Twist of Time, page 15
After he became a novice monk, he found himself hoping for a sign that he had made the right choice. Ironically, it came in the unlikely person of Fallon. His offer to pay the order for Thomas’ translation of the diary seemed a unique opportunity to use his gift to serve God. But before he could even begin, the courier Hollander was murdered and he met Kate.
When he finished the Inquisition exercise, he wrote the required summary: I confess that I am a novice monk who used another man’s two-million-dollar property without his permission. I am involved in a murderous intrigue. I have had sex and have possibly fallen in love with a woman.” It was the worst summary ever submitted in the long history of the order.
Thomas looked up to see Kate standing in the kitchen doorway watching him.
“I was afraid it might be gone,” she said.
“What would?”
“That hungry look. After the way I slept, I may never let you out of my sight.” She indicated the diary. “Absolutely nothing stops you, does it?”
“Actually, I was thinking about us. Kate, this is . . .”
Her fingers touched his lips. “Please, please don’t spoil it by analyzing.”
He didn’t. He pulled her on to his lap. It was another hour before he returned to the diary.
In the conference room at his laboratory, Fallon was checking the GOLEM readouts as doctors Lizerand and Meyer watched. Since achieving interface with GOLEM, Longrieve’s precognition tests showed an increased efficiency of seven percent.
“It’s working,” Fallon said as he puffed a cigar in satisfaction.
“But fatal if it continues.” Dr. Lizerand held up a handful of printouts. “These are latest on Herb’s body functions.”
“Summarize, Doctor.”
“The seven-percent efficiency increase has cost Herb an overall drop in his vital readings. His blood, kidney, and liver enzymes are highly abnormal.”
“Deteriorating even faster than we predicted,” Meyer said.
Fallon nodded; he saw it coming. “The Cayce syndrome. When Edgar Cayce increased his psychic readings to help more people, his health suffered severely.”
“Cayce!” Meyer bristled. “I’m a scientist, Dr. Fallon. I know nothing of the psychic because it does not exist. Longrieve’s so-called psychic ability is simply his hyper-normal ability to concentrate. He could stand on burning coals and it would not waver.”
“I agree with Meyer,” Dr. Lizerand cautiously added.
Fallon was surprised. “You think I selected Longrieve only for his ability to concentrate?”
“Are you saying there is some psychic agenda?”
“Yes, but not as you dimly understand it. Accurate prophecies are in every culture. There should not be any, yet they exist! And there is supporting medical data. Proven psychics have abnormal levels of melatonin. Longrieve’s is triple the norm. There is nothing mystical! All the mumbo-jumbo, voodoo, and rituals are simply exercises that focus the psychic’s concentration. With GOLEM we will greatly improve that.”
“GOLEM is a goddamn computer!” Lizerand shouted. “How can there be some psychic integration?”
Fallon turned to Meyer. “Doctor, you have been tinkering with Longrieve’s brain. What would happen if he were conditioned with a psychic discipline? Could GOLEM access it through him?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Fallon smiled. “Which would then add a psychic element to a supercomputer.”
“How do you know that this psychic discipline even exists?” Meyer challenged.
“GOLEM discovered it three years ago.”
After showering, Kate slipped into an exquisite silk kimono, a gift years ago to her mother from the Tokyo police department in honor of Kate’s father. She curled on the sofa and opened her laptop. Thomas was working at his desk. She was looking for connections between the Pullman and Hollander homicides. The material was growing stale—a perfect setup to miss something important. “Thomas, I need a break. Is there anything I could help you with?”
“Lord, yes. Would you search the Internet for clan histories, find the Houston family, and check their archives? We’re looking for a letter Brychan wrote to his mother. Though it was not translated, Fallon scanned a copy to have forensic graphologists compare it with the handwriting in the diary. Brychan wrote both. Fallon was going to have me translate the letter after I finished the diary. But now I need to read that letter, wherever it is.”
While Kate began searching Scotch heritage websites, Thomas returned to Brychan’s narrative.
After winter’s heavy snows, spring brought great floods that destroyed many bridges. The old piper’s family had crossed the upper Seine and would know the best place to cross. Though the father spoke only the Breton dialect, his daughter Alva the harpist also spoke French.
Brychan found the harpist to be a tiny waif with huge bright eyes. After he asked where they had crossed the Seine, instead of answering, Alva baited him.
“I will tell you only if you first tell me something,” she said.
“What is that?”
“Everyone is talking. Some say you are a priest running away with the Gypsy. The huge one, from his singing, must be a bard. But others say you all are merely thieves.”
“Which tale do you believe, little one?”
“You and the Gypsy, of course.”
“And if I deny it, would you still believe me?”
She shook her head.
“Then, believe what you will, but do not say that I admitted anything. Now tell me where you crossed the Seine.”
“First, a bargain.”
“Bargain?”
“Take me with you,” she pleaded. “I can play harp for your bard. I know many songs, and I can learn his and teach him mine. I can even be his woman.”
Brychan laughed, picturing Ursus’ reaction. “How old are you, girl?”
“Fifteen. My sister already had two childer by then.”
“You want to run away with two thieves and a Gypsy?”
“Oh, yes! Yes! Last autumn a troubadour asked me to go away with him. He said we would play before many lords and ladies.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father set the dogs on him.”
“You want me chased by dogs?”
“No. But am I not pleasing to you?”
“Alva! You must not offer yourself to . . . .” But who was he to lecture anyone? “You would be in constant danger. Now tell me where you crossed the Seine.”
He was the one she wanted but she dare not show it. “The bridge at Liége is washed away. We went south to the old miller’s bridge at Calvière crossing.”
Brychan held out his hand, revealing a gold besant. “For your dowry.”
Her eyes widened. She had seen but never touched one. When she took it, he folded his hand over hers.
“Promise you will stay with your family.” He squeezed her hand. “Promise?”
She nodded quickly. But she knew that unless God showed her otherwise, it was a promise she would not keep.
Father Pierre was traveling south on the road to Avignon after leaving the Templars the night before. Failing to find a peasant’s hut, he had spent a miserable wet night in the rough. Worse, he must prepare himself to report his failure to the Holy Father. Pope Clement, though French, demanded much from his Inquisition agents. Pierre could expect no leniency.
He reined his palfrey to stop. Approaching around a turn were five riders; the leader was obviously a knight. His cloak bore a red chevron: a sherif. God was favoring him!
Sherif Gilbert saw a man in Dominican black with an assortment of horses, three carrying combat harness and tack. That he traveled without protective escort was most unusual.
After exchanging greetings, Father Pierre presented credentials with Papal seals. He told what had occurred with the two Templars and that they stole a chest he was personally delivering to Pope Clement.
The sherif feared that the Inquisition might be involved. The priest showed documents with a Papal seal: authority equal to the King’s. That Gilbert could not read did not matter; the beribboned Papal seals were enough.
Pierre explained that the Pope’s letter gave him full authority to enlist help to recover the chest. He added that in addition to gold payment there was also papal preferment; special indulgences would be granted.
With a lifetime heavy with sins and the prospect of many more to come, Sir Gilbert found this as tempting as the money—almost.
Pierre raged. “The Templars are possessed by Satan himself! They have taken up with a Gypsy witch! In our company were two veteran cavalry and four Papal knights! Two Templars killed five of the six!”
“Only two Templars? How?”
“They were bewitched by the Gypsy! Naked as Babylon’s whore, she cast a spell on them. They were cut down like wheat. The two Templars escaped scart-free with ’naer a wound.”
Sir Gilbert had done his share of campaigning. He saw that there was more strategy than witchcraft in the Templars’ attack. After questioning further, he understood: a diversion in front by the woman, a surprise assault in their rear. Besides, these were Zealotes. On horse, the two could have beaten all six without the help of a naked woman. In his own troop were four veteran cavalrymen. Against two Zealotes, they would be quickly defeated.
“Father Pierre, where are the Templars going?”
“La Rochelle. I heard them discuss the route.”
“Which way?”
“North by west.”
“First, I must see the Baron de Ville.”
“No! We must continue the pursuit!”
“Priest, you have five dead! I found eight rotting bandits and a day later, four of the King’s cavalry cut to pieces—all the work of these two Templars. You will use your papal authority to order the Baron de Ville to help us!”
“Ask for more soldiers?”
“No. Archers.”
Pierre saw that the sherif could not be persuaded. “Where is the Baron de Ville?”
“Saint Cyr.”
In the village, word spread quickly of the arrival of the sherif’s soldiers and a priest. Pilgrims immediately flocked to Father Pierre for confession. With Lent only three days past, there was already much to confess. Everyone wanted to arrive at the holy shrines with sins shriven. Father Pierre set up an outside confessional where he sat on a bench as each confessor kneeled beside him.
At the inn, Gilbert drank deep, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and belched loudly. Roland nodded appreciatively at the compliment on his mead. They were at table; the room was empty of people save for two servants.
Three times a year, the sherif passed through Saint Cyr, where custom demanded that he call on the Baron de Ville. He always stayed at the inn. Roland did not suspect that his neglected wife, starved for attention, found comfort with the rugged sherif, who took his pleasure where he found it.
“This is not your usual time to visit, Sir Gilbert,” Roland observed. “Why so early?”
“Templars. Two fugitives and a Gypsy whore.”
Roland’s flagon stopped midway to his mouth. “Then they were Templars!” He laughed. “The big one stank of the Crusades. God save me, I was right!”
“Bide they here?”
“Left this morning. Even before they could drink a stirrup dram for journey’s luck.”
“Where did they go?”
“Truth, I cannot say. But they spent time with the Breton family. I saw the young Templar talking with the peasant girl who plays the harp.”
Father Pierre was hearing the confession of the village smith, who was mumbling a pathetic tale of lust for his boy apprentice, when Sir Gilbert interrupted.
“The Templars were here; they left this morning.”
“Where are they?”
“A Breton family knows.”
“I just gave an old Breton confession. I could hardly understand him.”
“Find him and question a girl harpist.”
“Yes. After I finish th—”
Gilbert jerked him to his feet. “Now, fool!”
Father Pierre turned to the blacksmith and made a hurried sign of the cross, absolving him of all sins. Before the blacksmith got halfway to the stable, despite his confession and a waning will, he was anticipating seeing the apprentice.
“You want two of my archers?” Baron de Ville asked.
“Yes, your Lordship,” Gilbert answered with a slight bow of his head. “The best and quickest. But not crossbows. Awblasters take too long to reload.”
The Baron sat behind the great table in his manor hall—their usual meeting place. “And they are fugitive Templars?”
“Aye. One wields a mighty blade. A warrior of most passing prowess.”
“Then why do you ask for only two archers?”
“My Lord, we will be pursuing at night. Our company is four cavalry and a priest. Two expert archers will allow us to keep a goodly pace. More men at night will slow us.”
The Baron considered; most men would have asked for a dozen archers. The sherif for all his swazz and swagger knew his craft. “How much will you pay?”
Gilbert presented Father Pierre’s beribboned letter. “The Dominican is emissary for His Holiness Pope Clement. This authorizes recruitment of men and supplies.” Casually he added, “I suspect the Inquisition is involved.”
The Baron choked on his wine in mid-gulp. The Holy Office—he wanted no problems there. “What else do you need?”
“Fresh horses—your best. No expense must be spared on the Holy Father’s business.”
Father Pierre found Goulu the Breton and his daughter Alva among their camp of relatives. He took them aside and began questioning. He fixed the girl with a stern gaze, copying the ruthless interrogators he had observed during Inquisition trials.
Alva met his brusqueness with dumb silence.
The old piper nervously glanced at the cavalryman accompanying the priest. The trooper had one empty eye socket and the shattered remains of a hideous face cleaved by a battle-axe that he had miraculously survived.
Pierre turned from the girl to the old man. “The Templars travel with a Gypsy witch—a venial sin. They have stolen a diary that belongs to Mother Church—a mortal sin. They have killed to keep what they stole—a deadly sin.” Pierre pointed accusingly at Goulu and shouted, “And it is even a greater sin to protect enemies of the Holy Father!”
Alva was remembering Brychan’s gift of the gold besant for a dowry she did not have. So, he was not a priest—no priest would be so generous. She would not reveal the gift lest it confirm him a thief. “He only asked me where we crossed the Seine.”
“Where was that?” Pierre asked the old man.
The piper’s accent was thick as Breton cheese. “The bridge at Calvière.”
Brychan, Ursus, and Sara, having ridden hard all day through rain and mud-mired roads, made early camp. With a dawn start they would reach Calvière crossing before midday.
While the three slept, Sherif Gilbert, with cavalrymen, two archers, and a lagging priest rode by torchlight throughout the cold moonless night.
Kate, in searching for Brychan’s letter to his mother, located the small Caithness Archive Museum in Edinburgh on a narrow backstreet. The museum’s purpose was to collect histories and documents of clans devastated in the battle of Culloden Moor in 1746. Some families were so decimated they never gathered again as clans. Among them were the Howisteans, Brychan’s clan. What remained of their family records, tartans, and trophies were housed in the Caithness museum.
Thomas phoned the curator, Cornelius Higgins. He mentioned that his grandfather was the Celtic scholar and author Dr. Andrew MacLaird. Higgins instantly warmed and they made an appointment for that afternoon.
The building was a nineteenth-century brick manor house in a grim neighborhood whose better days were a century past. Inside, Thomas and Kate found heavy dark paneling and mismatched odds of shabby furniture. The walls were covered with an array of framed tartans, some marked with black stains of ancient blood. On the walls were etchings of clan chiefs and engravings of battles all but forgotten outside Scotland.
Cornelius Higgins, in his seventies, was wizened and bald, with stray wisps of white fringe. In his cluttered office they were served an excellent gourmet tea. Higgins was instantly smitten with Kate. When he left the room to get a book, Thomas muttered, “Just what we need, a horny curator.”
“I think he’s sweet,” Kate purred.
Higgins returned with a volume titled Roots of The Celtic Church in The Early Christian Era, personally autographed, which he proudly read aloud. “To Cornelius Higgins, with scholarly respect, Andrew MacLaird.” The curator added, “It is your grandfather’s first edition.”
Thomas asked, “Considering the dazzling title, are you surprised there was never a second?”
After tea, Higgins led them down a musty corridor lined with book-cluttered shelves and the aura of the ghosts of ancient clansmen. The hall ended at a small conference room where Higgins had prepared a display of the Houston clan, Brychan’s ancestors. On the library table was the yellowed page of a genealogy tree and a large piece of tartan blackened with stains of blood. Framed beside it was the Houston crest: two greyhounds, each rampant at either side of a gold shield. Beneath an hourglass was the family motto: “In Time.” Next to it was a safe deposit box and a long bundle wrapped in a woolen cover.
“The Houston family,” Higgins said. “Their lands were within a few hours travel to Edinburgh. Before you examine the letter, may I show you our museum’s finest treasure?”
