Ben left the question unanswered, his attention instead taken by a sophisticated nappy system in place to combat the inevitable accidents.
Less so the smells.
“Well, let’s focus on work first. If we get in quickly, we can always take a tour afterwards.”
*
Queuing for tickets took less than five minutes. After purchasing two, Ben resisted the temptation to visit the museum and headed instead for the main interior.
He stopped on entering, struck by a familiar tingle of wonderment as he took in the enormous size of the building for the first time in over five years. At 135 metres in length by approximately 100 in width and peaking at a height of 42 metres, not including the famous Giralda that loomed to an imposing 105 metres above the wider skyline, the site was famed worldwide as the largest Gothic cathedral ever created, indeed the largest cathedral of all time. He recalled hearing a quote on his first visit that those among the cathedral chapter had proposed that the city should celebrate its escalating wealth by building a cathedral “so beautiful and grand that those who see it finished will think we are mad”.
Ben knew few would have argued their success.
Inside, its beauty was intoxicating. Surrounding the long nave, dozens of side chapels had been constructed within its imposing walls, their interiors displaying an angelic elegance great both in mystery and splendour. Within the nave itself, the decorations were ornate and uniquely gilded, the colour creating an unusual halo effect as it reflected the lights. Looking up, he reacquainted himself with the great square choir loft that rose above the floor like primitive box seating before taking in the view of the high altar and the gothic retablo that depicted scenes from the life of Christ.
“If I remember rightly, Columbus’s tomb is somewhere on this side.” He guided Juliet right of the south door, a little unsure whether his memory served him correctly. After increasing his pace to a slow jog, the sound of Juliet’s heels reverberating behind him, they found themselves standing before a monument with a design featuring four elegant courtiers, dressed to represent the four ancient kingdoms of Castile, Aragon, Navarre and León, carrying a trapezoid marble coffin within which the bones of the famous navigator were said to lie.
Juliet was transfixed. “Oh my God. It’s so beautiful.” She made a full circuit of the tomb, searching for definitive evidence it belonged to Columbus. All her life, she had wanted to see his tomb for herself. “This is definitely it?”
Ben scratched his head, knowing the question had the ability to open Pandora’s box. “That really depends on who you ask. Columbus was originally buried in Valladolid in a Franciscan friary until he was removed on the instructions of his son, Diego . . .”
“You can cease with the lecture, Professor,” she interrupted and gazed at him playfully. “I’m familiar with the man’s life story. I was asking about the tomb itself.”
Ben grinned, remembering the woman was his boss. “Well, it never hurts to refresh one’s memory. The tomb itself only dates back to 1898.”
“So he wouldn’t have been here in Cortés’s lifetime.”
“Not exactly. When Diego ordered the removal of his father’s body from the monastery in Valladolid, it was first brought to Seville, albeit not this cathedral. In 1542 it was moved again, at which time Hernán Cortés was still very much alive.”
Juliet pursed her lips, her mind thoughtful. “Alive but not dying.” She turned to Ben, confused. “When exactly would Cortés have written this?”
“That’s the 64,000-dollar question. If Cortés wrote it shortly after the Noche Triste, he had over twenty-six years to change his mind. If Columbus’s remains were moved in 1542, Cortés should have been aware of it. Probably even visited them before they left.”
Juliet nodded; her small silver earrings reflected the overhead lights as they swayed in time with her movements. As she continued her walk around the tomb, she noticed Ben was becoming distracted.
“What is it?”
“According to Colts, the bookcase is located in one of the side chapels; sadly I can’t remember it. That gives us fifty minutes to find it. Let’s split up. Call me if you find anything.”
*
Juliet found herself alone before she had a chance to object. She saw Ben hurry off towards the east side of the cathedral, where a large line of tourists was heading for the main stairway to the Giralda.
She turned away from the Columbus monument and headed west along the south wall, where tourists were still entering through the main doors. She took Ben’s advice and centred her attention on the side chapels. She stopped outside the first she saw, a dark enclosure with Renaissance wall art partially covering bare walls. Like most, it was closed to visitors by iron grilles.
Seeing no evidence of a bookcase, she headed onward and stopped where a small crowd obstructed her view of the west wall. Up above, the evening sun burned bright orange as it blazed through the stained-glass windows, casting a magnificent golden glow off the gilded stonework. Unlike the south wall, the west was lacking in chapels but had, instead, numerous alcoves and niches.
Quickening her stride, she made her way to the end of the south wall until she reached another chapel, far brighter and with a gilded retablo covering its far wall. Moving north along the west wall, she glanced quickly at the heart of the nave, where groups of visitors stood looking around or taking photographs.
She stopped again close to the main door, the midway point of the west wall. Further north there were several pews, lined up facing another side chapel, about half of which were taken by relaxing tourists. Closer to her she noticed an area of flooring sectioned off by velvet robes. She looked at the guidebook she had bought at the ticket office.
Immediately her heart skipped a beat.
*
Ben didn’t wait for Juliet’s agreement. If the book was to be found, he knew he needed to locate the bookcase and then its custodian in order to obtain permission to read it.
It was asking a lot in fifty minutes.
Ignoring the temptation to get distracted by the main sights, he headed east away from the Columbus monument and began searching the nearby chapels. He glanced inside the Capilla de Dolores, the Capilla de San Andrés and the Capilla del Mariscal.
None contained a bookcase.
His gut feeling told him he had seen it before, many years ago, a small gold nugget lost among the deep recesses of his mind. He had seen it in a dark room filled with bright ornaments, all of which were protected by thick glass. It had been located in a corner against the walls, walls that existed only to protect against the outer world. He recalled the Giralda, the Patio de los Naranjos, the great organ rising above the floor like the hull of a great ship.
He sensed it would be found on the north side.
Once more he quickened his pace, heading north, inspecting each side chapel as he passed. He noticed the majority of the visitors were queuing to climb the Giralda; he recalled on his last visit his sister had cried off due to acrophobia. The views from the top had been spectacular, more so than the tower itself.
He was satisfied a second visit could wait for another day.
Three chapels lined the north wall on the east side, all located prior to the cloisters. He cursed his decision to allow Juliet the guidebook and instead navigated his phone until he found a layout on the Internet.
Next, he entered the Capilla del Pilar. Seeing no evidence of a bookcase either there or in the Capilla de los Evangelistas, he discovered a further chapel located between there and the doorway that led out to the cloisters and patio. Like the previous two, the tall doorway was arched and protected by a metallic grille. On the upper half of the grille was an elegant crest depicting the Virgin Mary pitying a group of maidens. Pausing outside the chapel, its imposing bars standing out prominently like the outside of a prison cell, Ben saw an opening.
He entered and looked around. Directly above him, a large stained-glass window depicted a similar scene of the Virgin Mary offerin
g shelter to a group of maidens. To his right, the gilded Altarpiece of the Annunciation was mounted on a tall platform decorated by a colourful mosaic and protected by a guardrail. Within three hollowed squares, set into the platform and also protected by metal bars, were displayed a number of historical artefacts, including a golden chalice and bells that dated back to the Middle Ages. Hanging from the wall in front of him, below the colourful stained-glass window and above another glass display case containing reliquaries, was a large piece of framed parchment that contained the names of past members of some form of medieval order.
Ben turned his attention to the final wall, directly to his left where a side door also led out to the cloisters. Two objects flanked the door. On the left side, a large, brightly backlit showcase that was causing a surreal orange and yellow glow against the similar-coloured backdrop. Within it was an ornate statuette of the Virgin Mary adorned with a crown.
On the right was a large wooden bookcase.
Ben felt the excitement build inside him as he focused on the bookcase. In the bright backlight he could see six strong shelves filled with literature. Returning to Google, he learned he was standing inside the Capilla de las Doncellas. The Chapel of the Maidens. A special room dedicated to a unique and ancient order. They were called the Brotherhood of the Maidens.
And this was their archive.
*
Juliet took her time trying to make sense of the mystery below her. The guidebook confirmed she was currently in the nave, an area in which there seemed to be little of note. Between the large oak main door, which was firmly shut, and the quintessential gothic choir, the pattern of the floor was broken only by a single grave slab with undistinguished decoration compared to the spectacular marble tomb she had seen moments earlier. Searching the name, she realised she was looking at the tomb of Columbus. Not the father but a son.
Fernando.
A sign confirmed the tomb had recently undergone restoration work, explaining the presence of the velvet robes. Although the slab was in near perfect condition, its bronze exterior reflecting the overhead lights, cavities between the slab and the surrounding floor offered clear evidence the tomb had recently been disturbed. The first thing she noticed, after the instantly recognisable Columbus family coat of arms, was the unique decoration at the head of the tomb of two Portuguese caravels sailing towards some form of landmass.
Its significance was unmistakably clear.
Turning away from the tomb, she started to run in an easterly direction, almost instantly regretting her choice of footwear. She turned right as she approached the pews, ignoring the inquisitive glances of suspicious onlookers as the sound of her shoes hitting the floor echoed throughout the immense surroundings.
She glanced inside the first side chapel she saw and checked her position to the guidebook. Failing to find Ben inside any of the side chapels prior to the exit to the cloisters, she entered the first one on the left and saw him standing quietly in front of an antique bookcase.
*
Ben found only one reference to the bookcase online. The author referred to it as being the archive of an order that dated back to the 1500s that existed solely to provide a dowry for the “poor and honest” maidens of the city who lacked financial dependence at the time of their marriage. If the blog was correct, all of the books were of relevance to the former brotherhood.
Strange, Ben thought, that a diary written by a famous navigator should be exhibited alongside something so out of place.
He heard footsteps to his left, fast then muffled, followed by the sight of movement past the door. High heels, stylish blue jeans, a dark jacket. Blonde hair.
Juliet entered the room, panting. “I just found Columbus’s tomb in the nave. It looks as though it’s recently been opened.”
Ben was confused. “What are you talking about? We just saw Columbus’s tomb.”
“Not Christopher. Fernando. He’s buried here too.”
No sooner had she said it, he remembered she was right.
“Show me.”
*
The area around the tomb was busier than it had been moments earlier. A small group of Asian tourists, headsets covering their ears, circled the tomb, leaving only a small gap at the base.
Ben squeezed into the vacant space.
The slab was in near perfect condition. Its bronze coating was curiously spotless; its flowing epitaph and pictures punctuated the exterior with precise detail. He recalled his previous visit: his sister, Chris and his sister, the photographs he had taken. Certainly he had seen it before.
Without taking in its importance.
“What does it say?”
Juliet looked at the inscription. “You can read Spanish.”
Ben peered in as close as he could, but struggled to read the text clearly. Identifying a new space to the right of the velvet robe where the tourists were beginning to scatter, he worked his way along the right side and attempted to read the epitaph from top to bottom.
“Here lies the very magnificent Lord of Fernando Colón, who applied and spent his whole life and estate in adding to letters and collecting and perpetuating in his city all his books . . .” Ben made a rough translation in his mind. As the words sank in, he remembered Fernando had written a biography of his father and also made his name as a cartographer.
Juliet appeared alongside him and read aloud, “He was the son of the valiant and memorable sailor Don Christopher Colón, First Admiral who discovered the Indies and the New World in the lifetime of their Catholic majesties Fernando and Doña Isabel of glorious memory, on the 11 October of the year 1492, with three galleys and ninety people, having sailed from the port of Palos on his voyage of discovery, on the 3 August previous and returned to Castile in victory on the 7 March of the following year. He returned then twice more to people that which he had discovered. He died in Valladolid on the 20 May of 1506.” She gazed at the stone, realising some of the translation could be ambiguous. “The epitaph is more in memory of his father than himself.”
Ben agreed. Taking advantage of the spaces left by departing tourists, he circled the tomb quickly, trying to make sense of the inconsistencies. Though the slab appeared undamaged, it was clear from the surrounding area it had recently been filled in.
“Cortés has been here.” Ben felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach. “He must have done.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ben shook his head, still unsure. A disturbing thought had come into his mind, its exact significance still unclear.
“We need to find the curator. I need to see that book.”
18
Chris sat alone in what had traditionally been used as a study on the first floor. Despite the lack of modern technology, the antique pine desk placed in the corner between two walls was all he required for an afternoon studying TF’s diary.
He sat in a matching antique rocking chair located adjacent the main window that looked out over the rear gardens. The room had a funny smell to it, as though whatever polish the cleaner had used clashed slightly with the fragrance of surrounding materials and local flowers that wafted in through the open window.
He rocked gently back and forth, and picked up the familiar leather-bound diary that still gave off the odour of dry silt despite Ben having it professionally cleaned. If Ben was correct, the other diary and the translations of the Leland chronicle were unlikely to be of use in tracking down the original emeralds. The Isles of Scilly diary, on the other hand, left one question unanswered. Though he knew from reading it there was no reference to the original emeralds, it was clear from its condition later pages had been torn out. The question was what.
And why?
TF had discovered all five of the stone replicas; it was less clear whether he ever used them. TF had clearly been carrying one the night he died; thanks to Kernow, Ben had later obtained it.
Curiously, TF neglected to mention how he discovered it.
Scanning through the diary again, Chris re
alised TF’s references to the stones were eloquently vague, clearly not meant for outsiders to understand. A stranger reading the pages, ignorant of recent discoveries, would have been confused by TF’s references to the mausoleum at Old Town or the area beneath the Star Castle. Ben had known better.
Thanks to him, the writing made sense.
The first two weeks TF had spent back on the Isles had passed largely uneventfully. He had spent the majority of his time preoccupied by his attempts to study the wreck while paying regular visits to the cemeteries at Old Town and St Lide’s. If the dating on the diary was trustworthy, TF had still been writing on 8 April 1905, with a final, brief entry on the eleventh, three days after he had apparently last been seen at the Gibbous Moon. The writing on the seventh indicated TF was planning on leaving the Scillies; on the morning of the eighth, he was clearly still there.
Chris took his time reading through the latter pages, ensuring he didn’t miss anything. During his three-and-a-half-week stay at the Gibbous Moon, TF had uncovered the locations of all of the replica emeralds, understood their relevance, and ascertained the true story of what really happened to the sunken galleon.
What happened on the 9th and 10th of April was unclear.
Those pages were missing.
The content on the 11th differed from the earlier pages. It included only a single page located between the missing pages. The content was heavily illustrated, and included TF’s usual detail. Thanks to his recent tour of the estate, Chris recognised Godolphin was indeed the house pictured in the illustrations.
Ben was right, he realised; clearly TF had visited it first-hand.
The drawing of the Raleigh statue confirmed he had found the entrance to the mine; he had also made two diagrams of the statue, one focusing on the facial detail, another to include the wider woodland. The accompanying wording suggested TF had stumbled across it by accident; however, what happened next was no longer recorded. In total, Chris estimated four pages had been ripped out between the 8th and 11th, then a further seven, beginning midway through the 11th. In total, eleven pages of the diary were missing.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 75
