Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘Garway Church?’

‘Before a congregation of mainly women praying for the boys at the front. Naomi Newton publicly telling Madog Gwilym he wasn’t a man. Imagine.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He’s supposed to’ve walked out of the church in this absolute dead silence. Following day, Naomi’s out collecting the eggs and he’s waiting for her, and he’s like I’ll show you whether I’m a man or not . Drags her into the trees and forces himself on her.’

‘She was raped?’

‘He denied it, of course, he said she was up for it, well, don’t they always— Well, no— Let me get this right, neither of them said anything at the time. Naomi didn’t tell anybody at first. Her brothers were at the war, the only man around was her father, John, well over sixty by then and working day and night to hold the farm together, and she knew what he’d do if he found out and she was afraid for his health. But then the worst happens. Finds out she’s pregnant … and she goes along, on the quiet, to … the local woman who deals with eventualities like this.’

‘Would that have been … Mrs Morningwood?’

‘Oh, you know. That’s all right, then. Her gran, this would be. She goes to Mrs Morningwood’s grandmother for an abortion. Mrs Morningwood obliges … but it all went horribly wrong. I don’t know what happened, but she got home and there was nobody in at the time, and she began to, you know, haemorrhage?’

‘Oh God. It wasn’t like you could pick up a phone and call for an ambulance.’

‘No. Whether she tried to … you know … sort it herself, nobody quite knows, but when my great-grandmother came in with Fliss, they found Naomi on the floor in the big room, in a big pool of blood, her life just … ebbing away. They hadn’t even known she was pregnant. They’re desperately trying to stop the bleeding and make her comfortable … got a big fire going, and somebody sent for Mrs Morningwood but, of course, it was too late. Mrs Morningwood was stricken with remorse, and my grandmother and Fliss, well …’

‘Must’ve been shattered and … furious.’

‘They say Mrs Morningwood could never show her face at the Master House again.’

Something clicked.

‘Aunt Fliss,’ Merrily said. ‘Felicity Newton?’

‘That’s right.’

First time I’d seen a dead ’un … Face like the skin on a cold egg-custard .

‘She was ninety-eight when she died,’ Roxanne said. ‘Whole village came to pay tribute. They say she was a lovely old girl. They laid her out where Naomi had died, in front of the inglenook, and everybody came.’

‘Even the Morningwoods.’

‘I’d guess. Likely the first time any of them’d been through that door since Naomi died. Wasn’t her fault, mind, she only tried to help. But they say my great-grandmother and Aunt Fliss could never sit in that room again without seeing Naomi trying to raise herself up on an elbow … you really want to know this? Gives me the creeps even now.’

‘Well, I probably don’t,’ Merrily said. ‘But on the other hand …’

She simply wouldn’t tamper with a foetus conceived at the Master House. Call it superstition .

Something else explained.

Roxanne leaned on the shoulders of a dining chair.

‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Something else to remember, when you go in there with your Bible and your holy water. I was eighteen before my mother told me about it. Wish she hadn’t bothered, sometimes.’

Roxanne sat down and poured herself some more of the powerful coffee from the pot and told it quickly.

‘Seems Naomi sits up in the blankets, blood all over her legs and the fire roaring behind her, and she curses Madog Gwilym – curses him in the name of the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay. Kind of … you know, last breath, before she lies down and dies.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

Ironically, the sun slid out in the south-east and filled the bay.

Merrily said, ‘Madog?’

‘Didn’t last the year out,’ Roxanne said. ‘Came out of one of the pubs one night – The Sun or The Globe, one or the other – saying he didn’t feel too well, and collapsed, stone dead at the side of the lane.’ Roxanne drank some coffee, winced. ‘What a place this is.’

A WHOLE SUMMER had come and gone since Merrily had seen him last. His hair was still long and rough but more yellow-white, now, like old bone, his dog collar faded to the colour of parchment.

He likes the effect he has, she thought, one hand on the kettle, one hand on the tap. This combination of old hippie and Victorian scholar. He’s very much aware of his image.

She hadn’t been back from Garway more than a few minutes before he’d trudged in with his case, a hand raised to Merrily, a nod to Mrs Morningwood, before pulling out a chair and spreading papers and books over the refectory table like dealing hands of cards.

‘I thought you weren’t coming till this afternoon.’

‘Got someone to see at two. Might be a bit knackered after that, Merrily. Up far too late last night, thanks to you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No consideration, this lass. Leave that for now. Sit down here. Read this.’

‘This is Huw Owen. Mrs Morningwood, Huw.’

‘Oh aye?’

Huw looked up over his reading glasses. Mrs Morningwood was wearing black jeans and another Army sweater with shoulder patches. Her injuries looked like war wounds and, if anything, worse than last night. One eye was half-closed and weeping; she wiped it with a tissue and put on her sunglasses.

‘I’ve got a sore shoulder,’ Huw said. ‘Reckon you can do owt?’

‘Massage, Mr Owen?’

‘I were thinking summat in a pot.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘Ta.’

Outside, it had started to rain out of a half-blue sky. Merrily accepted the pages of text Huw was waving at her, glimpsing a Maltese cross before he grabbed them back.

‘Save you some time and bullshit.’ He turned over a couple of the sheets, tapped a paragraph. ‘Start there.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s about how to become a Knight Templar,’ Huw said.

‘Now or then?’

‘For you, never. It’s a lads’ thing.’

Who comes here? Merrily read.

Answer: A pilgrim on his travels, hearing of a Knights Templar encampment, has come with a hope of being admitted .

‘This somebody’s primary school project, Huw?’

‘Save the sarcasm. Over the page and read the bit I’ve marked.’

Merrily sat down. Under the heading Obligation, she read about the pilgrim having his staff and cross taken away in exchange for a sword, placed in his hand by the Grand Commander.

After which, he swore that he would never knowingly take the blood of a brother Templar, but espouse the brother Templar’s cause, knowing it to be just. And if he failed …

‘Oh dear.’

… May my skull be sawn asunder with a rough saw, my brains taken out and put in a charger to be consumed by the scorching sun and my skull in another charger, in commemoration of St John of Jerusalem, that first faithful soldier and martyr of our Lord and Saviour. If ever I wilfully deviate from this my solemn obligation, may my light be put out from among men, as that of Judas Iscariot was for betraying his Lord and Master.

Merrily sighed, put down the papers. ‘Masons.’

‘Masonic Order of Knights Templar,’ Huw said. ‘But fear not. Only Christians are admitted.’

‘That’s good to know.’

‘It’s in the rules, lass.’

‘If you’re going to have your skull sawn open and your brains fried, best to have it done by a good Christian, that’s what I always say.’ Merrily propped her elbows on the table, chin falling into cupped hands. ‘Huw, I’m feeling tired already. This is a big subject, I’m a little woman. I know nothing about Freemasonry.’