Two pairs of narrowed eyes followed the small party as they marched down into the dry bay and disappeared from sight. Black Douglas grasped the shoulder of his long-time friend and squeezed it.
“This wind must be a blessed sign from above,” the huge knight exclaimed, “for everything is falling beautifully into place. Are you sure the flaw in the containment wall was built correctly?”
Master Robertson nodded. “I watched the head mason design it myself. He believed my story that Prince Henry had wanted the fault built into the wall so that when the reflooding of the bay took place, it would happen in a spectacular fashion. He even swallowed the story of the prince wanting to keep it as a surprise for the men and that he must not whisper a word of its design to anyone.”
“They are all so gullible,” chuckled Black Douglas.
Robertson pointed to the middle of the dike. “Do you see that trapezoidal stone just to the left of centre? It is acting just like a keystone in an arch. When that stone goes, the pressure from behind the dam will cause the thin stones above to collapse into the bay, sending the sea crashing forward at terrific speed.”
Black Douglas lowered his voice into a menacing rumble. “And are you sure he was the only one to have known of my request?”
“Absolutely.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Robertson chuckled. “I arranged a little accident for our fine mason the very next day after he had finished the task. The poor lad was found floating face down off the dock, apparently dead from drowning.”
“Well done. With him dead, everyone will believe that the flaw in the wall was his fault alone,” added Black Douglas, flashing a crooked smile.
“I was only too happy to help,” said Robertson, bowing.
“And what of the windmill?” asked Black Douglas, looking at the wooden structure spinning and swaying in the strong wind.
“In a moment, the wind storm will cause irreparable damage to its pump. Unfortunately, the only other pump on the island left for Scotland two weeks ago. Once the bay is flooded, it will stay that way.”
“Excellent.” Black Douglas rubbed his huge hands together. “I have waited for this moment my entire life. Soon I will become the rightful Grand Master of the Templar Order!”
Robertson scratched his head in confusion. “But even with Prince Henry gone, I still don’t understand how you intend to get the title. You know as well as I that the title of Grand Master is hereditary, only through the Sinclair name. His young son back in Scotland will be next in line for the Templar leadership.”
Douglas growled. “Do you think I’m going to allow an antiquated tradition get in the way of my eternal glory? The Douglas clan is the most powerful clan in Scotland. We are the ones who have kept the land free of the English, therefore my clan deserves the honour of being the hereditary Grand Masters of the Templar Order!”
“But the Sinclair family comes from French roots, some say as far back as Mary Magdalene herself,” said Robertson.
“Even if they do have a drop of Magdalene’s blood running through their veins,” growled Black Douglas, “what does that really matter anyway? More Douglas blood has been spilled to protect the Templar cause than any other clan since the Order moved from France to Scotland. That fact alone gives us the right to accept full leadership of the Order.”
“Some may argue otherwise,” warned Robertson.
“Really? You may be surprised. Isn’t it obvious that Prince Henry is not up to the task? Look at what happened during the near disaster at Kirkwall! He almost allowed the English to defeat him within his own sea fortress!”
“I do not dispute that, but it still is a hereditary title,” argued Robertson.
“Aye, so it is,” answered Black Douglas, rubbing his ample neck. “Therefore I have an answer to that small detail as well. Perhaps it is time for me to introduce myself in a more personal manner to the young Princess Sarah Sinclair. After all, she will be a lost bird without her older brother to guide her. As with every woman, she will need a man to make decisions for her and, of course, give her the offspring she needs to continue her bloodline.”
“You mean you are planning to marry Princess Sarah?” blurted Robertson, stunned.
Black Douglas smiled. “Who else deserves that honour more than me? The Templars will need a new leader after Prince Henry meets his untimely end. By marrying the princess, I will combine the two most powerful clans of Scotland into one, and I will lead our people to a final victory against the English!”
A grin slowly spread across Robertson’s face as he visualized the plan unfolding. With the ear of Black Douglas, Robertson would suddenly move from being a master builder to an advisor within the powerful inner circle of the Templar Order. Perhaps in time, he too might have the chance to marry within the new and powerful Douglas-Sinclair clan.
“Shall I go down to the dam and put the plan in motion?” Robertson asked.
Black Douglas shook his head, his eyes glowing with the flames of victory. “Nae. Wait for my signal. A slight diversion will be required to ensure you are not seen.”
“As you wish,” Robertson replied. “What will be the signal?”
But Black Douglas was already striding back to camp. He shouted over his shoulder in his booming voice. “You will know it when you hear it!”
Fourteen
Connor couldn’t help but feel that the island itself had opened up its monstrous jaws and swallowed him whole. He had entered a completely different world walking through the narrow entranceway well below the water line of the restrained ocean. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that the tunnel itself was a masterpiece of engineering. The entire length of the descending corridor was supported by a series of thick stone arches that were deeply embedded in the wall. A small oil lamp hung from each keystone, illuminating the seemingly unending path in a shimmering glow.
The air was getting cooler. Connor couldn’t believe how far they had already travelled, and there was still no end in sight to the tunnel. He calculated that they must have already walked a good distance into the island. He wondered, with growing trepidation, about the amount of rock that was hovering miraculously above his head.
Angus, on the other hand, seemed to love the underground adventure. His eyes glowed with excitement as he examined each passing pillar. Prince Henry and Antonio Zeno chatted quietly at the front of the procession. It seemed the only person more anxious than himself was the native, Na’gu’set. The young man constantly looked over his shoulder towards the entranceway, which had long vanished behind a gentle turn in the corridor. It was comforting to Connor to know that he wasn’t the only one having misgivings about being so deep inside the Earth.
Finally the group approached a large stone block that completely sealed off the end of the tunnel. Prince Henry turned to the others and beamed. “Behind this door is our miracle. It is the fulfillment of a centuries-old Templar dream. Antonio, would you do the honours?”
Antonio inserted a special metal key into a hidden hole at the side of the stone. A twist of the key resulted in a slight click. Together with Prince Henry, they put their shoulders into the stone and slowly slid it into the left wall of the corridor. A glowing golden radiance spilled out into the tunnel, and the three visitors gasped in shock at what they saw. With their mouths agape in wonder, they followed Prince Henry and Zeno into the marvellous chamber.
To those near the tent settlement, it had seemed the Earth itself had ignited in a monstrous explosion as an enormous black cloud rose up from the stern of the docked sailing ship. The blast was so strong that it threw the half-dozen knights loading it with cargo straight into the ocean. Bits of wooden hull ripped through other unfortunate workers, killing two outright and wounding a dozen others.
The ship was now a shattered egg of its former self, smouldering from a huge rupture left of the rudder, with thick acrid smoke billowing out from its fatal wound. Even the hardened soldiers fought growing panic as the ship imme
diately began to list sideways. Salt water poured relentlessly onto its lower deck as the ocean attempted to drag the ship and all those on board down into its icy embrace. The wooden cleats to which the ship was tied popped off the dock like corks from a bottle, unable to cope with the increasing strain. The ship was going down, and there was no way of stopping it. Everyone on the island came running to the dock to see what had happened.
“The princess!” an older knight shouted, pointing at the crippled vessel. “She’s on board! I saw her go below decks with her maidens!”
“Get on board the ship, quickly!” replied another.
“We cannot! The gangplank was blown off with the explosion!”
“And she’s leaning further away from the dock with each second!”
“Then board her with ropes! Hurry!”
Some had already started tying ropes to grappling hooks when a finger pointed up to the ship’s railing.
“Look! It’s Black Douglas! He’s already on board!”
Black Douglas staggered to the edge of the railing and held on to it for balance. Wiping his soaked brow, he pointed at a young lad on the dock.
“You, by those crates! Throw me that axe. Quickly!”
The young man gripped the large bladed axe and ran up to the water’s edge. He heaved the heavy weapon skyward. The blade and handle whistled through the air and over the railing. Black Douglas expertly caught the twirling weapon in one hand and lifted it above his head. He shouted to those back on the dock.
“I’m heading below to find the princess! Get on board and save as many as you can before she goes down!”
As their second-in-command disappeared into the torn guts of the ship, the men back on shore doubled their efforts to board her. Black Douglas’s bravery rekindled their warrior hearts. They were not going to let a crippled ship get the best of the Templar Order. Grappling hooks sailed through the air and caught the upper railing of the leaning deck. The knights attacked the wooden hulk with desperate ferocity.
The air pounded him so suddenly that Robertson momentarily lost his balance. There was no denying that signal. Robertson chuckled as the noise of the explosion rumbled further into the bay. He was pleased to see the only man in sight, a lowly apprentice who had been approaching the bay from the tent village, turn and run back towards the dock. Robertson grabbed a large satchel from the ground and hurried to the end of the coffer dam. He travelled as fast as he dared along the uneven blocks of stone as the angry ocean smashed into the dam, soaking him with spray. He commended himself for waterproofing the satchel’s contents the night before in oiled leather. Making it to the centre of the dam, he carefully climbed down to the muddy bottom of the drained bay. The keystone had a slightly darker hue, otherwise it was virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding rocks. Wedge-shaped like a pin, it held together the crucial section of the dam. All that was needed to collapse this section was a little kick in the right place. Robertson opened the satchel and removed a cloth package. He quickly inserted a long, saltpeter-soaked wick into the package, then shoved the whole thing deep in a crack just above the keystone. The charge fit perfectly. Holding the end of the wick in one hand, he reached again into the satchel, removed a small black box and carefully opened it. Inside the insulated container sat a glowing red ember. He touched the end of the wick to the ember and, holding his breath, waited for the wick to spark to life. The wick suddenly sparked and sizzled. Robertson dropped it and ran.
Connor, stunned, stared at the most beautiful room he had ever seen. An octagonal chamber had somehow been hewn out of very heart of the island. The enormous room sparkled with the light of a dozen oil lamps. Opulent gold trim, designed as an endless pattern of woven roses, circled both the top and bottom of the room, glistening in the soft, amber light. Looking up, he was surprised to see the same huge five-petal rose that adorned the ceiling of the chapel at the Kirkwall fortress.
Four of the eight walls portrayed stunning biblical scenes. He recognized the wise and beautiful Queen Esther angrily confronting Haman, the evil advisor. To the right was Beth, devastated at the premonition of Jesus’s upcoming death, on her knees, washing the feet of the Lord Jesus with her tears and hair. To the left was a powerful image, Judge Deborah, arms raised, praising God as a ragtag force of Israelite soldiers destroyed the mighty Canaanite army in the valley below. And directly opposite the entrance, Mary Magdalene, Johanna and Mary, mother of James, were excitedly proclaiming the risen Christ to the unbelieving eleven male disciples.
The four remaining walls held shelf upon shelf of sealed boxes and scrolls. Below their feet, a beautifully tiled floor, in the Byzantine style, worked a circular geometric pattern to create a huge dazzling rose. From the centre of the rose emerged a curved pedestal resembling a delicate vase-shaped stigma. On top of the stigma sat a rather ordinary, small stone box. The box almost seemed out of place, considering the surrounding opulence. Connor didn’t doubt that the stone box held something of extreme importance as it was central to everything in the room. Angus nudged him and nodded to a table in the corner of the room, full of fresh fruit, pitchers of drink and bread. Refreshments from the earlier reception, Connor surmised. To Angus and his unending appetite, it was more beautiful than all of the artwork put together.
Prince Henry gestured them forward until they all gathered around the pedestal and stone box.
The prince knelt down reverently, his head lowered and hand across his heart. Connor and Angus looked at each other, and as Antonio Zeno went down on one knee, the boys quickly followed suit. Several seconds passed before Prince Henry, Zeno and the boys straightened once again. The prince gazed at the box with heartfelt veneration. His lips barely moved as he whispered to his guests. “Welcome to the final resting place of the patron saint of the Templar Order, Mary Magdalene.”
Connor and Angus exchanged bewildered glances.
“The Mary Magdalene?” cried Angus, pointing to the wall. “The woman in the painting with the disciples?”
“Is it the remains of the Companion?” asked Na’gu’set, reverently stepping forward, tilting his head to one side.
“Companion?” asked Prince Henry inquisitively.
“Yes, the woman who accompanied the Great Teacher during His time here among us. These are truly her remains?”
Angus and Connor looked at each other, surprised that this mysterious native had detailed knowledge of Biblical stories. Connor took a harder look at the stone cross hanging around his neck.
Prince Henry nodded. “This is her ossuary. Within the container are all of her bones. This was the Jewish way of burial in her time. Even though she was buried in France, her remains were still interred in the traditional Jewish manner.”
“France?” Connor exclaimed.
“But she lived in the Holy Lands,” protested Angus. “What was Mary Magdalene doing in France?”
“Ah,” smiled Prince Henry. “You lads have not yet reached the Templar level where all becomes known. I am breaking every Templar protocol allowing you to even be here. As Na’gu’set correctly said, Mary Magdalene was a close companion of Jesus Christ, accompanying Him everywhere, even to His death on the cross while his disciples ran away and hid in fear. She was there at the gravesite to wrap Him in His final burial shroud and, as His other followers mourned His death in the hidden backrooms of Jerusalem, she was one of the few to make the daily walk to His hillside tomb in order to tend to the site. When Jesus rose from the dead, it was Mary on whom was bestowed the honour to be the first to see Him alive while everyone else thought Him dead. She received a special commission to go and tell the other disciples of the resurrection.”
“What happened to Mary after that?” asked Angus.
“That was the last time we hear of Mary Magdalene in the Bible. But of course, the story continues. After Jesus’ death, she travelled to France with her father and sisters to spread the word of Christ in a new land. Eventually, she married and had a family. Her descendants became the house of St
. Clair.”
“Isn’t St. Clair the French of Sinclair?” asked Angus.
“Indeed it is,” answered Prince Henry.
“Then that means you are related to Mary Magdalene?” exclaimed Connor.
The prince nodded, looking to the ossuary. “She is my distant ancestor. I am related to Jesus’ companion, and many truths have been passed down through the generations from those early Christians. It is here that my distant ancestor will rest under the five-petal rose, the secret symbol of our family.”
“Tell them about the books,” coaxed Zeno.
The prince walked over to the side of the temple and placed his hand on top of a full shelf of bound material.
“Along these walls, sealed in water-tight containers, are priceless books rescued from Jerusalem after the first Crusade by the original Templar Knights, also the lost books rescued from the library of Alexandria, the . . .”
Prince Henry was cut off by a deep, menacing rumble.
“What was that?” asked Zeno, looking to the doorway.
“I don’t know,” replied the prince, “but it seems to have echoed down through the entrance.”
Na’gu’set stepped forward, joining the men. “It was not a natural shaking of the earth.”
Concerned, Prince Henry gazed down the corridor. “Sorry, boys, but I think our tour is coming to a premature end. We better head to the surface and see what is going on.”
The five moved quickly to the doorway, and Zeno and Prince Henry began pushing the giant slab of rock. While the other three watched the operation, Connor gazed nervously up the corridor. The floor of the corridor was glistening more than it had when they first arrived. Connor realized something was wrong.
“Prince Henry! Look! Water!”
Betrayed Page 12
