other houses. They were good. And, what’s more, they were cheap.
Owl Cottage had been empty for a few months now – damp patches in the living room and an army of ants marching across the
kitchen floor hardly being conducive to relaxed weekends away in the country-side. The place was a dump. But the owner had no objection to letting mates use it if they were desperate enough to put up
with the basic living conditions.
But the mind of the hooded figure peeping through the letter box wasn’t on the cottage’s deficiencies as he opened the petrol
can. Holding the letter box open, he sprinkled some petrol inside and then splashed some on the rag he was holding. Then he
stood quite still for a moment breathing in the fumes before setting the rag alight with a cheap disposable lighter and pushing
it through the letter box.
He scurried back and watched from the bushes as the golden flames began to leap and dance at the windows. And as soon as he
was sure the fire had taken hold, he ran off into the night.
4
In Tradmouth’s town records covering the twelfth and thirteenth centuries there are several accounts of ships laden with pilgrims
setting sail from the port. Stephen de Grendalle might have sailed on one of these ships bound for the shrine of San Diego
de Compostela in Northern Spain. There were carved cockleshells on his impressive tomb in Morre Abbey (alas, destroyed during
Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries), which indicates that he must have made that particular pilgrimage at least once.
It is my theory that on one of these occasions, for reasons we can only guess at, he made a detour north to the Languedoc
region of France. Perhaps he went with others, eager to fight in a crusade – any crusade – in order to win salvation for his
soul. Only this particular crusade wasn’t against the unbeliever. Rather it was against the Cathars or Albigensians, as they
were sometimes known. This was against men and women who considered that they had discovered a purer, more perfect, form of
faith without the corruption of worldly ritual.
And, from the evidence, it seems that this encounter with purity was to change Stephen de Grendalle’s life for ever.
(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)
It seemed strange to be back in Devon. But good. Wesley hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the children and the first thing
he and Pam did was to call at Belsham Vicarage to see them.
Even though Wesley’s sister Maritia had, as yet, no children of her own, she seemed to have coped admirably, taking time off
work to look after her nephew and niece. Her patients and the surgery, she said, could get along without her for a few days.
Besides, she assured her brother a little too brightly, she’d enjoyed the break from her busy routine. However, the strain
on her face and the forced nature of her smile told him that the past week hadn’t been as smooth and uneventful as she claimed.
It was a short drive home from Belsham with the children chattering in the back. Wesley’s initial guilt at leaving them melted:
they seemed to have enjoyed themselves during their absence. Perhaps a little part of him wished that they’d missed their
parents more.
After sorting through the stack of post on the doormat, Pam went off with the children to put the kettle on, leaving Wesley
staring at the telephone.
He resisted the temptation for a few minutes but eventually he picked up the receiver and dialled Gerry Heffernan’s direct
number.
‘Wes, great to hear from you, mate. Good holiday?’
‘Great, thanks. What’s new?’ Wesley had lowered his voice.
‘You’ve missed all the excitement.’
‘What excitement?’ Wesley sat down on the chair in the hall, sneaking a look at the kitchen door. Pam was still fully occupied.
But she’d soon be on at him to unpack so she could get the washing machine on. He hadn’t got long.
‘Some poor woman’s been
Owl Cottage had been empty for a few months now – damp patches in the living room and an army of ants marching across the
kitchen floor hardly being conducive to relaxed weekends away in the country-side. The place was a dump. But the owner had no objection to letting mates use it if they were desperate enough to put up
with the basic living conditions.
But the mind of the hooded figure peeping through the letter box wasn’t on the cottage’s deficiencies as he opened the petrol
can. Holding the letter box open, he sprinkled some petrol inside and then splashed some on the rag he was holding. Then he
stood quite still for a moment breathing in the fumes before setting the rag alight with a cheap disposable lighter and pushing
it through the letter box.
He scurried back and watched from the bushes as the golden flames began to leap and dance at the windows. And as soon as he
was sure the fire had taken hold, he ran off into the night.
4
In Tradmouth’s town records covering the twelfth and thirteenth centuries there are several accounts of ships laden with pilgrims
setting sail from the port. Stephen de Grendalle might have sailed on one of these ships bound for the shrine of San Diego
de Compostela in Northern Spain. There were carved cockleshells on his impressive tomb in Morre Abbey (alas, destroyed during
Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries), which indicates that he must have made that particular pilgrimage at least once.
It is my theory that on one of these occasions, for reasons we can only guess at, he made a detour north to the Languedoc
region of France. Perhaps he went with others, eager to fight in a crusade – any crusade – in order to win salvation for his
soul. Only this particular crusade wasn’t against the unbeliever. Rather it was against the Cathars or Albigensians, as they
were sometimes known. This was against men and women who considered that they had discovered a purer, more perfect, form of
faith without the corruption of worldly ritual.
And, from the evidence, it seems that this encounter with purity was to change Stephen de Grendalle’s life for ever.
(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)
It seemed strange to be back in Devon. But good. Wesley hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the children and the first thing
he and Pam did was to call at Belsham Vicarage to see them.
Even though Wesley’s sister Maritia had, as yet, no children of her own, she seemed to have coped admirably, taking time off
work to look after her nephew and niece. Her patients and the surgery, she said, could get along without her for a few days.
Besides, she assured her brother a little too brightly, she’d enjoyed the break from her busy routine. However, the strain
on her face and the forced nature of her smile told him that the past week hadn’t been as smooth and uneventful as she claimed.
It was a short drive home from Belsham with the children chattering in the back. Wesley’s initial guilt at leaving them melted:
they seemed to have enjoyed themselves during their absence. Perhaps a little part of him wished that they’d missed their
parents more.
After sorting through the stack of post on the doormat, Pam went off with the children to put the kettle on, leaving Wesley
staring at the telephone.
He resisted the temptation for a few minutes but eventually he picked up the receiver and dialled Gerry Heffernan’s direct
number.
‘Wes, great to hear from you, mate. Good holiday?’
‘Great, thanks. What’s new?’ Wesley had lowered his voice.
‘You’ve missed all the excitement.’
‘What excitement?’ Wesley sat down on the chair in the hall, sneaking a look at the kitchen door. Pam was still fully occupied.
But she’d soon be on at him to unpack so she could get the washing machine on. He hadn’t got long.
‘Some poor woman’s been
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