Blinking, Connor pulled at the coconut strands that were tangled around his legs and prevented his full escape. Starving and thirsty, he forced his battered body to crawl through the mud and up onto the rocky shore. He staggered into a standing position, but his head spun from the effort. His legs wobbled. In the midst of collapsing backwards onto the beach, someone grabbed him by his arms and steadied him.
“I can’t believe it! Is it you, Connor?”
Never had another human voice sounded so lovely. Connor managed an exhausted nod.
“What a miracle this is! Here, let me help you off this beach, lad. My Lord in Heaven, you look awful.”
Connor tried to take a step forward but nearly collapsed again.
“Here, how about I just carry you?”
Robertson swung a powerful arm up underneath the half-naked boy, caught him under the legs and lifted him clean off the ground. Connor yelped as his ribs exploded in protest. Robertson nervously looked over his shoulder. The workers were still busy tending to the wounded worker, and the crashing waves had masked the sound. It seemed that only he had noticed the miracle of Connor’s emergence. Robertson breathed a sigh of relief. He shivered as he imagined the slow and painful death he would receive should the truth of his involvement in Prince Henry’s attempted murder be revealed to the other workers.
Robertson almost ran with Connor across the rocky shoreline and into the protection of a small glade. Glancing back, he realized that a clump of thick cedar blocked any view from the dam and the other workers. He lay the injured boy down onto the soft needles and stole a second look towards the shore to ensure they were not being followed.
“Water?” Connor managed to whisper.
“Did you say water, lad?”
He nodded weakly.
It seemed only appropriate to allow the boy a final request. Robertson threw him the small skin of water he had hanging over his shoulder.
“Take it. Drink all you like.”
Connor took the water skin and ravenously placed it to his lips. He let the cool, liquid trickle down his parched throat.
“Would you like some bread as well?”
Connor nodded enthusiastically. Taking a chunk from the foreman, he happily chewed on the best tasting bread he had ever put into his mouth. Almost instantly, a rush of energy revitalized his cold and bruised body.
“Thank you, Master Robertson,” Connor croaked.
His rescuer kneeled down beside him. “Are you able to talk about what happened?”
Connor nodded.
“After all of these days missing, how did you end up coming out of the culvert?”
Between chews, Connor explained how he, Prince Henry and his friends were trapped inside the Temple by the sudden rush of water. He then described how they had built the scaffolding in the cavern in order to reach the culvert system. Finally, he blurted out all of the details of his painful crawl to the outside world. Robertson shook his head in admiration.
“An amazing tale, my lad,” said Robertson. “Didn’t think such a journey was possible. I helped build those culverts myself.”
“I didn’t think it was possible, either. But I have the cracked ribs as proof that it is.”
“And the good Prince Henry is still alive . . .” he muttered.
Connor smiled. “Yes! He’s alive and well. But he needs our help!”
Robertson looked uneasily back towards the ocean. “Is he crawling for the surface as well?”
Connor shook his head, thinking about Na’gu’set. “No. I was the only one small enough to make it through. But he does have a plan. We need all of the other workers to make it a success. Can you take me to the knights so that I can explain it to them?”
Robertson stood up and frowned. “I’m afraid that will be impossible.”
Connor looked at him, confused. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because,” Robertson explained, unhooking a hammer from his belt, “Prince Henry was supposed to die in that chamber, and if we do nothing, then he will still die as planned . . . that is, as long as there isn’t anyone alive to tell of his survival.”
Robertson raised his hammer for a fatal downward thrust onto the young man’s skull. Instinctively, Connor rolled to his side and released a vicious kick to the back of Robertson’s knee. The man cried in agony as his leg collapsed. Ignoring the burning pain from his damaged ribs, Connor continued to roll away from the master, creating some distance between them. He then lunged sideways for a thick branch and staggered to his feet. Connor would have given anything at this very moment for a decent shield. Robertson recomposed himself, flexed his injured leg, and moved forward, hammer at the ready.
“Look at you, lad. You are half-dead. You are in no need of further pain. Why not let me end your misery as quickly as possible?”
The lack of food and rest caused Connor’s head to spin. Blinking in a vain attempt to clear his blurring vision, he raised the branch to head height and prepared to defend himself, as he desperately searched for a way out of the situation. Robertson was blocking the path back to the shoreline. Although he could probably outrun the stocky Robertson, there was still nowhere to go. A wall of thick vegetation surrounded the small clearing, and the moment he turned his back to the foreman, Connor would be a dead man. He chose his only possible option available . . . stall until he could think of something better.
“Why are you doing this?” Connor asked, “Are we not all one in the Templar Order?”
“It’s Master of the Highest Order to you now, lad,” Robertson snarled, realizing the boy was going to put up a fight. “Remember that as you beg for mercy.”
Robertson lunged forward. Connor sidestepped and was able to deflect the swing with the branch, giving him a window of opportunity to make for the trail. He took a step forward, but Robertson swung around and retaliated by arcing the hammer down and around at the retreating boy. Connor slid to a stop, the effort saving his life as the hammer, instead of striking him on the back of the neck, slammed into a trunk only an inch from his ear. He spun to flee once more, but a kick sent him tumbling onto the ground. He gasped for breath as Robertson dislodged the hammer from the tree and closed in on him once more. Connor crawled backwards but realized he was too hurt to muster any further defense. In the next moment, he knew the crack of cold iron on bone would end his short life. He held his breath.
“A tremendous effort, considering your ordeal, I’ll give you that, lad. Now, it is time to say goodbye, Connor. God be with you.”
Connor winced into the sun that silhouetted Robertson like a fiery god. “Please, before you kill me, tell me one thing. Why must Prince Henry die?”
Robertson sneered. “As you will now find out, no one lives forever. Changes in leadership must occur. And changes have already occurred. No knight, including yourself, will be allowed to alter the destiny of the new Templar Order!”
Robertson raised the hammer for the death blow, and Connor closed his eyes, preparing himself for the sickening crack to his skull. A dull thud echoed in the clearing. Surprisingly, Connor couldn’t feel his brains leaking out of his head. Instead he felt a thump in the ground beside him. Looking up into the sun, a new, thinner silhouette suddenly appeared. A grimy hand grabbed hold of Connor’s arm and lifted him up back onto his feet. It was Na’gu’set. As they looked down upon the unconscious Robertson, he flashed a rare smile.
“It is a good thing that I am not a Templar knight.”
Twenty-One
As the two young men staggered back toward the shore, Connor placed a weary hand on the shoulder of his friend.
“So where in the blazes did you come from?”
“I crawled backwards to the earlier branch in the floodway. The other route was not as difficult. I eventually came out over there.”
Na’gu’set pointed to the furthest of the five culvert fingers.
“Well done,” said Connor, “but how did you know I was in trouble?”
“As I pushed my head o
ut and took in my surroundings, I saw a man run to a pile of tools and strap a large one to his waist. He then picked you up and carried you into the forest. Why would he need a tool like that to help heal your wounds? I hurried to free myself and followed the same trail into the woods to make sure that you were safe. That is when I saw he was about to kill you.”
Connor stopped at the shoreline and faced his friend. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Your spirit is courageous and strong,” replied Na’gu’set. “I know you would do the same for me.”
Connor smiled. “Come on. Let’s tell the others our good news.”
The men on the dam were dumbstruck as two filthy apparitions approached them. Some stepped back in fear, while others suddenly recognized who they were and ran up to them in joy, embracing the weary escapees. Others flew off towards camp to spread the word of the amazing miracle. It only took a few moments for the remaining men to arrive. Then the boys explained to the gathering how Robertson had tried to murder Connor as he emerged from the culvert.
In a rage, several knights disappeared into the woods and returned with their unconscious leader bound and gagged. The famished boys were then led to the remaining ship, where they wolfed down fresh bread and ale, then retold the story of their entrapment in the temple with Prince Henry and their eventual escape. The crowd of knights and workers hung on each and every word. They were electrified when they heard that their leader, Prince Henry, was still alive. Prayers of thanks flew from their lips. A miracle beyond imagination had occurred today!
Robertson coughed into his gag and pulled against the ropes binding his wrists, reminding the gathering of his presence. The mood within the Templar ranks quickly soured. The former Master was thrown up against the trunk of a tree by a mountain of a man named Ned. The oldest in the group, a knight by the name of Paulo “Whipper” De Sousa, stepped up to the pinned man and took charge of the interrogation.
“Master Robertson, what’s this I hear of you trying to murder a fellow knight of the Order?”
A knife materialized in Whipper’s grasp, and he allowed the blade to slide under the gag and let the cold iron come to rest against the foreman’s flushed cheek before cutting the cloth away with a single stroke. Coming to his senses, Robertson’s eyes widened in panic.
“M . . . murder? What in blazes are you talking about, Whipper? I helped the poor lad out the culvert. Gave him food, water . . . his claims of an attack must all be a hallucination. Come, lads, you are making a terrible mistake!”
“The only mistake I see is the one you are making right now for wasting our time. Na’gu’set saw the whole disgusting scene, so don’t try lying. You’re in enough trouble already, don’t you think? Now, are you going to talk, or are we going to take a walk to the breakers on the far side of the dam? Perhaps a nice swim in the stormy Atlantic will help revive your memory.”
“You can’t threaten me!” Robertson screamed. “I’m a master mason! You take orders from me!”
Whipper put a finger to the tip of Robertson’s nose. “A master mason earns his respect, not demands it. You’re no more a Master Mason than that piece of driftwood lying there by your boots! Ned, take our bound leader to the edge of the dam and leave him on the ocean rocks. Let’s see how long it takes the surf to pummel him into the shape of a jellyfish.”
As he was hauled off to the edge of the sea, a huge breaker blasted into the dam, sending a wall of white water high into the air. Robertson saw the terrific explosion and finally crumbled.
“Mercy! Please don’t put me out on the rocks! Those waves will kill me! Please! I’ll tell you everything! It wasn’t my fault! I was only taking orders!”
“That’s better,” soothed Whipper. “Now, start at the beginning and tell us everything you know.”
Robertson blubbered away the entire deceitful story of Black Douglas and how he had stolen the Templar leadership from Prince Henry by carefully planning out the perfect murder. He also related Black Douglas’ plans for marrying Princess Sarah so that he could inherit the permanent position of Grand Master of the Templar Order and begin a new line of Scottish royalty.
The men were outraged. With heated words, suggestions flew on how to dispose of Robertson and the other plotters. Connor stepped forward and interrupted the angry debate.
“Brothers, please! I agree that Robertson needs to be dealt with, but let us first focus on the more crucial task at hand. Prince Henry and the others are in need of our help. We must begin plans at once to rescue them!”
“Agreed,” said Ned, “but what shall we do with him in the meantime?” He grabbed Robertson by the neck and squeezed until his face turned crimson.
Connor pointed toward the woods. “Tie him to a tree for now. The prince, I’m sure, would also love to have a word with Master Robertson. Therefore we mustn’t do anything too harsh, at least not yet.”
A small party of men suddenly crashed through the foliage and approached the gathering. Leading the procession was Sir Rudyard. His face wore an expression of disbelief. He ran up to Connor, grabbed him by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.
“Connor! My Lord in Heaven, are you real or an angel?”
“Sir Rudyard!” Connor embraced him warmly.
“I was hunting on the mainland when I was told of this miracle, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you with my own eyes!”
The burly soldier wrapped his arms around the young man. He felt Connor cringe and gently released him.
“Are you hurt, son?”
Connor smiled through the pain. “I think I have a couple of damaged ribs.”
Sir Rudyard’s eyes were watering. “And what of Angus?”
“He’s alive, sir.”
Connor could see the huge weight lift off the knight’s shoulders. “Oh, Thank God! I can’t believe it! How is it possible?”
“They’re alive, but Angus, Antonio Zeno and Prince Henry are still in grave danger,” added Connor. “Time is quickly running out for all of them.”
“Are they still in the temple?”
Connor nodded. “They are still trapped.”
“All right then,” said Whipper. “There are only twenty-five of us remaining from the hundreds that built the Temple. How can only a handful of men rescue the Prince when he’s buried under one hundred feet of solid rock?”
Connor picked up a stick and smoothed the patch of sand by his feet. Everyone leaned forward to get a good view. He looked up into the sea of concerned faces and took a deep breath.
“Prince Henry has a plan.”
Twenty-Two
Prince Henry, Antonio and Angus froze as the entire temple groaned, its walls rumbling as if it were in the pangs of terrible hunger. Angus half expected the ceiling to suddenly collapse.
“It’s the water,” explained Prince Henry. “The floodgates are open. The weight of the water above us is causing the temple to shift slightly. The trap above the chamber is now set.”
Angus felt a tinge of panic. “Does that mean Connor and Na’gu’set made it?”
Antonio put a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know yet. They could have reached the men on the surface or . . .”
“Or they could be drowning as we speak, now that the floodgates are filled,” finished Angus.
Prince Henry took a deep breath. “Try to stay positive, Angus. Na’gu’set said that Connor was the key to getting us out of the temple. Remember, they are two very resourceful young men.”
“I’m with Prince Henry,” added Antonio. “Let’s assume the boys have related our plan to the others. We had better start measuring time, starting now.”
Prince Henry picked up the hour glass that sat beside the maps on the table and turned it over. A small stream of sand began to fall into the bottom half of the glass timepiece.
Conversation ended as the three trapped men quietly worked at their respective chores. Angus worked an improvised brush back and forth along the silky surface of a tapestry. The surface quickly tur
ned black, and after every few strokes, he would dip his brush back into the jar of warmed tar, careful not to knock the jar off its perch above the burning candle.
Antonio, using his skills as a sailor, worked to turn the tar-lined tapestries into narrow-necked bags. He had brilliantly molded a solid gold spear from a miniature Templar knight statue into a sewing needle. Borrowing a long strand of silk thread from the tapestry itself, he carefully worked the material into the desired spherical shape.
“When this is all over, I can make a silver coin or two by turning my creations into glorious bagpipes,” Antonio joked, trying to lighten the mood.
“Save one for yourself,” replied Prince Henry. “I can’t wait to see you playing it while wearing Sarah’s underwear.” The prince laughed from his own quiet corner near the flooded gate. Using a piece of charcoal, he scribbled notes directly onto the edges of the chamber map. The strange numbers and symbols were decipherable only to him.
“Prince Henry,” called out Angus, “the hourglass. It’s almost empty.”
The final grains of sand were funnelling through the narrow neck next to the prince. The work stopped, and the three men held their breath. Would the signal come? The silence continued for what seemed to be an eternity. Angus dropped his head, his eyes welling up with tears.
“They didn’t make it,” he muttered. “They’re dead.”
Antonio lowered his sewing. “The boys must have been caught in the flooding after all. Poor lads.”
Prince Henry sombrely pushed away the plans and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He knew the chances of his idea actually working were slim to none. Even if the boys had made it successfully to the surface, it would still have required a miracle for every other step in the crazy plan to work.
The prince allowed his head to rock backwards wearily until it met the temple wall. “Then that’s it. There is no use continuing on the bags, Antonio.”
Antonio dropped the work onto his lap and sighed. Angus, tears in his eyes, noticed the Italian suddenly cock his head to one side, his brow furled.
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