Although I had sketched out several pleasant walks back to my hotel, it was difficult to leave this cloistered area of tree-lined walkways and secluded plazas set amid ancient gray buildings. I was being called. Following an unheard voice, I found myself threading my way deeper into the labyrinth of shaded promenades and hidden mews. I continued past that centuries-old font of legal tradition, the Inns of Court, into the heart of the historic area until I rounded a corner to find a heavily buttressed Norman-gothic sanctuary crowned with battlements and a bell turret. Temple Church was the spiritual home of the Knights Templars, a order founded to protect the passage of Christian pilgrims to the Holy Land around the time of the Second Crusade, and the church takes its name from the Temple of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. The church's west portal is framed by seven arches, richly carved with ancient saints and kings, and walking beneath soaring trefoil heliostats of Purbeck marble, I passed into its cool darkness. Small shafts of autumn sunlight streamed through stained glass windows and washed the stone floor with delicate hues of red, blue, and yellow. A recurring theme in the windows was the knights, their white tunics each displaying the crusaders' large red cross on the chest. The floor of the church bore the tombs of nine knights near the altar, each warrior recreated in a life-size stone effigy atop his grave. As I passed by, I sent a spiritual acknowledgment to each monument. Nothing came back but an empty echo. The spirits had long ago departed and moved on to other lives and other lessons. But when I sent a hello to the last tomb, my greeting was returned. Someone was still in there. Had I located the source of the call? I checked the brass nameplate. Having an interest in family genealogy, I often come across ancestors' graves in Europe, but this was different. He was William Marshal, a 23-times great-grandfather from the 13th century. His effigy (see photo above) was clad in full chain mail, with a helmet and spurs, and his right hand carried a battle shield while his left bore a broadsword. Earl of Pembroke, advisor to King John, and hereditary Lord Marshal of England, Marshal was called The Flower of Chivalry, and was well regarded for his honor and fidelity. When Henry III became king at age nine, it was Marshal who was selected to be the boy's guardian until he was old enough to assume the throne. And when Prince William of Normandy was on his deathbed, it was Marshal to whom he entrusted his personal crucifix, asking that is be returned to its final rest in Jerusalem. Above all, Marshal had been a supporter of the Templars as they grew from an order of mendicant knights to a powerful international society with enormous wealth and vast land holdings. But my mystery remained. As I stood by the damp chancel wall beside smooth marble columns that rose to a delicately fan-vaulted ceiling, I tried to discover why this spirit had sent out such a strong signal. Since I was able to pick up his beacon, perhaps I could look a few layers deeper. The warm brown walnut pews nearby were worn smooth by centuries of worship, and I took a seat and closed my eyes. The first thing I became aware of was Marshal's signature vibration, a deep blue, but he also had energy filaments or cords connecting him with spiritual beings that guided and guarded the Order. Even though the Templars were no longer in existence, the guardian beings were still there. I sensed a request from Marshal to assist him in removing these filaments, and as I did, he also began to release encircling wreaths of archaic admonitions that he continue to be the Knight Flawless. Then I began to perceive other swirls of energy encircling and enshrouding him in a gray cloak. These were why he had sent out a call, and the reason I was there. As I focused in, the pew creaked as an elderly lady sat down, nodded and smiled to me, then silently read from her Book of Common Prayer. Having my eyes closed was perfect behavior in church, so I went back to my business. I fit right in. My perception was that near the close of his life, Marshal made some nonverbal spiritual promise to maintain all the traditions and secrets of the Templars, and he was still being the repository for those traditions, which he carried in a dense white-gray cloud around him. But to keep this promise required him to maintain these energies forever, and it didn't allow him to move on and evolve as a spirit. As our mutual work continued, it was like watching a photograph develop. One by one, the impacted promises released and dispersed. Some were about ritual, some were about alchemy, and some were about the Templar treasury. A surprising number were about mysticism the Templars had absorbed from Islam while in the Holy Land, and since Islam was the very culture the Order were sent to subdue, this was a secret indeed. "What you resist, you become." The protection energy around him to maintain these obligations was impressive. Temple Church survived the 1666 Fire of London, and the night in 1941 when German bombs sent the flaming roof crashing into the sanctuary. Many of the other knights' graves were damaged, and the heat was intense enough to split the marble columns, but William Marshal's tomb was untouched. So there was Marshal, eight hundred years later, still maintaining old obligations but seeking a way to release them and move on. Calling on a twentieth-century descendant for assistance was a pretty smart idea. Throughout this, I was surprised how detached I felt, acting mostly as a technician, grounding off layers of guardian agreements and helping him release the vows and responsibility. As Marshal began to let his own life-force energy flow, his communication changed from an automatic distress beacon to something more relaxed, and even to a "thank you." He was getting ready to move on. Promises made long ago can have an effect. Suppose you spent a monastic life reciting prayers for the three great medieval virtues, poverty, chastity, and obedience. Usually your life force drains from these vows, but occasionally they endure past that lifetime. Look around your world. Do you sometimes feel as if you've taken a vow of poverty? Maybe you are keeping a promise you really want to release. If you talk to God, you may find God quite amused about the situation and in favor of your taking back your free will. When I felt my job was complete, the timing was perfect, because late afternoon brought a German tour group that loudly ooh-ed and ah-ed over the church's soaring vault and delicately carved seraphs. As I opened my eyes, I found that the sun had left the colored windows, and the sanctuary was growing chilly. When I took a last look at the tomb, I found that it had become, like the other monuments, just an interesting pile of stone. The spirit had moved on as fluidly as a retreating wave leaves the shore, and when I sent a greeting to the monument, only an echo was returned. But as I started to leave, something caught my eye. I looked at the coat of arms incised on his shield, then fished through my jacket pocket and pulled out the little painted lead knight. Apparently, I had heard the call longer ago than I realized: the coat of arms painted on the shield of the little figure I had purchased back home months earlier was identical to the coat of arms on the shield on Marshal's grave. Photo by Jeff Thomas, used courtesy of Catherine Armstrong and The Castles of Wales Web site, <http://www.castlewales.com/home.html>. |
A warm September sun scattered diamonds across the dark blue surface of the Thames as I wandered along the Victoria Embankment, a beautiful stretch of river near Waterloo Bridge. Upstream, HMS Wellington, a square-rigged ship from another era, rode peacefully at permanent anchorage, while over my shoulder the gray dome of St. Paul's Cathedral was just visible on Ludgate Hill, its resonant bells tolling the afternoon hours. The breeze gusting down Chancery Lane sent dry leaves skirling on the red brick surface beneath my feet, and as I walked, I kept my right hand in the pocket of my windbreaker, turning over a small metal knight I bought in the United States before departing for London.