Twist of Time, page 16
Thomas brightened. “Please. I’d very much like to see it.”
Higgins removed the wool cover revealing an ancient sword miraculously unmarred by rust, dent, or stain. “It belonged to Lord Andrew Howistean, the clan patriarch. He served with King Richard the Lionhearted.”
Thomas’ heart skipped. Brychan’s sword: physical evidence that he had returned to Scotland. It was no longer speculation from a single line in the diary.
Higgins handed the sword to Thomas, who hefted it with boyish delight.
“Now the letter.” Higgins opened the safe deposit box and removed a clear plastic folder. Inside was a single page of a worn parchment; the bottom was missing.
Thomas examined it through the plastic. “What is its provenance?”
“There is no date. Dating of personal letters came later. The bottom of the page where the signature would be is missing. It is addressed in Middle English to ‘The most Gracious Lady Gwynn of Houston, clan Howistean.’ The rest is in Medieval Gaelic and believed to be written by her son, Brychan.”
Thomas instantly recognized the handwriting but asked, “How can you be certain that Brychan wrote it?”
Higgins referred to the genealogy tree. “Lady Gwynn had two sons,” he said. “Duncan the eldest and Brychan. Duncan inherited both lands and title. He married and had a child, Andrew. Brychan, a second son without title, presumably entered the Church. Which explains no offspring.”
“Why does that mean he wrote the letter?” Kate asked.
“Duncan, like many of the nobility, was illiterate. Brychan, as a cleric, was the logical person to have written it. After that, Brychan disappears from the family history.”
Thomas quickly scanned the letter. “Could you make me a copy of this? I’ll trade you a copy of my translation.”
“Done!” Higgins agreed. “Do you have any idea what the letter concerns?”
Thomas glanced at Kate, trying to suppress his excitement. “It appears to be a farewell letter to his mother. Written before a battle.”
“What battle?”
“He does not say. But this part,” said Thomas as he pointed to a line, “is quite clear—‘a battle in which I know I will not survive.’” His eyes met Kate’s. “Brychan predicted his own death.”
It was growing dark as they drove back to the cottage.
“It’s incredible, Thomas—Brychan predicted his death?”
“It’s called the seer’s curse. Both Nostradamus and Merlin did, too.” Thomas was still trying to fit everything together. “Brychan is known only as a second son. There is no record that he was a Templar. How was all that lost?”
“Brychan was a fugitive on the run and carrying something very valuable. He covers his tracks and Templar identity so well he disappears from the family history.”
Thomas was amazed. “And for centuries fooled everyone. But how did he do it?”
Burns and Sawyer’s black BMW was safely following a half-mile behind. When Kate and Thomas arrived at the cottage, Burns and Sawyer parked a block away and watched them go inside.
Burns dialed his cell phone. “They just left the museum. Staying at a cottage about an hour from Edinburgh.”
“Excellent,” Fallon answered.
“How did you know they would be at a museum?”
“In Paris they disappeared. My people found no trace of them in Spain or Germany. Eventually Thomas would have to go to Edinburgh, to translate a document at the museum as part of our agreement. Fortunately, you got there ahead of them.”
“Then why wait? Let us go in, kick ass, and take the diary.”
“Who would translate it? You? You can’t do the Times crossword.” He didn’t want to discuss particulars over the phone. “Thomas Bardsey knows more than anyone where the chest might be. When he finds it, then you move. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lose him and you lose your fat contract.” He hung up.
For several minutes Fallon sat motionless, concentrating as if reading an opponent’s chess moves. There had to be a reason other than the museum letter for Thomas to change direction and suddenly go to Scotland. Obviously, that was where the diary led him. Against all logic, the chest was in Scotland.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brother Simon awoke late again. Always an early riser, his sleep patterns were changing for no apparent reason. He had missed prime, the first daily office, but because of his age and poor health he had not been disturbed.
That morning he found a spot of blood on the pillow from either his nose or ears. Another organ about to fail—what was another symptom, more or less? He did not call the doctor.
Normally he slept well for a man his age; now his sleep was blighted with confused dreams laden with conflict. A constant ringing in his ears, tinnitus, had returned—probably an allergy reaction to his numerous medications. Most disturbing was another sound, a number repeated over and over like an irritating jingle. It would come and go, totally beyond his control.
The ultimate terror—losing his mental faculties. His wasted body, maintained by a dozen medications, was almost past concern. His mind was where he still lived.
He desperately needed to talk with Brother Thomas, who had been in hiding since his escape. Anxiety aggravated Simon’s condition and Thomas’ abduction seemed to intensify his symptoms. Like a mutating virus: if it lost one source, it fed on another part of the same host.
Inexplicably, at that instant, there came the string of seven numbers, like a partial equation. Soon he feared that he would be an idiot savant, able to recite pi to a thousand digits but not remember the same oatmeal breakfast he ate every morning.
He desperately needed to talk with Thomas before his faculties deteriorated further.
“All I know about your Merlin book is from the tabloids. I want to hear it from you,” Kate said.
“You’ll think you’re in bed with a lunatic.”
“Great! I’ve never screwed a lunatic.” Kate snuggled against the solid press of his weight. She was learning something of sexual obsession and eagerly indulged it. “Tell me about your Merlin.”
“My Merlin . . .” He hunched back against the pillows. “Historically, there really was a sixth- century genius called Merlin. There are authentic writings by him. Written in verse, he made predictions and prophecies, many of which came true.”
“Like Nostradamus?”
“Except hundreds of years earlier. Many experts believe the legendary King Arthur’s Merlin was based on this fifth century seer. Others link his writings to Bishop Dubricius, a Celtic church saint of the same period. My thesis attempted to prove that Merlin led a double life as Saint Dubricius.”
“A saint with a double life? There may be hope for me yet. How did your book get you in trouble?”
“Stupidity. In my psychic experiments, I had used a Celtic wizard’s meditation device called the awen. I decided to try it on the Merlin research. After a week of intense meditation, I had the same dream three nights in a row.”
“About Merlin?”
“No. About a seventh-century document written by a Celtic monk named Penda of Iona. I dreamed that I found it. Penda wrote that one of the monks of his order was present at the death of Bishop Dubricius, who confessed that he had lived a double life.”
“How did that happen?”
“The Celtic church and the Roman church had just combined, and Rome was deciding which Celtic saints would be included with theirs. Penda knew the Dubricius-Merlin connection and wrote a letter to the Pope protesting that Dubricius not be included as a saint because as Merlin, he was guilty of heresy, sorcery, and witchcraft.”
“Before receiving last rites, did Dubricius admit he was Merlin?”
“No. But he did not deny it, leaving it open to question. There were striking similarities. Each was born to a woman who was raped, had a child, and became a nun. Both men were gifted healers. Both were linked to King Arthur. Bishop Dubricius crowned him; Merlin fought beside him and was his chief advisor. And finally, Merlin and Dubricius died on the same day during an eclipse of the sun. Two men, same legends. But it all makes sense if both were the same man.”
“But why would Bishop Dubricius need a double life?”
“His gift, precognition. Back then the Roman church considered it sorcery. But Dubricius was from the Celtic church. He believed it was one of God’s gifts, like healing. As Merlin, he was obligated to use it to help others. And he did. He lived long enough to become counselor to five kings.”
“What was Penda’s connection to all this?”
“His letter to the pope requesting that Dubricius not be considered a saint because as Merlin, he was guilty of heresy. The document I found was part of that letter proving both were the same man.”
“How did you find the letter?”
“Penda was a known Celtic writer, so I concentrated on libraries and colleges with the largest Celtic church material. I discovered it at Saint Dennis Divinity in north Scotland. It was a single page of vellum written in Latin. I made photocopies and wrote my Merlin book.”
“What went wrong?”
“Academics are notoriously jealous. Some questioned its authenticity. But I had done the usual lab tests, x-rays, infrared, spectra, and chem analysis. Unfortunately, the letter I found was the work of a notorious eighteenth-century forger named Chignon who used it in a scam of his own. I was fooled like everybody else. But I was accused of covering this up to protect my book sales. I couldn’t reveal my psychic connection of discovering Penda without casting further doubt among my academic peers. I could only plead an honest mistake, which it was. The academic committee didn’t buy it.”
“And then your wife was killed?”
“That finished me. I withdrew from the academic dogfight and was discredited.” He looked at her and shyly smiled. “Now you know my dark secret.”
“Baby.” She sweetly kissed his mouth. “Dull, you’re not.”
After Kate was asleep, he lay awake, their conversation still churning. He went to the desk and opened the diary. For some time, he had felt an uneasiness about the translating. Once more he compared the diary pages with Brychan’s letter to his mother.
Then, he saw it—the capital “B.” It was the same as in the diary and in the letter he wrote to her. He looked at his own written notes. All three letter Bs were the same. And 700 years later, there’s his handwritten B, the same as Brychan’s as if no time had passed.
Could he have unconsciously copied the B while translating? He had written his name, Bardsey, thousands of times and though signatures did modify over time, there was hardly the slightest change in the B. All three were nearly identical.
Reincarnation? He had dismissed the idea before. A bit shaken, he returned to the diary determined not to think about it for the present.
Brychan’s narration had switched to verse; he often was inspired to write a short rhyme about God or courtly love. Thomas usually scanned it and moved on, but this was different. Brychan had forced an iambic meter: ten beats per line on the first four, eight beats on the last two. Why the difference this time? Thomas worked out a rough rhyme in English to get the verse feeling.
As Joseph came to England’s misty shore
To preach and hide the cup and crown he bore
So we two come and in his steps abide
A sacred treasure in this place to hide
As Joseph’s legends so begot
I cast myself with Joseph’s lot.
The next morning, he read it to Kate.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“Joseph coming to England to preach has to be the same Joseph who placed Jesus’ body in his tomb.”
“And the cup is the Holy Grail?”
“It must be.”
“What is the crown?”
“Jesus’ crown of thorns. Legend says he brought that too.”
She read the next line. “‘ So we two come and in his steps abide.’ Who? Brychan and Ursus?”
“They fit. And ‘in his steps abide’ must refer to Joseph’s steps because, like him, they have come on a mission. As Joseph hid the grail cup, they are hiding the chest.”
“But what does ‘Joseph’s legends so begot’ mean?”
“Not clear. And, ‘cast myself with Joseph’s lot’ could be either ‘lot’ as in his fate, or a grave plot. Brychan loves double meanings. Joseph traditionally is connected with his own tomb where he placed Jesus’ body. Since Brychan predicted his death, ‘cast myself with Joseph’s lot’. . .”
“Could refer to Brychan’s own grave?”
“Yes, like when he wrote in Middle English. ‘Before the cross three warriors stand, guarding the last of our band.’ Obviously the three warriors would have to be statues instead of actual people. You might find statues before a cross in a church or a burial crypt. There are literally thousands of Celtic crosses all over Great Britain.”
“Where do we start?”
“The tourist bureau; historic sites.”
“What happens if we locate the tomb?” she asked.
“We have to take a look inside.”
“Which is probably a felony. Let’s hope he’s not buried in Westminster Abbey.”
From Nora’s description, Ravel was able to spot Sawyer. He was coming out of MacNaughton’s chemist’s shop in downtown Edinburgh. Sawyer got in his car, where another man waited, obviously Burns.
Ravel followed as they tailed the monk and cop for the rest of the day. Watching them, he assessed their skills. Better at surveillance, they might use muscle if necessary but were more comfortable with photography, wiretaps, and computers. From long experience he could see if they attempted wet work, it was not their style. He would not need additional manpower to deal with them.
Kate sat at a dining table cluttered with tour brochures they had picked up that day. “I hope I soon get a feel for this stuff. I don’t connect with anything here.”
“Keep at it, Kate. Life isn’t long enough to search all the wilds of Scotland.”
He returned to Brychan’s description where they had reached the upper Seine to make their crossing.
Though we could not see beyond the hill, we heard the rush of the flood-swollen Seine. Brother Ursus, riding ahead on point, stopped. I have written before of his astonishing ability to sense danger. He had that look now. I listened but heard nothing unusual.
“What is it, Brother?” Brychan asked.
Ursus, still listening, turned Dragon into the gusting wind sending their spoor in the opposite direction. “Horses.”
Brychan and Sara watched as he rode back up the rise from which they had come. When Ursus motioned, Brychan rode up the hill to join him. In the distance, breaking the far hillcrest, were seven mounted soldiers. An eighth rider was struggling to keep up.
Ursus pointed. “The lagging one rides like a woman. Does he seem familiar?”
“Who is it?”
“The Dominican I didn’t skin.” He looked back at the bridge. “We’ll make a stand on the other side.”
Brychan silently cursed for letting the priest go. He turned Joshua and galloped back toward Sara, motioning for her to ride on to the bridge.
Ursus delayed a moment to study the approaching horsemen. They must have seen him for they suddenly increased their speed.
When Brychan first saw Calvière Bridge, he was surprised that it had withstood the swift flood. Built from rough timber, it was narrow with uncertain footing due to frequent repairs. Just wide enough for a single team of oxen or horses, the crossing could only be made by man or beast at a walk.
The three slowly crossed in single file. Below, the churning flood pounded the pilings, causing the whole structure to shudder.
When halfway across, Ursus stopped and dismounted.
“Brother Ursus, even you cannot hold here against seven. We must cross over and take a stand there.”
“Archers.” Ursus’s teeth clinched the hated word.
“Then it will take both of us.”
“Two cannot beat them on open ground. But here, one can delay.” He pressed Brychan’s arm. “You must carry out the Master’s charge.”
“No!”
“You are sworn,” Ursus reminded him. There was no more to say. From the weapons packhorse he removed his rolled mail coat.
Brychan looked up the hill where the troops would soon appear. Their mission now hung on a single dreadful decision. “Brother Ursus, we must stay together!”
Ignoring him, Ursus continued dressing for combat. He slipped on the hauberk mail coat, over which he pulled the white mantel; his last fight would be in full Templar dress. In a finishing touch, he looped the blood-red rope around his waist, the same red as the Templar cross, Christ’s blood. He looked at Brychan. “Brother, you are guardian of the chest. Go with God.”
Watching, Sara could hardly breathe. In spite of Ursus never accepting her, he inspired deep feelings of respect. She struggled against her tears.
Brychan was locked in helpless frustration. He could only watch as the greatest warrior he knew prepared himself for a battle he must lose.
Ursus selected the triangle battle shield taken from the earlier attack and lay it aside. He hung his heavy mace at his right side, the sheathed battle sword on his left. He picked up the two-handed broadsword and swung it with both hands, getting its feel.
Ursus smiled grimly at Brychan. “I can’t hold them long, Zealote.” It was the first time Ursus had ever called him that.
When Sherif Gilbert and his men came in sight of the bridge they halted. All stared, scarcely believing what they saw.
In the center of the bridge was a dead horse forming a barricade behind which a huge Templar stood. The Saracen stand, it was called. Neither Gilbert nor his men had ever seen one. No honorable knight would slay his horse then stand behind it to fight. Saracens facing defeat commonly used this tactic. It meant no surrender, no quarter.
The sherif uncorked the wine flask and took a deep swallow while evaluating the situation. On the narrow bridge, only two men side by side could make a frontal assault. Positioned behind the dead horse the huge warrior would have the advantage against any attack by foot.
