She smiled to herself as she looked upon it.
After seven long years, the journey was at last coming to an end.
Cortés jumped to his feet, blazing with passion. “Here.”
The shout was for Pizarro, who was lying on the bed. Under the circumstances it had seemed the only constructive thing to do.
He leaned over Cortés, looking at the same book they had been speaking about earlier, opened to a double page on the desk.
Pizarro had no idea what he was looking for.
“Here.”
He read the page, then again a second time. As he finished reading, his eyes locked on Cortés.
“Go find the others. We have work to do.”
34
5:45pm
Ben had a sudden thought.
He was wrong about the four-petal flower. The interpretation that it represented the four ages of the world, and the coming of the fifth, was only one of several possibilities. Other potential meanings included the four seasons – the four cycles of the sun. The cycle of the sun was of central importance to the Aztecs. Tens of thousands of citizens lost their lives at the top of their mighty temples in a bid to ensure the sun would rise again.
Still, it didn’t sit right. There were other possibilities, Ben was sure: four points of the compass being the most likely.
In which case it was pointing south!
To Tenochtitlan.
The Queen’s Castle.
Ben followed the path as it wound to the left, following the natural line of the cliff. About two hundred metres on, he stopped. Plant life flanked the path on either side, continuing all the way to the edge of the cliff. Colours ranged across the spectrum; he recognised species from the guidebook: daffodils, sea thrift, dwarf pansies and orange bird’s-foot.
Suddenly he remembered something else written in the diary. TF mentioned flowers on St Lide’s, not ordinary flowers, but cacti. The prickly pear cactus didn’t grow in the Isles of Scilly; the thought was ridiculous.
He knelt down, standing precariously close to the edge of the cliff. Were his eyes deceiving him? He placed his hand to it to be sure.
Ouch!
No question.
He had touched a prickly pear cactus.
Again Colts was slow to catch up. “Cacti. Only place it grows for a thousand miles.”
Ben looked at the alien flowers below him, amazed. What is obvious to some isn’t to others. What is hidden from some remains visible to others. He remembered a quote from Sir Isaac Newton that the secret of accurate observation wasn’t due to any specific skill other than keeping the subject of inquiry squarely before one’s eyes and returning to it in the cold light of day when the sleep-deprived mind is replaced by one of new vigour. In truth, Ben no longer knew how he was feeling – whether he was happy or sad, confused or merely amazed. Was this all a dream? A nightmare, maybe?
The prickly pear cactus didn’t grow naturally in England; he didn’t need to check any sources to be sure of that. Heading to his right, he saw more cacti appear along the edge before disappearing suddenly.
Start to finish they had covered less than three metres in width.
The Cortés coat of arms had included a large city on the waves at the south-east quarter: the city of Tenochtitlan on Lake Texcoco. According to the Spanish visitors, three great causeways connected this island to the mainland, each one straight and narrow, located at three points of the compass. The city, meanwhile, sat, almost floated, on a circular island engulfed by the valley of Mexico.
The conquistadors described it as paradise.
Standing on the cliff edge, the ruined castle rising up in front of him like the great city Cortés adored, Ben had a vision. A bridge had once existed at the point where he now stood, one of three, each at separate points of the compass. Excitement was again building inside him, a feeling that he was on the verge of finding something. He followed the grass to his right, coming to a point ninety degrees on from the last.
He looked down, astounded.
More cacti, exactly the same.
He continued, not stopping until reaching the opposite side of the former lagoon. On the ground were more cacti, only now accompanied by clear physical evidence of what was once a bridge, most likely made from granite.
He moved further to his right, stopping after twenty metres, the end of the cliff. He looked around, above and below. To his left, a gap of approximately one hundred and fifty metres separated him from the other side of the cliff. Standing with his arms folded, his eyes on the waves that crashed against the rocks below, his mind began to recall what Kernow had said.
Part of the cliff had broken away, creating the bay where previously there had been only a lagoon.
Just like the great city in Mexico, the Queen’s Castle had sat in the middle of a lake.
He looked away from the castle, down on the six caves. As he looked to his left, he saw it.
A seventh cave was in plain sight, located less than fifty metres away. Its location suddenly made sense. It was at the southernmost tip of the island: the part of the coat of arms that included a lock. It was the seventh cave.
Just as TF had described.
For the first time since Chris had disappeared, Ben allowed himself a genuine smile. The meaning of the seven caves was significant, and not just geographically. It matched another Aztec myth, a story of creation. The Mexicans had called it Chicomoztoc. An Aztec Garden of Eden.
He looked at Colts and began down the slope, heading toward the cave.
“Wait,” Colts said, catching him up and grabbing hold of him. “In an hour’s time that whole cave will be completely submerged.”
Ben took a breath. He was so caught up in the moment he had forgotten to think. Although he was frustrated, he knew Colts was right.
Entering the cave could be fatal.
Restless, he turned, his eyes on the entrance to the castle. He remembered TF had expressed the hope that there was a second entrance within the castle itself. Ben was still to see the castle from the inside. Like many from the period, it was made of stone and had a strong outer curtain wall and one surviving square tower.
He crossed the bridge, a modern metal structure that had clearly not existed in TF’s day. As he entered through the gateway, he immediately looked upwards. The curtain wall continued on both sides, its substantial defences rising over twenty feet into the air. The courtyard floor was now nothing but grass, save the occasional outline of something manmade. Wild flowers grew freely, their thick stems invading the gaps between the stones, weakening the foundations.
Five minutes later Ben had toured the inner courtyard, the kitchen and the great hall and found himself in a small area down a set of stairs.
A chapel, according to the sign.
Again his thoughts returned to the four-pointed petal. He remembered the symbol could also be used to represent the Virgin Mary, and a chapel dedicated to her, in theory, made perfect sense.
His first thought was to investigate the wall, but where he had expected symbology and ornate carvings, what he actually saw was the last thing he had expected. On the other side of an empty room, a strong thick wall had been partially destroyed. There was debris on the floor, but piled neatly, which suggested to Ben its destruction was definitely not accidental.
Without question the damage had been done recently.
Ben had two possible choices. He could either follow the pathway and establish once and for all whether there was anything in TF’s theory or he could turn back.
The choice seemed obvious.
35
There was no communication about the recently destroyed wall, no danger signs, no written warnings and no reason to believe there was any critical damage to the structure. It was as if a new doorway had been created.
Or an old one found.
Deciding against waiting for Colts, Ben stepped over the pile of rubble and stopped to see what lay beyond.
The light was fading, but it was still
to go completely: it was as if a shadow had fallen across the castle, shielding it from the setting sun. Further on, it became darker still, forcing him to remove his torch.
There were walls on both sides, stone, grey, clearly the same material that was used to build the castle. After about twenty metres, they disappeared, replaced by several wooden boards that had been purposely erected both on either side and below. It was like walking on a boardwalk, the sound of his footsteps a dull thud echoing softly throughout. The smell had also changed, a strange combination of gunpowder and tin. His gut feeling told him he was heading in the right direction.
Any mining operation that had existed in the past had clearly not done so for a long time.
Less than five minutes later he found it. A large gaping pit, almost a perfect square, dug down into the earth at least twenty-five metres. The shaft was supported on every side with wooden boards having been placed at five-metre intervals. An ancient rope dangled midway down the pit, attached to a rusty bucket. There were tools everywhere, pickaxes, hammers, hacksaws…
Ben placed his hand to his cheek and ran his fingers through his hair. He cursed what he saw, but not for the reasons he expected.
Whoever made the hole in the wall had not found what they hoped for.
Colts was standing behind him, arms folded, hat askew.
“You?”
Colts shook his head. “Nope. Like yourself, I’d say I arrived over three hundred years too late.”
On the other side of the pit, the passage continued, moving from left to right, now almost in total darkness. The area was wide enough to walk, but its condition looked severely unsafe.
“What happened?”
“After the old fort was upgraded into a gun battery and surrounding castle, it fell from the king’s side to Cromwell. Local legend later suggests that the Roundheads, whilst strengthening the foundations, came across the abandoned shaft and the treasure buried some thirty metres deep inside. No one ever says whether they knew what it was they were digging.”
“But what could they do about it? Even if they already knew, it’s pretty hard to smuggle out treasure in the middle of a civil war,” Ben said, rubbing his stubble. “What happened then?”
Colts pointed his finger at Ben. “The leader of the company was a man named Admiral Blake.”
“The Admiral Blake?”
“The very same. Apparently Blake witnessed the find himself and passed on word to the governor – as far as I’m aware, the record didn’t survive.”
“If it didn’t survive, how do you know it was genuine?”
“The record was seen by another man, an author who wrote about the tale in the early 1800s.”
Ben guessed he was talking about the book Dr Phillips had lent him; he was still to read the whole thing. “What did it say?”
“Pretty much what you would expect. The treasure was re-hidden, but it seems pretty clear to me no one who stumbled upon something so priceless would be foolish enough to leave it. If the gold was buried in the mines, chances are it will be found again, eventually.”
Ben folded his arms. “So what happened?”
“Well, if I were a historian, I’d say one of two things. If all went by the book, the find was reported to Cromwell. Only problem was the garrison defected before the war was over. After that, the property belonged to the king.”
“The treasure was found by Charles I?”
“If all went according to the book. But between you and me, I have my doubts. The entire company consisted of about fifteen men, including Admiral Blake. Let’s just say a few die, maybe five at the most. Still leaves ten people who know about it.”
“You think Blake was involved in this? I personally find it hard to believe the father of the Royal Navy would have disobeyed his orders. He had so much to lose.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, shortly after the war ended, work began on revamping the Star Castle back on St Mary’s. Between the years 1660 and 1700, a local historian and translator recorded much of the work that was going on.”
“Let me guess? He witnessed the treasure being excavated and reburied.”
Colts laughed. “Not quite. But he did mention a large quantity of what he described as boxes being removed from the old castle and deposited in the new one.”
“It mentions nothing specific? For all you know it could be something different.”
“Unlikely. On this occasion, there is another source of the legend, one that does have a more tangible record.”
“All right. Let’s hear it.”
“In the 1800s, when the Osborne family allowed the lease to pass to the Dorrien-Smiths, one of the surviving kin of the original family went looking for it.”
“Wait,” Ben interrupted, raising his hand. “Original family?”
Colts smiled, always the same smile. “Amazing how similar the names are in the graveyards round here, isn’t it? Particularly on St Lide’s.”
Yet again memories of TF’s diary came pouring back. “Slater?”
Colts nodded. “Mighty fine name, mighty fine knowledge.”
“Who were they?”
“You say you’re an intelligent man, Ben. What does the name Slater mean?”
Ben was confused. “Slater, why, a person involved in slate.”
“Exactly, Ben. Now if you were to be in Spain, what would the same name be?”
Ben racked his brain for a translation.
Then it hit him.
“Pizarro.”
Colts laughed. “Tradition had it when the shipwreck occurred, the survivors took refuge on St Lide’s, which at the time was abandoned. Only, a few days later, boats came across from St Agnes. See, back then, the isles only had one lighthouse.”
“The Foot?”
“Yes, indeedy. See, after the locals arrived, seems instead of shooing them away, they took real kindly to the Spaniards. It didn’t do to make life difficult for folk at a time like that.”
“What do you mean? What was so special about the timing?”
“St Agnes had recently been badly depopulated. The five main families had been depleted, drowned in a fierce storm,” he said, his eyes wandering in every direction as he listened to the sound of wind battering the castle. “You know, they’ve always said in these parts, people shouldn’t get the men of St Agnes and St Lide’s too excited. Times like that, the old Moor comes out to shine.”
Ben took a deep breath, trying to stay patient. “What happened to the survivors – the originals?”
Colts shrugged. “No one knows, not for sure. If you believe the folk tales, the families intermingled. Married.”
“Catalina married a local?”
“Among others. I’m guessing there were some mighty fine women on the island.”
“What about their descendants?”
“By the early 1900s the Slaters had nearly died out. Tradition has it, only one remained. Only this man was no soldier. He was a sexton.”
“A sexton?”
“That’s right,” Colts confirmed. “Guy by the name of Alfred.”
Ben recognised the name from reading TF’s diary. “The others died out?”
“As far as I’m aware, they had. See it was an Alfred Slater, history recalls, who first met your great-great-grandfather in the churchyard of St Lide’s. Rumour has it, he was even responsible for his murder.”
Ben felt a sudden surge of adrenalin, as if an unknown entity had possessed him. “How do you know?”
“Supposedly, when old Alfie got wind of Tommy’s true intentions, he took a keen interest in the man. Helped him out. Showed him places your ancestor wouldn’t have known without the help of local knowledge.”
“There must be evidence?”
“Evidence, as you call it, can mean many things, particularly in parts of the world where the art of keeping records is not confined to libraries or boardrooms. The people of St Agnes and St Lide’s were a close-knit group, among them, story goes, was a boy named Samuel Smethick. H
e was the son of the local tavern keeper and a lad of Godolphin pedigree on his mother’s side. Not strong enough, you understand, to offer a realistic claim to the inheritance of the isles.”
Ben was interested. “What happened?”
The Cortés Enigma Page 22
