The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  He watched her with sympathy. Then, a sharp, somewhat hysterical laugh unnerved her.

  ‘You talk of the matter of which you know nothing. Defeat the Order of the Ancient Star.’ He laughed again, this time longer than before.

  The more she watched him, the more his eyes unsettled her. Was she in danger? Could she trust this man? Could she afford not to?

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I’m a journalist, it’s my job.’ She paused for breath. ‘Though, I must say it wasn’t easy. I knew from your publisher that you were based somewhere in the north of Wales. The rest was detective work.’

  The author wetted his lips. ‘I guess I should congratulate you. For seven years I have been here. And other than the Order of the Ancient Star, no one else has found me.’ He looked at her nervously. ‘How did you know my real name?’

  She smiled, the first genuinely positive feeling for a while. ‘I realised from your book that the name was a pseudonym,’ she said. ‘I did everything I could to look up a Steven Woltz but found no record. Then by chance, I saw a person named von Gostel registered in the voting records. As soon as I saw you, I saw the resemblance.’

  The author watched for several seconds before finally allowing a smile. No one could deny that he shared his great-grandfather’s looks. Even in black and white the features were evident. Those striking blue eyes, small forehead, chiselled nose. Even the man’s moustache could not hide the truth.

  He looked at her and nodded. ‘That’s two things I must congratulate you on,’ he said, his eyes less angry than before. He placed the gun down tentatively on a nearby table, ensuring the safety clip was on and the gun no longer cocked. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Nicole Stocker.’

  He nodded. ‘You are so young.’

  ‘Twenty-six at the end of November.’

  He nodded again, his expression neutral. His tone seemed warmer than before. She was gaining his trust.

  ‘What is it you need?’

  ‘Mr. von Gostel, I’m so very, very scared. In the last twelve months, at least four members of the Knights of Arcadia have been found dead, all believed to have been murdered. Recently others have turned up dead. Everyone who knows of the Order of the Ancient Star has disappeared.’ She looked at him with serious eyes. ‘I saw one murder in cold blood. The man he killed was trying to help me.’

  ‘The man on the tube?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You knew him?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but he tried to help me. I believe him to have been a member of the Knights of Arcadia as well. The way he carried himself was similar to others I have seen.’

  ‘You have seen much.’

  ‘Too much,’ she agreed. ‘People have died; more will follow. Your book displays knowledge unknown to any other. Please, help me defeat them.’

  He laughed again. ‘There you go again about defeating them. Don’t you understand? No one can defeat them.’

  She huffed loudly. ‘Dammit, will you just listen to me? People have died from knowing too much; you know more about them than anyone else. Expose them; tell the world, tell everyone. For the love of God, help me; for the love of God, help yourself.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘They killed your great-grandfather for knowing too much. All you do is hide.’

  The comments stirred him. For several seconds they stood in silence. Both of their breathing had become louder. Not for the first time she feared him – what he was capable of. If she was not careful, he could strike out.

  ‘I should be dead; we both should. If you don’t help me, it’s only a matter of time.’

  Von Gostel remained silent. His expression suggested he recognised the truth in her voice.

  ‘It may be of no surprise to you, Miss Stocker, that threats on my life from the Desertores, known to you as the Order of the Ancient Star, have occurred in no small number. Even when I was a child, my father believed it foolish to remain in one position too long. And while he died an old man, away from stress and the trials and tribulations of what my great-grandfather had experienced, the shadow was never far away.’

  He unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt, revealing his wrists for the first time. Nicole looked back in horror. She hadn’t noticed that his wrists were badly deformed.

  ‘When I was sixteen the Desertores took me to their prison. There, they suspended me above the ground, sometimes for up to eight hours in one go. They ask me no questions; they make no threats. It was just to inflict pain.’

  Slowly he started unbuttoning his shirt. The look in his eyes was obvious. Brace yourself or look away. Nothing will be the same after this.

  Nicole watched as the blue shirt gave way, revealing a slightly hairy chest. She could see much of the torso was distorted, but it wasn’t immediately obvious why. Suddenly she realised. She put her hands to her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  50

  Nicole felt the physical strain of her jaw dropping as her eyes took in the sight before her. She had seen the same marks, but never on a living person.

  The author waited until he was satisfied that she understood what the grim features meant before covering his chest.

  ‘Thirty-six years ago, I was taken from my hotel room blindfolded through the forest into a hidden castle located just off the lake on the St. Gotthard Pass. This was given to me as a warning: never dare pit your wits against the descendents of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon.’

  He watched her for several seconds. ‘Your reaction suggests only some surprise.’

  Her gaze met his. ‘I’ve seen the words before, but never on a living man,’ she confessed. ‘In all honesty, I still only vaguely know what it means.’

  ‘History recalls that the end of the Knights Templar was shrouded in controversy, but that is where most historians and books will end the story. What they don’t know is that, for some of the survivors, the true history of the order started that day in 1307, a history that until now remains untold.

  ‘My great-grandfather in his misfortune as a member of the Order of the Ancient Star found out more than he needed to know.’

  Nicole watched the man, fear still dominating her eyes. ‘Why didn’t they kill you?’

  He shook his head. ‘When they did this,’ he gestured to his wounds, ‘I was still young and wet behind the ears. It did not occur to the members of that beastly order that the great-grandson of the man who attempted to expose them for their evil ways was in fact ignorant of his knowledge. In my early years it was a price I had to pay but without understanding why. Nor did I know how my father and my grandfather suffered a similar curse.

  ‘What the members of the Ancient Star failed to realise is that by attacking the great-grandson of Ulric von Gostel, they were in fact threatening to unearth a can of worms that until that point I had never considered even existed. In my ignorance, I decided to find out for myself the truth of the matter. A copy of my great-grandfather’s book I inherited from my late father in his will three years later. Only after reading it did I understand the reality of his plight: my curse. In my foolishness, I attempted to reopen the history; challenge what others had been too ignorant, or perhaps too afraid, to take on themselves. To my shame, I felt I could beat them. Only to my horror did I find I lost all that I held dear.’

  Nicole’s expression was alive. ‘What happened?’

  The author turned away and picked up a photograph. A woman was standing beside a small boy, perhaps no older than seven.

  ‘I published my own book in the summer of 1997, the result of twenty years of research into explaining what no one else could. Within a month of its publication, I started receiving threats: faceless people speaking of all sorts of terrible things that would happen. Unfortunately my anger only strengthened my resolve, reminded me of my first encounter so many years ago.’

  The Swiss’s eyes were alive, burning with a passion that could erupt unless properly contained.

  ‘I was taken again while away in France, a
lone with my family. On this occasion I was to enjoy no such sympathy, but death was never going to come easily.’

  His eyes filled with tears. ‘They made me watch as they removed the skin of my wife and son.’

  Nicole put her hands to her mouth, and her eyes instantly began to water. She looked out of the corner of her eye at the photograph of the woman and the boy. The woman was brunette, mid-thirties, with a loving smile. In her arms stood the boy, brown-haired with a hint of red or blond, his eyes meddlesome and not immune to mischief.

  ‘That photograph was taken less than two months before they died,’ he said.

  She looked at the photo, then at him. The vision seemed incomparable to the horrific fate described.

  ‘It does not do well to live in the past,’ the man said, his tone serious. ‘Follow the Order of the Ancient Star and you will undoubtedly get killed,’ he continued, his tone now softening. ‘As for me, I have no present, no future.

  ‘Perhaps you are right after all. If exposing these monsters for their evil can save similar fates, then I would succeed in something. As for me, I have nothing left to live for.’

  He replaced the photograph in its former position, away from wandering eyes. It was evident to Nicole the man tried to look at it as little as possible.

  ‘Your book tells of the society being born from a different side, perhaps even a different religion,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘What is it you mean?’

  ‘There is much history is still to learn of the dissolution of the men known as the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Accusations came of Devil worship, sodomy, simony, a seemingly endless list of unverifiable accusations that torture was never likely to deny,’ he said, his eyes back on Nicole. ‘While most of what was accused was a lie, in certain quarters the movement was guilty of almost unspeakable things, things that you just could never predict.’

  ‘Who were these people?’

  ‘At the end of the Crusades, many of the Knights Templar, who had for so long fought for Christianity, had in fact moved on to something new. The Crusades were over, but the despair, the hatred, the desire to win remained. Angry men started the war; I dare say the men who ended it were angrier still. When the King of France and the weak Pope agreed to the dissolution of the Templars, they were, in fact, allowing half of Europe to become susceptible to be claimed. Can you imagine?’ he asked. ‘Can you imagine what would happen if half of what is now owned lost its right of property?’

  He shook his head and laughed a low laugh.

  ‘Mr. Belroc’s book talked of the Templars in Switzerland leading a Protestant revolution.’

  The comment intrigued him. ‘Perhaps, at least that is the way it could be perceived. For over two hundred years the might of Christianity and Islam had fought for the rule of the place where religion held its true sway and heritage. But by the end of the Crusades, there was talk of an even older claim, one that had long since become forgotten. The King of France and the Pope saw what was going on, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. Within their preceptories, the men of the Poor Knights of Solomon had become anything but.’

  ‘An even older claim? Judaism?’

  He looked at her with a serious expression. ‘As Jesus once said, if you have ears to hear, then listen. For this is the true fate of the survivors of the Poor Knights of Solomon. Hear this, and soon, perhaps, you might at last begin to understand.’

  Nicole left the small stone cottage and sprinted without consideration in the direction of her car. Her head was spinning, and her stomach nauseated.

  If the words of Alex von Gostel, the great-grandson of Ulric, were true, then the possibilities of what might follow were simply frightening.

  She fiddled with the key, struggling to get the door open. Seconds later, she frantically started the engine and headed off in the direction of the main road.

  She had already travelled over two hundred miles that day and far more was still to come.

  She needed to get to Scotland.

  Alone in his cottage, Alex von Gostel placed the phone to his ear and waited patiently for a response.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Father Winter. It’s Alex.’

  ‘Ah, my dear boy. It’s been too long.’

  ‘Father, you will be getting a visitor later today. A young girl by the name of Nicole Stocker.’

  ‘Good heavens. You’ve seen her.’

  ‘Seen her and spoken to her.’

  ‘Thank heavens,’ he said. ‘I feared we had lost her.’

  The man understood the concern. ‘Father, I think we’re all in significant danger.

  ‘The source of the Light is soon to be exposed.’

  51

  Miguel Corte-Real had only one thing on his mind; it was the same thing that had been on his mind when he left Portugal.

  The explorer sat quietly on a lonely rock, his gaze focused on the horizon. It was not yet raining, but the sky above was overcast. The menacing cloud that had hovered over the coastline since his arrival now seemed a permanent fixture. He had heard some of the natives talk of the cloud as being different from that of the nearby islands. To them, the weather was a conscious entity, intrinsically linked with the personality of their most feared god. The man from Portugal had heard the stories. There was a sense of consistency to them: a man from the east who came to the island on the backs of whales, illuminated by a stunning white light, casting him in an ethereal glow. But there was no fire, no tangible presence.

  He believed he knew the truth behind the identity of that god. Unlike the god he worshipped, this man could not walk on water.

  He looked over his shoulder, his attention on the mass excavation that was going on less than two hundred metres away. The technology he saw was unlike anything he had ever seen, at least back in Portugal. The image was strange, somehow reminiscent of the scenes from the Old Testament. He imagined that the children of Israel were there in front of him, living out their legendary story. The irony of the story was even greater considering what was to be buried beneath the castle walls.

  He carried in his hand the only clue that would ever exist to its whereabouts. The paper was smooth and contained both a series of symbols and words, an encrypted code recognisable only to one deemed worthy. He wondered whether anyone would ever decipher it. Perhaps that was a good thing. The item in question was not gold, but it was worth its weight in it. People had killed to possess it. Soon it would be buried, hidden, forgotten…

  Accidental discovery would be impossible.

  Still there was no rain, but soon.

  Soon the heavens would open.

  New Ross, Nova Scotia (formerly known as The Cross, in the colony formerly known as Acadia), three days later

  The town of New Ross lies in the Chester Municipal District of Lunenburg County, toward the southwest of Nova Scotia. According to its official history, the area was founded when William Ross, an army captain during the Napoleonic wars, arrived in 1816 and began building what is now known as the Ross Farm Museum, close to the village once known as Sherbrooke. Over the following years, the site developed due to the presence of gold deposits in the nearby river, while lumber and barrel production formed much of the local employment that later included 50 mills.

  So goes the official history.

  In the eyes of the academic, stories of a trans-Atlantic Arcadia were just as susceptible to condemnation as tales of gods, monsters and cities of gold. A 14th century fisherman, captivating landlubbers with tales of kings and princesses and evil spells, was just as likely to be thought false as a conquistador setting out for the seven lost cities. A sailor from Portugal, Spain or Genoa embarking on a mission for lost lands or lost kings was more likely to find more water than gold. And if one was lucky enough to find something captivating, chances are it was just more of what was already known.

  Yet in the eyes of those who knew, within such tales were signposts to fact. While the legend of a rustic paradise might be a far cry from a small f
ishing community set in the cold, bleak north, it is in such places the secrets run deepest. And with the passing of time comes forgetfulness. To the residents of such a small community, none alive could remember a time before the settlement. Nor did the records officially speak of anything older.

  But that is dependent on one’s definition of what constitutes “official”. A fragment of a letter, denoting the words The Cross, accompanied by records of its thriving system of the Norse, the European and the native, are more than likely to be dismissed as a fairy story in the absence of anything more “official”. Just as likely is a recently discovered rugged sketch of an eight-turret castle dated early 17th century to be dismissed as a forgery without further investigation.

  Such is to the benefit of those who really knew what was fact. There would be no official word about the true history of a place. If an archaeologist or an historian was to suggest otherwise, then good for them – chances were his word would be dismissed by most as conjecture. In truth, the real history was now older than time. The clues long vanished. As is more accurate of any path of secrecy in history…

  Evidence vanishes with turmoil.

  Everyone in town had heard of the “castle ruins”. Officially, the site was the subject of archaeological interest in the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s, but there was still no clarity regarding what once existed. According to most, the site was probably Norse or native, most likely a temporary fort. During the early 1990s, a couple of archaeologists put forward a different theory, contending that the site once possessed foundation walls of strong towers, provable from a 17th century diagram that went missing almost as soon as it originated. Most doubted its authenticity.

  Officially, there was nothing there.

  Less than thirty yards away, Matt yawned vigorously as he looked at the landscape. The colonial-style window panelling of the 18th century mansion, property of his late father, may have provided stunning views on a good day, but the day was no longer good. The rain that had been falling venomously for the past six hours had turned to hail and thunder, pummelling down like fire from the sky. The sky over New Ross had been clear blue earlier that morning with a few distant nimbostratus clouds appearing towards the east, whereas the evening sky had turned from grey to black.