Twist of Time, page 18
“You mean that’s all he wrote?”
“No. It gets worse. After the poem, he wrote about his failed mission.”
“Brychan failed?”
“For some reason, he didn’t deliver the chest where he was supposed to. He does not explain why. Instead, his last writing is about the New Jerusalem prophecy.”
“What is that?”
“The big one. Remember the other Templar prophecies, the predicted deaths that occurred right on schedule?”
“Yes. But how does—”
“The New Jerusalem prophecy says that the Templar Order will be secretly restored and there will be another great conflict between Christians and Muslims.”
“When?”
“The Third Millennium.”
“You mean now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Thomas, do you believe that?”
“If you follow the news media, how can you not believe it? Especially when you realize that many Templar prophecies were accurate.”
“That is unnerving.”
“And look at us. We are following the Templar diary and doing everything it says.”
“But we can always stop.”
“I can’t.”
“No,” she said. “Neither can I.”
“Also, there’s another question. Since Ursus was dead, who is Brychan referring to about two of them coming to England?”
Kate smiled. “I know who gets my vote.”
The Gypsy wagon moved down the twisting forest road through a darkening gloom. The distant clouds were swollocky as before a storm. Darkness would quickly fall as a covering cloak.
The woman drove so the man beside her could work at his leathercraft. But the man’s hands lay idle. His gray eyes were the wrong color for a Gypsy. Brychan kept his gaze down whenever they passed anyone.
They appeared to be horse traders on the road to La Rochelle. But the dried mud on the ill-groomed horses could not hide that they were prime stock. A keen cavalryman’s eye could spot the two German-bred chargers. Obviously, they were stolen: these were Gypsies.
Brychan and Sara had been arguing since the previous day. Once they got to La Rochelle, he would sail the Navigator’s ship for Scotland, and she would return to the Gypsy camp. But Sara insisted that she must go to Scotland with him.
After another long silence Brychan repeated, “It is too dangerous.”
“Was it too dangerous when I shamed myself naked before those pig-raping soldiers? Too dangerous when I am hiding a Templar wanted by the king? I am a Gypsy! If they find me with you, they will first brand me, then either imprison or burn me.”
Brychan had been told that his mission in Scotland would be fatal. Even if not, he could never return to France. He did not tell Sara. If she went to Scotland and he died, what would happen to her? There were few Gypsies in all the British Isles. Where would she find refuge?
They continued looking for a place to camp and shelter the horses. The heavy smell of approaching rain and rumble of thunder warned of the threatening storm. Another flare of lightening illuminated a field with a grain storage lean-to. It would have to do.
Pulling off the road, they were hit by swirling wind and rock-hard hail. The horses were yawing against the tether lines when a sheet of icy rain hit like a wave from raging Neptune. Brychan jumped off the wagon and ran to the team, leading them toward the lean-to.
As Sara unhitched the team, Brychan managed to tie the four chargers to a railing. The wagon would have to block the opening, or the horses might panic and run. Just as the last horse was tethered, a tide of water rushed down the hill. Sara fell, then Brychan, rolling in a flash flood of water and mud. He yelled for her to get inside. She managed to climb up in the wagon and closed the door.
Brychan worked his way down the wagon tongue. He heaved hard, but the front wheels were axel deep in mud. He fell again. Pulling with all his weight, the tongue freed just enough and swung across, blocking the opening, and protecting the horses. Gasping from the rain’s freezing cold, he climbed on the wagon and opened the door.
Inside, it was dark; Sara had not lit a lantern. He sensed, rather than saw her, as she held out a sheepskin for him to dry off with.
“A rain with hail fevers the lungs. Take those wet clothes off,” she said.
“More Gypsy superstition?” He was shivering. He stripped and rubbed himself vigorously with the thick wool sheepskin.
She rubbed his back with another. “Turn around.”
When he turned, there was a flash of lightning through the window. She was naked. She had removed her wet clothes, but there was not enough time to dress before he entered the carriage.
After a frozen moment, he lifted her in his arms, their mouths devouring. Carrying her to a bunk, he laid her down. When he thought better and tried to pull back, she fiercely pulled him on top of her.
She remembered Cousin Carmen’s warning about the first time: expect little, give all. Then, no Gadjay woman can take him from you.
Deep into the night her rapturous cries blended with the howling storm.
At first light, Brychan awoke with Sara asleep in his arms and a terrible realization. He would readily die for his mission but did not have the will to go on without her.
A knight’s first test is to honor his vows; a monk’s is to serve only God. As both knight and monk he had failed.
Thomas was listening to Kate in the shower and thinking how totally she engaged all his senses, her taste, her unique feel when they made love. Each time was magic, followed by the fear that it would suddenly end—the price for forbidden love.
Saint Augustine, when obsessed with his mistress, prayed, “God give me abstinence, but not yet.”
Please, God. Not yet.
He forced himself to return to the diary. What have I missed? A play on words? Some trick cypher or encryption? Surely, there has to be more.
Kate came from the bedroom with her notebook. “Thomas, I want to try something. Let’s look for the chest the same way we would look for a body.”
“I’ve never looked for a body. Where do we start?”
“With basic police work. A seven-hundred-year old crime, like any other, still has motive, means, and opportunity. We don’t know where he hid the chest, but we may be able to discover when he hid it, which gives us a start. What’s the last date that Brychan is in France?”
“Back then, only churches kept calendars. The common people weren’t concerned with exact dates. Something important was on or near a church feast day.” He translated the Gaelic aloud: “Three days before the Feast of Saint Augustine, Brother Ursus sacrificed himself in combat for the Master’s mission. Requiescat in pace.” He closed the diary. “That would be the last week of May.”
“And by June twenty-fifth, Brychan was at the battle of Bannockburn.”
“Which gave him four weeks before the battle. He sails to Scotland, that’s a day or two, then goes overland to his destination. But for some reason he fails his mission. Now he must decide where to hide the chest and find another Templar to bury him with it, as his secret order from the Templar Master demanded.”
Thomas shuffled through tour pamphlets and found the map from the tourist agency. “That means Brychan had only a few days from landing on the coast to get to Bannockburn.”
“How far could he travel in a day?”
“In good weather about twenty miles.”
“Two days, that’s forty miles. Mark that on the map.”
Thomas put a ruler along the map scale, which was ten miles to the inch. With the center at the Bannockburn battlefield, he drew a four-inch circle.
Kate pointed, “Somewhere in that circle there has to be three statues before a cross.”
“Kate.” He shook his head. “Don’t ever stop thinking like a cop.”
•••
The next morning, they began where Brychan ended—at Bannockburn. Thomas had been there often with his grandfather; now he wanted to see it with fresh eyes. But the entire battlefield had been developed as a tourist site complete with a theater, 3D presentations, school tours, and merchandizing everywhere he looked. Tempted at first to check everything new, instead Thomas decided to walk the battlefield remembering how his grandfather brought the battle to life with his scholar’s insight.
Bannockburn was a wide meadow edged by the river Forth. Once, when he visited the Gettysburg battlefield, Thomas experienced severe depression when he sensed a lingering aura from the slaughtered thousands. But at Bannock, a wide stream meandered pleasantly with no hint of its bloody past.
After they had been walking a few minutes, he pointed and said, “This was the ground the Scots were defending. They were led by King Robert Bruce, whose army was formed in infantry defensive units called schiltroms, its men armed with twelve-foot-long spears. Bruce used them differently—he trained them to be offensive attack units. His strategy at Bannockburn became legend.
“First,” said Thomas, “he chose this terrain carefully. The meadow was between the river Forth on one side and Bannock stream on the other. This left the English attacking army very narrow ground to maneuver. The resulting Scots victory was miraculous.”
Kate teased him. “What’s miraculous is that you knew about this place but never connected it with Brychan.”
“Maybe if I were a smart homicide detective, we’d be opening a bottle of champagne over the Templar chest.”
“Cheap shot.” She laughed at his retort. “But our search area isn’t just the battlefield. In the twenty-mile radius, we’re actually probing a circle of a thousand two hundred and fifty-seven square miles give or take.”
At his surprised look she smiled, “Darling, I give great math.”
After an hour of looking over the battle site, they drove to Stirling Castle, which stood on the dominant hill just minutes away.
“Stirling Castle was the main reason for the English invasion,” explained Thomas. “There was a saying—‘He who holds Stirling, holds Scotland.’ It was the last castle in Scotland still in English hands and had come under siege by the Scots with a small force. English King Edward was marching on Stirling to attack the Scots and relieve the siege. To make matters worse, Robert Bruce’s wife and daughter were hostages inside the castle. If King Edward’s army defeated Bruce at Bannockburn, then reached Stirling and broke the siege, Bruce would never see his wife and daughter again.”
“Imagine trying to fight a battle with that on your mind,” Kate said.
As they were talking, they spotted a docent tour guide and introduced themselves. She was delighted to learn that they were from California.
“We are on a research project,” Kate explained. “Do you know anything about three medieval statues of knights standing before a cross in this area?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar. And I was with the tourist bureau before I came here.”
“We asked them. No luck.”
“Did you talk with Eleanor Harbin? She knows all the sites. Ellie has her own agency. She specializes in tours of the ley lines.”
Kate looked at Thomas. “Ley lines?”
“Many sites like Stonehenge are laid out on ancient lines called leys that are perfectly surveyed and run for hundreds of miles.” He turned to the docent. “Where can we find Eleanor Harbin?”
“Two blocks north of Edinburgh University on Chelsea Street. It’s called Lady Ley Tours.”
Kate smiled at Thomas. “Sexy title.”
Burns and Sawyer waited for Kate and Thomas in separate cars at opposite ends of the Stirling tourist parking lot. They were talking by cell phone.
“Why would they think the dingus is hidden in a public place?” Sawyer grumbled.
“Why you bitchin’? They’re doing our work for us.”
Ravel, patient as a lurking spider, also waited for Thomas and Kate in his car parked among the tourists. This was the first time Kate and Thomas had gone someplace other than tour offices. He considered reporting it to Nora but decided to wait. This might be just another dead end.
Kate and Thomas walked to their car unaware that they were being watched. Before getting in the car Thomas to a final look at the battlefield.
“I don’t get it, Kate,” he said. “Brychan came here fully committed to die for his mission. Why did he fail?”
By the year 1314, Brychan was resolute in carrying out his mission, which took him to the Franciscan monastery at Whitburn. He was looking for a former ranking Templar who was now at this monastery.
One morning just after Prime, Brother Mathias was disturbed to hear that he had a visitor. Having abdicated his Templar oath on papal orders, he had taken new vows as a Franciscan. This was his first visitor in three years. He instantly tasted the coppery fear so different from battle where the most lost was your life. This visitor could jeopardize his very soul.
Mathias had been a Templar of note, serving in the Holy Land under Grand Master de Molay as his aide-de-camp. As such, he was privy to some of the Order’s most guarded secrets.
Known then as William of Cameliard, he became Templar Master at the preceptory in Aberdeen. Following the Papal decree that all Templars must enter other monastic orders, William was accepted by the Franciscan order as Brother Mathias.
He paused at the refectory door, whispered a brief prayer, and crossed himself before entering to meet his visitor. One look and he recognized the type: a warrior with aging eyes in a young face. Assuming a formal manner, he introduced himself.
“I was Master William of Cameliard. Now, I am called Brother Mathias.”
The visitor bowed respectfully. “Brychan Houston, Knight Templar.”
“There are no Knights Templar,” Mathias said bluntly. This knight might be a spy sent by the new pope to test his obedience. Since the death of Pope Clement, it was not clear which way the wind blew. A wrong move could mean the stake. He had witnessed three Inquisition burnings and remembered the scalding aroma of flesh-tainted smoke. Those screams were very different from the battlefield and never forgotten.
“Why have you come, Sir Brychan?”
“I was ordered to bring you the VERITAS coffer.”
“I am no longer a Templar. I am bound by a papal bull; I can have nothing to do with any Templar matter. Even discussion is forbidden.”
“But I was told you would know what to do.”
“You must take the chest someplace else. There are no Templars to give it to. It would mean excommunication and eternal damnation for all of us.”
“Where can I go? Scotland is our last refuge.”
“And soon there will be no Scotland. The English army numbers thousands. Bruce’s army is small, excellent raiders, but in pitched battle, very limited. Bruce has bravely but foolishly taken a stand between King Edward’s army and Stirling Castle. He will be flanked, encircled, and destroyed.”
“Tactics? How are you so well-informed behind convent walls?”
He smiled. “Soldier gossip. Some former Templars have joined Bruce. We talk. I’d almost give my life to be with him even though they are doomed.”
He turned away in frustration. After an anxious silence he made a decision.
“Papal bull be damned,” he said. “I am a Templar! Brother Brychan, you must make certain the VERITAS coffer does not fall into King Edward’s hands!”
“What should I do?”
“Hide it. Until the Jerusalem prophecy happens. Then, the Templars will rise. The new order is ‘Watch; pray; be ready.’”
At Brychan’s surprised look Mathias added, “Before I became a Franciscan those were my final instructions from the Grand Master if Scotland were lost. Now you must carry them out.”
Lady Ley Tours was housed in a modest office barely large enough to accommodate Eleanor Harbin and her secretary. The walls were covered with photos of Stonehenge, Glastonbury, and other sites, along with a collage of maps showing a network of ley lines interlocking the entire British Isles.
Ms. Harbin was a solid six feet, plump, and in her fifties with skin that bloomed rosy pink. She bustled about a messy desk talking in a voice pitched for someone a room or two away. “Three statues before a cross?” She peered over her glasses at Thomas and Kate. “Nothing comes to mind. But then, not every site is public. It could be at a family chapel or private estate.”
“This would be within twenty miles of Bannockburn,” Thomas added.
Eleanor removed her glasses. “What specifically are you looking for? A mausoleum? Gravesite? Is there is some connection with Bannockburn battlefield?”
“It’s a Templar grave,” Thomas answered.
“Templar?” She brightened. “Oh, they are very rare. Many more of them in France. When we find one here, it’s registered. Draws tourists like crazy. The best ones are in churches—crypts with the knight laid out in full body armor carved in stone. Tourists love to make rubbings. It would be impossible for a Templar site to be known and not listed.”
She turned to her secretary, a small wispy sparrow with thick glasses. “Imogen,” she said, “find that brochure on the Templar tour.”
Imogen began searching shelves stacked with pamphlets and tour advertisements.
“Are there any graves from the Bannockburn battle?” Thomas asked.
“Well, certainly no Templars.” Eleanor pulled at her lower lip. “Three statues and a cross.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing like that near Bannockburn.”
Imogen held up several pamphlets. “None here either.”
“My guess is that your Templar is not in a church or chapel. He’s buried outside, probably in a grave not yet discovered near some statues. The site might be—”
Kate interrupted. “But wouldn’t a seven-hundred-year-old grave be awfully deep?”
“Not necessarily. Some Saxon graves centuries older have been found as shallow as three feet.” She eyed Thomas, testing him. “Are you aware that Templars marked their graves very distinctly?”
“Like with a double-barred cross surrounded by carved figures signifying Solomon’s temple—and with the head of the grave always pointing east toward Jerusalem?”
“No. It gets worse. After the poem, he wrote about his failed mission.”
“Brychan failed?”
“For some reason, he didn’t deliver the chest where he was supposed to. He does not explain why. Instead, his last writing is about the New Jerusalem prophecy.”
“What is that?”
“The big one. Remember the other Templar prophecies, the predicted deaths that occurred right on schedule?”
“Yes. But how does—”
“The New Jerusalem prophecy says that the Templar Order will be secretly restored and there will be another great conflict between Christians and Muslims.”
“When?”
“The Third Millennium.”
“You mean now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Thomas, do you believe that?”
“If you follow the news media, how can you not believe it? Especially when you realize that many Templar prophecies were accurate.”
“That is unnerving.”
“And look at us. We are following the Templar diary and doing everything it says.”
“But we can always stop.”
“I can’t.”
“No,” she said. “Neither can I.”
“Also, there’s another question. Since Ursus was dead, who is Brychan referring to about two of them coming to England?”
Kate smiled. “I know who gets my vote.”
The Gypsy wagon moved down the twisting forest road through a darkening gloom. The distant clouds were swollocky as before a storm. Darkness would quickly fall as a covering cloak.
The woman drove so the man beside her could work at his leathercraft. But the man’s hands lay idle. His gray eyes were the wrong color for a Gypsy. Brychan kept his gaze down whenever they passed anyone.
They appeared to be horse traders on the road to La Rochelle. But the dried mud on the ill-groomed horses could not hide that they were prime stock. A keen cavalryman’s eye could spot the two German-bred chargers. Obviously, they were stolen: these were Gypsies.
Brychan and Sara had been arguing since the previous day. Once they got to La Rochelle, he would sail the Navigator’s ship for Scotland, and she would return to the Gypsy camp. But Sara insisted that she must go to Scotland with him.
After another long silence Brychan repeated, “It is too dangerous.”
“Was it too dangerous when I shamed myself naked before those pig-raping soldiers? Too dangerous when I am hiding a Templar wanted by the king? I am a Gypsy! If they find me with you, they will first brand me, then either imprison or burn me.”
Brychan had been told that his mission in Scotland would be fatal. Even if not, he could never return to France. He did not tell Sara. If she went to Scotland and he died, what would happen to her? There were few Gypsies in all the British Isles. Where would she find refuge?
They continued looking for a place to camp and shelter the horses. The heavy smell of approaching rain and rumble of thunder warned of the threatening storm. Another flare of lightening illuminated a field with a grain storage lean-to. It would have to do.
Pulling off the road, they were hit by swirling wind and rock-hard hail. The horses were yawing against the tether lines when a sheet of icy rain hit like a wave from raging Neptune. Brychan jumped off the wagon and ran to the team, leading them toward the lean-to.
As Sara unhitched the team, Brychan managed to tie the four chargers to a railing. The wagon would have to block the opening, or the horses might panic and run. Just as the last horse was tethered, a tide of water rushed down the hill. Sara fell, then Brychan, rolling in a flash flood of water and mud. He yelled for her to get inside. She managed to climb up in the wagon and closed the door.
Brychan worked his way down the wagon tongue. He heaved hard, but the front wheels were axel deep in mud. He fell again. Pulling with all his weight, the tongue freed just enough and swung across, blocking the opening, and protecting the horses. Gasping from the rain’s freezing cold, he climbed on the wagon and opened the door.
Inside, it was dark; Sara had not lit a lantern. He sensed, rather than saw her, as she held out a sheepskin for him to dry off with.
“A rain with hail fevers the lungs. Take those wet clothes off,” she said.
“More Gypsy superstition?” He was shivering. He stripped and rubbed himself vigorously with the thick wool sheepskin.
She rubbed his back with another. “Turn around.”
When he turned, there was a flash of lightning through the window. She was naked. She had removed her wet clothes, but there was not enough time to dress before he entered the carriage.
After a frozen moment, he lifted her in his arms, their mouths devouring. Carrying her to a bunk, he laid her down. When he thought better and tried to pull back, she fiercely pulled him on top of her.
She remembered Cousin Carmen’s warning about the first time: expect little, give all. Then, no Gadjay woman can take him from you.
Deep into the night her rapturous cries blended with the howling storm.
At first light, Brychan awoke with Sara asleep in his arms and a terrible realization. He would readily die for his mission but did not have the will to go on without her.
A knight’s first test is to honor his vows; a monk’s is to serve only God. As both knight and monk he had failed.
Thomas was listening to Kate in the shower and thinking how totally she engaged all his senses, her taste, her unique feel when they made love. Each time was magic, followed by the fear that it would suddenly end—the price for forbidden love.
Saint Augustine, when obsessed with his mistress, prayed, “God give me abstinence, but not yet.”
Please, God. Not yet.
He forced himself to return to the diary. What have I missed? A play on words? Some trick cypher or encryption? Surely, there has to be more.
Kate came from the bedroom with her notebook. “Thomas, I want to try something. Let’s look for the chest the same way we would look for a body.”
“I’ve never looked for a body. Where do we start?”
“With basic police work. A seven-hundred-year old crime, like any other, still has motive, means, and opportunity. We don’t know where he hid the chest, but we may be able to discover when he hid it, which gives us a start. What’s the last date that Brychan is in France?”
“Back then, only churches kept calendars. The common people weren’t concerned with exact dates. Something important was on or near a church feast day.” He translated the Gaelic aloud: “Three days before the Feast of Saint Augustine, Brother Ursus sacrificed himself in combat for the Master’s mission. Requiescat in pace.” He closed the diary. “That would be the last week of May.”
“And by June twenty-fifth, Brychan was at the battle of Bannockburn.”
“Which gave him four weeks before the battle. He sails to Scotland, that’s a day or two, then goes overland to his destination. But for some reason he fails his mission. Now he must decide where to hide the chest and find another Templar to bury him with it, as his secret order from the Templar Master demanded.”
Thomas shuffled through tour pamphlets and found the map from the tourist agency. “That means Brychan had only a few days from landing on the coast to get to Bannockburn.”
“How far could he travel in a day?”
“In good weather about twenty miles.”
“Two days, that’s forty miles. Mark that on the map.”
Thomas put a ruler along the map scale, which was ten miles to the inch. With the center at the Bannockburn battlefield, he drew a four-inch circle.
Kate pointed, “Somewhere in that circle there has to be three statues before a cross.”
“Kate.” He shook his head. “Don’t ever stop thinking like a cop.”
•••
The next morning, they began where Brychan ended—at Bannockburn. Thomas had been there often with his grandfather; now he wanted to see it with fresh eyes. But the entire battlefield had been developed as a tourist site complete with a theater, 3D presentations, school tours, and merchandizing everywhere he looked. Tempted at first to check everything new, instead Thomas decided to walk the battlefield remembering how his grandfather brought the battle to life with his scholar’s insight.
Bannockburn was a wide meadow edged by the river Forth. Once, when he visited the Gettysburg battlefield, Thomas experienced severe depression when he sensed a lingering aura from the slaughtered thousands. But at Bannock, a wide stream meandered pleasantly with no hint of its bloody past.
After they had been walking a few minutes, he pointed and said, “This was the ground the Scots were defending. They were led by King Robert Bruce, whose army was formed in infantry defensive units called schiltroms, its men armed with twelve-foot-long spears. Bruce used them differently—he trained them to be offensive attack units. His strategy at Bannockburn became legend.
“First,” said Thomas, “he chose this terrain carefully. The meadow was between the river Forth on one side and Bannock stream on the other. This left the English attacking army very narrow ground to maneuver. The resulting Scots victory was miraculous.”
Kate teased him. “What’s miraculous is that you knew about this place but never connected it with Brychan.”
“Maybe if I were a smart homicide detective, we’d be opening a bottle of champagne over the Templar chest.”
“Cheap shot.” She laughed at his retort. “But our search area isn’t just the battlefield. In the twenty-mile radius, we’re actually probing a circle of a thousand two hundred and fifty-seven square miles give or take.”
At his surprised look she smiled, “Darling, I give great math.”
After an hour of looking over the battle site, they drove to Stirling Castle, which stood on the dominant hill just minutes away.
“Stirling Castle was the main reason for the English invasion,” explained Thomas. “There was a saying—‘He who holds Stirling, holds Scotland.’ It was the last castle in Scotland still in English hands and had come under siege by the Scots with a small force. English King Edward was marching on Stirling to attack the Scots and relieve the siege. To make matters worse, Robert Bruce’s wife and daughter were hostages inside the castle. If King Edward’s army defeated Bruce at Bannockburn, then reached Stirling and broke the siege, Bruce would never see his wife and daughter again.”
“Imagine trying to fight a battle with that on your mind,” Kate said.
As they were talking, they spotted a docent tour guide and introduced themselves. She was delighted to learn that they were from California.
“We are on a research project,” Kate explained. “Do you know anything about three medieval statues of knights standing before a cross in this area?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar. And I was with the tourist bureau before I came here.”
“We asked them. No luck.”
“Did you talk with Eleanor Harbin? She knows all the sites. Ellie has her own agency. She specializes in tours of the ley lines.”
Kate looked at Thomas. “Ley lines?”
“Many sites like Stonehenge are laid out on ancient lines called leys that are perfectly surveyed and run for hundreds of miles.” He turned to the docent. “Where can we find Eleanor Harbin?”
“Two blocks north of Edinburgh University on Chelsea Street. It’s called Lady Ley Tours.”
Kate smiled at Thomas. “Sexy title.”
Burns and Sawyer waited for Kate and Thomas in separate cars at opposite ends of the Stirling tourist parking lot. They were talking by cell phone.
“Why would they think the dingus is hidden in a public place?” Sawyer grumbled.
“Why you bitchin’? They’re doing our work for us.”
Ravel, patient as a lurking spider, also waited for Thomas and Kate in his car parked among the tourists. This was the first time Kate and Thomas had gone someplace other than tour offices. He considered reporting it to Nora but decided to wait. This might be just another dead end.
Kate and Thomas walked to their car unaware that they were being watched. Before getting in the car Thomas to a final look at the battlefield.
“I don’t get it, Kate,” he said. “Brychan came here fully committed to die for his mission. Why did he fail?”
By the year 1314, Brychan was resolute in carrying out his mission, which took him to the Franciscan monastery at Whitburn. He was looking for a former ranking Templar who was now at this monastery.
One morning just after Prime, Brother Mathias was disturbed to hear that he had a visitor. Having abdicated his Templar oath on papal orders, he had taken new vows as a Franciscan. This was his first visitor in three years. He instantly tasted the coppery fear so different from battle where the most lost was your life. This visitor could jeopardize his very soul.
Mathias had been a Templar of note, serving in the Holy Land under Grand Master de Molay as his aide-de-camp. As such, he was privy to some of the Order’s most guarded secrets.
Known then as William of Cameliard, he became Templar Master at the preceptory in Aberdeen. Following the Papal decree that all Templars must enter other monastic orders, William was accepted by the Franciscan order as Brother Mathias.
He paused at the refectory door, whispered a brief prayer, and crossed himself before entering to meet his visitor. One look and he recognized the type: a warrior with aging eyes in a young face. Assuming a formal manner, he introduced himself.
“I was Master William of Cameliard. Now, I am called Brother Mathias.”
The visitor bowed respectfully. “Brychan Houston, Knight Templar.”
“There are no Knights Templar,” Mathias said bluntly. This knight might be a spy sent by the new pope to test his obedience. Since the death of Pope Clement, it was not clear which way the wind blew. A wrong move could mean the stake. He had witnessed three Inquisition burnings and remembered the scalding aroma of flesh-tainted smoke. Those screams were very different from the battlefield and never forgotten.
“Why have you come, Sir Brychan?”
“I was ordered to bring you the VERITAS coffer.”
“I am no longer a Templar. I am bound by a papal bull; I can have nothing to do with any Templar matter. Even discussion is forbidden.”
“But I was told you would know what to do.”
“You must take the chest someplace else. There are no Templars to give it to. It would mean excommunication and eternal damnation for all of us.”
“Where can I go? Scotland is our last refuge.”
“And soon there will be no Scotland. The English army numbers thousands. Bruce’s army is small, excellent raiders, but in pitched battle, very limited. Bruce has bravely but foolishly taken a stand between King Edward’s army and Stirling Castle. He will be flanked, encircled, and destroyed.”
“Tactics? How are you so well-informed behind convent walls?”
He smiled. “Soldier gossip. Some former Templars have joined Bruce. We talk. I’d almost give my life to be with him even though they are doomed.”
He turned away in frustration. After an anxious silence he made a decision.
“Papal bull be damned,” he said. “I am a Templar! Brother Brychan, you must make certain the VERITAS coffer does not fall into King Edward’s hands!”
“What should I do?”
“Hide it. Until the Jerusalem prophecy happens. Then, the Templars will rise. The new order is ‘Watch; pray; be ready.’”
At Brychan’s surprised look Mathias added, “Before I became a Franciscan those were my final instructions from the Grand Master if Scotland were lost. Now you must carry them out.”
Lady Ley Tours was housed in a modest office barely large enough to accommodate Eleanor Harbin and her secretary. The walls were covered with photos of Stonehenge, Glastonbury, and other sites, along with a collage of maps showing a network of ley lines interlocking the entire British Isles.
Ms. Harbin was a solid six feet, plump, and in her fifties with skin that bloomed rosy pink. She bustled about a messy desk talking in a voice pitched for someone a room or two away. “Three statues before a cross?” She peered over her glasses at Thomas and Kate. “Nothing comes to mind. But then, not every site is public. It could be at a family chapel or private estate.”
“This would be within twenty miles of Bannockburn,” Thomas added.
Eleanor removed her glasses. “What specifically are you looking for? A mausoleum? Gravesite? Is there is some connection with Bannockburn battlefield?”
“It’s a Templar grave,” Thomas answered.
“Templar?” She brightened. “Oh, they are very rare. Many more of them in France. When we find one here, it’s registered. Draws tourists like crazy. The best ones are in churches—crypts with the knight laid out in full body armor carved in stone. Tourists love to make rubbings. It would be impossible for a Templar site to be known and not listed.”
She turned to her secretary, a small wispy sparrow with thick glasses. “Imogen,” she said, “find that brochure on the Templar tour.”
Imogen began searching shelves stacked with pamphlets and tour advertisements.
“Are there any graves from the Bannockburn battle?” Thomas asked.
“Well, certainly no Templars.” Eleanor pulled at her lower lip. “Three statues and a cross.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing like that near Bannockburn.”
Imogen held up several pamphlets. “None here either.”
“My guess is that your Templar is not in a church or chapel. He’s buried outside, probably in a grave not yet discovered near some statues. The site might be—”
Kate interrupted. “But wouldn’t a seven-hundred-year-old grave be awfully deep?”
“Not necessarily. Some Saxon graves centuries older have been found as shallow as three feet.” She eyed Thomas, testing him. “Are you aware that Templars marked their graves very distinctly?”
“Like with a double-barred cross surrounded by carved figures signifying Solomon’s temple—and with the head of the grave always pointing east toward Jerusalem?”
