The Duke of Cornwall, he thought to himself glibly.
The Old Man’s Foot was less than a quarter of a mile away, located on a hill. The light was starting to go, even in the last twenty minutes the sky had darkened considerably. Though it was still not raining, the wind was now unbearable. The pathway was isolated and without any supporting rail to hold on to walking took all of his available energy.
Ben came to within a hundred metres of the main entrance and stopped on reaching a wooden fence. A large white house adjoined the lighthouse, 18th century but recently renovated. There were no lights on inside, nor any other obvious sign of life. A large flag blew fiercely in front of the main door from a solitary flagpole. Some of the windows were boarded up, particularly on the top floor.
Renovation was clearly ongoing.
He continued along the pathway, trying to ignore the ceaseless sound of the howling wind rattling against nearby scaffolding. The noise was tuneless, piercing and annoying. At the end of the path he saw a sturdy white door, surrounded by a thick archway.
He sprinted towards it.
*
Valeria was in the hallway, sitting on a chair. The box she had discovered earlier that day was on the nearby table, while the artefact it had previously contained was lying on her lap.
Still she struggled to make sense of it. The object was white, weighed about 9kg and shaped like a trumpet. It was what she had expected.
But it somehow felt different.
She heard a noise outside, a loud consistent thud, clearly not the wind. She sat still for several seconds, undecided whether or not to answer. She was not expecting visitors. Seconds later, she heard a voice call her name.
It was Ben’s.
Tentatively she moved towards the door.
Finally she opened it.
Ben entered without waiting for an invite. As usual, he was dressed for the outdoors, his black windproof jacket, dark jeans and walking boots along with a black woolly hat that covered his dark brown hair and part of his beard.
“What happened to my cousin?” he demanded, so pumped up he barely noticed her unusual appearance. “Who was Smethwick?”
Valeria was confused. “Smethwick?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Your grandmother knew what was buried here; why else would a dilapidated lighthouse in the Isles of Scilly be bought by a Spaniard?” He looked her up and down, his eyes piercing with aggression. “What happened to my cousin?”
“I don’t know what happened.”
He turned on her, placing his hands around her neck. She felt herself lose balance.
“Ben, please. You’re hurting me.”
He loosened his grip and looked her over, this time noticing her unusual appearance. “Nicholl said you were sick.”
Valeria didn’t answer. Struggling to catch her breath, she darted to one side, trying to get away. Ben followed, catching her. He knocked into a cabinet near the dining room table: brown, ornate, obviously antique, the character unquestionably Spanish. There was a box on top of it, blue but slightly corroded.
He opened it, saw that it was empty and noticed another object located on the side. “The trumpet.”
Valeria snatched it back, placing it inside her sweatshirt. She took another step away from Ben and removed a large knife from inside her jeans. “Touch me, and I swear to God . . .”
Ben was shell-shocked. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed such a thing was possible. This petite slender girl, a mere hundred and twenty pounds at best, holding her own against a former lacrosse player.
“Why do you come?”
Thoughts returned to the present. “What do you mean, why do I come? You know why. What happened to Chris?”
“I tell you before, I know nothing. We barely even met.”
“I met a man; he’s staying at the Gibbous Moon. He told me everything: the story of the treasure being found, the lighthouse keeper, what was hidden beneath the lighthouse.” He looked her in the eye, their gazes locked on each other. “Is that it?” he asked of the small white trumpet-shaped item she had recently placed in her sweatshirt. “What does it mean?”
“It means nothing.”
Again Ben rounded on her, coming close but without touching her.
Valeria hesitated, briefly considering handing it over before deciding to keep hold of it. “The treasure belongs only to the rightful heir. You are an outsider. What gives you the right to things that are not yours?”
Again Ben was livid. “Rightfully yours? It’s been five hundred years; these things are not rightfully anyone’s. I didn’t come here looking for buried treasure. I came to find my cousin.”
Valeria edged to her left, heading towards the doorway that led to the kitchen. Ben saw what she was doing and went for her, grabbing her around her waist.
Smack! Her hand came hard across his cheek. It caught him with such force it knocked him off balance, causing him to fall to the floor. He bounced back up immediately, his eyes never leaving hers. Valeria had made it as far as the door and was halfway through opening it before feeling arms around her shoulders.
She screamed, louder and louder. As she tried to move, she felt Ben’s hand come across her face, restricting her breathing.
Someone was shouting, this time from upstairs. Ben didn’t recognise the voice, but he could tell by the tone and accent it was a woman, and Spanish. He looked at Valeria, her large brown eyes looking back, terrified, her soft words muffled against his hand. Slowly he released her.
The shout came again, calling Valeria’s name.
“It’s only me, Abuela. I just dropped something down in the cellar.”
Valeria considered speaking again, but heard no reply. For several seconds she looked at Ben. He had no idea what to do next; for the first time he started to wonder why he was even there. He was so fired up after his meeting with Colts he was no longer thinking things through.
He saw her move, this time slowly. He followed her, for now keeping his distance. He could tell from her tone that her mood had softened.
She placed a finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”
Ben stood still, silent except for his breathing. From somewhere nearby he heard the sound of a grandfather clock ticking consistently to the movement of the pendulum. He heard other things as well, Valeria breathing, her heart beating rapidly, audible despite the sound of the wind blowing through the gaps in the nearby windows. Close to the porch he thought he heard other sounds, footsteps maybe, moving outside the front door. He thought about Colts; did he decide to come after him, see what was going on? Had someone else been drawn to the house, heard sounds of an argument? As far as he was aware, the nearest neighbour was several hundred metres away.
He looked at Valeria, and she looked at him.
She sought to speak.
A loud bang echoed throughout the hall, followed by sudden movement. The door had blasted open, forcing it from its hinges. Two men entered; both were tall, at least six feet, well built, their rugged faces flanked by long black hair.
Something moved to Ben’s right and then to his left. Two more men entered, each of similar build. One was blond and clean-shaven, the other bald with a thick goatee and a round face.
He didn’t need to hear their voices to know they were Spanish.
What happened next was something of a blur to Ben. Two of the Spaniards rounded on him with punches to the sides and lower back. He felt another across the side of his face, bruising and drawing blood. He tried to fight back, but as he raised his arms, he felt himself being restricted, then lifted, his body swinging at least a foot above the ground. As he cried out he felt a hard blow to his stomach, winding him.
He was dropped, falling to his haunches.
On the other side of the room, Valeria was screaming. Wounded, on his knees, Ben looked up and saw her dangling, legs kicking. Large grubby hands ripped her sweatshirt and jeans.
One of them found the trumpet.
“It’s
here,” Pizarro shouted, waving it in Cortés’s face.
Cortés stood by the door, surveying the scene. He accepted the trumpet from Pizarro and studied it with a pensive expression. The object was large and heavy, painted white, its coat faded and flaking. He scratched away at it and turned it over, captivated by the way the light danced on it as it moved.
Pizarro, meanwhile, found the box on the side cabinet and picked it up. “This is it.”
Cortés ignored him, continuing to look at the trumpet. He pulled his long, tanned fingers through his hair and looked at Valeria.
“Where are the other four?” He walked towards her, his large brown eyes looking mesmerisingly into hers.
She trembled, not daring to look, but incapable of looking away either.
Recovering from the punch to his stomach, Ben looked up, speechless. He could tell from the way Cortés addressed her they had met before.
“Where are the other four?” he repeated.
Valeria turned away, her frightened eyes on the wall. Alvarez and Busquets were still holding her, their grip so strong she had given up kicking and screaming. She felt Cortés’s hand grabbing firmly against the side of her cheek, forcing her to look upon his face.
“I’m waiting, cousin.”
Ben assumed he must have misheard. “Cousin?”
Pizarro punched Ben in the gut, his action catching a piercing glance from Cortés. He looked at Ben, then Valeria, who was still trapped within the fierce arms of Busquets and Alvarez.
Cortés leaned towards her. “You have found them already, no?” he asked, trying to determine an answer from the expression on her face and the look in her eyes. From that alone, she gave nothing away, like a seasoned poker player calling another’s bluff. As Cortés leaned in close, she moved away, a reflex. Her nose wriggled, an instinctive action against the man’s familiar scent, strong and overbearing – though many years had passed, she remembered it so well.
Ben was still on his knees, recovering. The sound of his breathing caught Cortés’s attention. He turned away from Valeria and looked down at Ben, his perpetually serious expression becoming hostile.
“I have heard what people say of you,” Cortés began, examining him like a king to a peasant. “Your ancestor’s story is legendary.”
Ben looked back, gritting his teeth. “If you are who I think you are, I’d say yours is greater still.”
Cortés laughed, a low-pitched drone. “Your ancestor was searching.” He waved the trumpet-shaped object before Ben’s eyes, unintentionally allowing him the best view of it so far. In truth, it was smaller than Ben had imagined.
“Search him,” he barked at the other three. “He may know much.”
Ben struggled as Alvarez, the largest of the three, left Valeria and immediately rounded on him. Another punch to the gut forced him to keel over, helpless to put up a fight.
Pizarro found the diary. He held it up in the light, his eyes squinting to make out the text.
Cortés reacted immediately. He took it gently, allowing the leather cover to rest delicately in his hands, opened it to the first page and scanned the early lines.
He smiled at Ben. “Your ancestor was a man of many talents, Professor.”
Ben had got his breath back. “What have you done with my cousin?”
Cortés seemed confused. “Your who?”
“What have you done with his cousin?” Valeria fumed. “You trash his room; you take his belongings. Why?”
Pizarro walked over to Valeria and slapped her across the face; a red mark appeared immediately. She placed a hand to her wounded cheek and fought back the tears.
Ben was furious. He looked up at Cortés with fire in his eyes, failing to break the Spaniard’s concentration. Cortés stared at Valeria for several seconds, a hard penetrating glance that he could tell she found intimidating, perhaps on another level.
Pizarro, meanwhile, had returned his attention to Ben. “You find it, eh?” He pushed him. “Tell us now and do us all a big favour. Save yourself pain.”
Ben was biting his lip so hard he felt it was in danger of bleeding. “Where’s my cousin?”
Pizarro returned his glance. “Always with the same questions. We don’t have your stupid cousin.”
Cortés walked towards him, lowering himself on to one knee. His face was inches from Ben’s. “Whatever you think, I’m afraid you are mistaken.”
He looked at Valeria, his expression hard.
“Tie them up.”
37
The Spaniards left through the front door, heading towards the nearby coastline. Cortés ignored Pizarro’s request to torch the place, choosing to slap him instead for a stupid idea.
Luck was on their side; one of the five stones had been found. Four remained.
Cortés knew they could be anywhere.
He sensed the leather-bound diary he now carried could be a turning point in their search.
*
Ben had lost control of most of his limbs. His hands had been tied together using rope; a mouth gag severely restricted his breathing. He felt dizzy and sick, a hideous combination; blood congealed around the side of his mouth, a reminder of Pizarro’s slap. Suddenly he remembered.
The bastard had punched him a second time.
It took several seconds for him to realise he had been unconscious. How long had he been out? A few minutes? An hour? Surely it was no longer than that.
He was sitting in a chair, padded with soft velvet, but supported by a hard, rigid frame. There was a long wooden table to his right, and an original fireplace to his left, flanked by various objects including a poker and several pieces of wood. A sharp wind echoed down the chimney, escaping around his feet, creating an unpleasant chill. When the wind stopped, a deathly hush took over the room, as if a curse had been placed, if not something even more sinister. He shivered, cold or fear, perhaps both. The rope burned as he tried to move his hands. There were marks around his wrists – even though he couldn’t see them, he could feel them. Years of experience told him the weak point, if there was one, was probably in the knot.
He tried to feel for one.
Nope.
He was dealing with professionals.
He heard a noise behind him, followed by something hard hitting the back of his head.
“Ow.”
He recognised the noise, a woman’s voice. “Valeria.” He spat away the mouth gag.
“Of course it’s me. Who did you think?”
In truth he’d thought he was alone. As he wriggled his hands, he felt slender fingers brushing against his own, crowned by long delicate nails that dug sharply into the palm of his hand.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened? He took everything.”
Less than a few inches away, Ben could hear her sobbing. He remembered nothing of how he had come to being tied up. Whatever had happened, he attributed it to the pounding headache and injuries he had sustained to his face.
“Who was he?”
“His name’s Juan Cortés. A horrible man.”
“I guessed that,” Ben replied, shouting. “He said you were related.”
Valeria spat; though Ben could not see her do it, he could certainly hear it. “It is impossible for a human to be related to a dog.”
Had the circumstances been different, Ben might have mustered a smile. Instead, he detected a long backstory.
“Who is he?”
“During his life, Hernán Cortés had many children; some with a wife, some with others.”
Ben was familiar with Cortés’s love life. In total, he knew there could have been as many as fourteen children. “That was five hundred years ago.”
“When the Montezuma Treasure went missing, clues were left behind and stories passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation.”
“He’s definitely a descendant?”
“Cortés’s second wife was Juana Ramírez de Arellano de Zúñiga,” she said, her pronunciation of t
he names impeccable. “Together they had six children, many living into adulthood. They, too, had many children.”
“It’s from them that he’s descended?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” Valeria turned. With their faces turned to the same side, Ben could feel her soft skin on his.
“How are you cousins? You’re descended too?”
“While he was in Tenochtitlán, Cortés entered an agreement with Montezuma’s daughter, most English know her as Isabel.”
“Tecuichpotzin?” Ben said.
“Yes,” Valeria agreed. “Their first child was named Leonor.”
“You mean only child?”
“Right. Leonor had three children. They had children.” She looked Ben in the eye. “It is from them who I am descended.”
“You’re descended of Cortés?”
“No. I’m descended of Montezuma.”
No sooner had she said it, Ben realised she was probably correct. Montezuma had perished; whether set upon by his followers or killed by the conquistadors, history was unclear. Ben knew for a fact that most of the later attention had been placed on what happened to the treasure as opposed to the emperor himself.
“What was it that he took?”
“When Cortés returned from the New World, he brought many gifts to the Spanish king and his family. Apparently he gave to his new wife five precious emeralds.”
Suddenly everything TF mentioned about the stained-glass window in the church made sense. “That was an emerald?”
“Only replica.”
“What is it? Why was it made?”
“Tradition in my family tells that people from all the world look for the Montezuma Treasure – but only his rightful descendants know the true place to look. They say before the last Godolphin died, he created replicas. Only one who has all five can find the lost location.”
Son of a gun, Ben thought. “That’s why you live here? That’s what you are looking for?”
“All five are buried here, somewhere. They also say the great T.F. Malone discovered one, if not two.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 22
