C. Palov - Templar's Code

As the years passed, I never forgot the unsolved puzzle of the Bacon frontispiece. From time to time, I would make the acquaintance of a man who intimated that he had knowledge of the sacred relic. More than a few of my esteemed Royal Society fellows implied as much. While I have never profaned the name of God nor purposefully set my sights on Perdition’s pathway, in this one instance, those endowed with a less charitable bent may claim that I did well succeed at both endeavors.

“Astounding. I’ve always thought of Franklin as a brilliant boffin, but I must now add Machiavellian schemer to the list.” There was no mistaking the admiration in Caedmon’s voice. “Care for another slice of pie?”

About to put in an order for lemon meringue, Edie reluctantly shook her head at the last. “I’m a little confused. What do the Freemasons and the Royal Society have to do with Francis Bacon?”

“Given his slavish devotion to Bacon and the Bard, Rubin could better answer the question. He is, after all, the resident expert on the Knights of the Helmet. That said, I’ll take a stab.” As he spoke, Caedmon slowly twisted the silver signet ring. As though he was channeling the Templar grand master who wore it last. “During the mid-seventeenth century, there was a resurgent interest in Bacon and his utopian vision for creating a society dedicated to the principles of the hidden stream of knowledge.”

“I’ve heard this tune before.” Edie moved her hands through the air like a symphony conductor. “Alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic. The Unholy Trinity.”

“While the Royal Society promoted the advancement of philosophical, mathematical, and scientific learning, a good many fellows were secretly engaged in the occult. In fact, the most famous member of the Royal Society, Sir Isaac Newton, was utterly obsessed with alchemy.”

Hearing that, Edie nearly gagged on her coffee. “Isaac Newton was an alchemist!?”

“The aim of alchemy is to glean the secret of creation, the Genesis code a tempting lure for any man.”

“And the Freemasons? Where do they fit into the picture?”

“Despite their outrageous claims of an ancient pedigree, the Freemasons were founded in 1717. And it’s no coincidence that the founding members were all fellows in the Royal Society.”

“So, it makes perfect sense for Benjamin Franklin to join the Philadelphia Lodge. He figured the Freemasons might have the lowdown on the Emerald Tablet given their interest in the occult.”

“And while he was at it, Franklin could climb the social ladder and gain entrée into the charmed circles of English society. Armed with wit, charisma, and innate intelligence, Dr. Franklin ascended to the top rung, that of grand master. A brilliant move, really. Given the rigid class structure of the eighteenth century, becoming a Freemason enabled Franklin, an autodidactic of humble birth, to hobnob with the crème de la crème.”

“Do you think there’s any chance he actually found the Emerald Tablet?”

Blue eyes gleaming, Caedmon handed her the next page of Franklin’s handwritten missive. “I am keen to find out.”

CHAPTER 59

In 1765, I returned to London a loyal supporter of the king. I leave ten years later an embittered traitor to the Crown. Continually I did urge harmonious accord between parent and child, my efforts for naught. May Providence prove me wrong, but I fear the relationship is now strained beyond repair. My actions this night will further weaken the fragile bond. As fate would have it, the object that has long held my fascination is at the heart of the severance. I speak, of course, of the Emerald Tablet.

Unlike my first youthful sojourn, I arrived in London a Freemason grand master and Royal Society fellow. Soon after my arrival, a fellow Mason, his tongue loosened with drink, let slip that Sir Francis Dashwood had been entrusted with the Brothers’ most sacred relic. The man’s name was familiar enough to me, Dashwood a known confidant of the king. Having caught the scent, I immediately set about to make Dashwood’s acquaintance. As those in the upper echelons will attest, Dashwood is a charming fellow, possessed of a courtier’s manners and the morals of a whore. Indeed, he lived his life ad libitum , always at pleasure’s beck and call. Furthermore, he surrounded himself with a handpicked circle, a privileged gathering of freethinkers, libertines, and artists, all members of the aristocratic class who held to the shared belief that they were exempt from the rules that bound the lower castes.

I secured an invitation to join Dashwood and his compatriots for an evening’s revel. Laughter the most expedient means to gain a man’s confidence, I liberally peppered my speech with bawdy jests and risqué witticisms. Over the years, I had perfected the art of playing the fool, the jester often the wisest man at court, privy to all manner of intrigue. To my surprise, I discovered that Dashwood and his inner circle, Freemasons all, spent a goodly amount of time plotting the course of king and empire. Their political discourse exposed a surprising undercurrent, the king’s confidant not as enamored of the royal personage as he did profess in public. In truth, Dashwood held a low opinion of the monarch and expressed disdain for the monarchy in general. With the conceit of the high born, Dashwood claimed that society would be better served if educated men of high rank served as overseers for a new world order. Having read the New Atlantis , I recognized the scheme. Dashwood and his associates had taken upon themselves the role played by the scholars who resided at Solomon’s House. Dashwood ardently maintained that society’s salvation is entirely dependent upon men of noble birth, the “anointed ones” who will implement Bacon’s utopian vision. Because of their superior intellect, they would decide each man’s lot in life, be he yeoman or tinsmith or printer. And as the most exalted members of society, Dashwood and his inner circle would also be the guardians of the sacred teachings. The common man, dumb as dirt, must content himself with plowing the field and printing the page while the intellectual elites busied themselves creating a new religion that would merge the three people of the Book. In Dashwood’s utopia, Christians, Hebrews, and Muslims would all worship the Light, as man did in the days when the pharaohs ruled, occultism woven into the very warp and woof of their Masonic scheme. Privately, I took issue with all of this. Indeed, a benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant.

As the months passed, I proved myself an amiable companion, Dashwood confiding all manner of secrets to me. Indeed, he once boasted that he could ride ten whores in a single night. While I applauded his stamina, I questioned the veracity of the claim. To validate the allegation, Dashwood invited me to join his “monks” on their next unholy pilgrimage. My curiosity piqued, I readily accepted the invitation.

Several nights later, our pilgrimage illuminated by a ponderous full moon, we traveled by gondola up the Thames to a ruined abbey in the vicinity of West Wycombe, known to the locals as Medmenham Abbey. Our arrival was announced with the somber toll of the cloister bell. As we disembarked, a manservant handed each monk a brown cowl to don. Properly attired, we made our way in single-file procession. One of our party, a deep baritone, took up a popish chant. We entered a subterranean sanctuary beneath the abbey and were ushered to the chapter room. The sanctuary contained a stone altar and a painted mural of Harpocrates, finger to lips, cautioning the assembled adherents to silence. We were soon greeted by a timorous nun attired in a Capuchin habit and a stern-faced priest in a dark cassock. To my utter astonishment, the priest raised his robe, shoved the nun onto the altar, and proceeded to roger her in full view of the friars. Clearly enjoying themselves, the pair sang bestial hosannas. The priest brayed like a he-ass; the nun cooed like David’s turtledove. My host turned to me and said slyly, “Nothing quite as inspiring as a holy man performing his officium divinum. ” “His sacred duty made all the more pleasurable by having such a delectable vessel beneath him,” I replied, beginning to suspect that sacrilegious amusements were commonplace at Medmenham. Indeed, a horde of nuns soon entered the sanctuary, their appearance setting off a blazing feu de joie . Had there ever been a more impious gathering? Later I was informed that the “pilgrimage” had been my initiation into the club’s inner circle. A sinner circle, God help me.