The Templar's Code (27 page)

Keeping that assessment very much to herself, she pasted a bland expression on her face as she examined Tweedy Bird’s boudoir. Floor, walls, and even the ceiling were covered in dark-stained wood, most of it heavily carved. The bed, which took center stage in the room, was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The four-poster and attached canopy were massive. At the foot of the bed was a raised wooden cradle. Like the bed mattress, it was stacked with books. On the walls were gilt-framed oil paintings. All that was missing was Henry VIII holding a big, greasy drumstick.

“I think the axmen felled an entire forest to build this room.” No sooner was the observation made than Edie winced, realizing, too late, that she’d spoken aloud. Worried that she may have inadvertently insulted their prickly host, she apologetically smiled.

“Oak is a hard wood resistant to wormwood.” Rubin gestured to the intricately carved panel insets on the bed’s headboard. “The flamboyant carving on these magnificent panels is a true and accurate reflection of late-sixteenth-century England, the Golden Age of Elizabeth ushering in the glorious Age of Exploration. Do be seated.”

Command issued, Rubin parked his tweed-covered bottom in a pretentious oak armchair with a decorative motif painted on the back; Caedmon took the Tudor X chair, the entire thing, including the wooden legs, upholstered in mauve velvet. That left a backless wood stool with a tasseled cushion for her. For some reason she felt like the odd man out in musical chairs.

“You’ve yet to disclose the reason for your sudden interest in Sir Francis Bacon.”

Knowing the remark wasn’t directed to her, Edie sat silent, wondering how much Caedmon would divulge. When she’d earlier quizzed him on the same topic, he’d evasively said that it would all depend on Rubin.

For several seconds Caedmon stared at his hands, neatly folded in his lap. Then, raising his head, he looked their host directly in the eye. “I need to know that what we say here today will be held in the strictest confidence.”

Rubin solemnly pointed an index finger to the ceiling, directing their attention to the carved Tudor rose above them. “As you no doubt know, the ancient symbol of the rose traces its parentage to Eros, the god of love, who created the first rose, which he presented to Harpocrates, the god of silence. Sub rosa, my friend. You have my word
.
”

“Very good. That said, I wish to hold off a bit on the disclosure. Probably better if you first put flesh to bone so that I have a proper frame on which to pose my query.”

“My curiosity is piqued.
That said,
I’ll chuck the both of you through the window if you don’t come clean.” Rubin emphasized the threat by jutting his double chin at the double-hung window on the other side of the room. “My own interest in Sir Francis stems from the fact that he was, above all else, a man of mystery.”

“Not to mention a jack-of-all-trades,” Caedmon commented. “As I recall, he was a barrister, a philosopher, a playwright, a courtier, and a high-ranking statesmen, having served as James the First’s Lord Chancellor.”

Rubin crossed one tweed-clad knee over the other, flicking a piece of lint from his pant leg. “Indeed, Sir Francis devoted the whole of his life to exploring and investigating the universe’s hidden stream of knowledge.”

Hearing that, Edie’s head jerked, her gaze involuntarily dropping to the silver ring on Caedmon’s right hand.

Testis sum agnitio.
I am a witness to knowledge.

She and Caedmon shared a quick furtive glance. Was there a connection between Francis Bacon and the Knights Templar?

“Furthermore, Sir Francis founded several fraternal societies,” Rubin continued, oblivious to the bombshell he had just dropped, “that served as clearinghouses for the advancement of the hidden stream of knowledge. The most interesting, by far, being a secret society known as the Knights of the Helmet. The group met at Gray’s Inn in London.”

“Composed of writers, poets, and philosophers, it was an inspired gathering of the intelligentsia and literati of Elizabethan England,” Rubin continued. “To aid in the dissemination of the hidden stream of knowledge, the Knights of the Helmet owned and operated their own printing press, which enabled them to anonymously publish some of their more provocative ideas.”

“It’s a strange name, isn’t it, the Knights of the Helmet?”

“A tongue-in-cheek reference to the goddess of wisdom,” Caedmon explained. “Pallas Athena was usually depicted wearing a helmet and carrying a spear. The helmet symbolized secrecy and the spear represented a ray of light. Which, in turn, symbolized divine wisdom.”

“And shaking her ray of divine wisdom, Pallas Athena would slay the dragon of ignorance,” Rubin said as he raised his right arm and shook it high above his head. Point made, he lowered his arm, taking a moment to fuss with his jacket sleeve. “If you have not yet guessed at the correct answer, Pallas Athena was an ancient spear shaker. Intellect and wisdom incarnate. Residing at Parnassus, the Mount of Inspiration, she was
the
divine muse.”

“ ‘Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth than those old nine,’ ” Caedmon quoted, she presumed from the great man himself, Sir Francis Bacon.

“Of course, Bacon wasn’t the only notable luminary in the Knights of the Helmet.” Rubin folded his arms over his chest, clearly warming to the topic. “Two other members deserving of praise should be singled out. I’m referring to Sir Walter Ralegh, who, in addition to being a sea mariner, was a talented poet and first-rate historian, and the famous mathematician and magician Dr. John Dee.”

Sir Francis Bacon, Sir Walter Ralegh, and Dr. John Dee.
The philosopher, the explorer, and the magus. The three men involved, either directly or indirectly, with Yawgoog’s sacred stone. The Elizabethan Trinity.

“You mentioned intellect and wisdom, but what about this so-called hidden stream of knowledge?” she asked. “I still don’t have a clue what you mean by that.”

A slow Cheshire-like smile worked its way onto Rubin’s face. “Ah, time to delve into the murky realm of
alchymia, kabbalah,
and
magia.
”

“Otherwise known as the magical mystery tour,” Edie quipped. Seeing the instant glower on Rubin’s face, she chuckled. “Okay. Sorry. I forgot that as a former punk-rock roadie, you
despise
the Beatles.”

Turning away from her with a noticeable huff, Rubin tugged his vest over his midsection. As though rearranging his personal dignity. “The occult practices of alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic constituted the three branches of the hidden stream of knowledge.”

“Are you saying that Bacon and the other members of the Knights of the Helmet were occult practitioners?” When Rubin nodded, Caedmon said, “That being the case, they were heretics of the first order.”

“And in the early seventeenth century, accusations of heresy were treated with the solemnity and intrusiveness of a proctology exam. King James had a dread fear of the so-called dark arts and had more than one heretic condemned to death.”

Shuddering, Edie murmured that most horrific of chants. “Burn, witch.”

“And they very nearly did. Dee, an antiquarian, maintained a magnificent library at Mortlake, his country estate. Unfortunately, the passion of a lifetime was not only ransacked by a vigilante mob, but very nearly went up in flames.” Shaking his head, Rubin intoned, “God save us from the ignorant in our midst. Their hatred knows no bounds.”

“Unfortunately, every century has its Kristallnacht,” Caedmon said quietly, the mood in the room having turned decidedly maudlin.

Suddenly, like a spiky-haired jack-in-the-box, Rubin shot to his feet. “I think refreshments are in order.” He took several steps toward the door, only to abruptly stop in his tracks. He turned toward Caedmon. “I know this is a few years late, Peter, but I never had an opportunity to express my condolences for your loss. It was a grievous day when Juliana left us.”

“Quite. Thank you. Very kind,” Caedmon mumbled.

“Yes, well, won’t be but a moment.” With that, Rubin headed for the door.

Not exactly sure what had just transpired between “Peter” and Rubin, Edie stared at the man sitting next to her. The man she thought she knew.

Caedmon, his cheeks stained a vivid shade of choke-berry red, cleared his throat. “Given the awkward silence, I’d say that went over like a lead balloon.”

“Try plutonium. It weighs more.”

“Was Juliana your wife?”

“Good God! No!”

Caught off his stride, well aware that he’d overreacted to Edie’s question, Caedmon cleared his throat.

He began again, calmer this time. “No, Juliana was not my wife.”

“Okay, we’ve cleared that hurdle. So, who was she?”

Hit with a barrage of painful memories, Caedmon got up from his chair and walked over to the bed. His memories were more violent, more brutal, than most. He tried to block the horrific images of charred, mutilated flesh. Tried and failed miserably. He wrapped his hand around the elaborately carved post. Holding on for dear life.

In a carefully measured voice, he replied, “Juliana Howe was the woman that I loved.”

“I see,” Edie replied in an equally measured tone.

“No, you don’t. Because the truth of the matter is that Juliana died a horrible death that I could have prevented had I only—” He stopped abruptly. Although no longer in MI5’s employ, he was duty-bound to keep silent.

Lies and deception. It was happening all over again. The silence between them lengthened. Edie wordlessly stared at him with her sad, beautiful brown eyes.

To hell with my duty.
Edie had a right to know—although there was a very good chance that once she found out about his sordid past, she’d want nothing more to do with him.

Uncertain how to begin, he picked up a leather-bound volume from the bed. An eighteenth-century edition of Samuel Johnson’s
Dictionary of the English Language.
He absently thumbed through it. Belatedly realizing that he was stalling, he put it back on the bed.

“As you already know, when I left Oxford I was recruited by MI5. Juliana Howe was a rising star at the BBC. Five learned that she had extensive contacts in the North African community here in London and decided to insert an officer. I went undercover as Peter Willoughby-Jones specifically so I could meet Jules, establish a rapport, and, once I gained her trust, find out everything I could about an Algerian arms-smuggling ring.”

“ ‘Establish a rapport’—is that spy lingo for sleeping with the enemy?”

“She wasn’t the enemy,” he replied, quick to come to Jules’s defense. “She was a brilliant investigative reporter who had a
very
low opinion of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. That said, yes, I did sleep with her. I then made the grievous mistake of falling in love with her. Grievous because I was forced to keep Five’s dirty little secret. The charade
must
be maintained. National Security depended upon it.” He caustically laughed.

Getting up from her stool, Edie walked toward him. “If it caused you so much distress, why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”

“I couldn’t. . . . She wasn’t vetted by Five. And, even if she had been, I would have lost her had I ever confessed that the absentminded man who kept the antiquarian bookshop in Cecil Court was a spook in Her Majesty’s Security Service. Although in the end, that’s exactly what happened. . . . I lost her. And all because of my damned spook job.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“I had a last-minute briefing at Thames House, which caused me to be an hour late picking up Juliana.” As he spoke, the muscles in his belly began to painfully tighten. “In those sixty minutes, Juliana Howe became the random victim of a well-planned bomb attack. Had I put Jules before my bloody job—” He stopped in midstream, the memory no easier to bear now than it had been five years ago.

“It wasn’t your fault, Caedmon.” Then, no doubt thinking him a dense bloke, she again said, this time more forcefully, “The bomb blast wasn’t your fault.”

“Intellectually, I know that. But here”—he put his hand over his heart—“in this visceral place that obeys no law of reason, I am very much to blame. And knowing that I was to blame, I used the resources of British Intelligence to track down the ringleader who ordered the bomb blast. And then I killed the Irish bastard. In cold blood. Old Testament vengeance.”

“Wh-what happened next?”

Caedmon heard the hitch in her voice. Saw the tears in her eyes. He feared it was the beginning of the end.

“Inundated with New Testament guilt, I sought solace in a gin bottle. Dove right in. Stayed in a pickled state until the boys at Five dried me out. I was then sent packing, seconded to MI6. It was quite a demotion. I spent the next few years operating a safe house in Paris before Five finally decommissioned me. Booted me right out the door.”
Free to grapple with my demons
.