I have a sister, Beth...”

  “The dear child that speaks her prayers in French so well?”

“You know Beth, sir?”

“We've heard her prayers, boy.  She does not see us, but she knows we are here. The ground we walk upon is holy, praise to God!”  There was that name again!

For the first time in my life I was aware of 'time.' If I could have reached up and pushed the sun backwards I would have, to selfishly keep the good Friar talking to me forever.  I had never thought of the world beyond my vision, but Hamet had pointed his hands at the sea from whence he came and I knew he would take me to a whole new place I never believed existed.  Then, I further scandalized the good friar by admitting my parents had never schooled me, my life being too short in duration for it to be of any value to me.  I believe to this day I wounded Hamet's spirit by admitting I knew nothing of God.

“Beaumond was right, lad.  We have purpose with you.  I'll give you the knowing of letters, Brother Theo of sums... he's very good, and!  He knows both Roman and Arabic ways!  God you will come to know for yourself, in His time.”

True to his word, Friar Hamet began the arduous task of educating me, a task no one had paid much mind to.  I learned quickly when my breathing allowed.  On those days when I was abed with that awful mask over my face, the good Friar would sit at the edge of my bed and tell me stories of valiant Templar Knights and wondrous sights, and of great battles of sea and land and miraculous events. It would be several years before I realized these tales that so delighted my imagination were things he had seen with his own eyes.

I liked Hamet very much, but there were times he drifted far away from where we were and I could feel a deep, deep sorrow come over him.  In such a manner I did come to learn of himself, of Clan McCorvy, of the Poor Fellow Knights and of the great weight he carried upon his shoulders—and of the task set upon him and his fellows.  In the many hours we sat on that little porch, watching the ships roll by, I learned of how faith can change the man by changing the man's faith.

 

The Monk Hamet McCorvy

 

I am Hamet McCorvy, of Clan McCorvy so-named, Monk-Friar and Templar Warrior. I have drifted this world for near ten centuries, atoning for the sins of my reckless life, cursed by Phillip, of whom many call The Fair, King of France, to do the Lord's guard until time itself ends.  I have seen the glory of God most high, and the falling of many mighty nations of men.

Aye, such was the fall of Jerusalem in those days of the first crusade, 1099, Anno Domini.  Those days I shall curse in my heart until the second coming of Christ, the Lord.  Young Hamet in those days learned the joys of killing as a thing to itself.  It was not for God's glory, but for greed and lust for blood.  Yet here, at the lowest point any soul or mine could fall to, did my life truly begin.

At a meaningless Saracen town on the edge of forever, the Captain of the French guard is held at bay by a small force of desert warriors.  They prepare to charge, knowing the great Palfreys and Destriers the French ride have no room to turn to fight.  They will take many French heads, mounted on their small but agile horses.  “Can you stop them?  Can you stop their charge?” asks the Pope's man.  The French Captain surveys the forces arrayed against him.  “No!” was his response.

“But we can!” a voice cries out in hot anger.  “And by Christ's Wounds, we will!”

How strange, the last answering voice from a little known place.  The Great War Lord of the French lifts his eyes to where the voice has come.  Behold the servant of the house of Anjou.  It is the strange man from the land of Scots.  Brought to pay a debt owed by clan McCorvy, he is chieftain to but two hundred footmen.

The brave Captain studies the outsider with great care.  His boast is a dangerous one.  He is a smallish man, but there is wildness in his eyes, which be darker than coal.  His black, tousled hair falls freely over his shoulder and down his back.  He has no armour save a broad leather belt and shoulder climb, which carries a massive Claymore, such as we call the great swords of Scotland, and a round brass and wooden buckler.  Neither he nor his men wear mail, nor display the Cross of the True Faith in this heathen land, but dress in a strangely fitted dark spun blanket they call Tartan that wraps about their body and—save the oddly chequering of the cloth it is made from—they bear no standard at all.  His legs are bare as he wears that device.  Many of that number carry long poles, the size of a tall man twice, with a pointed piece of metal a hand's width wide and two fingers thick at the point.  As long as a short sword's point, a point so sharp a sword would envy it.  The Captain of the French has watched them fight in strange, tight groups they called Shilton.

And again, the angry voice speaks out.  “A debt owed we came to pay, and now we'll pay up.  I've brought wild lads who come with murder in the hearts.  Pull back yer destriers and palfreys and get the hell out of our way.  Pull to the sides yer footmen and wait.  Well stop a charge, or hang us for a'tryin'.  We know well the space your animals need to turn and charge.  I'll meet this rabble halfway to their gate and send them all to Saracen Hell long before you get there.  Now stand tall and see how a Scot does war with the heathen!”

A glance but passes from Knight to Knight.  In the year of Our Lord, 1099, this first Crusade has gone well, but the nearer we come to our goal, the fiercer the fighting becomes.  Things change, and God sees to Justice!  The Saracen Warriors, lightly armoured and mounted on small swift horses, now attack quickly and disappear before a blow can be struck.  We did not know it then but our success was merely the good luck of surprise.  These chivalrous warriors of Allah would one day drive us back and makes us pay greatly for our sin.

The French pull back and, from the line that forms, the Scots walk towards the gathering Moslem cavalry.  It was a wailing noise that filled the air and thundered throughout the land.  Wind through strong pipes raised a fearful sound as if a tribe of devil spirits did come forth.  A wilder bunch the house of the caliph neer a' seen afore, and 'pon these old just bones I swear it so.  They marched a quick step, still as death itself, and gathered more like a herd than an army.

At full gallop the first riders came, and clean through them went our long points, the speed of the mounts pushing our spear tips cleanly through their bodies.  As they jerked and whirled, the Scot at the other end of the pole would not release his victim but carried him about, dangling and bouncing on the pole's sweet end.  And hold they did!  'Til rider from mount did fall, and the long shank be pushed out the other side of the dying rider.

See them!  The first line is pulled away, up rises the second, taking aim at the nasal guard or helm on the next to come to line.  The rites are performed again and again, each line replacing the one before it and reforming.  The field is soon littered with fallen Moslem knights.  They no longer ride hard.  They clatter and bump each another as skittering animals slide, and woe to the knight fallen, for there be a Claymore and a wild Scot a-waitin' when they hit ground.

In great disorder and confusion the riders be put.  The mountless Scots climb up the backs of the animals to drive dagger to throat or helmet of screaming men.  In and about they steal amongst the great clustering mass of metal and leather and beasts and cause a fearsome mischief.

With havoc and madding joy, I drove my men forward much to the horror of Christian and Infidel alike.  We laid bare the city of everything living.  As wolves we had put upon our perceived foe, ripping and stabbing—and when their charge had been smashed, their knights destroyed, we charged their gate and were through before the slow-witted French thought to join our numbers.

On that day so long past, we butchered near 5,000 souls in that town and said it was for God.  “Deus lo Volt!” the French cry.  “God wills it!”  As if God or Allah or the devil himself would justify our slaughter, 'cause we murdered in His name!

The great French lord, Renyar du Poitier, had seen me lead the Scots to the terrible slaughter inflicted on the Moslem.  He raised me even above his own, so pleased with my butchery was he, giving me a great coat of mail armour, a sword of clever fashion and strong, a horde of knighted m'lords and footmen to command.  For nearly ten years I was mad drunk on Saracen blood.  My fortune was growing great, and I lived in the palace of a Sultan of the Palestine.  My peers had left for the green hills of home years ago, but home for me was the sword angrily clenched in my fist—more home than Scotland, more than palace, and well more than the love of God I claimed to fight for.

But in the year of Our Lord, 1118, God revealed to me a miracle.  I was driven from my troops in a terrible battle, my mount killed from under me.  So sound a knock did my nog gather that I cannot tell you to this day which way the battle went.  When my senses returned, however, I was sitting in an ocean of dead men.

This sight to my eye was no horror and, to my shame, I laughed in glee that again I lived while those about me perished.  But as I rose to walk the wilderness, a voice of great sweetness called to me.

“Hamet of the Scots, lower thy'sel to knee for the Lord of Hosts hath need of you, so speak I His words!”

Sech a sound neer you've heard, but of the words I hath no mind.  I faced to the voice, and sech a creature as never you nor I have ever beheld stood in great radiance before me.  Its body shone as the desert sun, and it hurt mine eyes to look upon it.  Its body was naked and was in no shame, as he was of spirit and perfect in God's eye.  In his left hand was a shield of gold that glowed with a great sheen, and in his right a sword with a two handguard grip, and it had the appearance of Christ's Cross.

“Of what great lord are thee?” asks foolish Hamet, as if he knew not!  “I am great unto myself and whole armies do my biding, so I say to you again—of what lord are thee to call me away from my desires and tasks?”

“Hamet,” the spirit cries out, “who is like to God?  Lay your shield aside and cast off your heavy coat of mail!  The Lord God, Jehovah, will protect you from the arrows and lances of men!  He tasks you.  A great and precious treasure is thine to take charge of, so that the world of man may have light through the darkness.”

“And of what great treasure is this?” says a great fool and sinner.  “I have palaces and castles filled with gold and silver, and precious gems wrenched from the bowels of the earth and pearls from the sea.  Be gone, creature, lest I put upon you in great anger and hurt thee badly!”  So set was I in my meaning, I drew blade and struck.  Great woe to wicked Hamet, sinner and fool.

I struck but once upon the great shield, and as my blade touched the blessed metal, I was set upon by legions of spirits and thrown into the depths of the great hell and chained to a rock.  I was made to see the endless line of innocent souls who had died at my command, and the most horrifying were those who died by mine own sword, whose eyes I had looked in as my blade ran them through.

After an eternity, the spirit did appear and sayeth unto me, “Hamet of Scotland, see what your sword has caused?  Here you will stay for all of forever if you do not give homage and praise to the Lord of Hosts, so foul black is your wicked soul.  Yet the Lord God has seen your valour and courage, and knows your true heart!  Your God has great need of such a warrior.  A treasure belonging to you and all men will He give back now, if you will but lift the cross 'pon your shoulder.”

On that day was the great Hamet made humble.  In great fear of eternal damnation I praised the God of Moses and, freed from my bounds, was brought again to the world of men, made to kneel before God's messenger.

“I will take God's task, for His sake, need you but tell me what I must do.”

The glorious creature pointed to the endless desert and was gone.  I have never seen it since.

I followed in that direction for many days, praying to God for forgiveness and in great torment of body and soul.  When I knew I could go no farther, my body blistered from the ancient sun and near mad for want of water, God delivered me.  I came across a small place of fig trees and of a small pool of water—cool, sweet, and fresh.

As I blessed Him for my deliverance, I was made to see the way that Hamet's life was to go.  Leaned twixt a fig tree and a great stone, in a place so small that even thee, young master Thompson, could not fit, rested the bones of some ancient Cistercian Monk, a Saracen's arrow through his back.  Clutched in his hands, sech as they were, was clasped a small, strangely marked clay bowl which he had used in the Mass to give Communion to those of the barren regions that were his diocese.  In my heart I knew my journey was to begin by taking on the Monk's calling.  Thus, Hamet the warrior became Hamet the Monk.

I took from his bones these tattered white robes and the bowl he cherished and, taking with me such water as the bowl could carry, found Jerusalem.  There, at the great monastery, I took the vows of Chastity, Poverty, and Obedience to the Word of God through the order of these White Robed Monks.  Such peace as I have never known did I find there in the simple things of life.  In the year of our Lord 1123, however, as I went about my simple daily chores, did I spy the fair French Knight Hugh de Payens, in whose hand was clasped a two handguarded sword as the messenger of God did carry, talking with my Abbott.

I was told Payens and his few followers were of a brotherhood of poor Christian knighted men who had sworn the same vows as I, renouncing all save the clothes they wore and the swords in their hands, and took their purpose in life to be the protecting of pilgrims as they made their way through the Holy Lands to worship God at the great shrines.

With the grace of my Abbott and moved by the hand of God, I joined the company of Payens to walk the world of men in a monk's white robe, carrying but the clay bowl from which I ate and said these poor fellow knights their masses, and a sword to defend the name of God.

 

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